Forget Magazine. Remember, Remember, Remember.

Flesh:                Not even his past held him.
                  His skin a silvery thing unknown before,
                  unchainable as water: never free
                  but ever becoming so. He prophesied
                  such harsh, luminous, here-of-the-flesh signs,
                  the possible and the new; his lashed escapes
                  offered hope to men alleyed in rain
                  or frozen trash. How is there hurt in that?

Latch:                The lie that comforts is no less savage for it.
                  He worked old forms: rust-bit fetters not his own,
                  battered links, drab trunk-tricks bought at bargain.
                  Most himself when shut in dark cabs, railcars,
                  or the granite hinge of lidded tradition--
                  in the strange unmoored cast and drift of words
                  flux and struggle held him fast; he knew all
                  escapes are false escapes and a work is roped
                  to its past. Now men strut and mock him for it.
                  They claim he lived too close to chains to find
                  the dark hasped clench or lurch of a locked art,
                  and drag back the bolt, and not be terrified.

Flesh:                And there is sense in that. True freedom burns.
                  Like cable, rope, cuffs, like electric light
                  or aeroplanes he linked and forged the age,
                  he learned his low opinion of mankind
                  comparing men to chains.

Steven Price will now saw himself in half.