It Is A Box Room

It is a box room

And its walls are beige

Paper plastered aging brick

And the window is large

And it is south facing

Ideal

For the light to get in

Which it does

And it is hot

And it stifles

And it is unbearable

Until at night

When heats absence is worse

 

It is a box room

And it is quiet

Save for the almost inaudible clunking of pipes

Keeping it from altogether silence

It is quiet

 

And it is the quiet which screams

That is louder than things

The quiet

Which taunts

So I fill it with noise.

 

Junky old record players, and

Hi-tech speaker systems, and

Sewing machines blasting on full.

A washer and a dryer

And a sixteen piece brass band

And another

To fill it with noise.

 

It is a box room

And it is full

And it is loud

And it is deafening

And it is quiet

And beneath the paper the walls are falling down

But you can’t tell

 

You just hear the din

And see the decoration

And assume that it’s structurally sound

 

It is a box room

And it is shrinking

And I don’t know how much longer

I can keep on living

In it.

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Pareidolia: NaPoWriMo

So my Twitter pal Rachel has informed me that this month is National Poetry Writing Month. She’s doing a poem a day and hers are all going to be excellent I don’t doubt – you can find them here. I don’t usually do poetry. Blogs, articles, fiction – generally prose, that’s my bag. But I’ve been having a weird few days mental health wise and before I carry on with my own April project (using Camp NaNoWriMo to complete the first draft of my novel) I thought I’d give it a crack. I don’t normally do poems, but…here is a poem.

 

Pareidolia

It was a joke.
I made a joke.
I didn’t mean it, so laugh.

I’m laughing; so much my eyes sting,
I’m laughing in my gut,
I’m laughing until it hurts
Because it does hurt
I can feel it.
At my joke.

Have you ever seen a puppet?
A jester, or a clown?
Fooling around?
With a hand shove up its backside,
Nothing inside.
Not really.

Faces painted on inanimate things,
We search for them, too,
We’re trained to,
Patterns they say; but I see faces,
Faces on things that don’t feel,
Don’t laugh,
Not at my joke.
And it was a joke.
So laugh.

Faces are painted on me,
Laughing.
I put them there myself.
At my joke.

And it was a joke.
When I danced at the platform edge,
It was a joke when I said what I said
I wouldn’t have jumped, don’t be concerned.
It was a joke.

I made a joke.
I didn’t mean it, so laugh.

 

 

(The general idea is that it becomes more sinister on a second read through, so if you’d like to read it twice…please do!)