D. B. DEVILLIERS

Poetry

Tag: memory

Transit/Stasis

Right time wrong place write it why not
it’s only ink paper and time you’re the
only one who has to know if that’s how you want it
but no that’s not in your nature you crave the
attention much as you hate that
you need it as much as you hate the
very notion of a need for attention in
anyone but write it write it out parse it learn something
about yourself this is how you do it you
introverted exhibitionist you’re a
curious piece of work aren’t you
curious enough you hope but enough for what
for money? recognition? to escape death?
to understand? to understand what
to finally understand what the fuck it is you want?
or rather to finally just hurry up and want anything more than
one more drink to want anything
more than mere escape
because you can’t do that no one can and your efforts
will kill you and that’s not escape
because time time time it passes it
runs out that’s what it does it’s
cirrhosis a bad wreck a short rope the end of time
but wasn’t faulkner a drunk too yeah but wasn’t he also a
miserable son of a bitch and if all you had to do to
create great work was suffer and be miserable
would you do it if you could make that choice
but it doesn’t work that way the work comes second and
you suffer anyway and most of us aren’t lucky enough
good enough whatever to create much of anything
so now you’ve got something written down to
remember it by but it’s transient transitory transit
transition into another sentence what’s the word thought phrase page
word thought thought word salad this long forgetting o fallibility
of memory of all things but maybe if you really write it you’ll
know yourself a little better afterwards but out of ink paper and time you’re
running out of one and you need all three to do the thing
or four if you count actually having something to
say but who has that dostoyevsky? kant? probably they did but
who knows after all what the fuck did socrates know about himself anyway
did alexander know himself well enough to know that the
typhus would kill him does god know he’s a kid holding a
magnifying glass to an anthill on a sunny day do you figure
pol pot knew himself or bin laden or the
buildings or the planes or the murdered
millions and all the time ravels
out and you into it and
it into you and the
page too.

On Memory

Occurred to me the day before yesterday
all the clever things I’ve ever said
all the things I’ve said that made me feel clever
made me feel smart, made me feel good
made me feel a little happy or a little satisfied for
a little while at least
I can’t remember
not one of them
but every single stupid remark I’ve ever made
that made me wish almost even before I’d said anything that
I could just right then sink into the soil and cease to exist
those things
episodic
perfect fucking recall
and not just that
I don’t even have to recall them at all
they come back to me with great frequency all on their own
and this is pretty banal as far as revelations go
probably everyone has the same problem
but since I’ve only ever been but one person
I don’t know what other people feel
but for me I have to think this speaks to
the way my brain must prioritize
making me feel like shit over not making me feel like shit
after all, if memorability is a measure of emotional power
which I figure it must be one, if not the best one, if not the only one
then seems like shame and regret rate a good bit higher
on my recollective register
than just about anything good
which sounds about right

this realization in that moment made me feel pretty smart
pretty good about myself
pretty clever
so I figured I’d better write it down or surely
I’d forget it entirely.

Short Dream from Some Nights Ago, Devoid of Merit and Intrigue, and One Which Therefore Will Almost Certainly Fade Fast From My Memory And Yours

Swing the room around
and again
I don’t remember the beginning
I don’t remember context, purpose
like pondering in a dream how you got where you are
it’s absurd

but let remain the dream, I say
when I wake up tomorrow
let it live a little
longer—
lucid, linger. Loose
its light enough
to cast away
the stone
pitch-dark
funerary gown

draped upon a false and hollow world
pallid, wound around with
razor-wire follies and
arterial fountains draining into midday black.
Drive it out.
Let live to try and light this life
though it will fail
it doesn’t matter.

I don’t want to remember.
Never did.

Thoughts of You

I didn’t think of you when my eyes went wide
when the buzz began and I was brushing
residue from my stubbly, sleep-deprived face
when the sky was brilliant blue
and the summer air felt fresh on my bare knees
but I thought of you later.
I thought of you as I crashed hard
when the liquor which came for free
returned to take its toll on my weary mind
because you aren’t the rush, the buzz, the high.
You are the dread crash and comedown
when the drugs have run out, much like you did
and you come to fill that vacant void
from somewhere across the wastes of time and space
but you’re a ghost, and these thoughts occupy me
like water poured into an endless pit
left me wanting always more
and never receiving.

I thought of you then.