Frank Corcoran

So what´s so awful ? Sort, sort out, sift. I always HATED the smell of that book´s paper. Out ! Here´s a last chance to ask why many socks hoarded and hotel bathroom-soap hoarded, bank-statements from before the Flood stashed in the well-thumbed Koran that props up the bed in which it all happened, why the piano-stool never quite satisfied, how anyone was expected to thread his dish-stacker´s way through the scullery.
Life is ” a continuous house-move” . Moan we have not here a lasting apartment, no : so what´s awful in popping junk and detritus into the mouse-dropping grey-brown boxes, then loading them up on, down off the two trucks, long-forgotten muscles bemoaning their abuse ?
You can´t be thinking you simply walk away from the trousers out of which you´ve stalked? ( Well I did, I´d intend, each awful time, simply to turn the key in the flat – from the outside – walk off and then tip-off the Removal Police anonymously . Take a tin of herrings in cream, eleven years hidden under the uncompleted manuscript of the traveller´s Symphonic Moan for Soprano and Lush Strings.
To be is to be moving. To exist is to move the muck continuously through one´s intimate, comfy chronosphere ? To die, to sleep ? Music, please . Trundle, carriers, a Baroque array of mouse-dropping brown cartons, insulting, ineptly edited, conceived and boring books which boring guests brought as boring birthday -gifts. It´s not that, getting out of this too loud apartment and into that aerial flat of bliss. O Prime Mover, pity the moved ! Move us moving. Move us on. Move on.
Only the snail is sure that it´s moving house it is up to . What I move is the outer wrappings and the armour-plate and epidermic accoutrements, a few sloughed – off layers of lived, chronospherical mystery.
1. Considering Lord Buddha or San Francesco, I´ll have to bring up the songbirds of Tipperary . They do not weep, they never sow nor weave nor clutter.
2. Consider : if possessing the luminously new eyrie is new life, relinquishing the old can soberly be seen as a small rehearsal of its thankfully now no longer occupant´s death.
3. Of such detritus is the house-mover´s past. Who´se beginning to sing : ” Neither a collector nor a consumer be”, O Prime Mover !
4. This complaining squirrel´s taste ran to chipped mugs and hairy cookery books and there were the twelve chamber-pots which father deemed prudent to hoard in the first cold winter of the Second World War. In case we´d run out.
it is tensed temporality we celebrate on this grey morning of these removal-vans and striding furniture-carriers , our dresser walzing back down the stairs. The Reapers. The kitchen-sink dismantlers. The great apes , the Black and White Friars. The schleppers . The levellers. Move it on. Move on. Move.