How the hell I am ever going to buy a house

By Alannah Taylor

What was once an earthy brown,
Winter hug sort of blanketed bassline
Is now a fidgeting hairline-
Far, high,
Over and above these horizons of ours

Your pots and your pans,
Your lampshades, your winestains,
Your duvet, your pillow, your patch-
Carry it all on your back.

Something has shifted for the young folk, so that
What were once clean vases shaped for keen green sprawlers
Are now dusty antiques on the top shelf, priced through the ceiling.

Where will we find the outlines for our pictures,
The frames around our faces, the friction for our stills
As we faff about through life, stacking up selves upon selves
From safe within our trusted old cocoons-
First fierce, then faltering, furrowed, familial, fond, then fusting to dust?

Those dreamseats now lie life empty,
Filled to their rooftops with electronic gold
But with no human name to steady the deed
No space inside to breathe,
No burstable bubble.

In the dead centre of London,
The City, the Capital,
Sleeps only capital.