Interiors by Pollock


Our frenetic styles tell tales of
Unpopular Uniquity,
Reckless and Considered Impulsivity,
And the Concentrated Venting of
Too Many Years of Feeling Shitty.
I’m a fully grown adult living like a teenager.

There is soap scum from rusty leaking water and post-de-lousing layers of grime in the cheap, constantly malfunctioning bathtub.

I found a dead cockroach (usually: gross!; for some reason last week: comforting!) under my bed.

Trash and tissues keep filling the industrial-sized trashcan I bought especially for used refuse placement…within an unmissable (or at least tolerable) toss from my bed.

Clothes are washed with zeal and then distractedly and unlovingly folded into standing (anywhere) piles.

My home is a war zone,
And concentrically contained within,
As from its soulbeat,
Lies MY bedroom.

My bedroom is my comfort zone,
My emotional natal home,
Birthplace of digital poetic tomes,
A well of tears earned and owned,
A table for slicing trough, sinew, and bone,
And an alter to love born and grown,
Nurtured and then disowned.
ALL alone.

It’s gorgeous and authentically ugly,
Perfectly and paradoxically,
Because my home is Home
To my Self, expressed artistically.

It’s quintessentially me,
And therefore aesthetically Pure and
Lovely in its transparency,
Which is again,
The faithful “essentially”
Signature Style
To and Of
Who? (Or Whom?)

I already told you!!
The Monstrously Magnificently
Foretelling, intuitive
Creatively • Cresting • Cusping
Cardinally Artistically Artistic
Renaissance Renegade
Who lives here;

The poet, actress, prophetess
Who can’t be Contained
Without or Within
Who’s also known to go
By the same old mundane name
As no old “some-some”,
Like Everyone and No-one
Filled with sin and feminine,
Effortlessly sporting a megawatt grin…

What’s Her Majesty’s name again?
It’s MEs 1, 2, and 103❣️

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