Flashing frames of vintage film reels
flickering mental images flit-flit hitting
retinas with memory segments accumulated
from years of flailing, self-flagellating behaviours.
Hitting one's self with word nails, steel sharp vowels
reneging rapidly on promises, retracting and withdrawing ideals
stamping out any sense of belonging, sabotaging any potential
back into the wardrobe where no one can see you.
Switch on the projector. Rustling film crawls through sharp mechanisms
mechanically extracted memories flushed out of bones.
Break open and siphon out the marrow.
There is always tomorrow.
by Paul Sinclair