In The Night Factory

The two Steves have moved in and now there are three. The fridge is full and the rooms seem to be packed with the presence of people. The Moths are hitting the lampshade again. Clothes clinging like polythene, arms sweating beads, the pen slips from between my thumb and fore finger. The dark brown interior is holding off the bright light from outside for as long as it can and it still feels dull around the house. We now have an upturned bed standing eccentrically on it’s end piece. Big metal bars and springs facing you as you come out of the kitchen. The mattress lapsed in folds at its feet, exhibiting its lack of sturdiness and bounce. It obstructs my Picasso painting so it has to go. Brown in colour of course, it emits the kind of depressing aroma that you find often in industrial wastelands. It is part of the house that has become dislodged; old and tattered, a chucked out piece of furniture that nobody wants. I write with my back to it but still I feel its oppressiveness. The air has changed and something awkward looms at head height that constantly reminds me of living now in a house that is shared. The chair is here too, from the next room; a pink oddity with a small bottom and a scoop for a backrest. All covered with that crinkly pink felt the colour and kind that you can only find in second hand markets. I can no longer stand it down here. I have to go upstairs and to my room, I feel as though I’m in a strange cave with monsters that I don’t know.

# posted by Neil @ 9:56 am