John Ormerod

Your name on this wall means you're Dead.

And I can hardly move myself to look at it.
Again.

These years I've contented myself with thinking of you off in some fabulous life, too busy to call. But the rusted metal that outlines the particular combination of letters that point to you; there it is on this wall. Your name. Amid a list that, end to end, would stretch a block in small print. I come across it, surprised by it's expected appearance and instantly I grieve for your absent brittleness beside me.

But all I have of you is this wall, that picture, the memory of this time and that said and a crack in my heart everytime those letters fall together in that particular way.

I'm here and you're Dead.
My grief is in the small print.

long hand

My friend says I have a long hand. It takes time to show. It seems men are looking for a game of animal snap. I'm more like bridge.

Although I've never played bridge, this is what I imagine myself to be. A slow reveal, something not obvious, which calls for patience to come into full focus.
An ability to withstand anticipation is required.
A slow warm burn.
A layered building up.

I think sometimes that most men are looking for women with the depth of betty boop. 2 dimensions represented by 3 numbers (36,26,36) with a black line drawn around the outside to keep the messiness contained.

I'm sprawling.
A luxurious expanse of character with an indefinite shape.
I'm always in process.
Until the period of my death;
the beginning point of the black line drawn, finally, around the shape of my Life.

on my lack of fame

it's okay.
the people that know me know.