In search of a home

we buy houses

we decorate them with fancy furniture

bought from first class stores

in first class shopping malls

we pay through the roof for this furniture

and then we supplement it

with replicas of famous paintings

and busts of famous philosophers

or if you are in India

then with statues of flute playing gods

but even that is not enough to

make your house, your home

so you start filling it with people

first you bring in a wife

then a couple of kids

then maybe your old parents

your wife’s old parents

a dog

his pups

by that time you have mortgaged your entire existence

but you still don’t have enough to call your house

your home

all the paintings

the wife, the kids

and other beautiful things

never quite give you what you want

for you don’t know what you want

you think you want a home

so you take a mistress

then you take a couple more

maybe visit some whores too on drunk evenings

reluctantly of course

soon the pleasures of rotting flesh isn’t enough for you

so you take to gambling

at the betting dens

days spent away from the kids

who have learnt to judge their own father

the wife has quietly and professionally

turned senile

while you have found a new home

in drinking and heroin

sometimes in the stupor

you get glimpses of what you really want

but then those visions are a bitch

nevermind them

keep looking

someday you will find them

we all will find it

someday

that ever elusive home

the one we probably

wouldn’t need to decorate

or gamble for

I think people write songs about such stuff

but what do these coked up,

trans fiends know anyway?

 

 

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