IKEA as a form of torture
people sitting in their cars drinking warm beverages
watching some kind of movement class
across the street from my window
feeling like a pervert
but knowing that really they are probably the perverts
if they can see me sitting alone in my room
and listening to Radiohead
and wanting to smash this desk to pieces
but not doing it because I know I need it to write
I owe it to myself
I owe it to these pieces of wood
I owe it to the people I miss
walking up the hill dragging bags
warm fed bodies
there is an aggressive huffing noise
right behind my ear
this woman is running and it’s like
she doesn’t know how to breathe anymore
listening to her,
I lose my footing,
I forget how to breathe too
what happens to all this unloved IKEA furniture
at the end
all these bent screwdrivers?
So I’m sitting on my bed in the sunshine
Wind playing across my face, idyllic as shit
There’s a primary school across the road
And the children are laughing and laughing
And screaming. Actually, if I’m to be perfectly honest
It’s more screaming than anything
In fact – Jesus, that kid sounds like he’s being tortured
Is that kid being tortured?
God, those cries are bone chilling
But hey, the flowers are sighing outside my window, and –
Yap. Yap. Yap. Yap.
Some tiny bootscrape of a dog is tied to a fence
And it sounds like it’s trying to set the world record
For most individual barks per second
It kind of sounds like – now, this isn’t PC
And I know how this comes across.
But I tell you truly:
The dog sounds like it’s being fucked.
I’ve definitely heard women in porn who sound like that dog.
And the kids are still screaming
Like glass is being ground into their eyes
Surely the dog has to cum soon
Surely the kids have to die soon
All this barking and wailing and screeching and sobbing
The whole street sounds like a messed up snuff film
Fuck this. I’m nailing that window shut.