Who the fuck is this guy?
Sitting on my sofa tuning his guitar
While I’m trying to have a fucking breakdown,
Like he’s doing me a fucking favour
By offering the philanthropy of his tranquility-
You can shove it up your arse mate
But you’re too busy plucking on your steel,
Relaxing far too easily in the middle of my madness
As if you’ve seen it all before.
Have you?
Because I swear to god I will bleed on you,
I will take my red striped fingerprints
And paint your guitar in memories
Only your children will be safe from.
I will take your hat and peel off my flesh into it
So that the dead cells shake onto the face
Of the next girl you “serenade”.
I will show you exactly all of me
Just to show how easily your mask curls
Against the flame of authenticity.
The same song I’ve heard before-
The second night if I recall, just after you’d cooked-
Doesn’t it remind you of this moment-
Which is exactly why I had to lose
All my sense of reason
Between the bars of your routine:
Because, man, I cannot be caught in sameness:
It will kill me,
And I won’t let it.
So if I have to kill you,
My darling-
Who I loved only moments before
I felt my face pushed against the cellophane
Of an experience too recent
To qualify as a memory-
I will,
Just as you said you would kill me.
And I have waited,
I have waited for that beautiful death
Between the “petite morts”
Have felt it
Only life,
When I just crave so desperately to feel the void,
And apparently goodness doesn’t touch its sides
For me.
Perhaps nothing will fill it-
So I wish you the best of whatever the hell you’re singing
While I go in search of more than the cold
Breathing from my tiles.

“Is it the music?”
Or whatever the hell that question was in French
About the effect on my wellness-
Or lack of, right now.
Maybe it was, you think,
Maybe it was that folder of “Electric Rock”
On your fucking Macbook,
So now you think you’re going to calm me down
So you THINK
With some live acoustic-
How romantic that you are enough
To try and stop me.
Am I making you uncomfortable?
Are my A3 papers graffiting the floor with scribbles
Making you sweat?
Or my half glass of Pastisse
That I surveyed before throwing away
(How boring),
Or perhaps when you saw me chewing on my wrist
Trying to prove I was still alive.
-Oh jesus, I’ve heard this song before-
Or perhaps it’s that I’m crouched in a corner,
Dodging the seats,
Dodging your music,
Dodging all the bullshit act:
You cannot calm this down,
Not when the moon is pulling on me harder than you can:
My god, I am looking for Hell,
Because I can’t stand this fucking eternal spring
When I know
This death must come.

Christ I’ve heard this one too-
I’ve heard it through headphones in a club:
“T’a vu mon page?”
Of course I fucking had-
Because this was what I wanted,
Wasn’t it?
To sit by candlelight
Flooded with words
And the sound of a man
Frenching up Jeff Buckley.
And yet,
Because I drew the floorplan
This house is not enough –
Nothing is ever enough.
I am no fallen angel
Or screaming demon
And yet still, as a simple human,
This groundhog world of days and nights
Flow sameness,
And the characters I bring to life-
They’re still not enough.
My fiction is never strong enough to overpower
My reality,
But I will keep trying.
Just not to this fucking song.


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