Evictee by Bruce McRae

Tuesday, November 13, 2012

You mean the house inside the house.
You mean the mythmaker’s lodgings,
with its many doors and million windows.
Which is the sea under the mountains
or a thirteen billion year old light ray.
Which is everywhere, like ancient snow.
Oh, but why didn’t you say so?
You mean the house next door to the nothingness,
across the road from the flaming hospital,
by the exploding dancehall.
Where the carbon blobs happily dwell
and midnight barks like a dog.
Where the spectral sailors are knocking.
The house made of bones being broken.
The house of minds snapping.
The house where the World used to live,
until Tragedy stopped by for a while,
until Time spat out its toothpick.
I remember the blinds in the kitchen
coming down hard.
Like a fist on a table
or satellite crashing.
I remember there were walls in the cellar
and an angry lightbulb on all night.
With vast continents
hidden under its floorboards,
Mr. and Mrs. Chemical, long dead now,
rearranging the grassblades,
old toys still in the yard,
bejeweled in the glistening rain,
the roadway passing
filled with the children’s lost voices:
like a skip-rope-rhyme
in my feverish mind.

You mean the house inside the house.

You mean the mythmaker’s lodgings,

with its many doors and million windows.

.

Which is the sea under the mountains

or a thirteen billion year old light ray.

Which is everywhere, like ancient snow.

.

Oh, but why didn’t you say so?

You mean the house next door to the nothingness,

across the road from the flaming hospital,

by the exploding dancehall.

.

Where the carbon blobs happily dwell

and midnight barks like a dog.

Where the spectral sailors are knocking.

.

The house made of bones being broken.

The house of minds snapping.

The house where the World used to live,

until Tragedy stopped by for a while,

until Time spat out its toothpick.

.

I remember the blinds in the kitchen

coming down hard.

Like a fist on a table

or satellite crashing.

I remember there were walls in the cellar

and an angry lightbulb on all night.

With vast continents

hidden under its floorboards,

Mr. and Mrs. Chemical, long dead now,

rearranging the grassblades,

old toys still in the yard,

bejeweled in the glistening rain,

the roadway passing

filled with the children’s lost voices:

like a skip-rope-rhyme

in my feverish mind.

_____________________________________________

Originally from Niagara Falls, Canadian-born Bruce McRae is a musician who has spent much of his life in London and British Columbia. He has been published in hundreds of periodicals . His first book, ‘The So-Called Sonnets’ is available from the Silenced Press website or via Amazon books. His second, ‘An Unbecoming Fit Of Frenzy’, is to be made available later in 2012. To hear his music and view more poems visit his website: www.bpmcrae.com.

© 2012 – 2013, Metazen.

Share and Enjoy:
  • Print
  • Digg
  • Sphinn
  • del.icio.us
  • Facebook
  • Mixx
  • Google Bookmarks
  • FriendFeed
  • Technorati

Related posts:

  1. We Used to Vacation by J.Bradley
  2. I returned to the first house by J.A Tyler
  3. Sandcastles by Kenny Mooney
  4. Two Poems by Regina Green

Comments are closed.