Mr Memory

Nose erect, stiff starch of shoulder
at perfect horizon line, an aircraft
of enlightenment.

Each black quiff in perfect predicament,
the curl of a snail's shell, a section
of gold.

Mind a pure bell, undulating waves
of knowitall. The hum of a room
of monks.

I am a living internet.

Search me.

A question floats like a sublime manta-ray,
hangs in space for the audience
to witness its decay.

The space between clock ticks
toffee pulls. The porcelain
desert of his mind begins to
crack.

A childhood of swiping thin rice
pages of delight, lit by yellow
torch, the seduction of facts and
exactitude every answer perfect: right
or wrong, no room for grey, the
crackle of a badly folded page, the
discomfort of the imperfect, the
mess of other people, play
ground screams and runs, hair
grease, candle
wax, autumn
leaves,
copper
veins.

In the end we are all skeletons.

© Mark Sheeky. Permission is required for reproduction.