ItNever knew the meaning of home,
Unless that repulsiveness within me,
Could be considered as a low-cost rented area
Without water and with too much electricity
That there's no use for – you see,
the pots and the pans are gone astray.
Rats, overweight and well-fed by the rubbish down the hall,
Like those oily faces who work for the government –
Crawl under the mattress, for they are fond of the stench
of dried-up sperm and menstruation red turned brown.
Yes, it sleeps on it, for it doesn't have a choice,
But that isn't home, is it?
Never idealized the connotation of home,
Unless, maybe when the joyful looking family
Let it in for another night. Put it on a soft bed,
Sang it a song. Gave it a sugar-candy.
Made it feel welcome, fed it, nursed it,
Even pretended to love it as their own.
That little tiger infant! The damn claws started itching,
It became impatient, craving for the pitiless haunt!
Even though it's fur looked so incredibly soft,
Cuddling was never endured by the rowdiness of it's spirit:
It stayed diabolic interminably,
So, that wasn't home, was it?
Never embraced the substance of home,
As soon as others painted their families, it stole the shades,
Lashed canvasses into a million disconnected portions.
Stabbed, damaged, being pressed instantly into the tomb of reason –
Enquire the harsh world : what animal is made to be sane?
The crowd kept digging graves, thousands of them,
Playing mature games of being neater than nature,
Clinging desperately to that idle pride of being human.
Betrayed by it's own lips, cursed by the mayor's consent,
Planted in white, lasting black as a chimney on the inside,
Even respect couldn't force it to rip down the ancient wallpaper,
That, sure as hell, wasn't home, was it?
By the way, the 'lovely' me, couldn't have been it, precious, could it?..
Poetry by FrancescaLuca
Read 597 times
Written on 2006-12-18 at 15:17
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