SUBTERRANEA

for two years now i’ve been underground
residing in these mute walls
with the spiders and the earwigs
there’s no sun in here
only artificial light filters into this
artificial underground apartment
where i count the ceiling tiles over and over
at the end of the work day
that descent down the narrow stairs
is passage through a threshold
here in subterranea
the winters are a little colder
the summers are hotter
the furnace never shuts the hell up
always hissing and moaning
the air stale
underneath the furnace’s song
i can hear harsh footsteps above my head
in the middle of the night
the sound of earthworms crawling through the walls
it’s a well-furnished casket is what it is
it’s like living inside of my head
and somedays
stuck in subterranea
i just sit in the claustrophobic bathroom naked
and let the shower water run down
and the steam occupy the apartment
(when you’re trapped underground
this is sanctuary)

and the dishwasher runs
and the fan dances
and the tv talks to me
and he says to me
“none of us are alive in here”
and he says to me
“someone commits suicide once a minute”
the tv is no company at all
he is just the glare on the wall
in subterranea

somedays
subterranea can be a muse
occasionally the walls are warm
and subterranea opens its doors to my friends
and within subterranea we laugh and we share
but it’s just putting on a show
painting petrified wood walls
a skeleton putting on a wedding dress
as soon as they go
she’s naked to me again
the psychotic state of subterranea
it feeds my dark side
(but when you’ve been in pitch black so long
you’d give anything to be blinded in the sun)
subterranea is an ugly girl with a big heart
stubborn
a different animal

here in subterranea it’s always the witching hour
the fridge hums dumbly
my bed is cold
the poster faces i hang on the wall have shifty eyes
it’s only a matter of time before the pipes break
in rebellion and the whole thing is flooded
it’s only a matter of time before the nuclear family
reality upstairs falls through the ceiling-floor and
crushes me
these walls are getting smaller
i reside in a closed casket funeral
amongst the bugs and sad furniture
where playing old records only makes it lonelier
and god, do i love it here
it’s a dark abstract painting of peace
my own personal bermuda triangle
i’ll continue to hang my hat on its melting walls
because someday i’ll have to say goodbye
and someone somewhere i’ll never meet
will be the next lover-victim of
subterranea

COPYRIGHT BRICE MAIURRO 2012

READ “TWILIGHT IN THE WORLD OF BALLOONS”

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