Tag Archives: memories

Leaving Less Than Nothing

If I could change
Just one thing about you
It would be everything.
More than that
I’d leave nothing behind,
I would erase your memories
And any trace of me
So you would wonder,
Upon waking the next morning,
Where that long auburn hair came from,
Why the pillow next to yours
Smells like ylang ylang and sandalwood
And who left the second marked ring
From a red wine glass
Upon the oak table.
A traitorous sign of our final goodbye
Filled with too many silences
Struck heavy by the best of intentions
But with the knowledge
That no known future
Contained us together.
I would depart then
In the cold depth
Of heart break night
Leaving you
With just the threads of hair
The smell of skin
And a misbegotten ring
Or two.

First Kisses

Don’t forget your first kisses
Not one of them

I still remember
The one at the all-boys school
At 10pm
After we jumped the fence
Talked for hours
And under flood light
The ground span

The one on the train station over pass
At 2am
Too many beers
Sore feet
And too far to go anywhere else
But to your place

The one at your parents house
Next to the baby grand
On a much too white couch
Listening to a jazz man
This is the life

The one out the back of a house party
On white plastic lawn chairs
I asked
You laughed and leaned in
Our lips pressed and didn’t stop
For three months

I have many first kisses
Pushed into the pockets
Of old jeans
Hidden in the back
Of old diaries
Still hanging
Like fruit on connecting vines
That exist
Even now
When I see a familiar face

I love my first kisses
They are my gold

Paper Pieces


Down on that street,
The one that corners 3rd,
In between the knick knack shop
Of lost items from the 70s
And a costume store
Run by Romanians with tattoos
Playing Diana Ross from their outside stereo
I found a piece of you.
It was in that record store
With the crates out the front
Cardboard boxes in the rear
And tour posters of Sonic Youth from ’92.
In between the back catalogue of Bowie
Underneath the rare bootlegs of Prince
Right where I expected The Clash to be,
Making friends with Tom Waits instead
You sat
The idea of you with your paper wings
And paper heart
Placing a foothold into all the things
You could have been
Tucked into someone else’s
Burnt out light globe
You gave me the idea
Of making my own music,
Singing songs outside of my heart
The way you did
With your paper pieces
Now folded
Into my own organised catalogues
Tucked under my arm
As I leave with records
I will play by myself
On repeat

Words by Lisa Inger
Artwork ‘Origami Idea’ and Image by Caen N http://caen-n.deviantart.com/

A Ghost At My Table

There’s a ghost at my table
And she hasn’t eaten anything I’ve offered

I think I shall see if it’s memories she is hungry for
I have a whole pantry of those just waiting for consumption

She might like my first kisses
My late nights of lovers and tantrums
My smoking and drinking
My mistakes and my messes
She can eat my childhood in a few gulps
There’s much there that might choke her
If she were to worry it before swallowing

Perhaps I mightn’t actually, just for now
She won’t starve if I don’t feed her
There are many people in the world who forget who they are
Their memories are left by roadsides for the taking
Some are blown about by careless winds
So many bubbles of moments swept up to be engulfed by another

Mine are colour coded, labelled and dusted
Kept carefully and away from direct sunlight
In specific rows

I think I’ll keep my memories,
I’ll eat them all for myself,
They will be sumptuous and delicious

My ghost can wait
For now

That House

I remember running around that house
The one with the tall, high windows,
The sunken lounge,
And the ‘good’ couch.
The house my sister and I would play
Bank tellers,
Click Clacking on Guess Who boards,
Using Monopoly money,
And asking people to “Hold”
On our imaginary hand telephones.
The house of loud voices,
Big arguments, distended veins
And a scar on my top eyebrow
When the door opened angrily
And made me bleed.
The house of spilled noodles and water,
Of angry voices and early mornings.
The house of refuge
From backyard bullies,
The twins who would jump
From trampoline to six year old me,
The boy with bad hands
And scary eyes.
The house with a stained glass window,
A perfect red rose,
That my mother designed,
The last piece of creation
Left unbroken
In a house where it all fell apart.

Frankfurt, 3am

So here I am; sitting at a bar in Frankfurt
At 3am
Sounding far more exciting than it actually is
Wishing that someone in this foreign country
Knew how to make me a decent coffee
Like you do
Or would laugh and quote our quotes
Like you do
Loneliness is overwhelming when I’m not surrounded
By the echoes of other travellers
Because I am given time to remember you
But I know you are different now
With your family home
Twin garage
And children

You aren’t with me in this mutual mindset
Of reckless travel
And that is bittersweet
Because I could not go home with anyone
If you were sitting beside me at the bar
I would just want to go home with you

I want to go home with you now

After this drink I’ll make a call
To you
It will be morning where you are
And the sounds of your chosen life
Will push me further from you than I already am
And you will smile nice and big
All lips, teeth and cheer
You will laugh at my drunken jokes
That I’ll regret immediately
Due to the way it must make you see me
As I tell you tall tales of ales and full bellies
I’ll wish I was the one you were pouring cereal for
At 8 am
With our kids at your feet
And my car next to yours in the garage
But it’s not
Instead I am on the other side of the world to you
And because of that I probably won’t call
I will just miss you instead
From my one room living quarters
In a backpackers not unlike all the other ones before
I will act like my adventure is as fun as my postcards
But it’s still grey outside
And my heart is not here
It is in a warm memory
Long gone
Where we used to be

My Youth

My youth was sweetened
By the sugar lips of new loves
And anticipation of moments
I wasn’t sure would happen to me
But did

My youth, a tangle of bodies
And too much confidence
Little willpower
And disjointed images
From 90’s movies

My youth, perfectly imperfect people
Self made orphans
From broken families
Empty homes
Clustering around each other for warmth

My youth, experiments in emotions
The sharp ascending up’s
The plummeting down’s
The desperation of a decimated heart
And all of its replacement pieces

My youth, painful, numbed,
Warped, ripped, sewn
Mended, minded, wanted
Rejected, arrogant, lustful
Needy, distant

Intentional Impressions

She has a list
Upon her wrist
Of all the poets
You insist
Have changed your life
She admires you
And wants
To captivate
Your mind
The same way
She finds
Your own
Entrancing her
Then you talk
Of songs and singers
And it figures
She’d be scribbling
That too
Because she does not
Want to miss
Any of this
She wants to speak
With you
And impress upon
Your keen intellect
That she is not subject
To whiff and whim
And can see
Beyond the fancy trim
Of pop culture
And shiny things
That she too can unearth
Rare gems and tunes
To fill you.
She is the book
In the corner
The reading brunette
With coffee and notes
Who wants to make
You sweat
With the power
Of her words
So that you never
Can forget
The challenge you
Finally received
Riding high
In memory
Of that day
Wondering why
You watched her
Walk away