The Missing Missed

 

Some ophiurian cyborg, strapon kraken,

alien claw abducts Michaela Strachan,

or rather her choppelganger, crackhead reproduction.

For all I know, it might always come to this

outside the Disco of the Missing Missed

for some chi shugra fell thru the cleft of habitus.

 

Nobody gives an ubi sunt.

Even local historians deem them Memory's Runts.

Even internet sleuths won't google a map of the waterfront.

Existing less than the pubgarden spectres

of Alltagsgeschichte, or kids from junior

school who emigrated to Australia.

 

A  J.Doe no detail of whom the killer can recall.

Where is the ball if the reader doesn't know it's a 

'Spot The Ball'

comp pic at all? There is no Tall

Asphodel Syndrome. A ghostwritten diary

of a nobody never returned to the axed library.

Disapperances in a puff of Gnossiennes by Satie.

 

Golden 24 hours lead to lead in the basement of the Bureau

of the Missing Missed. In unlodged reports or UFOs'

brigs, caught between saccade & sfumato,

the uncaptured who tread too lightly in alleys un-CCTV'd,

so shady they mogg the mogshade. Vanisher ungrieved

is like Kardashev Threeians: too abstract to perceive.

 

The piece de resistance of the Missing Missed

is Jakob's jackboot kicking the shit out of a disused shed

in County Wexford, except read 'Gaza Strip' instead.

Homines sacri scrubbed by Gaz-A-Lago langoliers

won't be memorialised as mushrooms like Mahon's muses, 

Treblinka

or Pompeii, unlocked to the light thru a keyhole of fama.

 

Whether to damnatio memoriae or a Schwarzchild malletspace,

whether mystery meat missing Miss, Gordon Strachan-faced,

or genocides too beige for leverage, therefore effaced

from the ledger, like NAZAs Caterpillar frontloaders one

last time displace, they'll transcend being known unknowns,

rejoin the whole once Extinction nerfs the necromones.