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.