Wednesday, 6 February 2013

Reunited. Double lp, world excited.

Two years. Hand on the rail
each step equates to a month I lose
and by the time I'm at the door
I'm back to when I spelt "her" as "you".
the bell rings.
There's a blur through the window
walking towards the door,
the silence between it being opened
is longer than the two years spent apart.
The latch turns along with my stomach.
my eyes take in every possible exit,
the door opens and all I am is 

And I look at her. 

And I still don't know. She looks a little different.
more comfortable and less delicate.
she's got a long black skirt and a blue velvet top.
We hug and I move into one train of thought
Her hugs used to come often
more often with less clothes on,
and distance.

Our arms slowly leave each others side
satisfied, like an after-festival bath.
we borderline sigh, lock eyes
and laugh.
Two years.

Where are you taking me
Where are you leading me to
What do I want. I don't think
it's something new.

She's the only one in and all the lights are on.
(Wasteful) I felt embarrassed for remembering
last month I had a one night stand with a woman
in a flat that had the exact same layout as this.
I don't tell her because it's not relevant
and honestly I don't want her to hear it.

I still see myself with her as a nineteen year old
who felt guilty when I felt her boobs in a hug.

She says she's bought too much.
but it's only when the fourth can's drunk
We feel warmed up enough
to talk of what was,
who's done what and mainly,
Laugh. At each other,
at those around us and mainly,
our past.
I ask about her acting,
it's stagnant.
She asks about stand-up,
I red stripe click, swig.
Her floor is wooden and shiny and

I'm tired.
Everything's naps in the afternoon, early mornings and late nights with walks home evaluating how gigs went with lamp posts. The parts I hate the most are the other comedians jokes. Nearly every single one is a type of a person doing an impression of someone better than them. Five out of six a shit Bill Hicks. On a bill of twenty one from seven till eleven- I rarely find someone I can connect with. Watching- It seems- It's- Misogyny. Racism is a no go but every night I'm hearing at least ten rape jokes. Per set. Until you spend a night watching twenty comedians you'll never know how long five minutes is. It sounds bad but what I think offends me more than the subject matter is how shoddily these jokes are put together. They bypass craft for the an easy laugh. Say they were bullied in school I want to say I bet through your eyes. the whole world has bullied you. Do you know what I mean I'm sorry I know you know what I mean. You get me.

I wait all night  to hear "Ladies and Gentlemen, welcome to the stage... See-An... Mahooney!" I pick up the mic stand wrong and get tangled in the chord having every eye watch my first line fluffed- and I'm, forced into this moment, but I can't force a moment or deliver blows. They have to laugh not from queues but because they want to and to not know why. It's a challenge but it's really fun. You know when I started I used to have my hands covered in lines, bullet points, but then that would me step out of where I am. I need to be, present. With them. which means talking till I find what room I've left my jokes in. it rarely does but when when it goes right they see all the little animals and faces I've been seeing for years. I get happy that I'm not crazy, or that I am and have found a way for it to work for me. It's fun. It's really alright.

She looks for my eyes
and finds me using the smile
that only she ever got to see.
I knew I was in love when I saw her.
And this time, I knew I was in love again.

She says something about missing me
and in that moment
all this heartbreak feels so teenage.
Three minutes of silence
as shutterbug by big obi plays.
a poetic moment ruined
by an ipod left on shuffle.