Reality On-demand

By | 20 September 2018

1. Demo Day

Jo Gaines walks right into me and takes stock. Good bones,
y’all – I love this one
. So much potential. Knuckle through a wall or two
and fill me up with light, hem back the big trees snagging eaves,
polish till you slide right off the slick of my boards. Tip out all my organs
and reset. Pull back my ceiling and truss me with fresh letter moulding.
A nest of bees released in a wall. The no-est house on Yes Street.
We just need the owner’s original mm to do this right, to fold
the thumb in and open the kitchen right up with a pop.
May as well rebrand your favourite prime-time flippin’ show
as Fister Upher. You’re welcome. Chip is somewhere else making a joke
into the hollow of another episode. The revolution is caramelised
in Joanna’s domestic vision. Let’s play house. She leans in
to lick up her handiwork, like a bond cleaner – the deepest
just before she leaves. Furrows to hang a final pendant light
from my cervix. Gimme Carrera. If it feels too full, let’s go low
on clutter. Are you ready to see your instant equity? Curbs
in all the right places. My muscles close around and vanish her work.
Any good renovation is invisible.

2. Nailed It
After Gertrude Stein

Plum caught up in a truffle. Butter burns uvula. Sage crisps in a pan. The bruise of a poached quince resurrects a collar. I can make my own pikelets. I can live off you for weeks. Have we transcended turmeric? A caramel slice forgotten in your fist. You can do just about anything on granite, even real hot stuff. Put the entire roast beetroot and its rose honey right there. Layers of potato sunbathe in the oven. Fingers take a dip in figs. A creamy void wakes in the blink of a bagel. I’m not a morning person. A brain mornay. Roll your forehead into the shortcrust. Melting moments split the timer. A recipe is a letter to your body. And your body is just a reply.

3. The Rose Ceremony

I am a dreadful flirt – the worst you’ve met.
She’s come around to watch – is this a date? This ritual,
to narrate like Attenborough: here we see the men
in TV’s natural habitat: The Mansion
set with daybeds, fairy lights, and ad breaks.
I want a rose more than I’ve ever craved a rose. Each bachelor
narrates, in turn, her entrance: Sophie walks in wearing—
and we’re speechless
. Adjectives are mislaid in the fracas.
I’m the one man in this blur of boys. What would they do
with all the cameras off? What would we do with cameras on?
It’s like a bunch of pigeons with a chip. Can I just grab you,
Sophie, for a chat?
(Does she even like The Bachelorette?)
The bachies pile their coats on Soph, till all we see
is bubbly flute and Uggs. You’re probably warm enough,
so I won’t offer. When I want someone, I want it like a volcano.
Sophie likes to sit on safe things only, like a couch.
This couch has not been safe for weeks – we even
tethered wifi from a phone once – so committed.
Our elbows keep making excuses. I learned to cook.
We know how to talk to girls, and how to date.
The female of the species picks off her lovers
one by one. I know I’m not the typical Bachelorette.


This entry was posted in GUNCOTTON and tagged . Bookmark the permalink.

Related work:

Comments are closed.