Biography

A swathe of cutlasses in an empty room are the only comfort, these barbed words on hooks that never slip, unfaltering in this inescapable future.

Or an anachronism?

How highly we hold this past that we sip at, moist lips let what’s golden part their ineffectual filter, we know the glass contains a bitter aftertaste, taste buds conditioned to only our presumptuous affections,
Insistent, repellent, benevolent or malevolent? An element
of surprise as the mouth parts until we swallow pride as well as contrived justice. Stop.

Break away to applause, bow clouded by delusion, a rush as we raise our heads too quickly to take in the surroundings, at an outdoor conference of great minds all I see is
Sun in my eyes
and my own reflection in the heat haze

Take stock in this, last chance as we reel through the ages, too quickly advancing through used camera negatives and sheets of dirty glass.



And the room is empty again, characters in a glorified autobiography take their rightful place amongst the dotted cobwebs and unwashed sheets,

Past beckons futures,
Pictures become words,
Both become warm air between our lips, ventilation extends to the pores of concrete, inches yet miles apart, these histories are to be rewritten again and again,

I say i forget what happened

I will never know.