i feel forgotten, in a good way.
like i’ve missed a commitment
to do something excrutiating
but i haven’t realised yet. like,
at any moment i’ll remember
i needed to be anywhere, and
this place’ll fall apart around me.
more than that, i feel like someone’s
forgotten to look for me. the search
and rescue never sent out, so nobody’s
coming to save me. it’s therapeutic,
in a manner of speaking, being forgotten.
the pressure melts away
i can’t tell you what it looked like,
certainly not well. in fact, i worry
my failed attempt will hurt the thing
i try to describe, like my faltering
poetry’ll strike the notion of the place
on the nose and leave it bloody,
unrecognisable for my bludgeoning
of it. or, worse, i’ll be so terrible
as to blood eagle the thing – generations
will come here and see only the ribcage
wings i made of it in my arrogance-informed
ignorance. maybe they’ll walk the steps
and see it and say “huh, now all
i can see is bone.” then the tourist
authority’ll flay me.
the thoughts solidify, judder
into lack of movement. rust
works along the surface, flakes
filling the works, carpeting
the ground with half memories.
reach into the skull, run your hands
along what should be the gentle
porcelain dome – a tower of truth
or something nonsensical like that,
be surprised by the autumn forest
floor of detritus you find instead.
isn’t this stuff important?
i write the word ‘recollect’ a lot
these days. i think i might
be losing my mind, or looking
for something i’m no longer
equipped to recognise.
familiar shapes, distorted by a disconnected
brain. i hardly know
places i’ve known forever, and i
don’t think i can blame the place.
my hand planted against
the ridged white plaster
of the stairwell’s walls
in my childhood home.
it’s my home.
from the pouring water, we drew
concepts, usually pastoral,
plucked grandly from their scenery
and stowed in confines like
these. you know,
there was something odd
about that invention. what’d
we call it? sublime.
that thought-absent feeling from
the foot of a mountain we sought
to capture, the feeling we imagined
normal people already had.
turn, wolf – the cliffs
change colours with the ages,
long shifts of sediment
on the ground below.
we hung it over the city
so we could see who noticed.
Not many, was the answer – in
their heads they built a world
where it wasn’t there and layered
it over this one. Sometimes you
see someone stop, turn, and
look at where the sword hanging
over the city isn’t.