November 11th 2021
The flavour of memory is desire. I want to remember,
remember? For example, remember when I said,
“The flavour of memory is desire”? Now it’s twice
been uttered, you’re compelled, backwards, upwards,
your motion towards the future a curving into the past.
Before you read the next line, observe a minute’s silence.
How did it go? Did you meet anybody back there?
Did the moan of a prop-plane brown the background?
Did the noise of sepia watercolour everything?
Did sound-FX your mind’s ‘Save As’-ed from video
games (the popping-corn of bullets over
cities, duvet-rustle-static over
radios) layer over and out the scene?
I wish I didn’t know what an MP40
feels like, but I do: warm. I wish
that through my hooded front blade I could see
a little more. Form dissolves in memory.
Bodies become a carpet of bodies over time.
The flavour of memory is desire. I can’t remember
anything. I’ll try and make it up.