All this moving forward,
Has made me sick for the past.
In perusal of old memories,
Lies a stubborn refusal
To keep abreast of time,
To accept violently boring signifiers.
They must wait to be drawn and spat upon,
And splattered with the mess
Which accompanies time,
Like the old music in my ears,
And the old names and books and interests,
That stand in lieu of tangibility,
Of the hold in your hand substantiality,
From which real-life always remains exempt,
Towards which the now
Makes but a fleeting attempt.