You were walls for arguments,
For lines stretched, broken,
words left unspoken,
made into nooses,
that dangled from the lamp.
I watched a hanging body,
every time I ate my cornflakes.
Bottles and bruised bananas
littered your table top,
with the odd glamour magazine
and Radiohead CD,
fighting for space
at meal times separated each of us,
desperate for cupboard shelves
like a lot in a graveyard.
You were claustrophobia
with an addictive quality.
I chewed tombstones in you
with friends killing their problems
laying them to rest
on the dishcloths
that were always dirty.
The washing machine wept
every second of the day,
soaking cautionary socks
on their way to the tumble drier,
that never dried anything,
merely turned the whole place
into a humming rainforest,
where the lakes were stagnant
with fermenting pans, pots, plates,
forest floors strewn with paper
and fungus from under the fridge.
Every so often I would bump
into an adventurer, on an expedition,
after a one night stand admission,
asking me for toast and tea.
You were dark and never accepted light,
unless we put it in you,
then you would short circuit,
electrocute us through the toaster,
our eighth malfunctioning house mate
that we always boasted
was a place of laughter.
Now all I remember you for
is the kettle wheezing asthma,
non-stop with coffee seeking hands,
in and out the doorway,
before we could open up our interiors.
Syllable Syndrome 