Oh Mould! My saviour.

They tried
to make
it work
between low
rentals, and
four young
babes in
bathtubs
surrounded
by moulded
silicone

peeling off
edges, akin
to the edges of
their life. Peeling
away, bit-by-bit.
Slowly, slowly.

Dirty kitchen
floors help their
feet. White bread
with tomato sauce
keep them alive.
But what existence
is this?

I'll tell you. It
is the existence
that thousands
try to call life,
no, home.

For the eight
young legs, it
was home. Too
young to
carry shame -

in the embryo
of sanctity
threatened
regularly by
the leather strip
calling, calling,
intermittently
from the sjambok
in that kitchen
corner.

Also held up
by stained linoleum-
eye peering, waiting,
for the moment it
would come alive -

strong leather. Un-
breakable. Break-
ing. Bending. -
snake like rapid
strikes and a crash
that would only
resound
as far as the
light bulb hanging
from a single wire in
the middle of the room

sometimes at night.
Sometimes in the
middle of the day.
Sometimes after
too many unimpeded
morning laughs, by
the four mouths

playing with reckless
abandon on the
cracked concrete that
bled out from the
creaky kitchen half-
door.

One day the peering
eye left. It was never
to be seen again - on that
day the bathtub dislodged -
the mould penetrated the
cement, and the tub fell
apart. A large crack down
the enamel middle.

Six became three a side
became two, became
one.

And life continued-
            Solitary.