unable to watch; your tax used,
your txt and browser history
stored, in the cold, indefinitely
the abyss is on the catwalks,
and all the Past is kept
as landmarks.
I yearn to make mistakes
again, to wake on someones
couch. or arm, and not
know where I am.
no maps to get me
home
no message app
to set it straight
with work.
(the house is still asleep
I to go outside
and look for landmarks;
a tower, bus, a gumtree.
half the scent remembered
smelling my hand.)
but what I mean
I want my youth back
for a few weeks;
pagers and coins,
because I’ve learnt
those mistakes—
the failure to return
on time, being lost
in rain, or humid smeet
aggravating rough shaves
secure their place
in history, cement
long term memory.
(like the Friday
morning, Parramatta
Road. smelling those
fingers, piece of her small
hair between the front
teeth. an hour late
at least an hour more
to get there.
a few of the girls aboard
the bus can smell the
air behind me
as I take my isle
holding-strap
amongst nationalities
in rebuild: African,
the Eastern bloc
in the early stages.
late. late again
to work, I stink.
there was a shoot
booked, important
films to process
and print.
took it for granted, that:
no immediate contact
with anyone not present.
coin will have to fight
to validate the analogue
might of its value, daffodils
and tulips don’t fret
time off the front
page. if you kept
my roots
dark
and moist I’d show you
my flowers…nothing
virtual. no facetime.
actual present doing.
Cheers for that, Sommer
This is spectacular, so evocative it dredged my own similar sense memories.