nesia memorea phantasmagoria
They are jingles
snipped passage melody
memories of early childhood.
Brightly coloured postcards
i whistle them because they are stuck
i whistle them all day long.
A little boy i try and remember, humming contentedly to himself.
The one they all said was a dream?
I wasn’t napping.
I was playing with my lego bricks.
Building a duplo totem of babel,
arching from its ridiculous height
finally collapsing in a rubble mound of primary colours
gleaming in the light
refracting through the nicotine yellow nets.
A ghost is watching.
Comes right up to me, hovering over.
Until the moment I look up i think its my mother.
Falling bricks pass through barely tangible feet
grey dust death shroud
in an empty terrace
carpeted with dog hair.