Why would I? You keep asking like it’s some sort of possibility like this is, was, and will be a good idea while it never used to be and while I don’t regret that day, that time, that breath, I do regret whatever I did that left you with the impression that this could be something other than what it was, and hasn’t been for years.
You could be looking at me right now without knowing. Some random woman who was no woman when you knew her, apparently. Who are you to determine for me, my being, to assign me a self reflection is what is needed. For who continuously tries to bed that which is ‘not yet’ a woman? A nonce that’s who. A nonce with no more maturity than the cheap cheese that sits in the fridge and is used only for a cheeky toastie. Your years are plentiful, your tricks the same yet you refuse to adapt and walk in this new world a world where your voice is no louder than mine.
I never asked what you thought or wanted from me me-ing all the damn time. I just acted for me, for my own tomorrow. If I’d been up shit creek you’d have drowned or doggy paddled away. If I’d had brought your wants into this for the briefest flash we’d have stayed together for a few months more. And I know for you, this sacrifice is normal, this grand altered ritual but it’s not about you and it’s not been for some time. I know you’re used to grooming on your stage- common with men of a certain age but times change and you’ll never be old enough for me.
Who makes the call on my calling in this life worth living only if I can do this one thing. Who ultimately boils down the milk to my day and churns the subjective to that of object and matters of fact that we will never be privy to but you, you might be. If your name is loud enough and its meaning adored enough then you might be able to tell me if I am indeed enough. Would you tell me that this tiny hinting inkling of a notion was just a ruse, a whole lot of commotion for nothing, and I’m to move on with a thank you and a handshake. That my convicted hope was poorly placed in amongst the gin and the dope and it went to my head but got lost on the way, and there it stays as stubborn as stubborn can be, which for me is impressive. I will not stop running unless you shoot at my feet and then I might mistake it for succor. Do the the right, the kind the business minded thing.
Who would have lied first? Would you have put me out of my misery or would I have given you yours? Playwrights my rights as a person of your interest but they never granted me an aside. Your tone was always for your own ears and never for mine but this I knew with that first night. Why did I give to you the fragile little pieces that were too small for your hands, hands of mending of bending bone and catching blood but whose grasp was too tight and tite enough for my jaded nerves.
Your imprints lay around my shoulders where we ripped ourselves apart, a part of this tale was bound to stick to my shoe. And I know at the end of us and you you didn’t show me favour, a favour indeed but for whom? Your ghost still lingers around my world and when I think you’re safe and well, well you climb back in. For another go if only to go again the next minute. Laugh at my face as I realize it was you just fucking with me. If you couldn’t fuck me in the living day you are sure to use the cover of a starry curtain to draw in my way when I try to chase you down to talk. To give you the truth and receive nothing back from back then it’s impossible now. As far as You or I are concerned You don’t exist anymore and I never really did In the first place. Of our place.
They all sound the same these blokes. Blokey blokes. Middle aged middle spoken middle mused. Won’t bother with excitement because they’re just so laid back. Better than their homeland. Superior to their countrymen. ‘Concrete jungle’ is the biggest ‘fuck you’ to ever run from their thin, fireless lips. Good luck, better man. Your shoulders must hurt under the weight of carrying around the impression that the world owes you Something. Everything. Good luck, better man and godspeed to your motorbike.
Impossible is dangerous, And a challenge to the soul. Your brain nods to your mind, which will Break it to your heart That she must tell your soul That it simply cannot be. It shouldn’t have been let down there, And now she won’t let go. You give an inch, she takes a mile, And should you retrieve it, She’ll dissolve.
And the soul knows it well, But teases tickle the tough, and alight their Trojan spirits. They charge into a flanked wall of Impossible dreams, Blanketed in barbs, still as stone. Shattered and sprayed Into tiny pieces of church glass, They catch the light, For the most beautiful pain.
One would never learn, But it gets one out of bed. Listen to french music, Sip on coffee, bake some bread. Impossible is dangerous, And it’s not for risky fools but I’d rather be in danger Than chain dear Soul to rules. Sweet Soul can nod up to my heart Which can break it to my mind That she must tell my brain To allow Soul to be blind.