Post by Steve on Dec 17, 2005 16:12:59 GMT -5
stretching the poor attic stairs to the floor,
each step upwards i feel its aching knees buckle-
shiver beneath my weight,
all to haul down boxes and bags.
the entire attic smells of one scent
stiffling wet musky displacement.
i want to scatter myself a cross the rafters
see if someone carries themselves up those
creaking cracking moaning crying stairs
to find me by the light of a single bulb
and haul me down
in dark green trash bags.
i fold back its legs,
force back its elbows and close the door,
the string still in my hand as i stare
out the window. the staircase downstairs has a request:
could we please eat less?
on the carpet a few boxes have been opened,
stray strands of torn tinsel still stumble in the
drafty room. i bend and raise a wad of newspaper-
the dates are smudged, the headlines missing,
all i know is the oldman is dead as of
three months and eight years ago...he had no survivors-
tiny angel i unwrap from ger hobo nap
and leave an ink finger print on the inside
of her dress.
the artificial tree is removed from its
plastic waste bag sheath,
awoken from its artificial sleep.
glass of eggnog, my palm is cut
because of a busted bulb from the 150 count
multi-coloured lights we keep reusing.
milk will upset my stomach
cookies will be burnt.
i want to spend this time
scattered in the attic,
waiting to be rediscovered,
to be derobed of my dark green trash bags.
radio playing old songs
from dead mouths, relatives long since past
are worshipped through ornaments of
christmas balls and miniature sleds
candycanes and snowmen-
and we kid ourselves that memory doesn't fail,
we do this every year, until we ourselves are dead.
each step upwards i feel its aching knees buckle-
shiver beneath my weight,
all to haul down boxes and bags.
the entire attic smells of one scent
stiffling wet musky displacement.
i want to scatter myself a cross the rafters
see if someone carries themselves up those
creaking cracking moaning crying stairs
to find me by the light of a single bulb
and haul me down
in dark green trash bags.
i fold back its legs,
force back its elbows and close the door,
the string still in my hand as i stare
out the window. the staircase downstairs has a request:
could we please eat less?
on the carpet a few boxes have been opened,
stray strands of torn tinsel still stumble in the
drafty room. i bend and raise a wad of newspaper-
the dates are smudged, the headlines missing,
all i know is the oldman is dead as of
three months and eight years ago...he had no survivors-
tiny angel i unwrap from ger hobo nap
and leave an ink finger print on the inside
of her dress.
the artificial tree is removed from its
plastic waste bag sheath,
awoken from its artificial sleep.
glass of eggnog, my palm is cut
because of a busted bulb from the 150 count
multi-coloured lights we keep reusing.
milk will upset my stomach
cookies will be burnt.
i want to spend this time
scattered in the attic,
waiting to be rediscovered,
to be derobed of my dark green trash bags.
radio playing old songs
from dead mouths, relatives long since past
are worshipped through ornaments of
christmas balls and miniature sleds
candycanes and snowmen-
and we kid ourselves that memory doesn't fail,
we do this every year, until we ourselves are dead.