Tuesday, January 28, 2014

Wordless Interlude

It takes a skilled surgeon to separate conjoined twins.
Yet, I have to make my incisions with trembling hands,
while separating two lives,
one absorbed by the other.
How do you make two functioning lives, when they both have grown,
but grown as one?

I separate the souvenirs from Malta,
giving you the memory of the ridiculous security in the cathedrals,
keeping the old lady on Gozo for myself.

If I cut the Warren Ellis-collection as one limb,
will there be enough blood flow
to my stump of a stack
to keep a living interest in comic books at all?

Is there enough tissue in the DVD-collection
to cover the holes left from the ones I take?
And if I take our pictures down,
will you remember the summers at all?

I cut and slice, then rip and tear,
Frankenstein's monster had nothing on our new lives.

I try to connect my old love for music
with the music I own now,
across the gaping crevasse
left by the festival memories that belong to you
and the relics I do no longer own

What makes a board game yours?
A) Receipt B) Most recent memory of using it C) The highest number of memories of using it?
Time starts, pick an option,

The film you brought with you,
but I watched 80 times,
is it a crucial part of your collection's bone structure?
Can it be replaced by two of mine?

Two wounded twins will stand up,
after recovery
and have nothing in common
but left over blood stains.

I hope you'll treat yours well.

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