Another Poem What

by H.B.


After the laundry, after

several showers,

After the malevolent decree of memory performed its painful trace

And I could wait no more without (grace)

becoming –

complicated, committed, contaminated

words that just wouldn’t wash anymore.

Not to mention the smell,

your smell

as such an open invitation – like a gala for demons to come by and

Mostly ignore – – –


After so much water and regret, what’s left of you is merely


liquids crafted for that single purpose of

the a-nostalgic runner

who nevertheless knows he’s

running toward the very same party and

the very same wall.

Those sprinkled streets will all die down at once

A thousand and one voices (now a thousand minus one..)

Tonight and I will have found me wandering around

a memory-image

Chasing me away with some soap and promises; yes

you will forget; yes

the future always holds a lie

against what past

is left


proof that there’s a god and that





you immerse in a white, floating space

descending toward you from above

and life sings in you and your face is



with love,

everything about you is wide open to receive, and


then it blinds you with amore familiar,


pain. Soap, my love,

nothing but soap – –

not even the consolation

of an acid rain; the future sneers:


but an ugly, stupid cry

of pain

and soapy, antiseptic tears

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