You have memories

You have memories, sure, but then who doesn't 
know where you live these days? Camping out in
the wilderness until the controversy blew over
seemed like a good idea at the time, of course,
but that was before the anaesthetics kicked in
and you lay there, boiling, and unable to feel 
the sweat rolling down your leg. They hacked it 
off with a kind of efficiency that was easy to
mistake for care but who's complaining now? Not
you! Because you've still got your wits, and the
planes don't fly so low anymore, and you never 
were a big fan of running anyway. Yeah, memories,
how about them, now that you get to control when
they appear, for example, or when to delay them, 
send them bawling into your dreams with a swish, 
the warlords gesturing over 3-D maps of mosques,
glistening rivers barely visible between the cracks 
of competing glaciers sliding across dead moonscapes,
ordnance going off, adrenalin bangs in capsule
form, and still you bray 'Bring it on, Charlie!!', 
like you mean it, like you never had forgotten
where you hid them, typing in your new password 
without even looking, or deliberately keying in 
gibberish answers to standard security prompts. 
Name of first pet? Eklhferlhl. First girlfriend?
Gpwjfrqe;ngqgnntqgwgq Nhwereferhhpfqhppqqhpi. 
That should keep them busy for a day or two, at 
least, and in the interim you can retrace your 
final actual step, backwards into the gun nest,
the hot weapon slinging wetly into your palm, 
as laser-guided melodies peep-peep you to sleep,
deep in a dream world you created with a click. 

Go seek the internet of what they have looked at

By popular demand: my thoughts on Eurovision 2015

Cordite Poetry Review publishes its 50th full issue!

Three literary devices that really cheese me off

Thomas Mann on Lubeck, harems and marzipan

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포악: Atrocity

(On the tomb of) Cathy the Dolphin