Posted by: theboyfromsmallville | October 12, 2007

A two-year-old’s take on lotus-eating

(The UP Cum Laude took me to watch a Spanish film. And I remembered, ironic as this may sound, the lotus eaters. Warning: Literary ineptitude in full showcase)

A two-year-old’s take on lotus-eating

The memories we fetch, they are not our own.
Unoriginal instead, the images we have in our
Heads. They were written there by people, people.
We gave them pens with our hearts. And we said:
Go ahead! Go ahead! Scribble. Scribble.
And didn’t they? Scribble? Draw graffiti? But.
We did not find all of them pretty. We didn’t.
So they doodled. Names and dates and dates and?
Names! Secret phrases uttered in childhood
Games! Relationships whose fates were etched in
Flames! We remember. We remember. But.
The memories are not for us to label ours.
Perhaps people with pens perfect people
By scribbling such shenanigans as surfing,
Singing, sashaying, sinning, seeing and stealing.
What and when and why have you written lately?
On whose memory did you scribble, scribble
About things you did with other people, people?
Or, really, have you written anything at all?
Your words make a person’s memory.
On whose mind did you inscribe the beer burps?
Your words make a person’s memory.
Remember, the Titans? The sunrise? Whistling?
Stealing away in rooms where we count moments
By the hours? Because it is not enough that we curl
Our toes against the clash of water on tiles that
Are not ours? (We have to wrap our heads in cheap
Bug-worn towels) Jot. Jot. Jot. Scribble, scribble.
Your words make a person’s memory.
One of these days, over a cup of coffee
I’ll say: People have written memories in me.
And wonder: But what have I written lately?
And pray: People, people! Please scribble, scribble!
Because if it were all up to me, up to me
The world will read its story somewhere, somewhere
On a blank sheet of paper, paper.

Dance of the lotus eaters

I tried to kill
myself
last night. Just to find out
if I could. I ran a razor right
through my wrist

(and clenched my fist)
I made sure I’d bleed
good.

And then right on cue
they appeared.
Like a string
of paper cut-out dolls
hand in hand in hand in hand

(lotus eaters eating lotus eaters
eating lotus eaters eating
lotus eaters)
whispering: all is false.

Slash, slash,
drip,
drip,
that’s how I went.
I watched the world turn red.
One, two, kick and forget,

(they were dancing. It’s us
you want, they were singing.
All is false, they were
laughing. You’re one
of us, they were saying)
they left me there undead.

Edited by the UP Cum Laude, who was there when the lotus eaters danced

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