I take her on a journey through the mess in my house:
the sweet wrappers, looking pretty, with a shiny red glow;
and the cereal boxes, turned in on themselves, and painted white;
and the half-full bottles of spinach juice; the glitter sparkling; and
the beige foundation – crumbling and sinking into salmon pink.
She looks bemused. Most of her clients, I imagine, purge themselves
of errant husbands and inadequate parents. Depressing and depressed.
I expect to leave, pressed into the service of a bin liner and a vacuum
cleaner. Instead, I leave – elated. Ecstatic. Transformed. Morphed.
I am an object of great joy and beauty. Full of the colours of my existence,
I take myself off to the Tate Modern and get into position. The people stop
by, remark on my texture, my richness, my uniqueness – my value.
I think no more; therefore I am.
Copyright owned by Jay Cool, February 2019
Inspired by the poem ‘On Anger’, by Rage Hezekiah.
The Silly-Savvy Salopian in Suffolk: read, believe and write ... 