Home is as alive and dead as the smell of the clothes in the cupboard. |
Dead years and rot have lined walls, the stricken decay is all over and the cars have fled, the night is endlessly swimming - that was two years before August. landlocked between buildings, walking in the alleys on summer evenings, the shadows cover the field, the lights trickle out gently, the people go on turning and the washing machine whirrs backwards and forwards Children with cycles, children with ice creams, lil girls and sweet boys sitting in the park, a fragrance fills the thick air - something naked and fresh, a little ruptured and slightly bruised, The sky, the sky, the long lone dead end - bury memories bury the absent the unsent The sky the sky, looks anxious and tired today, looks burdened and scarred its face is blank, its limbs are are falling in heaps on the grass and its tongue crawls on back taste saliva, taste a fatigue, a beauty and a nothingness rolling along with the dust takes, gives, gives, takes, what's returned is what is left what's birthing is the room without a door or maybe a doorknob floating between many doors the flower and the juice jug are both going stale, the television sucks chocolate wrappers words are raining from parts of the floor upwards.They were all the same Home is as alive and dead as the smell of the clothes in the cupboard. |