Dwelling by Miffy Ryan‏

North Road the edge Night Rolls in whilst the Sun Still shines
And that moment where they meet just above our heads
Though bleak North Road is expansive is blessed with a mass of sky and air
We are not supposed to be here
My belongings wait
Our bed a worn out single mattress on the floor, on which I dream the mass of sky and air, incoherent flight.
This single room we share brings an adolescent sensation to mind, something to do with the mutedly garish décor, the persistent background noise, the worn out single mattress on the floor – offers up rusty springs others body shapes to our backs.
My solitude is witnessed by the tall stinging nettles that have immersed next door, and render it dark water not cats nor children dare penetrate its’ dark heart
My solitude is witnessed by brightly lit un-curtained windows, bare peeling rooms empty walls and cupboards
My solitude is witnessed by the wind which bellows down the side of the house then flaps our washing
A mass of sky and air, tall stinging nettles that are drowning the light, a worn out single mattress on the floor, clothes drying on the line.

Granville Street thin paper walls, boxed in our terrace has a coldness about it a wetness within at its’ core. Aware of others movements, voices, routines
That I hoard and purge is evident in the piles of clothes that drift around the house, mould clings / reclaims everything.
Last night I walked home over endless trails of dusty footprints that twisted along and repeated, trails that crossed other trails.
It’s dusk here I look up from the dust skyward, our terrace street is empty experiencing its’ own migration students left for the summer and swallows moved in. Each out flies the other, so I pause to watch because it lifts me from the ground from words, death, loneliness, dampness, and mould.
The shadows cast by the terraces become mountain passes or ravines, the phone lines interlocking branches, swallow swoop out of the caves made by the eaves.
The houses’ rest empty, emanate black light from windows that are dark oceans absorbing heat
Our house sweats, rots, excretes.

Toothill Road has its own ecosystem, the old malaria swamp lands, and we are bitten, bitten, bitten, bitten, bitten.
The fury, the acts of God that are thrown at us as the air begins to quiver
We quiver also, and sound all the waves of it are ripped up shredded and roll around.
I stand and look at the mattress which has absorbed much sweat, I am covered in welts, small blood red creatures scramble away from my gaze. Rust coloured centipedes squeeze elegantly into cracks and disappear, the only light now is the electricity in the air which serves the darkness and makes it darker.
What of the hallucinations – the sores my mind is manifesting?
Why does no one else see the blood red creatures, not even the pest control men and their traps?

Albert Promenade twilight filtered through the brittle trees.
The misery of mildew has claimed me, the reek of graveyards,
the fust of old women’s crotches.
Condensation falls from the window
The front room of balanced furniture is the most silent
The most watchful
The one patiently waiting
Reminiscent of stately homes rooms in stasis shrouded in white.
I am haunting the back yard stained red by the berries that have fallen, life returns, and as the days get deeper the buzzing intensifies. The bees are building to a climax; earthenware bricks store heat.
But somehow in silence the whiff of mildew has claimed me.

Boundary Road I grew up in a world of tiny creatures, silverfish, carpet beetles, woodlice, fruit flies, midges, particles, atoms.
They all wriggle – heart beats like tiny poppy seeds.

...back. They are red with my blood, follow me with each move like the mildew clinging to my belongings. Nothing dies anymore, the winters don’t get cold enough – every year just more and more bugs. I must burn this mattress.

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