What can trigger a memory?

Very little. 
A Turkish salesman named Burak, in Russian - beatroot.
He had warm brown eyes and a playful manner. He sold the silver well.
He could empty my pockets with that glint.

In the coolest corner of my bed
I pull you together, thread by thread
In a Turkish night, beads of sweat sailing down my arms, my legs, my chest, my forehead.
First the easy part, the Justin Beiber hair they'd call it now. It was just hair then. Dark, slightly longer, it used to stick a little on the temples. Clear as day, they'd now say.

Then the thin line above the lip before the darkness of the moustache starts. The cheeks, the valleys. Then the tallness in the hallway as we said goodbye. The dark, short coat.
I struggle with the eyes and nose.
Look inside the kitchen. Start off far.

I'm making cottage pancakes as he sleeps and nana helps me mix. 
The light is pouring through the windows and I am weightless 
in expecting nothing more.
And now we're eating. He bought a watermelon, joked. I don't remember how to laugh like that. The way he closed his eyes and tasted homemade cherry juice.
He left a smell of holy inscents in the room. And I felt full and whole.
I pull him string by string but I can't pull him back. 

My acolyte, my catcher in the rye
My adolescence, my first lesson,
I still remember, 
                           though I don't remember why. 

It's like
The water boiling, the pan rattling
The gas fire egging them on

The steam uttering short angry
syllables
Driving the pressure home

The droplets hitting the tensing metal
Singing a rattlesnake's song

And so we're boiling, spitting and trembling
Each in their pot, separate pans

On and on and on

-T

Realisation.

So after we've lain here.
For these years.
Realised our fears.
Together.
The weather.
Has changed.
These.
Trees.
The canopy too.
Have fell away.
Now infront of me.
Is a void.
Me one side.
You the other.
I look around.
Behind me's the trees.
The canopy intact.
The memories.
I look back.
I see you.
You're old.
Worn.
Facing the trees.
I squint.
You wave.
The same bracelets.
Same rings.
Same clothes.
The reflection of myself.
In years past.
Still looking at the trees.
Wishing it could go back.
Sickens me.
I turn away.
One last look at those trees.
Those memories.
Dance through the trunks.
I sigh.
They were good.
But longing for them is wrong.
I look to myself.
Wave.
And throw myself into the void.
-Harry

Board Stupid ;)

It's the feel of sand between my toes.
The waiting.
The anticipation.
The tightness of the suit.
It's the bass line.
That fills my head.
My heart.
It's the water moving around my waist.
As I push further out.
It's the sound of the water slapping.
Lapping.
The side of the board.
The waiting.
The anticipation.
The sitting.
The build up.
Watching as waves roll up.
And facing away.
Paddle.
Push.
Pull.
Keep the pace.
Slow, yet fast.
Don't rush.
Big strokes.
And then you feel it.
As water rushes by your right hand side.
You left hand.
Depending on the break.
And the intake.
Of breath.
Stand.
Bend.
At the knees.
It's the feel of rushing air.
Wet hair.
And sometimes.
The fall.
The tumble.
And the rolling under the water.
Being pulled by the ankle.
Dragged.
And then calm.
Swimming up.
Catching your breath.
And starting again.
It's surfing.
It's what it is to me.
It's fun.

Sunday driving

The Queensway tunnel opens up
Beethoven's symphony
Recedes, stalls, stumbles
And turns to static

So instead
Light, shaped like
Magnetized iron filings
Flickers past,
A break from heavy fog

Waiting
To take me in outside.

For now
We move like antelopes.

-T

Demon Slaying.

Sometimes I catch it staring.
Nostrils flaring.
As I am daring.
Preparing.
The exorcism I am sharing.
No longer caring.
As I'm blaring.
My voice tearing.
Into it's soul.
Break the mould.
Under it's weight, I shall never fold.
Ever cold.
In a six foot hole.
It's heart in a bowl.
Would you ever doubt me, if I told you so?
So I'll let you go.
Into the night.
Without a fight.
If it's right.
When I see the light.
When It's out of sight.
It comes back around.
Out the ground.
Where it's buried, outside of my house.
But it's about to pounce.
Onto me once again.
It's too hard to explain.
Just how to slay.
A demon in this shape.
There's got be a way.
For me to finally lay.
It in it's resting place.
I must quicken my pace.
And meet it face to face.
It's my last saving grace.
To end this stupid chase.
I  shall watch it brace.
Itself, I watch it shiver.
As the image shimmers.
I clench my fist.
And smash my bathroom mirror.
-H

Different Perspectives

I see him every morning, every day and every night.
And just want to make sure that every thing's alright.
For a while now, I've noticed he's quiet.
His eyes are sunken, he looks tired.
He smells different to what I know.
On the air his sadness flows.
He used to smile.
Now he snarls all the while.
And then again, I sit and watch.
While blood drips from his wrists on cloth.
I don't know why, he still has me.
And every now and then I see.
A smile cross his depressed face.
When I see him, and over I race.
When he puts, his arms around me.
When I wake, and he sleeps soundly.
When he's off with his new pack.
He always smiles when he's back.
He laughs and jokes, and is how I remember.
Before around, last November.
Since then everything about him changed.
But now he's back, and he's uncaged.
Because of this, I smile too.
My boy is back, he's born anew.
-The Dog