Sunday, January 11, 2015

On finding an old cassette

In the antechamber, upholstery of decreased turgor, tented by the pinch,
Was slow to revert, and my head was swimming with tropes, false confessions, postiches.
I court the short, flat brush of Salgado. My past is redolent of David Lynch;
I liked the portraits that flattered nobility, whilst evidence of my species
In classical music was anathema to me; and my joyless repression
Strikes me ad nauseam when I listen to myself talking in an old session
Of psychotherapy, recorded onto cassette in 1993.
In my twenties, I kidded myself that strings were playing supernaturally,
And I couldn’t listen to choral pieces at all; I liked portraits constructed
From templates, so that the sitters appear similar, with eyes puffily ducted,
Because I felt threatened by diversity and life and jism; and I declared
My heroes to be Rupert Brooke and Stephen Fry, and made noises of blame, and shared
The plot for a novel I was working on, but at 21 I could not know
How I felt. I had not read Tagore or Hart Crane; and now I invite colour (will
It come to one who lauded the template?), and court the short brush of Salgado;
Whilst I defend my younger self, and listen to Morrissey’s “Unlovable”, still.