Homeward

They say home

Is where you can never go

Again.

I keep my books lined quietly,

Scraped paint off the bedroom wall

Beside scratches that tell the years how tall.

What is home, after all?

Dead skin on a green carpet and

Dented plumbing.

I can hear the fuse box

Tsk-tsk-tsk-tsk

While my brother’s in the shower.

Dumped sportswear on the hallway floor

Half-eaten toast on a plate

This is home, nothing more.

Old shoes, three sizes too small

Hog the rack

Like beavers, they’ve got to fucking go.

I can touch the ceiling,

The blonde Artex ceiling, like a cave.

This is a first.

Quickly it pours down,

The haggard nomad spirit,

Like waterboarding from God.

Green and red streams of seaward light,

And One Million Christs

Rolling, bulging into the night.

Would you like to come

Home with me?

This is a first.

Now I live on a lower lip

And make my bed

On the crest of a scarred forehead.

I pay rent in the form of

Love poems on her back

And hairs on her pillowcase.

Yes, this must be the place.

We kiss, and fuck, and swallow

Each other’s draughts like a fireplace.

There are no photos

Because neither of us like photos,

But promises are made not to forget and –

What did I forget?

The door has creaked open a little, like a bad joke

And the embers fly with inanition.

Confusion, but I’m not sure.

Still half-eaten toast.

You know you’re still the one I love the most?

There are more shadows in here now

Than there are people

And their heads crush the ceiling.

Well, if that’s how you’re really feeling –

No, no, I can go.

You stay, and I’ll go.

Green and red streams of seaward light,

And One Million Christs

Rolling, bulging into the night.

It seems to me there are no homes.

Homes are made to be lived in,

And turned to dust again.

Look homeward, angel,

To where you can never go

Again.