Tag Archives: memory

That Girl, Fanny

You don’t turn up in an

online search as you

surely would if you hadn’t

died at –what -21, 22?

Forgive me, I’ve

forgotten your birthday, along with

so much else lost in the

long life you didn’t have, but

(and this would make your Roman nose

wrinkle with amusement)

you have never been forgotten in

all those long years that have been

empty of you.

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A Mother and a Daughter

As she was going she

went back to those

childhood woods where she

could hide for hours and

be naughty but you

resented your absence from a

world where you

weren’t conceived or

even imagined.

Just Words

Kind words sink silently into the

memory-sponge of the walls but

harsh words carom around the house

forever, their cockroach-carapaces

impossible to crack.

GIF

Do you know you are a GIF in
someone’s Performance Art? The
gold in your blue uniform glittering in
old sun, your hot-pants emphasising your
long dark legs, your
silver batons never quite
twirled above your
shy smile.

But then we are all a GIF in
someone’s mind, some moment
burnt, looped in the soul, some
mannerism eternally annoying, some
gesture that caught in the throat, a
split second when the mask slipped, and
your face cracked open with a
shy smile.

The Twentieth Century in a Pub

When all was said and done, the

corpse-candles burnt out and their

greasy puddles, their

smeared existence, scrapped from

calvaries and cenotaphs leaving them

pristine and exiguous and somehow

forgotten, I suppose I shouldn’t be so

outraged by that cap-badge, the

hammer and sickle aslant within a

five-pointed star, but

dead people by their millions keep

nudging my arm, shaking my resolve and

spilling my beer.

Seeing Red

The first time I knew I could kill

was after school in my

grammar school blazer—

bright blue, red rag

in the roughest part of my

rough town where it was a

personal insult to want

to escape.

 

Each night I was chased by

some gang or another, but

I could outrun them, my heart

keeping time with my legs,

each day distilling that

drip drip of fear, resentment and

hate until it was a

pure vial of vitriol.

 

So there’s that day when one boy

outruns his friends but

they’ve given up and

he’s alone and God

he was surprised when I turned and

grabbed his throat, for

I was fit and strong and

he was not.

 

I raised my fist and watched him cower

all mouth and no trousers suddenly

and my heart was pounding

do it do it do it do it do it

and I wanted to I wanted to so bad

I could taste his pasty blood

bursting from his ratty face on my

metronomic knuckles.

 

Instead I dropped him, ran for home,

kept running, ran to Championships,

ran beyond the tape, keep running away from

the first time I knew I could kill.

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