Saturday, February 10, 2007

The Blackened Memory

The city was burning
and so was his skull.
I watched his memories melt

like tears dyed black
from the back of his head.
His body and soul, a puddle.

I clawed through the pile
of memories, disguised
as charred brain matter.

I tossed aside one memory
of his first son's first word
(eat) and it splattered against the wall.

Another memory ran red
and wet between my fingers:
His father's funeral. It was sunny.

Finally I found it, a sharp memory
cloaked in pink gelatin
beginning to boil in the flames:

He saw a woman, reached for her,
his hand disappeared inside her,
she smiled and bit her lip,

she took him in her mouth,
he laughed a little, threw an empty bottle
of whiskey onto the bed in the dark,

then he heard a sound and turned,
he saw me holding a pistol,
he asked me what the fuck I was doing,

I looked at my wife on the bed,
she said she was sorry, so sorry,
I nodded and shot him before she could apologize again.

His memory didn't show what happened after.
I looked over at her corpse on the bed.
The flames licked the windows and ceiling.

Sweat dripped from my nose
and vanished into the smoke.
Beyond the blackened curtains the city was burning.

by Barnabas DuCoudray


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1 Comments:

Anonymous Anonymous said...

this gives me a very solemn feeling

6:54 AM  

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