cavitatingcacophony
Iolite System • RQ Fan • Ask Pronouns
Sick of Being is an ongoing collection of thoughts, in the form of poetry, written all by individuals of this system on their personal perspectives of existence.
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I - The House Model
by E.G.F Deatherage
———
In all my years of cleaning dusty, dingy houses
With the wanton lights of candles burning brightly
O’er all that walks upon and in and through
That wretched hall of which I see in the backs of my shut eyes;
A scape of neutrals, distending, pushing in my pupils
Straining, stretching to see an end
To the taint that does lurk just beyond
That paisley of the walls, almost faded and yet so crisp
Of which the father picked and sewed onto whatever he could find,
I have never seen a hell quite like the one that I am stuck in:
Not quite dark, yet never bright
Lurkers hiding in the stark and rising shadows,
Never malicious, but with shiny eyes of devils
Set into their hapless, cursed brows of which they cover with their hair
Not too long, though never short
Pristine curls of dark and light
Never frayed, but never noticed
Like the twins in all their wiles
Never seeing, always looking through one’s eyes,
The bright and gleaming marbles that should trap you in their spell
Not quite lies, but never truthful
And past every single edge of this unkempt, unruly house
Not quite a home, but where I live
I see the center of it all:
In the middle of this twisting, roiling Lichtenberg
We see that man in his dark chair
On which the light of flickering fire licks the edges
Where his shroud of teeth and teflon touch the oak
I call him life, I call him death, I call him anything but mine
However, as I do suspect, he has a name that you might know;
A name more open than my own
In his mirror it is echoed when he stares into the cracks to see
The opposite of what he is
To look inside himself and search for any little piece he left behind
To look for more
To look for love
To look for hate
To look for him
I call him host,
But you might call him Greene
-
I - The House Model
by E.G.F Deatherage
———
In all my years of cleaning dusty, dingy houses
With the wanton lights of candles burning brightly
O’er all that walks upon and in and through
That wretched hall of which I see in the backs of my shut eyes;
A scape of neutrals, distending, pushing in my pupils
Straining, stretching to see an end
To the taint that does lurk just beyond
That paisley of the walls, almost faded and yet so crisp
Of which the father picked and sewed onto whatever he could find,
I have never seen a hell quite like the one that I am stuck in:
Not quite dark, yet never bright
Lurkers hiding in the stark and rising shadows,
Never malicious, but with shiny eyes of devils
Set into their hapless, cursed brows of which they cover with their hair
Not too long, though never short
Pristine curls of dark and light
Never frayed, but never noticed
Like the twins in all their wiles
Never seeing, always looking through one’s eyes,
The bright and gleaming marbles that should trap you in their spell
Not quite lies, but never truthful
And past every single edge of this unkempt, unruly house
Not quite a home, but where I live
I see the center of it all:
In the middle of this twisting, roiling Lichtenberg
We see that man in his dark chair
On which the light of flickering fire licks the edges
Where his shroud of teeth and teflon touch the oak
I call him life, I call him death, I call him anything but mine
However, as I do suspect, he has a name that you might know;
A name more open than my own
In his mirror it is echoed when he stares into the cracks to see
The opposite of what he is
To look inside himself and search for any little piece he left behind
To look for more
To look for love
To look for hate
To look for him
I call him host,
But you might call him Greene
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