Memoirs of a Recollective Junkie

>O| Record
outdated backwards
rewind rations
me, looking at your
wrist for the time.
No-one knocks on the door
living in boxes strung up
in the sky, glass locks
buttons to buzzers;
I miss the dialtones
and hot breath on my neck

>| Play
An old memory, full of feeling gone worn away
ten million rememberings and the sharpness becomes
Rewind, play, rewind, play, pause
on those still-clear moments of joy, harder to

I, recollective Junkie, sits in a stripped
bare concrete basement, surrounded by discarded
pull-tabs from nutritional supplements.

An old anamnesis player wired to draw
current from a bare, broken bulb. The Memory
of a child’s birthday loops backwards and forwards;
the names forgotten, worn away and indistinct.

Stabbing a thin finger on the pause button
Shivering time forward
one cold moment
at a time.

By Mainebot

Old, bitter man made better only by little bits of oil-like language made languid; buy a letter, even a vowel, loose a low arrow always aimed at voluminous alliterated love.