I have built a house for myself,
Not of wood, lest the pyromaniacs
Not of glass, beware the stone throwers.

But of flesh.
Of skin and borrowed time.
Of faces and hands and backs and shoulders.

Most from my friends, others
Of my enemies and friends of friends,
Distant relatives, mostly dead.
And the few folk I’ve prodded to force that hand.

I cannot look inside my house.
The door is always open and the front mat is an arched spine.
The walls are covered in wincing and no furniture lay about.

I cannot look in the mirrors
For a heap reasons I cannot tell you
You simply wouldn’t believe me
I will tell you only that they look back at you

There is no fireplace
So I hope you’ve packed a sleeping bag
No food to be had here either
Begone your selfish needs

The roof is all but hands lending help along the way.
They collect as much rain as possible
Then the house floods

And the stench is enough to make you weep

Always wear your thickest boots when walking all over the rugs and others,
Tends to not wear out the tread as much

All in all it’s not much of a home
Just right for not much of a man.