“you’ve got a daughter and I can only talk about her for so very long”

Edit: this lyric is not actually in that song. It’s a similar lyric. It seems I have made up my own lyric. As you were.

That line is a lyric from a Martha Wainwright song called ‘Bleeding All Over’. It’s a pretty desperate song, the lyric “my heart was made for bleeding all over you, and I know you’re married but I’ve got feelings too and I still love you”, is quite brilliant in its absolute fatal attraction. However, the lyric I used for this blog post is the lyric that applies to my day. 

Once, I was in love, but that person went and screwed someone who wasn’t me. Actually I’ve been cheated on a few times but the most significant time was the one that really broke my heart. I’ve become friends with the person who did it actually, fuck knows why. I feel compelled towards his friendship, perhaps. I find him quite chaotic and weird and I’m drawn to those people. We’re irresponsible together; we skip our medications because it makes us more fun, we stay up all night and order pizzas, we watch YouTube clips of someone falling over on an infinite loop and laugh maniacally since we’re lacking in the tranquilisers that keep us sane, dulled and docile. He was a great friend to me, maybe not the best boyfriend in the world. So, the friendship has returned. He’s back. We didn’t talk nicely to eachother during my last relationship, and in fact it’s not long since (6 weeks perhaps) since I saw him on a bus in Manchester, going my way, and we argued all the way there, quite bitterly, pointing out eachother’s flaws and making snide remarks. I told him he should just go home and wank in front of a mirror. He sarcastically replied “Stop, you’re turning me on”. However, since the Big Break Up, he’s become friendly. It’s foolish to be his friend, he did a shitty thing to me. But he knows me, and he knows me better than any of my other friends do. 3 weeks into the break-up, and he’s back. Friends are divided: 

He’s got this kid. I met both the kid and the mum recently. Imagine how that felt. It sort of put a well-needed spike deep within the friendship; a sharp reminder that it actually happened. It was the weirdest feeling; someone I only knew as a sleep-around and a partier and a drug-taker and a bounder; a gay bachelor, a roarer, a rogerer, a gorger and a puker. He couldn’t grow up, he was young, firm buttocked and successful (yes, that was a Blackadder reference). Now I see before me this sort of (only SORT OF) sensible person talking baby chatter and growing up. He’s gone a bit grey. However my best friend and her partner just had a baby and I can’t swear in front of that baby. This baby however, is hearing all kinds of “Is that the fucking time? Oh shit I need to take the fucking duck out of the fucking oven or it’s going to fucking well dry the fuck out”. 

This long-winded and unnecessary introduction is to a poem. Just a first draft I bashed out today. It’s called So Mastered. 

I knew you’d be one notch prettier than me. I know 
You’re in PR, but nothing was much elaborated. I know
I was jealous. I don’t know what your youth was like; you
Seem like you started in art school, died your hair blue
Cried when Kurt Cobain died, just like he did. You 
Illuminae long-since exiled thoughts. I go a strange shade 
In front of you. My mood has steeped to red. 

Pretty girl, pretty girl, pretty girl. Your prettiness cost you your life
A shared one, with him, and that thing you have that shits and pukes. Now, he covets
My shea butter skin, face turns pink at my mention. Feathers quite ruffled.
Have you noticed? Did you notice? He cannot look away, can he?
Okay. He said. Okay. I need to take the fucking duck out the fucking oven.

Did I once see you in the Women’s Institute in West Cheshire? I sometimes see
Him reading the New Yorker in actual paper in Nero. He forgoes my love of country
Life to lay with me. The more I consider it, he was the tapestry on my breast
Pocket and you, were unpicking. His words are world-loud, echoing
Beautifully expressive, calling my name, my actual name, my full name,
Calling for me, ever so, and never yours. 

It’s a greyish afternoon and your daughter is honestly adorable. I see him
Nearly trip down the stairs, swearing, in all four colours, unthinking in his
Introductions, hiding in the kitchen. Wings on the side of his Oxford brogues
Make him the god we knew he was; overseeing the maple parsnips, see
I know him. You say you don’t read poetry. You say there’s no point. 
My first book is right now, the second in December, a lead makes me 
Believe a big one’s coming next April. 

When I travel alone, with a bottle of wine, I never break into it.
I enjoy the taste of the bus, the super-skunk, the fillet meal, the shishlik kebabs
The distract that comes from that small, yellow pill. He writes
Me at speed and standstill, like I write him. A muse, we say. We are the
Panoramas to the city and the country. I am the bridge. Now look at 
All the work I started.

You have your beautiful child and I have my beautiful book(s).
The trophy in my hand is ~90 pages long but yours, is living, and breathing.
I’ll never understand you. But I know this much: You were more beautiful
Than me, a respite from me, a shower to the cold and dry, and I colour
You in purple; an odd one, seldom liked but adored by those who do.

Did you know, his favourite colour is blue, like mine?


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