[title cont: ...into Prose Form)]
Sometimes you're so anxious to get a poem out there that you don't bother to read it through. That's what happened today, but I revised it. So this is the revised version (in prose form) of today's poem.
My memory palace is an old summer cottage. Where the weather is either pissing on me, crying with me, or sometimes it’s sunny just to spite me. But I get my revenge on the days when I laugh in face of thunder and I dance joyfully in the rain.
The cottage has a foundation that reminds me of most politicians, every day its position shifts just a little bit until eventually those who made it what it is aren’t able to recognize it. On the door to the crooked cottage there’s a sign like a memory, faded and forgotten, but every now and then in just the right conditions you can see it clearly.
Temporary Home for Misplaced Metaphors
If you come through the front door that is the door closer to the road, you will be in the living room. And on the old one-person couch, which is upholstered to resemble someone who looks hard and prickly, but is soft to the touch. On that couch sits a poet like a mummy except his wrappings have words on them and his embalming fluid is his true self.
Through the door on your right there’s the journey of life disguised as a hallway. It seems so long and straightforward when you start then as you go on you realize there are plenty of unexpected twists and turns until you get to the end and it all seems so short.
Down the hallway there’s a bathroom with the toilet on which someone
is struggling with truth the way most people struggle with constipation followed by diarrhea he’s pushing and pushing, because he can feel that it’s gotta come out and when it finally does it flows like an unstoppable torrent of internal monologue kinda like some poems.
At the end of the hallway is a bedroom whose door is painted the same color as the walls. As though, just like its occupant, it is trying blend with its surroundings despite the fact he is something totally different.
The bedroom has walls that have wished themselves deaf so they don’t have to hear the pain. Between the walls there’s a bed like a coffin. Its occupant is rarely aware of the comforts it offers. Under the coffin bed, is a box filled with secrets.
A box that is always full yet never overflows as though the secrets were gas or a man on the subway taking up only the available space.
In the box of secrets is a velvet rope blocking a spot-lit door at the end of seedy alley. Behind the door is a woman like a dominatrix harsh but loving. Somewhere else in the box is a boy behind a mic pointing out that some people live in constant fear of rape and others in fear that the guy on the bus will blow himself up and the boy is sick of hearing people who live with a dull ache of fear judged by those who have the luxury of living without it. The other things in the box are like shadows dark, twisted, and intangible.
But let us get out of the box filled with secrets and leave the room with deaf walls. Let us go back. Back down the hallway of life’s journey. Back through the living room with the mummy poet. And into the kitchen.
Ah the kitchen. It is like mother warm, welcoming and always trying to give you food. In that kitchen, there’s a freezer like some girl I haven’t met cold but comforting (for short periods of time when I’m exceptionally hot).
Let us leave now out the back door, which is the one closer to the lake.
Swimming in the lake is like a mud bath or a bad relationship, might be fun but you really need a solid scrubbing when you’re done with it. But that’s ok because it’s raining.
But this is a new kind of rain. A rain of cleansing. And it feels glorious it is how the mummy poet must feel when he slices open is abdomen on a stage and all his embalming fluid and secrets spill out and he can finally rest in peace.
Created: Apr 02, 2014Mottelz Document Media