>I am so floored by the great response to my first post that I can barely type a new one. Of course, fear has already set in and instead of pretending like I’m completely above it all I’m going to be honest: Blogging makes me a little anxious. Anxious and also a little turned on. Anxious and turned on and hoping to please, like a very small child jumping up and down in place and making little noises. You know what I’m talking about. I’ve just got to thank my lucky stars for Sinclair, a great friend and calming influence.

Working an office type job where I sit in front of this cockamamie box full of all kinds of media doesn’t help with my productivity level, but it affords me the ability to chat and write at will and for that, this working class boy feels like fortunate man. A fortunate man who’s a bit of a sell out, but nonetheless.This is all water under the bridge.

22 days and counting, and numbers are still plaguing me. It began really with a series of emails which at last count clocked in at over 900 in 3 months. Text messages, phone calls, photographs, blogs. Months worth of building tunnels into each other. Its like gravy, thick and sticking to my ribs.

Thats how she is, rib-sticking. Like some hearty meal I can smell cooking when I walk into my house on a Sunday afternoon I’ve yet to meet. The kind of meal where there are no leftovers, just another button on your jeans undone. The kind of meal that holds you in that Sunday afternoon and carries you all the way to lunch time on Monday.

‘I want to hear everything you have to say.’ Almost whispered it into the phone after hearing me stop myself from pouring her a glass of my secrets. This like calling a starving beast to knaw on a limb or two. You are liable to end up a quadriplegic. Because Im a writer that way. Insatiable. Ready to ravage you with things you never imagined you’d want to sip on.She matches me word for word. Poem for poem. Story for story. We are baking bread in each others bellies. Warm and rising to meet. Steady, slow and always wanting more.


2 thoughts on “More.

  1. >gotta say, I totally hear you with the sitting-in-front-of-the-box but-I-get-to-write sellout/working class thing. you said it much more articulately. but. I am ever grateful that my day job allows me to explore my art, rather than takes away from it.also: hot damn you can write. love the numbers, the lovely home-cooked meals I can already tell are waiting to be made in a kitchen for you both. and: “stop myself from pouring her a glass of my secrets” ?! fucken brilliant. you’re such a poet.

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