Seeds #1

Awake. A wall of satin sun like net curtains
beneath shabby 80s drapery; orange, not
unlike the sun itself, and both in union
to amber this sit-ting not bed-ding room.
Late summer, its air of lessening density and
evening is still bright in here, as though these

walls
are
too
thin,

and I hear the hifi bellowing next door:
"We'll find us a home / built of packaging
foam / that will be there 'til after we die";
they imply a home of unyielding sanctuary,
whispering as my ear presses uncomfortably
against the rough plaster wall. But this is 1 at
the Green and the wall beneath the window sill
is a sickly brown blooming of damp, and the room
is littered with tacky placemat paintings, sagging
sofa filled with copper coins and Fruit Salad wrappers,
medals discoloured by sentimentality, coronation
cups unused but sun-bleached and even
a cupboard faced with wood-patterened plastic -
it's made of wood. The smell of must and
a skinny warmth haunt every room, bitter
sulphur odour like bonfires lurking in
the stairwell. Open door. Burst. This house fat
with carmine fire, this so-called haven and its
familiarity dis:int:er:gr:a:t:e-

d:-

the windowsill is moving without influence; the
drapery more orange now; shiny bricks and
flourescent mortar mingling within
brightly stuttering affairs;
smell bitter concrete,
orange and orivonj,
all tapehissing roar,
haven an auyvorn
fjuyr n fhuuaer
klayreuune
czystiori
froiprlen
kjjixlq
qxxzzzzzzzxzzzzzzzzzzxxzzzzzz