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Memory Trace

Another country looms
beyond glacial mountains
soon to melt down.
There you are
sitting in the restaurant
you never went to,
ordering a meal
you would not eat
on any month of Sundays,
speaking in tongues,
with a woman you vaguely
think you once longingly saw
on the pelican crossing
outside the Pound Shop,
strolling away from you.
That clown? Could it be?
Clutching a second hand
jar of Harpic,
bottle of cheap bleach.
What the hell is that?
Dancing round the garden
in lieder hose,
snot dangling from its nose.
There is the cradle,
something pink and pukey
was screaming down the house,
finally silence
fell on the nursery room.
You were never even a memory trace,
staining your shroud,
blurring you face,
taken off your own case.

6 Oct 10

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