The Room

The Room,

empty, except for one, and one

One, just burnt
long night
the flame loders, at the ligaments, as they pause
the life, around, down, all systems, down
grey one feels
washed out, an old carpet
an old damp carpet

The sun low, tucked away, behind a roof top
here, snug
sitting, in the big, The Room
the noise of cars, in the background, people going about, industrious

One, dog, on the carpet, lying,
the stick between his paws, crunching, crunching out the sound
out of the side of his mouth
he looks up, as though to say “whats up?”
a noise, the dogs looks, listens, but nothing

Along the hall, a lonesome voice trillers, doing scales, a requiem, to the non life
but the silence is omnipresent
the silence of no life, empty, cold
not that cold, that, the cold, of abandoned, empty buildings
it is as though The Room is waiting, waiting for life to come back

No clock that goes tick tock, no Rutherford’s Miss Marple chimes to tell the time
the sound of a chair, being pushed on concrete floor, creaching, somebody moving
there is life in this building, still
One, Fred, the dog, still crunching, enjoying himself, meticulous
biting, his head going from side to side, methodical
from the side, the large stick now, halved

Sitting, waiting, for Godot, or another day, another time, another place
for the emptyness
don’t want to take, don’t want to go, don’t want to think
it’s slow time, slow down, waiting for an answer, to the question, to the non question
for the nothing, which hasn’t been asked

The tension, still there
drawing, pulling, pulling inexorably, not letting go
grey house cat appears, stretching, slowly, walking, past the door
she knows the dog is there, her archenemy, but she ignores him
going to one of her favourite places, a little shelf, by the door
to sit and wait, next to the pig, the red ceramic pig, who also waits, watching

A motor bike goes past, the driver on their way to a rendevous
or just glad to get back home
evening traffic, the working day has passed, its time to shut off, to relax
to have a wash, to cook, to be fed
to do the odd things around the house, to go shopping, to meet friends
to go back to the family, to the kids, to the bloody screaming kids

The steady munching noise, of crunching stick, is prevalent
a plant half dead, three leaves, small in a black pot, just sitting there
on the floor, in a corner, where it can be overseen, invisible
rows of Ignatz bier, on the wall, brewed by industrious artists
a HomeBase project, in remembrance of Ignatz, Jew
who was ripped off everything he had, by the Nazi’s
lined up, like on an execution range, still full of life
each bottle fingerprinted, individual, non conform
30 waiting to be knocked off, to be got rid of, exterminated
in remembrance of Ignatz

A body walks in, straight in the kitchen, to the tap, for the waterflow
in another corner, an orange tree, sits there, one orange
mini, hanging, from its branches, in semi darkness, waiting to die
no life, no sun, no beauty
the body leaves, their thirst quenched

On two opposite walls, people have hung coloured lamps
half already deceased, the others, burning their life, twenty four hours, 365, non-stop
in colours of red, orange, white, green, purple with thick black cable
as thou’ to say that this place is full of life. Over half have left the party

On the other wall, staring into the room, a wall-to-wall photo,
hundreds of Ignatz workers, dark, lined up, with horse pulled carts
in long coats, black hats, bowler hats, flat caps, and high hats
proud, upright, dead

The cat comes and meows, looking at one, trying to say something, ready to jump
then she jumps, looking for a place to sit, a place high up
to watch the nothingness, on one’s knees
she hears the opening of a door, then decides to go, somewhere else, lower
the next chair

Waiting, and waiting
the pump strings pull
for time to pass

time, passes

The carpet, on a grey-green, washed out, floor
a floor like a grey drabby day, where the clouds are low, drizzle, lifeless
Persian type, wool, threadbare, medium knotted, reds, greens, blues, yellows, faded
from thousands, walked on, spillt on, eat on, other acts on, life

The cat comes back, looking for some place warmer, coming back to the knees
stroking her coat, the fingers gliding through the pile, along her back
the fur soft, but lightly hard, outside, grey streaked, inside white
she doesn’t move, just listens
companion, comfort

A door, far away, squeeks
its quiet, no cars. The silence, strange
the pause button pressed, the constant flow, a thousand cars, stopped
for a short period, of time
a sign, HomeBase Bar, the prices from a long time gone
waiting for a long time to come

A bookcase, half full of books, middle east language
literature, hieroglyphics, except for the trained eye
a block of artists paper, stuck in between
holding secrets, drawings, an empty page, to be discovered
memories, of dreamt eating orgies, pudding sachets, stand out, pleading to be taken
or just still life, art, Gestaltung

Two tables, odd pieces, an office and living room table
from different times, different places, different houses and different functions
stand close, side-by-side, in the middle, the room, a stage
paradigm, about working and living in the same area
HomeBase idealogy concrete, an artistic philosophical statement
DaDa’ism. Unseeable

Two tables, two candles, burnt, conjunctions of time
living art
one, and one, and now one, in between, in the context

drab art

A phrase floats by, into the emptyness, from down under:
totals, man

A smile

People, in the hall
implicit Schwarzenegger’s “Ektion”, Exodus
Yoga. 1000 year living history lesson
leaving The Room to itself