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.