Matthew

I can’t remember if I wrote “Matthew” before or after I sent him Lover I Don’t Have to Love (Bright Eyes). I think it was after. It’s funny, to write such a complimentary poem about someone did so truly little for me. Mostly, and this is all guess work and through very cloudy hindsight, I think Matthew was a bit of a turning point. No. Not a turning point. Insight. He was insight. He was insight into the grey areas of sex. This combination of something so utterly bizarre, somewhat repulsive, and absolutely momentary. No future looking. Definitely repulsion, that was there. So there it was practically solid. The bible was what threw me. No one has read the bible to me, least of all in a single bed whilst preaching abstinence and finding oneself, and especially not whilst being mostly naked.

I sent him Lover I Don’t Have to Love in some kind of retaliation. He publicly shared some dumbass look-what-you’re-missing-out-on song (because that’s how he worked, with songs), after I made it very clear that I had zero interest invested in him, and I was like, well fuck you, here you go. It fucked him up. It legitimately fucked him up. He called me, gave me some verbal abuse, shouted a bit. Then sent me a couple Facebook messages, to which I never replied, and then deleted and blocked me.

And then I went and wrote a poem about him. I question this. I also question why I still bother questioning this. I think (the amount of “I think” and “I guess” etc. going on here is some next level stuff) that thinking about (see?) Matthew and the whole scenario is some kind of ‘safe’ way of secretly looking at myself. It lets me indirectly analyse what’s happening. When remembering him and the brief moments (moments as in time spent together, not moments in a nice “we had a moment” way, please) we actually had together, I see them in third person. I am an observer. Watching me not eat in the Vietnamese restaurant whilst he chats, watching him play the guitar to me on the steps of the State library, watching him read a bemused me the bible, watching me meet his dad and then meet his mum. He is a blimp on my radar, a little blimp on my time line. I have a number of blimps, but he is a weird one. He is a blimp straight out of the eighties, with hair longer than mine and curly-ish and spray paint trousers and anarchist friends. There have been tragic little blimps in the forms of secret crushes, there have blimps where I worked hard to make it work and it just did not at all, and there have been blimps that were just a goddamn mess. Matthew is one of the tiniest blimps of all, but he’s one of the only ones that’s actually had a poem (a full-fledged, finished, edited, submitted, published poem) written about him.

The one thing I don’t guess about or ‘think’ about, is the reason for this. He is a blimp that read me the bible, and that was pretty unusual, and decidedly memorable. I think I’d like to revisit my blimps. They’re a fun, eclectic lot. And a lot do have little poems of chunks of prose about them, though again, Matthew went straight through to print.

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