The year of our lord 2001 called, it wants its
catastrophic obsessions back. And the ancient Greeks,
they called, they want their queer monopoly
on hubris back, the sense of a graceful
decline. Yes, the lords of the arena called,
they want their two main types of roar returned.
The bargain bins at Lidl called
for the awful cut of that
herringbone skirt. Oil called. It wants its
mystique back, its greasy rainbows
and its incredible profusion. Certain memories
of France called, they want back their faces,
angling and happy and dismissed. Ribs called. They want
their baby back, as do we all. Memory in general also
is being demanding, pointing to some lumpen object
on a platter, covered by a handkerchief.
And all of your pillows called, they want
last summer back, the dry heat
peeling luxuriously away
from ordinary walls in the fine triple-filtered density
of the light. Last summer all over
again. The Iraq War also called, it needs
its riches. A consortium of bedside tables called.
They want their lipsalve and the keys.
Your top ten most visited websites called,
demanding substantial childcare provisions.
Your mother called, also. Your second favourite song is called
‘I Want You Back’. The notion
of passing time is drawing your attention
to a certain sense of lack. We received a fax
from 1991, but couldn’t bear to face it.
Your sense of utter destitution
called. It wants your body back.