“Furniture music is basically industrial. The habit – use – is to make music on occasions when the music has nothing to do.” —Erik Satie in a letter to Jean Cocteau, 1st March 1920
I. “Very lost.”
|Courts||at closing hours||not much|
|to talk about||we were||busy|
|furnishing||a maze of||domesticity|
|wood burnished||memories glazed||time and time again|
|shiny enough||to spy||lacquered reflections|
|food forever fresh||a homely||plastic chicken|
|that will survive||Apocalypse||a perfect room|
|a perfect storm||minus the tags||labelling unreality|
clumsily named like the way we walk
II. “A little bit warm.”
Yesterday is a two-seat sofa.
Too much for one to fill alone,
too cramped for two to share
without discomfort. Its thick grain
leather covers all contact areas,
acquires a beautiful patina with age.
Division comes in boxes of six, like dice.
Important not to mix one’s underwear
and the other’s ties. A well-organised home shows
restraint: good fences make good lovers;
good paint makes good fences.
A shelf of books is worth more unread.
The kitchen’s heart is a wooden block,
hollowed with slits where the knives are kept.
You can stack the chairs so they take
less space. You can stack the emptiness
so you take less space. The good thing
about minimalism is that emptiness
makes your house seem larger, even
though homes here only get smaller.
III. “Moderately, I insist.”
|We sit on||the mattresses||the lights above dance|
|silver disks||project||the logos|
|hard and soft||in-between||you|
|we could lie down||and wake ourselves up||somewhere else|
unformed and infinite homes sleep on the shelves