(no subject)
"Scatterbrained" by Matthew Flood.
Modesque minimalistic chairs:
a plastic white-
Replaces the memory of a children's tea set,
a colorful imprint gives no description or detail.
(the smell of burning cellophane
on my tongue.)
The crinkling of old foil sounds almost androgynous;
a metallic child's shoe it's inferior counterpart.
Does it pummel against the oddly shaped, weaved love seat
that shows no love, nor feels lust on it's back.
A stove-top lacking color-
soft murmurs from a seemingly living, squat boiler;
does it turn its nose up at the cheap conditioner?
The massive, rusty, ancient microwave looms over the room,
a sure sign of death by convenience. Colorless,
colorless, saturated plastic sunflowers pinned to the
old ceramic Frog King.
Our King thinks only of his toothbrush,
a repressed memory that he focuses, he is
detached. Otherwise mortified at this almost grandeur
emasculation; All these objects, once modern and elegant:
outdated, expired:
a trivial pursuit of a suburban facade.