Slim Chillingsworth


Back to poetry.

Back to main index.



disgusting death stick remnants and bags under my eyes,
but a disguise which masks my disappointment.
unmotivated, procrastinating, day dwelling nightowl;
it's time like these that i wish would fade away.
memories we don't choose stick with us
like dirt under the toenails of our history,
unclipped and poking at the shins of our lovers,
under bed sheets which cover the naked truth.
when we reminisce, we ignore our mistakes,
brushing them off as tour guides on our journey towards fate.
but the journey is fate;
the destination is death.
when nothing is left to be remembered-
all is repressed.
in the mean time we read fiction and watch tv,
and fantasize about what the afterlife will be.
i hope we're all right, so then we'll see,
that what's good for you might not be good for me.
forget it-
i hope it's all forgotten.
did anything happen before i was 6 years old?
the distance between my past and my present
is exactly equal to the distance from my beliefs to reality..
and today falls somewhere in between.
why should i sleep if i can't remember my dreams
or understand what they mean?
it's useless.
the truth is my memory
and fiction is what is forgotten.










Artwork from somewhere I've forgotten..