Listening to the songs of yesterday,
I laugh at memories of impromptu dance routines,
pretend music videos and friends to sing the chorus with.
But the next song starts with a few bars of synth,
and different memories emerge from the fog.
Dancing in the kitchen, boxing with oven gloves,
sitting under the apple tree, going to the Witch’s House,
naps in the afternoon and Sherlock Holmes,
listening to this song in the thick air of the Spanish night.
“This is the best dance anthem ever recorded.”
That’s why we played it at his funeral.
Palms sweaty, room swimming.
Exhaustian has taken its toll,
the more you sleep, the heavier your eyelids feel.
The floor has rushed up to meet you,
it doesn’t spend nearly enough time with your face.
You cry out for your mother,
but the only reply is a tinny recording of The Mamas & The Papas.
They had come up professional,
with starched white collars,
and gold cufflinks.
Their job titles revolved around the word “executive”.
Their hands were manicured,
with freshly cut nails and buffered cuticles,
in a desperate attempt to scrub away the blood.
This is my story.
Laughter and the sea
gave way to studying and peace-keeping.
There was a loss, but we kept going,
the same as before, minus a member.
Studying turned into dissatisfaction
with the institution, the law, myself.
So the change was made,
the textbooks were replaced with Keats.
The English department didn’t want to take a chance on a quitter,
so I write.
just as surprised,
to hear of your husband.
So tragic! So unexpected!
He always seemed so happy.
What did he have to be depressed about?
Anyway, the girls send their love,
and we’ll see you at Thanksgiving!
Claws in your shoulder,
fur tickling your ear,
your arm straightened,
the paw stretched further,
towards the delicious fishie suspended from your fingers…
I said frisbee, Mrs B,
throw us the frisbee!
What do you mean you’re busy?
Yes, I see a tile’s fallen off your chimney.
It was probably that ball of Christie’s.
Oh, Mr B’s taken her to the city?
Then I guess you can keep the frisbee, Mrs B.
“not fit to be seen”
Such a queer expression.
On streak of mud, and you’re not worth a bean.
Your value restored when you’ve gone upstairs to freshen.
Why does society treasure being immaculately clean?
It may seem like an odd question,
until you are deemed “not fit to be seen.”
Invented word by word,
he tells his story.
It’s exciting, daring,
with a romantic subplot,
and a monstrous dragon to fight,
a dragon that was slain,
only due to the sacrifice of his homework.
so Tom believed,
in aliens and patsies,
in crop circles and faked moon landings,
in tarot cards and tea leaves,
in fad diets and the ether,
in telepathy and pyrokinesis,
but he found the concept of resurrection absurd.