Just a wee bit o’ cleaning, nothing too
dramatic; dust, cobwebs, you’ll knock
it over in an hour. For sure, it’s simply
window dressing, except for an adroit
accumulation of stuff which, wily in its
precision, outmanoeuvres you. Ah, so
where in echoes of its diluted silence
does all this crap go now you ask
You’d expect an incriminating reply to
say - wherever you create the space
with an innocuous codicil - it mustn’t
encroach on anything else; what, on
the Planet? Maybe, or its new-speak
articulation of ‘your problem mate’
So we play the game; five hours later
we’ve distanced all regulations, what
had seemed impossible truly was so
despite the cleaning definition; we’re
now redesigning how things ‘look’, a
question to an enduring silence
& precocious observation - it says we
weren’t cleaning per se, but ‘creating’
a scene. Yep, is the frisson of reason,
that which was lived in is now a place
we’d want others to see; so go ahead
salesman, take pictures creatively
© 16 September 2014, I. D. Carswell
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