Tag Archives: memory

Lost Memories

My truth and my fiction get so mixed up in my head that I forget, sometimes, what’s actually happened.

This is both true and false. That’s the best kind of fiction: sort with a grain of truth in it, and you make this whole pearl around one little thing that you know is true.

Lost Memories

Wake to screaming
“I’m sick of seeing you
wallowing in your stupid
twisted misery- snap
the fuck out of it.”

There are things I will
never remember-
things I never want to-
but the niggle remains:

how badly did I embarrass
myself, how many stupid things
flew out of my mouth independent
of my brain, how many times
did someone sigh or shake their head
as if to say, well there she goes
off the deep end again.

© Bridget Noonan, 2011.

So I chickened out of going to the cemetery yesterday, but I’m going today if it kills me. (haha, and if it does, good place for it eh? just send me off to the crematorium and shake me out somewhere nice)

This is, after all, the first four day stretch I have had off work in…….. months, possibly almost a year? I can do what I want when I want, dang it. And I wish that didn’t sound so much like I’m a teen stomping my foot.



Filed under Poetry

dead fish

dead fish

pale insides of
dead fishes
lidless eyes ever staring
hook lip worm swallow
throw it back?
no not this time

pale with a greenish cast
does it frighten you?
disgust horror revulsion
limply hanging off the
board, bloody-
is that real?
of course not, pet;
nothing is real
hook lip swallow

that dead fish we saw
when I was young
do you remember?
the butchered it in their garage

gulp down
world is yours for the
kidneys giblets brains livers roe
devour the
through a straw
ingurgitate slurp
see the

© Bridget Noonan, 2007, 2011.

Sometimes, I want to write things. And then these are the things that come out. I am positive I didn’t plan to write something this disjointed and fucked.  Then again, it was in another city, and besides that wench is dead.*

*Sorry, gotta add/ask something: am I allowed to [mangle a] quote from a play I’ve never read, as long as I have good intentions about reading it in the future? Like, it’s on the list, but the list is kind of huge. I’m thinking it’ll take the rest of my friggin life to read (hold onto your monocles, kids) over 6000 books. (I say!)

Anyway. I have to be awake in like six hours. Fuck.

Is it sick that I’m posting a picture of a fish colouring page for children after that fucked up poem?

aren't they just darling

…meh, probably.

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Filed under Poetry

Past Regrets, or Shy

I find it’s helpful to write down things that have bothered me from the past. Just to help exorcise a particular memory’s hold on me, or pin down exactly why it still …aches in bad weather, is the best analogy I have. So here’s one that I wrote after reading this poem.

Past Regrets 

There was a time
when all I thought about was
I dreamed and wished,
hoped and begged for
you to look up and notice

too shy to speak,
would never say the
reasons for my intense
scrutiny of your face,
your hands, your laugh.

The reasons would
have alienated


Regret at inaction
much worse
than regret at action.

© Bridget Noonan, 2011.

Past Regrets is a working title that will likely be changed. Suggestions? I’m thinking something long and pretentious, and more than a little bit gay. Like, Same-Sex Stirrings at Secondary School, or something equally alliterative. Not that I was exactly thinking of high school while writing this. Rather more recent. But still. Maybe, Lover Dares Not Speak Her Name.

…haha, all of the things I’m thinking of sound like the titles of really terrible lesbian erotica written by fourteen year-old girls.  Okay time to stop this stream-of-consciousness nonsense before I mention any more. Soon I’ll have to put some kind of mature content warning on my blog, which would be just tragic.

Maybe I’ll just call it Shy.


Filed under Poetry