Squint to See

A portrait of a perfect house with flaken gold . An image by a renaissance man talant without a family. The inevitable imagination creates a story yet it could never picture a home, merely a tale. The shiny roof that reaches Saturn although chips of it drop like hail a turn of a ring chops a chimney and changes the pattern of the universe. Watching from a privileged distance with only the use of a telescope is where you see the truth. Nothing can be stellar with flaws a mascarade ball modernised. Gleaming kitchens barren of crumbs wagon fulls of CDs of unimportance shut doors with sills cracked cover rooms the rooms where flaws a shoved into hiding. Make-up ready for six, seven lists on the mirrors, beds with eight blankets, lamps that eat away colour from skin past nine, rare to find a ten. Rotting with a turntable spin aside the words mean little when the tune repairs disguising the silence defeats the efforts. Time moves unstructured life becomes stroboscopic yet we forget that this house without roots isn't microscopic. The gold on the man's creation implies a landmark to the aliens