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Memory’s Vicarious Squint

Edward MyCue


Dew-drop, the itch once again
(where the hair had been, where
the amputated little finger was)
since like the distant grief taste
reduced to one small picture frame
hailed and farewelled to enjambment
like encrusted gorst/frosttesqueries
and a cry rose in a scrimmage for
the price of a kiss of blood claret
because false promises have talons.
I have gone within for my oats, for
promises and a spear - a dream. I
had a dream of glass of glass and of
pins and I took one like I’d take a
tenner to pay for dinner: “my
God ... in heaven’s name!” TURN THE
LIGHTS OFF, TURN THE LIGHTS OFF. My
gamut’s run, my snarl gone limpid,
my obsessions and compulsions squinny
back at me in the broken mirror “behavior”.
My memory of me is a madness of earwigs
running 25 errands in all directions.
Talk soon gets together under a mask
that has become as real as a built face.
So why would I look at my face for a clue.
My past is a dead mouth choked in hope.




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