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Sharon Talbot Apr 20
Scream, Memory

Accidents don't happen on holiday,
do they?
Standing in the shower, I stare out of
a tiny window at the setting sunlight.
In a row, children on a rustic bench
chatter through their colored ices
and kick their sandaled feet.
Soon, a tall, bland man appears
with smiles for all--this is his family
and he is happy.
His ambiance is like a drug so I leave
my caravan, barely dry,
Wanting to speak to him and not knowing why.
His good fortune draws one to him,
Yet I find another reason.
He directs me without words
to a desolate room and a gown.
And I remember...that I have not remembered
lately. And my collection of names is dwindling,
memory leaking like a wire basket.
Even before I don the **** robe and lie down
on a cold, plastic bench,
I know what the diagnosis will be.
The cylindrical tunnel looms and his nurse or wife
motions to it as he still smiles.
The machine roars like time passing
And I emerge carefully, not wanting to know.
Seeing my expression, he turns on me:
"It is bad news, but also sad."
He tilts his head like a bird, self-satisfied.
His vacuous delight belies the words.
What the hell is the difference, I think.
And like a falling tree, reality splits the dream
And knocks down my life.
I weep, uncontrolled.
It does not help to swear
nor to hit the wall with my fist.
But would it help to slap the doctor?
People crowd around and tell me to stop
but, as I had to when my father died,
I continue to rave.
For, what is simple to them
I will not make so to me.
I will mourn and censure Fate!
And if I still must,
I will not go gently
But scream all that I remember
Into the fading light.

April 19, 2019
This is the rough remembrance of a nightmare about Alzheimer's, which I had after doing some research on memory. I wonder why I was in a caravan, since I hate those! Does it symbolize our temporary status in this world? The doctor LOOKED nice and kind, like a 1950's hero, but was merciless and cold.
A Simillacrum May 2018
is it any wonder
social constructions
**** the soul?
i am born.

entire constellations
ingested by men
who stole the
braver buck.

is it any wonder
the higher numbers
**** the low?

artists hide their holy
proper alkahest
swirl into the torrent
eyes fixed on the hole
going full Atropos
by slashing tethers
and teaching us to fly

is it any wonder
construction kills abstraction
encrusts the brilliant stone
in destructive gray?

is it any wonder
emotional capacities
have been bled from me?
they must bless the fallen
they must make Halal
the bounteous
human feast

an exoteric world rises
while one esoteric burrows
in bright dark underneath.

two parts of a whole broken
banished to disconnection
when dichotomies could meet.


. . . SCAN COMPLETE
K Balachandran Mar 2018
keen eyes scan around,
for the mystery concealed;
unseen but right here!
Mystic Ink Plus Feb 2018
She travelled her eyes
My, head to toes

Seems nothing interesting.
Genre: Abstract
Theme: Then, nothing matters.
Gabriel K Sep 2015
“I saw my consultant today”
she explains
above the clatter of the Piccadilly Line
direction Heathrow Airport
Terminal 5
“for my scan”
case I was wondering where she'd been
which I wasn't,
I was thinking about me
replete
of a long weekend
at ***
food
DVDs.
When she moved abroad
it became a part-time thing
European breaks
expenses paid
*******
the PhD.
“Would you like to see these?”
she starts reaching in her bag
Hermès
tan
with the leather tag
retrieves an envelope
A4
card-backed
starts to lose herself
in some probably some work-related thing,
I turn my attention to Arsenal
FC
was this the year they would finally make it
in the Champions League?
She hands me some items
see-through
black and white sheets
murky with shadows
faintly-sinister shapes
“You see?”
I didn't
“it's in the *****”
what's that mean?
Next stop: Hatton Cross.
I hold up the transparencies
you can see the London Underground map where the light gets through,
I would smoke a joint when I got home
when I dropped her off
“You're obviously not interested”
she snatches the x-rays;
suddenly I was
desperate
but it was too late.
© Gabriel K
James Meyers Feb 2015
My fingers are birds
flying over white and black
taking steps, whole and half
My foot is a pedal
press it, change the sound
My eyes are a barcode scanner
that see repeated change
My body is a metronome
swaying side to side
While notes and chords fill
my head's inside
Inspired by The Secretary's Chant by Marge Piercy

— The End —