I roomed in the stare of the house,
following demons through mirrors
into Constantinople. The family
spun gold coins, silver Magyar
stamps and shattered knee caps
in a recreation of Acton –
home in Redruth.
Our house was infinite, Anthony,
and lay dormant in the fields of Cairn.
Have you sat in the neighbours kitchen
and watched them reenact a TV family?
Known that yours is drawn straight
from the well? We kept crutches
to remind ourselves we could be our father
if we had the right group of friends
to show us the wrong blood fjørd.
I still draw pictures of a loft
where the mice wore tap shoes and bedsheets,
and a child peered over the top
of a wardrobe swearing he’d bash our skulls in
if we ever bought the demons to his nest.
– Aaron Kent
Television is where family
is more than just a word;
it’s a fantasy that makes me sick
to my stomach, almost leaving a
taste of jealousy in my mouth.
Bloodlines are riddled by things
left unsaid, a darkness over
houses where no child should rest.
Behind a door, that when unlocked,
a cup of sugar is offered to every
neighbor with a smile as bright
as the morning sun, so no one dare
believe in thy sinful ways.
Thus, why the closest resemblance
is nothing compared to who’s really
there for you. There are jackals
amongst a pack of wolves and
sheep with shaved lambskin
wearing someone else’s coat
until it’s worn out like an old
pair of jeans you wore that night
the first time you fucked.
These are memories.
Memories that are ripped away
by the very people you’re willing
to lose sleep over.
– Anthony Desmond