A Memory Behind Sight:

Written by Rand Burgess

Sniffing with eyes closed to reproduce the effect you knew four years ago:

 

Slice of intoxication. Swinging blindly. Falling asleep in willow arms.

I’m more concerned with you than I am with myself.

Four finger puppets dancing in the glinting iris. Rhinoceros? Spiders.

Playing violins in amber gas lamp windshield reflections of summer wine.

Indulgence. Cannot feed the viper. I’ve once tasted cat.

It was gasoline sweet.

 

I cannot lie about my own exaggerations. Fractured stop sign.

The sun hurts my eyes so I rarely open them to see you.

Folded. Reality was bleeding heart once, now it’s just plastic wrap molded over trash.

I run the show and I’ll run it into the ground.

 

No escape. No sounds. No elasticity.

 

Recycled privileges now that you’re on top. Big Top. Cotton candy feline grins.

How could anyone have ever loved the price?

Ticket ripped. Ripped Off. Rewound.

Farther away from the start. Negative plot charts. No refunds.

Far past the point of recognizable rotten fruit.

Syrup.
: it smells just like you remember.

 

Rand is a creative writing major at SOU. He excels at the strange and strangely poetic. His primary focus is on the weird short story, that is, when he isn't busy writing letters to imaginary acquaintances or kicking it with Cthulhu.

Rand is a creative writing major at SOU. He excels at the strange and strangely poetic. His primary focus is on the weird short story, that is, when he isn’t busy writing letters to imaginary acquaintances or kicking it with Cthulhu.

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