A red jumper in the airing cupboard, thrown over a pipe, drooping like it had melted. “Académie culinaire de Toulouse l’enfant” on the breast in fractured, iron-on plastic. It was perfect.
Something that wouldn’t be missed. I took my sister’s wave-edge scissors to it. I took it to bits, all but a jagged circle of a sun full of furry solar storms of thread ends.
I ignored the red fluff falling slowly like so much ****** snow, mixing into carpet fibres under my bare feet.
And my heat Disperses into invisibility everything but the colour, like any memory will.
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A green t-shirt, it looks up at me lostly, toyishly small, from some forgotten shop bought at some forgotten time. A childhood comfort still smiling but not soft anymore.
The front’s all robots smashing apart tower blocks with tin pincers and laser vision. People’s screams of indicision. Staticky speech bubbles, broken car windows, exclamation marks.
And a Marilyn monroe type in the midst of the fray, bra half-undone, hand cupped to her mouth Calling into some furious colonised sky into which I pinned my sun.
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A cornish cream baby grow with grandmother stitched flowers hours of sowed leaves. A polka dot horizon and an orchard's evening shadow from a lifetime’s washing. It showed.
So I sowed my mechanical horrors and it’s crimson fear atmosphere onto the pastel world.
And now it’s all there.
A poem about how we attach every new experience onto how we see the past and how that might change our feelings of what the world is.