Ghost in the machine by David Golledge


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If I could buy more
memory I would, the better
to savour this haunting.

These images and sound-clips
of you, this river of information
that overwhelms.

Ghostly overtures,
these things I create,
make hearts beat faster

and pupils dilate.
That neck, this mouth,
explosive this touch.

Those thighs, these hands
Wanting too much.
Every word and laugh,

an index without why,
lingering ephemeral, infinite
behind the eye. Your form

and movements, an expanding database.
This universe of aching
that begins with your face.