The Politics of Memory

By | 1 May 2020

Yet who would have thought the old man
to have had so much blood in him?

Hell is murky
Don’t look and check behind you
Eurydice is lurking
She’s following you out

Wash your hands in grey water
The sticky feeling lingers
This soap — there’s something wrong
The more you clean your fingers
The dirtier they become

Limping like a night-terror
Unexamined and undiagnosed
Unwashed and undead —
Unwatched, but not un-nosed

Europe is afraid of waking up
And finding a horse’s head
The size and shape of Africa
Lying in its bed

Hell’s memory is murky
In its shadows something gropes
You told them they were dirty
Then you made them into soap

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