Verlaine said over and over;
„Memories, memories, what do you want of me?”
Verlaine felt guilt.
I feel something like
My memories betraying me, each day
Brings another set of untruths
Tumbling in its wake.
Truly, I remember;
Last year I levitated in the same manner
As I did when I was six.
I spent this afternoon looking back
At real faces,
From the relative safety of the present
These were my friends, once;
There was the whiskered man in the frock coat
Peddling his powders and PVC neckties
We would gyrate to a mess of hits
White smudges glowed beneath blacklights
There were the impossible twins, metallic lovers
Inseparable, not really related.
I watched one bifurcate her tongue, for real
And woke up in stinking antique furs.
One of them now has a baby,
I still can’t tell which is him, or her.
But it really isn’t the same –
Eight years have passed, whether you remember them or not.
And then there was you; seven-foot wonder,
Straddler of council rooftops,
Purveyor of faster-than-colour speed travel
And the simple compounds they tell me killed you.
I keep my days in mesh boxes
The locks are barely existent
And every month
One of my women
Finds where they are hidden.
They get their cutters out,
Sharpened on curiosity,
And spill the contents all over
Tomorrow morning’s breakfast, but
We soon forget again.