A Millennial Syllogism

A Millennial Syllogism

Thinking of the 90s

is strange: those memories curdle

like an ambulance siren

against brickwork. The green

vine of symbolism

is what grabs me now;

those lava lamps and their coy blobs

spelt havoc for psycho-sexual development.

And the fathering

of a Tamagotchi egg represented 

the worst of car crash parenting.

I remember standing at the school gates 

looking out over the unimprisoned world.

The puddles by the lollipop crossing 

were raindowed and heart-shaped, and...

And as I write this, that’s it gone.

The memory is redacted again. A huddle

of atmospheres is no good for a poem.

There must be form. The same hope

that a year, rounded up to the nearest 2,000 AD,

and a dome, and a special coin, might someday complete us.