It is visceral, this feeling
Of memory, and mistake.
You have eviscerated yourself.
It was you who planted the kiss.
Simple aside: I have never enjoyed
This much before. I can’t recall, if so.
The blue cheese cooks a fire
Through the bread and butter and
I don’t mind the rain
I AM COMPUTER
I breathe numbers, my
Mouse click evenings are
On dwindling RAM.
I broke my first sector
On a BIOS detector.
You wanted me even then,
Disk-drive K E E N.
You dirty little bastard, your
Snap back metal sleeves;
the fabric of my memories.
O am I unravelling ! !
I read my scribbled paragraphs of the second novel back to myself. If I am honest I think of my fiction as filmic. It is a camera, on a tripod, on a set of rails, moving smoothly from scene to scene, not lingering too long, not judging and not loving, not until the crucial frame. Until the money shot.
I think of my fiction in this way and I glide the Narrator from character to character. I don’t want to reach a verdict or The Verdict or some verdict on what they do because in real life, when the camera points at you, are you ready, to be judged — to have that scrutiny poured upon what you do and how you act and what you say and how you hold your lips up to the glass in the pale, watery sodium barlight?
You are not.
When I feel that crushing loneliness
I know it is time to exhume the memories;
They alone will keep me.
I catch myself
The scent of you.
I watch myself
The look of you,
All this to say
There is an essence to you:
The mystery that keeps me here
It’s different than it was before
But it’s you I’m still thinking of
In the gaps, on the Seine, in your polka dot, with your ruby red lipstick, and the golden hair strangling my dreams:
In the gaps, with a little hand, eagerly tucked into mine, you held on and drew my motive force
In the gaps, of an airbed in Hackney, as close to heaven as I’ve been, hanging on to hold off the incumbent dawn
Yes, we left a pretty mess of frozen heartstrings
Slow l y