Within Weeks, They’ll Be Re-opening The Shipyards

I like this. I hope you like it too. Its not quite a poem, and that’s how it will stay. It’s just a rumour that was spread around town, and a response to a post on http://theviscosityproject.wordpress.com


They knew it wasn’t going to be easy when

The men decided to build their homes

From the inside out; starting with running

Children, carpets spreading outwards, around them hopping

Over a single red stool; shouts of

‘No, it’s my turn’, ‘Grow up!’ ‘Stop!’


Once the coffee tables and the occasional

Broken pots were set in place, legs growing

Tree-like from the bases of veneers that were not

There just a moment ago,

The plastic wrapping seeped its way out of the

Sofa skin, shiny, keeping dirt trapped


On the inside, away from shaved legs and

The pins that buried themselves, unfettered,

Deep into the corner of the room.

The gas was breathed out of waxy leaves

And trapped beneath the oven.

That sinking feeling, driven home.


All that was left was to raise the walls,

And they pulled the stones all the way

From South Wales, you know. Nobody

Seems to know quite how, or why,

When the lorry runs on rolling logs

And reconstituted seashells.


So mum and dad and the two

New arrivals sit around the alter stone

Running red with iron ore, trapped

With double glazing while the

Telegraph pole outside falls silently into

The yawning earth, just like last time


And the time before. The pater familias

Makes a mental note to not forget

To stab the sun with mistletoe,

To keep up with the Jones’s,

Lest they have to build their house again

Or re-consecrate the patio set.

About Benjamin Norris

Published writer of short stories, long stories, poems. Well received art critic and cultural commentator for Berlin magazines. Collaborator with operatic societies. Co-writer of fictional historic psycholinguistic journals. Lecturer of architecture and art history at a Budapest University. View all posts by Benjamin Norris

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