A Memory Made Flesh

(music: le mari de la coiffeuse)

 I see her face from time to time, like a schism of oily water caused by refracted sunlight. Wackaaaah! she shrieks from frozen celluloid grainy as stock war footage. She was an ugly person in simple contemporary cosmetic terms. Face not too symmetrical, the scar tissue of a childhood scalding, the lazy left eyelid. But smash the beauty shell with a simple love hammer and you see her brainwaves driving through the ether like train lights in a long dark tunnel. There is a hole in my life a family and friends used to fill. My brain is a shell storm in a broken townscape I cannot remember. This may be confusing to you but my equilibrium is all shot to hell, step-by-step instructions are a mind fog of despair to me. I recognise no-one in what is left of my village. Not sure how much of my body is intact. I am completely lost to the reality of my body as a vessel of history and its nostalgic contents are but tattered strips of newsreel in a tombola from hell.

On good days I can focus on a version of the past that no sane human would comprehend. Hard to get under your own skin, see you own eye, if you will. As the stuff that used to live in my head turns to shit, I am bit by bit forgetting about me, forgetting how to be. No physical connection between the emotional plane and the world of the Amazonians.



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