What a loud small drum,
I’m whispering just to get over it,
breaking to get past it later,
high and dry is a tale of ****.
It’s happening more now?
I’m rewriting strings just to unlearn you,
tried pinching myself with other stimuli
rookie errors endeavour deeper pools
I’m not used to this, you, her, was, done, refined.
Vineyard hazed landscapes scraping the barrel of my emptied mind;
concrete puddles remain in view as I prone to attack away from the roots.
**** even are you? Tell me, you never told me your last name.
I crash out not from what if’s on some pilgrim’s train.
That would involve my ramblings ending, terminated and crushed up, thrown behind my back and ditched atop a thirty-car pile-up - untampered but aware, it’ll always be there.
You’re not though. That bites more than anything in the debris I pedestal you on. How am I meant to move past, when there never was anything to move past from?
I’m romanticising, sad;
sod it then that’s what I do. Inelegantly at unease; omnipresently unmoved. I can weave through any situation and come out barely with scratches; still I’m dreaming of the day I brush past you again, just to self-immolate, cremate and assume piles of ashes.
Here I am again, writing sop, sewn with weak tether. I can count on my two hands the amount of actual time we spent together. Insane? No, I feel more realised than ever. It was never a question that it was you I endeavour.
I couldn’t stress that any more,
but that is a downfall.
I confessed infatuations in a bed that wasn’t my own.
Self-sabotaged complaints of my everyday life at the time infested with work and bemoaned,
of the scraping-to-get-by subletdown I very presently was.
Him? Nah he was left outside the door, it’s just you and me now promise(!)
But I haven’t got any more.
Couldn’t perform, couldn’t show you how I felt except for juggled recycled words I had somehow said at least five-thousand times to you before.
In the space of five minutes I can disappear and transform,
into a self-neglective malnourishment personified by a creaking door, can’t get it up because I feel in my core, in every facet of my life - poor.
Put the ball in your court, say let’s just do nought and see the skyline, out the window of a Peckham flat first-floor.
I put all of that on you and still kissed every bit of you,
until your disinterest shone,
managing to block out any involvement or possibility of the end of my ruse. I can go on about all the micro-movements that I overanalyse and peruse to be the reason of our demise.
I kissed you too hard before you got on that bus;
While we watched Jay Foreman I brushed your hair too much.
Are these the ramblings of justified sensibility? I’l let that space opened up deem the results.
What I do know is I’m annoyed, when I’m rarely annoyed by much. Years of mistakes available on loop just to be ******* by this gave me a re-salvaged self-observation, even just to stay in touch.
I am an angry person, personified by passions so that my ramblings feel vindicated, no longer jaded on a pathway of arduous stasis.
I find anger in lieu of my own abdication.
All it took was thinking of you.
How skunked am I, when even just after a month, I’m so full of enough pent-up remedial of the situation, these words are keeping it all blunt.
I can’t stop thinking of the what ifs, believe it not.
