pink

Memory Car

when you drive it, memories come out

memories

of the memory car

the memory car has got a switch that can turn it on and off

do you know what it can go?

very fast!

there also is a backseat

for you

it’s so big

for you to get in

you can’t open the door

if you want to get in

because there is no door

we have to jump into the memory car

do you know what the memory car is?

it’s so long

do you know what it’s got?

a fire top

do you know where the memories all go?

out the roof

and like a pink one lands in my hand

can you drive it?

 

This was the Day 13 prompt (yesterday) to write about something that is mysterious and spooky in a bad way (like a witch), or mysterious and spooky in a good way (possibly also like a witch? It depends on the witch, I guess!) Or just the everyday, mysterious, spooky quality of being alive. This was a “found poem” taken mostly verbatim from something my four-year-old was telling me.

Heartplace

it was pink and curved

it was black thick-pile velvet

it had the tacky floor of a Camden boozer

and it smelled like clothes

in the morning

before

the smoking ban

small enough

to hold in one hand

forearms rest on thighs

an imperfect fleshy sphere

a soggy cosmetic sponge

pink-brown, is that my skintone?

outdated,  like a cord-phone

a soaked-in scent of hangovers

fumes of long ago

mine, tongue-smooth, alone…

lazy, comfortable, like home

 

Soundcloud recording: https://soundcloud.com/user-808707280/heartplace

Image: https://unsplash.com/@agebarros