There once was a man who lived in a house with four doorways and a dark room for the cheesecake between a flyscreen to the rear and someone else’s bedroom and the cistern that screeched like a banshee in the night he never seemed to mind the sign on his lot yet could never spare a word for his neighbours only, “Fuck off”. and something dirty muttered in a dialect until the servant of his dreams crashed and the unhomely became this man’s king Then the dead roses and the willy-wagtails by moonlight eggless but free range none the less were laid in feathered nests which he would go out to inspect each day with a nervous edginess to his demeanour he felt the rupture of delight backdrafted by this settling of the score inflamed by night he breathed in more tasted salt from bleeding gums which he took as a sign which he took as a song but before long the willy-wagtails had left the feathered nest and there only remained a note the shape of a bowl that shaped his past like it had shaped his house “there are no accidents,” the note conjectured, and went on “only sign of unconscious exposition…” her signature burned trespassing the tallow flame branding him 'other'
There once was a man who lived in a house
14 December 2009
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