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"History is a nightmare from which I am trying to awake."
James Joyce, 'Ulysses' 1916
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Echoes from aeons ago are catching me off guard. I thought I saw you driving by in your old red car. If I'd have known that it was you'd I'd stood out in the road, flagged you down with both my hands, stopped to say, "hello."
Early to my own funeral, sterling-silver ceremonial, fill this cup with blood x2
Future-past-tense dialogue is like my secret code, use it to talk to myself and no one ever knows. Like, "I will have forgotten you by this time next year," falsifying future memories is a breeze, my dear. Believe a thing for so long until you think it's true; even if it never happened, it's still real to you. Time exists a gentle ghost, a phantom of my sleep, counting all the instances of revisionist history.
Reaching from the rafters, an age-old effigy, how much it ever mattered is still a mystery. [Early to my own funeral, doesn't seem so unusual] Tore myself to tatters since November of '83, a pageant of apology, a work of self-defeat. Same thing I've been saying since the day I died, before I was born it was something I denied.
Took my time to walk away the long route through the park, is it true what they say, sound goes further after dark? I got home, I'm all alone, I guess I'm fine with that. Smoke a bowl, watch TV, I think I'm getting fat. The lights are low, I'm sound asleep, but dreams are just a drag- portals to experience I know I'll never have. A sense of disappointment never goes away, write it off tomorrow but it's still there yesterday.
Fill this cup with bloodx1,000,000,000
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