Have you forgotten, old man, the wild youth?
Zephyrs will knock you back, zooming, stumbling drunk on power
All these children, worshipping speed in constant flux
Face-first, papercuts from paper cutouts all around,
I went crazy, old man, my mind exploded in wartime plumes;
You once called this yours, too, under hahas and rough guffaws.
Illuminating all, what remained unseen, with iron grip, I grasped at straws,
Remember old man, because when you forget, it wins all over again.
I beg you, salty old sinnerman, soaked in the spray of the silver sea,
Shine your lamp this way, but don’t dare Gaslight me.
Old man, our body was a wonderland, you’ve turned it a junkyard,
Salvage; choose optimism over efficiency,
Monumental, recycled effigy.
Our father told us he’d be dead by 27,
Remember, old man, he would roll spliff in the barn,
The green and brown, offered for lost time;
Creaking joints whisper family secrets,
Wheezing lungs paint a portrait over a mirror.
I thought I’d be dead by 27,
Dented and chipped, different ways to cheapen;
Trans-Am aspirations but a body of a bicycle; semi-collapsible.
My nose long since hollowed.
What will we be, will we see 27?
Clad in armour of words unspoken,
Polished in appearance like the bottle from last night.
Old man, you’re so funny, hungry and hard,
Leathered skin suits you well.
In these jean short summers, Be not afraid.
Twisted metal blocks out brains,
Tanning our shared skin,
Revealing our blood,
Secrets embodied,
One Grandmother madonna, another a *****,
High cheek-***** olive skin,
Contrasted with Viking lovers.
Different pieces welded together over generations,
Tones and textures,
If there’s one thing we know, it’s that there’s no shame in sleeping with a Frenchman,
Gushing like the first time, when we were 16,
Silent and guilty eye contact, Sploosh.
Old man, some things never change.
We can be so much better.
We have been so much better.
Third-year modern theatre assignment: A letter to your future self in one of our studied styles. My choice: futurism.
