CUTOUTS FROM MEMORY
Adenike O. Akinbisehin
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These cutouts from memory are stitched up by Time, and I, am Her inconsistent seamstress. .
CONTENTS Breakup Campsite
3
Night 52
4
1- 800 - INFERNO
6
The Narcissist’s Club
7
Dressed in Fatigue
8
Happy Hour Support Group
9
Animal Crackers
10
Alphabet Fruits
11
Insert Citation Here
12
Scratch Tapes
13
The House That I Built
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Breakup Campsite After every party, I die. I, embarking on an allegorical journey of nine days, in a disordered and cloudy fashion, head to my site of bonfires and Mimosas. A sacred place, where one comes to regard what you once were. While basking in a whirlwind of emotion, black as ink, I steady my quaking body. OYĂ would tell me, that when the waters fall, the stones appear, and everything is revealed in time. Of how a person arrives at knowledge through memory. SHE never mentioned however, that a river, swollen with tears, and difficult to cross, would rise up. Would have been nice to have prepared for that, seeing as this river is birthed from mine. Two fish with human faces appeared in the current, then swam out of sight. Soon, they are followed by a shoal, then a herd, then a swarm. River overflows with fish I used to know, and I do not have enough tears to contain them. Looking through my chance, I walk into the Sea with clothes on, and leave nothing behind.
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Night 52 You look good in pleasure and desire. After she cut her hair, she realized just how feminine pronounced jaws can be. Eyelids close. Breathe me in. One note at a time. Does my skin feel as soft as you imagined? Don’t train your eyes. Don’t give me fake smiles. Is that lemon rind hanging accidentally from your lower lip? Or did you put it there, for me? Sound asleep. The rats become luminescent. White fur glows behind darkness’ painted mask. Hula hoop dancer, you let me dream of stars and fog. Are your black lips as alluring as your black song? Bird apologies release a flower bomb. Bare and available. She says class is forever. Will you go there? The chandelier came crashing while Adam and Eva sucked out of perfume bottles with straws. This night’s charade would guess clockwise, from top left, to everyday wonders. In a combination of dominance and grace. Languid and cool. Multiple and complex. In what? Polyester. How do I nibble on your shoulder, or lick the nape of your neck? The trend is not a floral code. Nearby, an optimistic bunch celebrate the dark and erotic. You notice that she’s wearing no underwear beneath that delicious black lace. Her long beaded necklace hangs between two pillars; one, her neck. The other? His mouth. Deep cut V-neck, and a crown of butterflies. Skirt of feathers and leaves. Hat of spiderweb. It’s an emotional show. Have you ever dared to be something extraordinary? I find then, that blue is the color of dreams. The Sea is a giant. The desert was once underfoot. Decorate your doorstep with long kisses and pink need. Lose yourself. Jump off that bridge of intense yearning. Uncorked, and bordering on the sublime. Bats and poppy flowers. Taste their milky dew. Bugs and chocolate wait under tables. Fishnet stockings and cupcakes. Roses and sliced ham. Is my apron dirty enough for you? Let me never lose my love for texture. Smooth, jagged, or rusty. Run your fingers over me as you do over that cracked vase. Gently. Softly caressing each groove and shadow.
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I’m a little teapot, hear me SHOUT. At the Sun! Fixtures inducing waterworks. Leave no beads unlaid. Hands running over hair. Heart beating into ear. Wine seems prettier when you stop staring at me that way. Tiny carefree ballerinas, in angel wings and glitter, cannot keep my smile away from you. Even my fists must be naked. No watches for your lovelorn doe. When you cross-stitch kisses into her side like a feather, parrots envy her nervous jabber. Everyone becomes a little sprite, when a vodka cocktail creates a beach mosaic. Brandy and butter are not smooth enough. Your eyes not demure enough. Bows not pure enough. Violins not haunting enough. A parade of clowns might understand, the surreal and heightened romance of our lyrical silhouettes. This is no trick from sedation.
Give me my Spring Awakening.
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1 - 800 - INFERNO On the Infinite Abacus, we registered a party for two. This number could multiply however. You never know what sort of hell a person is carrying inside. “So you think he’d make a wonderful love maker?”, they said. “Well then, stack up on your nightstand accessories! Invest. Buy stock of those fuzzy feelings, and let his smells link with your seats of emotion and memory. Leap as far as you can climb higher.” So I rode my bicycle down that rabbit hole. Soon, his breathing labored. Eyes darting back and forth, as if forever just awoken from a nightmare. Raises his shield to the rain of black arrows. Still, I descend. My tongue, laser like in ambush. Emasculation 101. For there are monsters. Monsters everywhere! Sunk deeper into our sea bed like a page awaiting translation, I pull out the Rolodex of fancy lies we tell ourselves. Distill champagne moments on tap, and leak a rejuvenated relationship on the eve of Christmas. There’d be a cozy fire. Food. Song, and wine. I promise. Do you remember the kiss that smelled of the ocean? Do you recall that abandoned car? Do you see our footprints in the sand’s channel of half past ten, where the red of my nails and the red on your lips sit above par? Laud the midnight, for a new cinderella poison is born. Some kind of unravelling is unfolding, but I’ll guard the hand tucked safely in your back pocket. When a final blade runs before it cuts, you’ll find that power is well worth another look. Our relationship psychic, Eliza, tells you to get over your money worries. I think you’d better listen. “It’s a very tough city,” she says. “You’ll feel a sense of guilt for as far as the eyes can see.” Give away that car. Kill your dog. Toss that phone. Burn your house. See those bills fall off the loop. Easy steps. These are easy steps to change your finances. Don’t let the checkbook foil your life. Baby, direct that angst elsewhere. We’re having such a grand time! Hush now. I won’t take death for an answer. Never mind that the curtains, just caught on fire.
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The Narcissist’s Club In the accompanying pamphlet below, you will find instructions and regulations, on how to be an honorary member of the Narcissist’s Club. I took the liberty of gathering these Words … carefully constructed by the best of them. Pin this on your bathroom mirror and bedside table for easy access, and refer to the rules regularly. Let the lessons seep in and pervade every bit of your tiny heart. This manual will help you identify a Narcissist. You may or may not succeed, regardless. Non-Narcissists who have been abused by Narcissists, or raised by Narcissists, or dated Narcissists, are necessary though unwilling members of the club. You are an ESSENTIAL part of the equation. Whoever heard of a club of only Narcissists!
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Dressed in Fatigue As my heart beats, the earth shakes beneath me. Cars zoom past. Everyone’s on a mission. Walking alone on a pavement, in a foreign land, a dog barks me back to life. “Invader!” “Intruder!” I am stepping unto unknown territory. Let’s me know I am unwelcome. Found myself in tears today. Trembling. For the first time in what appears to be forever, I heard what I sound like in pain. A pain, palpable it seems, only to me. Between the wars, I have become a stranger in my own body. Awkward and unsure, I drift through life. Emptied of all emotion. On days like these, I hang out with the homeless. Dressed down enough between showers, for a glimmer of some peace of mind. They’ll teach me more than I will probably remember from College. Because Experience. Tests and scores are used to judge your worth instead of appraise your potential, but I want to know love. I thought I hovered in a world that gave me permission to do that. I hate being limited by time and space - artificial barriers that give those that live by them, something to own. I own my life. I do not fit into one mould. I cannot pretend to be something I am not. I have tried. Kills me. It does. I cry myself into a stupor because I cannot reconcile the outside world with the within. Panic attacks take over my days and interrupt my nights. Making me useless. I find solace in my musical instruments. I can almost play an Afrobeat tune. Small victories. I don’t remember how to visit. I plunge in and chase after, all the dreams I believe my ancestors screamed silently into the wind; as they hung like Christmas ornaments from trees, or as they flung themselves into the Ocean. Their last breaths carrying a prayer for safe passage - into the worlds beyond this one, and for me. I, the Sea, moved out and in, dead and buried before I was born. I stick around because of them. Dressed in fatigue. My history is paired with inconsistencies, as is my present. Longing for a past I can neither prove nor deny, and a future that is ominous in its beckoning. I am the dream. Yet, I feel like a lone squash, riding passenger in the basket of a bicycle … strapped to the bumper of a rickety bus.
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Happy Hour Support Group Doesn’t matter where, or how you met them. All you need is a plausible reason for your gathering. Make up any reason. You do not even have to like them right now. After your third Scotch, you would. “Hi! My name is so and so, and the fact that I am still alive, making merry with you lot - all things considered, is a fucking miracle!” “Hello lágbájá! Nice to meet you! We are all fucking miracles, and not the good kind. Salut!” If only the introductions were this honest and easy. Instead, we’ll be testing the waters. Easing our way through treacherous valleys - one gin and tonic at a time, to all the meaningful conversations we wish we could be having. Immediately. I can see from your ping-ponging eyes, you wonder just how much you can say without running me off. Revelations to an individual vary significantly than when in a group. There’s a reckoning. A policing of misguided intentions. Glimpses of recognition. Glimmers of truth. You drop a shudder here, and he drops an emotional bomb within the hour. Permission given. The unattached lady sitting next to him, whose name I have yet to learn, gets jealous and covertly aggressive, because she thinks he’s attracted to me. She’d be right. But I’ve had four of his type already! A self-loving mantra comes in by telegram from the Heart: “Change your pattern. Change your life.” Soon, you’ll realize you’re safe here, and that the sins committed by your margarita loving buddies, are forgiven by the time the check arrives. Usually. $20 a drink, indulged in by six, for three hours. This too is therapy.
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Animal Crackers She rambles on about her father, The Ecuadorian, … who happens to share the same first name as your ex. I smell daddy issues, and delusion. Now, she’s switching back and forth between sob stories, hers, and the one belonging to her other friend, who named the daughter she had with a secretly married man after a slave turned dragon queen cinderella story of a character, from a popular television show. This sounds TOO familiar. My heart, brain, and stomach make a grumble I cannot quite place yet, and do not like. So I surrender to scenes from earlier in the day. There are Cockroaches kissing on cigarettes. Squirrels nibbling on chocolate wrappers you can’t decipher. Pigeons fighting over pieces of chicken. Neighborhood Cats and Dogs high on Prozac and Benadryl. My chuckles jolt me back to our wine and cheese… “Sounds like your friend has an imagination problem!” There’s an eruption of laughter. … just in time to join the chorus.
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Alphabet Fruits Island Borrower, please say a prayer for the natives, before you sit with your partners to devise your destructive schemes. You know this is an eternal project. Washed out cactus. Does the Man-child give you no choice? How We’ll pick something on the rise, or go with a could you be so recklessly fictional name. naive. Beastly gifts greet you at the entrance! Yes. The If it’s not your fuels, jewels, and all your minerals, it’s your lives. museum has been busy. Been busy for a little while now. We’ll take your lives. Count your net losses Africa Your gifts bear no meaning until you project but don’t worry, the gorilla some on. would have your back. Alphabet fruits look like Seven inverted protocols will see strangers at something between mammal the mall, purchase Congo basins and coming and fish. At the center of the of age flicks. bronze tree, outside the Listen to the blonde angels when they tell you graphic subway, they’ll there’s no Omega. Cheer the town crier on change the title yet again. Give up. You won’t find love here. Your smile is too fake. Your teeth are too white. Your skin is too soft, and frankly, I don’t believe any of it.
as he calls, “Save a chimpanzee / starving child for Christmas!” Let’s go at 100 miles an hour and stay in complete control. That is, if the architects of time don’t take that way from us. Set your 7,000 ft ladder against that Sycamore tree and by god, you climb u p t h a t s k y.
Velvet gloves and demure hat on. I’m unlocking the mystery myself. I’ll learn to love, lead, and locate. Together we’ll shop the trade. Buy what’s in the issue. Don’t get surprised by surprises. This time. They may wall you in but make sure to keep your lips un-cuffed. Keep your lips un-cuffed Uncensored Towns.
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Insert Citation Here Though thankful you can read and write, you hate that you have learned to hide your accent - because it pigeonholes you. Some accents will be celebrated, but because the color of your skin is black as well, yours will never be considered desirable. Not in a foreign land. Not in the ways that matter anyway. Perhaps, to a lover. When that occurs, know that your lover struggles to SEE you behind that stare. You will watch as they fight past generational conditioning; as though you’re some polarizing concept. Like religion. They might even want pats on the back for their display of valiance. For loving you is always going to be, a socio-political affair. Curiosity pleasing. A forbidden lease on that jungle DNA. Listen to all Afro-fantasies; veiled asks to help pick the cotton out of conscience. You are the coffee colored remedy to these hangovers from history. With your blessing, everything can be okay. That is, if they don’t reject you first. You’ve looked on as people smack their teeth, and shake their heads. Patronizing. Dismissed your words because they were too proud to listen, or take the time to care. Constantly “running” from scripts most are too quick to identify you by. A play someone else decided you belong. You should be done trying to prove you are worth more than this thing called “Passport”, but are met with those who swear by the book. Your professors will expect you to co-tutor your College classes for free, on all things Africa, and on Her derivatives. As if centennial scars could be summed up in a mathematical equation. Let alone in two and a half hours. Countless others will question your origins and education the moment you open your mouth, to deduce how your mastery of the English language could be so damned perfect. You’ve devised a custom internal meter to tell when something is more of an insult than a compliment. Watch when your anger leads to the road of silence. Be kind to yourself when it does not. Someday, you will be thankful you are a wiser human being because of your heartbreak from humanity. For reasons quite beyond me.
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Scratch Tapes You cannot tell for sure when these thoughts were downloaded. When these voices spring to the surface, from where have they sprung?! What dusty damp basement in your brain’s hard drive, has protected these treasures used for self-harm? Still, you persist. You walk around like a medieval knight on a fort, invisible artillery in tow, and electric barbed wire fence, defending the island that is your heart; and you don’t even know it. The self-help aisle at the library has impressions in the carpet, carved out by your feet. Triggers erupt from words said and unspoken, glances stolen. Lessons recurring, in different faces and masks. “Change your choices. Change your life.” Wherever you go, there you are. On this 35mm film that plays on repeat, there may be scratches, there may be splices. There may be whole scenes missing. These versions are not final. You are forgetting nuances and details from childhood memories, in conversations you had a mere two hours ago! In this case, that’s a good thing. Though vanity is an inside track, you do NOT spin it with passion. You do NOT rock that beat. At most, I find you… swaying to the rhythm the cripple makes with his right foot, while his left foot, drags behind.
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The House That I Built Heavy blockages formed in the umbilical cord that tied us together. I couldn’t trust you to nurture, even back then. Viscous, sour, and milky. Prickly caresses against my skin. Words travel like arrows, precisely delivering blows to heart, body, and psyche. Setting in record time, to stone. My seed was planted in murky soil. For I am the spawn of mistresses; of second, and seventh wives. Broken marriages. Well kept secrets. Legacy mansions built from frames mysterious, and caustic. Sordid foundations, for a last name. Blood is thicker than concrete. But I’d choose the latter, any day.
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