Andrea DeAngelisâ€™ writing has recently appeared in Poesy Planet, Dogmatika, Terracotta Typewriter, Salome Magazine, Flutter Poetry Journal,
Mad Swirl and Gloom Cupboard. Andrea also sings and plays guitar in an indie rock band called MAKAR. MAKAR is currently recording their second
album, Funeral Genius and dreams about starting a tour in Iceland. www.makarmusic.com and www.myspace.com/makar
Rub out these evangelists who insist
“The afterlife has two destinations,
which one are you going to?”
And you say, “Well, that’s true.”
Bypass this conversation
by going into cardiac arrest.
This is the eve
the time between
afternoon and nightmare.
No one thinks as I do
everyone is a believer
when I don’t believe in anything.
be a musical act
that passes out of sight
for what you hear as melodies
is disobedience to everyone else.
I am only the rememberer of things
I am not the one remembered
I can never explain
what I meant,
or have it mean anything –
that is what it is to be a rememberer
of one’s own memory.
And I’m sure I’ve got it all wrong.
But you looked at me,
trying to remember
something when we were young and useful
but I felt more old and useless
than you’ll ever know.
After all, I spent so many days
to so many people
and then you were gone.
The forgetting curve
Where do you register on the forgetting curve?
Are you merely a list of nonsense words?
My flaw is to remember everything
though sometimes I have to work at my remembrance
(I begin at the end and end at the beginning).
So what is this steel wool line
that separates the memories from life?
Am I only remembering to remember
or remembering to forget?
There is nothing now
that sets me off
and onto you.
But the velocity of forgetting doesn’t apply here
for you were not a learned material
there were no lessons to test myself with.
With you, I didn’t learn anything
There are so many details to be discarded
but I still have no problem
recalling everything about you
and you most likely have forgotten me
or pretend to?
I can’t wait to forget your damage
and the damage that you do,
for I am forgetting to forget you.
Will you eventually trace the decay
of this reverie over the days?
Or will you just curve away,
the line of the horizon never quite right?
Our perspective is constantly skewed
obscured by the near suffocating the far
for nothing is perfect
no memory is as precise
as it once was