29th March 2020
Static
There is a reason Things crawl
Out of the woodwork. Almost audible
I hear woozy insect gears
Scratching in time’s worm-eaten apple.
Richness in decay - real enough
In the fabric of dreams. More striking still
In defiant physicality, I glimpse
The object on the kitchen countertop
Gunshot from history - once stranded
On an iceberg in memory
Now existing in sudden permanence.
Something sinister ripples over me
Nauseous recognition. I stare accusingly
At the Thing that should have died
When the version of me that remembers you
Perished. Back in 1992.
And yet here you are. Cracked, faded - but still real.
There is a black hole by the toaster
Blink and you’ll miss
The teeming, slithering reminders
Glitching into the present
Ripped unexpectedly from frame,
The universe shudders forwards
The linear timeline shatters