Emily Present

Androids of Memory

Spring streams through and I’m in my underpants,

Still

 

And doing a doggy pose I look into my oversized shirt and see the dark universe of existence

and contemplate the mystical and the chicness of nothing,

Or, the nothing of chicness

 

And think:

Style!

Honey, darling.

Style!

 

And if I call you a little chicken, it means I love you or at least I think I love you

Can you handle that, Dark Moon? Can you put that on the calendar for Yesterday?

And stretch the stars through the sea and fall down and eat pink cake

Wide-eyed and unfree

While the buffet of the universe unrolls,

Beasts and breath and breasts for days

 

The woman said she wouldn’t have it any other way but hers

In the storm and the shelter and the sea pot of her soul

She felt good, flailing and falling through houses of old feelings:

The tin cans of yesteryear

The baths of the past, the droplets of forgetting

Boats to take us through the sunshine and the forest of forgiveness

The workings of the feet leave nothing to the imagination:

 

They perspire

They entice

They forget

 

When the seaweed of the mind turns into liver,

And we turn ourselves backwards to Spring, with its timid beginnings the way it doesn’t begin

until it is almost Summer: the devil, and the damned, the Lady

 

I find myself musing over childhood ambitions and the purple clay and the key chains and the

little townhouse by the Whitney that held my demise.

I climb over notions of forgetting and remember

Thoughts to bring to mind:

Would you want to live forever as an inanimate, intimate object?

“You are not as crazy as you think,” They say.

 

This seems to be the ailment of our times, and finding ways to anticipate your sadness with his

social media presence, calling back your illness, feeling sorry for no one, tap dancing doubts

into your mind

 

So you watch movies with angry men and take baths like the girl in Melancholia, fingering

your toe on the silver knob

 

Remembering the house: the surrealist Duchamp of your family’s dissolution

But you turn the thoughts to trickier subjects like dinner for tonight and wanting to fall in love

with figures that don’t exist—moments of being stuck and falling in the dark, lifting up your

pants and saying you know what to do when you don’t and you never did

 

I don’t know what I am doing here

I am falling asleep with the lights on, working through the motions of childlike behavior

standing still and forgiving myself

When toilets flush,

I am reminded of the failure

 

Love the Failure

She says,

“Tie a bow on it and bring it to breakfast bring it back to life.  

What would it feel like? What would it say?”

 

To do this

To be free of them and their noise of sunshine

Forgiveness in the androids of memory

On a cloudy day, fall to mercy

Wonder and display

Say my name

Count the blessings:

 

1. fallen tears

2. landmarks

3. seaside houses

4. pastel pastries

5. your hands

 

The Lady looks at me in all her succulent notions and says:

“Let’s eat appetizers only and forget we ever fought. Let’s live stream misanthropic

adventures”

I turn, to say:

“Can you teach me to be whimsical while I am being ballsy behind a computer screen?”

 

Bach blares and I listen:

“Always try to look like an Italian heiress with some luggage”

and

“You know what helps to sleep, a touch of wine”

A touch

 

An explosion expulsion of water you don’t drink

What a primitive interface on the landscape of my life

 

I don’t feel, well

                          I don’t feel well

                                         I don’t, feel well

                                                              I don’t want to be well

                                                                                        I don’t want to feel

                                                          “Feel,well”

 

There is something so unnatural about all this natural stuff

I see what She is doing here, but it is not for me

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<This is an out-of-office message>
Emily’s bio-writer is currently on vacation. She is also the co-founder and editor of glittermobmag.com. She lives and writes in New York City.
<This is an out-of-office message>

 

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