I care so much, I care yet little
It drives me mad, it
drives me mad, it drives me
ten chimps pulling dresses off the walls
of a posh octagonal hall
six taps left open, and
drain holes, four, spurting and
clogged with thickets of hair and
dirt— all ugly and
bold and
alive
alive too, like a screaming, this home I know,
I know
to be carved out of stones—
of stones that silenced the noises of time now
chattering, chattering, alive
alive; dishes scarred
and stained— sleek
with remnants of hungers strange
a fish bowl lonely and
cursed with obsolescence; poked twice
with feathery causality and
now it bleeds, and
wilt the books, the dusty books
Oh!
I have too heard
of the quiet sky, it’s body carved like
a zero— even and smooth— I have too!
In here, but in here
I care—
a glass-jar, its mouth like the mouth of a fish
spilling, twice, spilling alive
and bottles breaking, of young wines,
of cinnamon and salt
four spices that sting and bite like slaughter
I care yet— a taut-skinned cat
mewling by the greasy kitchen window
and six locks with key-holes
jammed with rust
that comes and comes in crowds like gusts
to chew on metal's ****** sweetness
It is wild—
I stumble around the echoes
of a gathering of chimps
a key grinding and twisting
in eight stubborn walls
yearning for the quick clack
that would open me up
all answers and answers, easy and slow
all simplified
for introspection— and me
and it is choking
frightening
I lurk from doorway to shadow to
the wet rug by the shelf
counting, recounting the bruises of a house untouched
by all but me—
ten then!
on, on—
Nov 15, 2021
Nov 15, 2021 at 9:26 PM UTC
I care so much, I care yet little
It drives me mad, it
drives me mad, it drives me
ten chimps pulling dresses off the walls
of a posh octagonal hall
six taps left open, and
drain holes, four, spurting and
clogged with thickets of hair and
dirt— all ugly and
bold and
alive
alive too, like a screaming, this home I know,
I know
to be carved out of stones—
of stones that silenced the noises of time now
chattering, chattering, alive
alive; dishes scarred
and stained— sleek
with remnants of hungers strange
a fish bowl lonely and
cursed with obsolescence; poked twice
with feathery causality and
now it bleeds, and
wilt the books, the dusty books
Oh!
I have too heard
of the quiet sky, it’s body carved like
a zero— even and smooth— I have too!
In here, but in here
I care—
a glass-jar, its mouth like the mouth of a fish
spilling, twice, spilling alive
and bottles breaking, of young wines,
of cinnamon and salt
four spices that sting and bite like slaughter
I care yet— a taut-skinned cat
mewling by the greasy kitchen window
and six locks with key-holes
jammed with rust
that comes and comes in crowds like gusts
to chew on metal's ****** sweetness
It is wild—
I stumble around the echoes
of a gathering of chimps
a key grinding and twisting
in eight stubborn walls
yearning for the quick clack
that would open me up
all answers and answers, easy and slow
all simplified
for introspection— and me
and it is choking
frightening
I lurk from doorway to shadow to
the wet rug by the shelf
counting, recounting the bruises of a house untouched
by all but me—
ten then!
on, on—
15/11/2021
I feel so loud. I feel so loud. Yet I never speak, I'm getting quieter with every tumbling sun. Further and further into my nest, away, away from the remnants of my sun-lit self. I feel so loud; like a calm before the explosion, like a mere moment before it, a mere blink or a speck's swift step before— before—
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