#1
An aged acid reflux, slow-burning, mature,
vintage. The gentrification of an afternoon.
Bits of dust the hoover won't pick up.
They're the kind of ideas flat-pack furniture
suggests to me. I start out like any other,
itemising the left and right, top, bottom,
bars and rails, runners, handles. Then the
screws, the locking bolts, twisting sticks,
gumption pads and indignant nuts. I tick
them off like children on a register, call their
names out with rolled 'r's' and pitted plosives.
I've a soft spot for the dowels, those little wooden
soldiers who suffer, half-dipped in drilled
craters, await the hammer of the God's.
When I bat them I can hear them splinter
and scream. But there's no eloquent way to
pay respects, so on I get, the lunchtime
pop-back looming, the space beside the bed
still empty save for an accidental cactus.
Damn. All three drawers are on backwards.
#2
Nice. Particularly like the last line.

Really get a feel for your character here, it's a very personal, light piece.
|
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