Instant love costs little—a cinema ticket
or, better even, a subscription to a streaming service;
and then you can watch her, for as long as you live,
in the farewell to the circus, wondering
whether time was a healer or a disease,
with her desire for love, expressed in a foreign language,
yet as familiar as the sight of a brush against her bare shoulder,
something you also once did, long ago, to someone
you can barely even remember.
Full of words with an expiration date,
like ‘forever,’ for example, and untimely goodbyes,
the undelivered mail, piling up on the top of the radiator casing in the hallway,
reminds me every time I pass by that I’ve always dreamed
of a slice of blueberry pie with ice cream,
and yet with my face exposed to the late winter sun
and a square of dark chocolate melting on my tongue,
all I can think about is the death of Seneca as told by Tacitus—a cold reminder
that life, at best, is nothing more than an occasional act
of unrequited kindness.
Sometimes I wonder what my kids would make of my analogue youth:
the crackling demos by garage punk bands making up for their lack of skill with savagery and volume;
rewinding tangled tapes with a pencil;
hunting for R20 batteries so that the boom box wouldn’t die halfway through a party on a park bench;
a festival in Jarocin where strawberry jam was as good on a slice of bread as it was for stiffening a Mohawk,
and every sip of plonk had that familiar aftertaste of sulphur;
not to mention confusing loo attendants with a fictitious Honorary Urine Donor Card
that supposedly entitled the holder to a discount on the use of urinals across the country.
Sometimes I wonder what their memories will be of growing up in the digital age
of mobile zombies and keyboard warriors.
I don’t remember who I wanted to be. I remember who I was,
day after day, waiting for something comforting, like the thought
that if I change the way I write, I will change the way I live,
or maybe the other way around, even though I knew it wouldn’t last
—it never does. By no means did I expect solace to be so cheap
yet unrequitable, like concessions made before turning off
the bedside lamp.
The day I died would be the first day of my life.
After all, a man’s life never truly begins
until he reaches the climax of his story,
or so the scriptures say.
I guess mine begins with a smell, and believe me,
enuresis is no laughing matter, at least not when you are twelve
and have to survive three weeks at a scout camp
while your first crush lives in the next tent.
If memory serves, it was also around that time
that I started taking liberties with certain parts
of my body. But it doesn’t really matter,
because one day you will bury this skeleton
of feeble memories with me.
The day I died would be the first day of my life
as you know it.
I don’t like pubs, and I guess the feeling is mutual,
as I’m the kind of client that orders a glass of tap water
and just occupies the seat the whole night, which isn’t good
for business. But I don’t really feel bad about it because usually
the rest of the pack drinks without any restraint, so I’m covered.
And I can always pretend to be the designated driver,
even though I don’t actually have a driving licence.
I don’t like pubs because most of the time they are too noisy
for my liking, and even if the clientele behaves, the music is too loud,
which doesn’t help you have a meaningful conversation.
And if that wasn’t enough, seeing all those people drinking
brings back memories I’ve been avoiding. So in moments like these,
I imagine myself sitting alone in the Nouvelle Athènes in Montmartre
at the height of the Belle Époque, waiting for a muse I’ve never met.
I’m sure I’d find something annoying there too.
hidden pilcrow 