Furious Gadgetry

And there is a movement, staccato, unstillness, right in the heart of him. His real heart (the pump) but also his metaphorical heart, his poet’s cliché. And really these hearts are the same, and they synchronise their movements — their movement — which has a certain kind of speed. The speed is whirring — whirring like some dreadful gadget that can never stop — not even when he’s happy — not even when nothing else in his world is moving with speed and more speed and furious gadgetry that spins and gyrates as if Vitruvian.

And isn’t that a laugh? (Vitruvian). As though there was any beauty or artistry to this unstill quickening in his chest. A heart that beats and remembers and remembers by beating. A heart that never beats the memories that fuel the speed that seems Vitruvian.And couldn’t he just deny it? (This speed). He could pretend there was no gadget and no fuel to fuel it. He could perhaps forget the words that spin and move and

And couldn’t he just deny it? (This speed). He could pretend there was no gadget and no fuel to fuel it. He could perhaps forget the words that spin and move and unstill his chest. The old words: me me me me — her her her — softly softly — again. The old words that hit the pillow most nights when he is awake enough to think and spin and whir and spin Vitruvian. 

And isn’t there a limit? (Heartbeats). Isn’t he pissing away his eighties and seventies (even sixties?), panicking his heart away, beat by beat, night by night? Isn’t this the past stealing the future? A future that could be fine (should be fine): slow, steady, slowly steady. A future that could hit the pillow at night, smiling, smiling. It could try not to rush to sleep each night—failing each night. A future without me me me me — her her her — softly softly — again again.

 

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