House,
terra-cotta tiled dropped
in a hillside a Spanish hobbit hole
for my upbringing
brainwashing, house
now, to visit
to pull my spirit north and through
the haunting hologram visions of the child-me
dense, profligate with memory
on every pristine street of Santa Barbara
I return to wade through
this palm-trees, hollowed
shaded upbringing, and in truth,
I am uncertain
nostalgic, when I want to look at
you and spit-curse
the very ground I played upon
to grab the ghost
memory-me– forcibly
to rip that child from the past to me
to shake him yelling, ‘do you see?’ ‘How do we not see?!’
and then I see, and smiling with a wetting eye
let him be.
House, house of a childhood full
and wrong,
all saved and lost
and beautiful,
at my last visit
I walked past the stairs
Lauren and I would
5 am sneak on
to see what Santa brings
turned right at the hallway
before my room
to step into the kitchen that made me
and gaze again with longing
upon the mist-dropped roses in the garden,
and I felt too tall
for the stairs
for the red tiles and grout
for the room with nothing
but a twin size bed, my father’s medical books, his bible
and my first four years of paintings,
and I left you
and I locked the door
and I left you
Austin is an artist currently residing in the boroughs of London, England. He describes his work with gold as revolting in excess but still loves it excessively. When he is not throwing himself into his artwork, he can usually be found sniffing out luxurious wines from all over Europe. He likes the year 2045.