The Leak

Of our cream-coloured home, in the room

Below, the ceiling formed the shower’s shadow:

One greasy streak across the dappling

Above, an unimpressive Rorschach blot.

Underneath we tried our herbal teas,

Considered inviting guests, read by ourselves.

Upstairs we washed, as regular as clockwork;

Downstairs, the silence of the living room,

With every spoonful so we also fed

The flatworm of Damocles above our heads.

If I spilled red wine on the carpet’s peace

I could scrub with all manner of bleaches:

We could not scrub the stain out of the sky,

Out of the wood, like rubbing off its grain,

Any more than scrub out rainy days.

And when it leaked, and finally our stench

Was returned to us in pitter-patter, relieved

At the crisis we unknowingly expected

We found the number for our home insurance

And in six minutes resolved our immediate nothing,

Never mentioned it, and drank our disgusting teas.  

Unlike my recent post, Reaching a Clearing which can be found here – – this poem focuses on the situation whereby you simply choose to ignore the growing problems of your life. The shower continues to leak; the blotch on the ceiling grows and metastasizes; structural integrity of your very home is jeopardised, yet you are willingly blind to it. 

I think this is closely related in theme to the project on which my good friend Jac Green and I are collaborating. 404 is a piece of performance poetry we are working on with GP, a group of amazing young artists living in Lincoln, which explores the stalemates which we find ourselves in throughout life, to which we have arrived almost unaware. I strongly suggest that you check out Jac’s blog, and particularly her teaser post regarding the project, which you can do simply by pressing onto this link and letting the internet do the rest of the hard work for you:


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