...

.

.

.

I

.

Memory: a spinning rolodex

Of synaptic moments -  

Of film, exposed polaroids

That bleach into frame;

.

That soften and crispen,

That sink into a pool 

Of acetic acid,

That briefly, instantaneously

.

Seem to ignite 

Into some kind of temporary life.

.

.

II.

Memory: preserved remains 

That sit gawping, lifeless;

.

That're housed, inescapable and bubbling 

In noxious, glass rows -

Stinking of regret,

Of decay, 

.

Of unrelinquishabillity, 

Formaldehyde,

.

Of a chemical burn that can't be hidden

With a newly formed facial expression,

Make-up,

A brand new costume for a brand new trade.

.

.

Most artists want nothing more

Than to express to some perceived audience - 

Someone, anyone, a stranger at a bus stop - 

That these things we carry with us,

.

Apples, worms,

.

Have more than just a self-assigned significance -

That they mean more than just a single, subjected experience - 

All, but to give 

Such seemingly temporary moments

.

Some semblance

Of a higher purpose.

.

.

.