The House that Jack-Shit Built. By CpSingleton © 2014
In this house the furniture is moving.
Crashing gently against glass walls,
Causing cracks to reach out, wearily,
Like a tired spider stretching its legs.
The bright tinkles and
Dull thuds following no conventional beat.
The TV slides across bare, smooth floorboards,
Tipping precariously as it reaches the scruffy sofa,
Where it flops aboard like a tired drunk.
The mindless, banal, unimaginative,
Reality hogwash blares its mixed message
To a damp patch in the artex above.
Through that ceiling solitude floats
On an half-size double, sheets crumpled,
In an attempt to make Emin crack a smile?
Thin, worn frieze, bearing faded flowers and
Summer fruits peels lethargically
Towards the dusty corners.
The attic above is occupied by bored, confused ghosts,
Sitting between rough-sawn beams,
Transparent heads in hands and on knees.
Wind swirls across chimney stacks,
In irregular, blustering bursts
View original post 65 more words