I write to remember what I should forget and then forget to remember to forget and then I get confused and write some more, but I remember what I had for breakfast in Saltdean on the fourteenth of August 1972 which worries me to death, well, perhaps not death but somewhere very close to it.

Memory’s a funny old thing which sometimes makes you cry and not with laughter either.

Anyway
I remembered again and forgot twice more, now I’m wondering do I still remember or did I forget?

Confusion, the Chinese philosopher
( I think that’s someone who collects stamps )
ceremoniously
makes me a green tea,
see
I remembered,
what?

© 2020, John Smallshaw.