Typed Music


I suppose these are just little pieces of me, wrapped up in words.

The forgotten melodies of my mind.


72. Where do all the ghosts go?

They become names
 Like the rims of baked-bean tins
 That have to be handled with care

They are a bunch of flowers
 Tied to a lamppost
 Or a bench with words carved in

They are a Wikipedia page
 Or a library shelf
 Or a nothing
 A nobody

They swell into memories
 Wilted and swimming like wax
 They seem to be stood there
 When the sunlight blusters
 Over dust
 Because dust is just dead cells
 That we all inhale
 Like we’ll choke them back into existence

They reside in half-empty
 Boxes of tissues
 Cigarette packets
 The bubbles in lemonade

They become a mantelpiece of photographs
 And sympathy cards
 Broken toys
 Empty T-shirts parade as puppets
 Sat in empty wardrobes

They fall into certain songs
 Certain car journeys
 Occasionally they borrow your tongue
 To continue voicing certain phrases
 Certain people
 Certain places
 Certain rooms
 Certain tastes
 Certain seasons
 Certain sunsets

Or maybe they just toss and turn
 Beneath the church built of handkerchiefs
 Like commuters coffined into underground trains
 Wondering whether they can still believe
 In tunnels
 And golden lights.

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