this is about my ex-boyfriend. it’s a bit embroidered, there’s some fiction amongst the fact, and it’s all in completely the wrong order! it’s also about a certain kind of stereotype / cliche i guess.
he is long-legged and slim of stomach
with sharp ribs,
has a liking for chain smoking spliffs,
telling outrageous fibs
and never, ever showering.
he is the ideal height –
still a kid inside but in a man’s size,
so that, onstage, i forget my fright –
worry more about him,
his fear of normal people – and formal situations;
like theatres, yes,
but also banks,
any decent restaurant and…
of course, all employment-related places.
he prefers the peripheral;
the crumbling buildings, urban wastelands,
a good old graveyard, all glass covered, so you’ve got to be careful,
watch your arse when you have sex on the headstones,
it goes without saying, i swoon;
he is a fine specimen,
all rugged, rootless and booted
rescuing fruit and veg with his dogs
and surviving on left-overs from tesco’s.
i lollop along. he swaggers.
we trail white lines of washing powder from the bin
all the way back to a squat
with no washing machine.
we wade through so much shit in each other every day,
i wonder – when did we become such a cliche?!
he’s in a love-affair with a
wants to set off on the road
with only water and not stop till *africaaaa*.
instead, he has cycled on an upright
wicked witch of the west style
bicycle, all the way to wonderful,
but at least now i can laugh at this:
the rebel tattoo on his ribs in indian ink,
which he said was actually RE-BEL,
and also the one on his ankle which red ‘ana’,
that he always said he wanted to change to ‘banana’
but of course, he never did!