Writing: Misremember

by Beauchamp Art

Tired of dreaming.
Tried waking for a day, or two.
All too vivid.
Cumbersome cranial video.
Caught in currents.

Past events, displaced streets.
A stone solid face, casting itself away.
Whilst body drives itself into the air.
Unfair, unjust.
Just a arm’s reach away.
Waiting as a crumpled kite.
Light no more.
Leading no where.
Wearing a sullen look, that mournful comfort of the familiar.

Family worried.
Rid of their own securities, disrupted by despotic carelessness.
No due diligence.
Distant sultry song.
Longer than a night.

No delight the following day.
No way to put it out of mind.
Never behind, always side by side.
Resurfacing with unwarranted regularity.
Never awoken with or without.
Always wearing a memory.
Missing the details.
Telling tall tales to an audience of one.
Wondering whilst wandering through a thought.

Full of fate.
Fitful restlessness.
Resenting remembering when amending.
Wanting clarity, a reality untouched by the reliving.
Rereeling the cassette, set in grey matter.
Setting out the scenes.

Selectively editing.
Tinged grey, not rose.
Raising up, full dawn disrupts the dormant stupor.
Riches in phantasy leave a man all the poorer when his eyes open, seeing nought.
Ought to know better.
But fools himself far too well.
Never can tell himself when it is lucid.
Yet all the more insidious because of this.
His first moment always tainted by the repainting of old rooms.
Houses once collapsed can never be rebuilt.

To do so only inspires guilty alterations.
They may share the same square foot, borrow bricks, be plastered all the more smoothly.
So renewed that it resembles the former estate with the perfect mask of imitated identity.
But tainted is this residence by its echoes, shouting out ever louder.
The first voice cannot be heard any more, the old walls cannot be seen, only the shadows of the bricks standing in their place.

This house is not the home it was.
Its resurrection has killed it.
But it cannot be permanently buried.
Just dug up, over and over.
Until the tilling of the soil turns it fallow.
Until there is nothing but upturned stones and dusty clay earth, unsculpted and formless.
But lessons are never learned, but overturned by new ignorance.
So each day burns out much the same.
Each night, when limbs turn lame, the film will be replayed, the ground relaid, the foundation re-erected, the same song reselected, reverberating.
Each time more corrupted than the last.

Past is present, recent resentment reset, settling in for a repeat, ever increasing degradation.
Indefinitely devastated.
Until total disorientation takes hold.
Doubt wins out.
Uncertainty reigns supreme.
The real unwinds.

No day breaks, there is only unwaking rest.