She locked herself in

in the ‘great wide open’

shed merry-go-round tears

enough to fill a milking bucket

wishing she could turn back time

to the days when love’s spell was first cast

and he was a genius


Invariably he drank alone

harnessing his train of thought

an important thing to do when

Archangels and heretics were about

trading insults, chanting the unspeakable


In times past little mattered to him

those halcyon days of waking up when he woke up

days of draft dodgers holidaying in Soho

discussing the merits of Acopalcan Gold over Tibetan Temple Hash

always leaving the jury undecided in an immaculate quandary


“Pass me a nectarine would you darling…thank you”


Whimsy and fine red the best of bedfellows these days


“Also my dear perhaps a coffee at that new place in the town square tomorrow…sounds idyllic don’t you think?”


Rarely did she answer his rambling questions

dilated upon on his all too foreseeable notions


“Any way where was I? Oh yes I remember now…the day I ran a marathon…that was it”


This one she could not let go


“No you didn’t…you’ve never run a marathon in your life!”


“Metaphor darling…a mere metaphor”


“For what?”


That he referred to his birth and impending

death entirely lost on her for the present


Mattered not for in a flash his working memory

disintegrated under a tidal wave of autobiographical delusions



    1. The incidence of short term memory loss is I think on the up…it is on my mind (the loss of it that is) a lot…attempting to mentally measure if it is on the increase or the same as before!

    1. When penning something I believe the writers becomes a metaphor for the obscure…by the way re your latest post I think I should have added’ sublimely surreal’ to my words of praise as well.

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