DIY Culture – and how it doesn’t work.

I just found – and stole – a nice skin on Bebo with old, broken piano keys as the main design. I was reminded of this is a poem I wrote maybe six months ago and thought I’d post it. I think it is pretty good – better than a lot of the other pieces I’ve written anyway!

Don’t worry, I don’t plan to post any more poetry on this blog! More confused ranting soon.

The Wooden Box.

Two hundred and thirty strings,
some rusted, some snapped,
are decaying and are never struck;
an upright upturned.

The wooden box, increasingly silent,
I nursed into its own wooden box,
where, as far as I knew,
it would never hammer
and vibrate into tuneful life again.

But after three winters
and three springs
of decay and silence
the funeral ivy has edged its way
into the coffin’s coffin.

The mausoleum is green
outside and in.
Buzzing with life,
the old body;
from somewhere within.

A constant hum
of low A
spreads through the
inverted jungle,
and with it,
the eyes pick up on
fleeting black
and yellow
over the failing brown
and rotted white.

The old body winks a reproachful
new-born eye;
for once more,
from her tomb
the old instrument
can make music
of her own.

A hive of chewed wood nests
among the resting strings.
Life darts in and out
like the pulse
of the wrongly presumed dead.

As an old friend, I know
that look she gives me,
as she lounges in dusky glamour,
the perched winks,
are to let me know
“it’s not over yet”;
as two hundred and thirty wasps
tune their wings
to her deepest bass string.


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