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in progress . . . .

A House is not a Home

my house is the fireman's dream, a bloodbomb, boob errors, booby tubes, yep, my house is a spiral, a throat captain (ahoy!), twitching brows and fingerbones.

my house is ruse, my house is a hussy, my house is gonna get ya, my house houses a tableau of cut heads

flash flash flash

my house is the anti-thesis of a home


'Your house' reminded me of a poem I wrote about the right to housing for the project 'The European Constitution in Verse' last year:

Sometimes my hand is like a roof over your head.

I lay that piece of arm,
that lower piece of arm on your head
and it’s like rubberizing your cranium.
My eyes are plastic white
like my toothbrush and other items.

Puf ! Puf ! Puf !

This is the sound of my microwave.
This is the sound.
The sound that gets warmer when it vibrates, when it waves
not like corrugated iron, not like that at all.
But sometimes your hands are like a roof over my head,
and the sound of the two of us eating popcorn is a mess.

Check out article 25 and read some other housing poems by Easterine Kire Iralu, Niki Marangou and Geert van Istendael.

BR Louise Rosengreen
postpran said…
Thanks Louise . . . . fantastic :-) :-) :-)

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