unspoken word

the last time i saw you
you walked away
into the distance
into the sunset
a freeze frame

the last time we spoke
you wished me well with my plans
and the tape
paused…

or maybe the reel ran out of picture
a film no longer distributed
no plans for a re-release
not even an outtake
after the final credits rolled
 
so i filed away
our project
first as a work in progress
then as
unfinished
finally as a title
in my back catalogue
and after time began to wonder
if it had ever been made

and then
years later
an email
a one liner
i couldn’t believe you’d misspelled my name
and i couldn’t believe i’d finally
heard from you

you wanted a premise
for a sequel
how could you know
scenes that had transpired
since I’d last seen you?

So now I must send you a new script
Explain of recasting
rescheduling, reformatting
ongoing problems with budgets
and a drastic change of
location

I wonder what chat
we’ll have in the lobby
as you hold the door open
waiting for me
and we begin that inevitable deconstruction
that leaves more questions than answers…

 My ex landlady

Used to wrestle men in our living room for money

We all objected at first

My flatmates and I

But you see

We weren’t actually paying any council tax

Due to us not “really” renting from her

(as far as the council was concerned anyway)

and thus

on that fateful day

when we had one of those “house meetings”

only for my landlady to say

well..

propose actually

her new method of making money

at first we protested

initially

but we weren’t actually paying any council tax

the bills were nominal divided by us three

and the rent was so low that….

No honestly!

At first the idea of the arrangement

Aroused great offence.

Insult even.

It was impossible to consent

Regardless of the locks that would be put on our doors

A new telly

The prospect of a leather sofa

And maybe our first house party

In the summer

Which never would have been allowed previously

But wrestling? In our living room?

For?

Money?

Only wrestling?

When we would all be working?

And locks on our doors?

Well still it was unbelievable

Surreal to expect in one’s abode

But you see

We weren’t actually paying council tax

The rent was so low

The rooms might as well have been free

And for the most part our land lady was quite lovely

And we all really would be at work when it happened and

No wait listen to me!!!

Are we actually allowing random men

To come to our house, our living room

wrestle?

Our landlady?

And to think the whole thing arranged by an agency

Catering to men with such proclivities

Was it worth it? The money?

Two hundred pounds hourly?!!

The option to be her sidekick passed through my mind fleetingly

She grinned gratutitously

But none of us were convinced

Until she reminded of the fact

That we weren’t actually paying any council tax

And our collective rent was so low

The rooms could have been free

And it was very very likely

That others would be how could she say it

More amenable to the situation

So with some reservation, we three agreed

Convincing ourselves (mostly out of greed)

That our rent, ridiculously low as it was

And the absence of council tax

Was worth a few small (??!!) sacrifices

Believe it or not

I lasted three years there

Until for two of us it was all we could bare

As he departed for largish modern suburban house share

And as for me

I found my own lair

A studio flat, and yes the rent is rather more dear

And oh yes the third, well for him I fear

He ceased to find the living room dynamic In any way problematic

And when I chide

He mumbles unconvincingly the following aside

 

 “ Well uh.. I’m not paying council tax?

And the rent is pretty low so…the room might as well be

Free?”

 

And I can still see his argument

But as for making it

I’m so glad it’s no longer me.

DISCLAIMER (the part i say to save my a** from offending anyone): any likeness this may bare to real facts and real people is entirely coincidental….

brandon jones’s diary…

Not your typical gay boy singleton

He fancies men

But prefers the company of lesbians

Refuses to consider suitors taller than him

Not keen on courtship rites

He doesn’t LIKE dating

His biological inclinations to mating

Are slighted by his way of living

Chatting someone up just ain’t his cup of tea

Provoking unwanted bouts of celibacy

But then one day

Washing his hands in a sink in the gents

He raised his head, only to be met

By a pair of sultry eyes, elegantly framed

(well he would say that really, as his glasses

were the same make and style as his adversary)

but could it really be??

That this smile was broadening

Ever so invitingly?

Not willing to let this one get away

After quickly drying his hands

He flirted fiercely with his prey

And though the strangers face

Was definitely forthcoming

Rudely, he kept interrupting

Now its worth mentioning

Earlier that evening

my friend Had ingested his fair share

Of …chemical refreshment

So who was this vision

Of masculine perfection ?

Another man he couldn’t have

…his own reflection

stumbling back to the bar

he blurted out the story

I didn’t know whether to laugh

Or whether to say “sorry”

And though the potential for ridicule was ripe

I restrained myself, saying only

“ I didn’t know you were your type…”

a married man

there’s a word
for women like her it’s
     
 chic

its in the language
of her movement
the careful way
she lights her ciggarette
the look in her eyes that is
half thoughtful
half vacant

watching her
i wonder what her voice
sounds like
imagine her turning
and saying…
and saying…
i don’t know… anything

and then
she turns to her friend
who sets down her coffee
as she responds quietly
“thank you darling…”

her words have a
soothing and
sensual quality

i imagine kissing
the back of her neck
imagine her
saying under her breath
something sexy
ending with that soft
“thank you darling”

wishing we were
walking down the street
as i’d receive
envious glances
just for being with her

but as she plants
a long lingering kiss
on her “friend’s” lips
i can no longer
bare to look at her

maybe i’ll stop coming here
alone.

my mind is full of her
silky shaved head
steel toed boots
aggresive exterior

casually
she
slips off her shirt
exposes
a flimsy vest
sinks into a
fat paperback

desperately i focus all my attention on
a nearby no smoking sign
until i’m startled by
a reflection
of her eyes
seeking
mine…

she had a quiet way to tantalise
with those feline hazel eyes
and the effortless easiness
of her smile
covert (or so i thought)
i watched her and perhaps
my style of showing interest
was a shade too obviouis
because she caught me
          looking
well… not just looking
mentally undressing
and then perhaps
outright staring
until my will to look away
was broken
and she stopped looking my way…

recollection
of a girl i wanted to kiss
a lifetime ago
remains intact
in your face
and makes me
aware of you

your familiarity is disconcerting
the book in my lap
lies dormant
cryptic words
blur off the page

and i read in
automatic repetition
reacting to the fact that
i am
aware of you

in a glance
i have consumed
the fullness of your lips
and captured
a glimmer
of a smile
in the ebony of your eyes

you get up to leave
in an instant
i am left with
your empty seat
and my
awareness of you

in forty seconds
you
made me feel
full…