Hoist by Fiona Martin
Hoist
Transcript:
Ten Past Ten in the Morning.
Every now and again
I buy a Tattslotto ticket
Not very often
On a bleak day
Black and white photographs
Of my grandparents
Standing in their back yard
I can’t tell how they’re feeling
My nanna wears an apron
When you walk through a display home
In the suburbs
They’re prefect, but they’re not too perfect
Are they.
Coloured photos of my mum
When she was little
With her sister
In the IKEA display rooms
The clocks are set permanently
At ten past ten in the morning
Have you ever noticed?
IKEA are selling us hope
It’s amazing our propensity and
Our desire for hope.
All is well with the world
Have you ever noticed?
Our capacity for hope is enormous
So of course, people are going to
Manufacture that,
Present it to us in a catalogue
Perhaps a pile of books on the coffee tables
It’s clothes and things that touch the skin of
People who live in the house
They tell you to brew coffee when
You’re selling your house
It’s really about the dream
It’s really about the joy of
Immersing yourself in a fantasy
You can project your perfect life
Onto the house that they
Want you to buy
Put a cake in the oven
There’s nothing quite as lonely
As a bleak cloudy day in the
Suburbs
It’s cleaned and washed away of
Skin and sweat
And I realise that the buying of the ticket
It’s not about the actual winning of the money
That’s almost impossible
Throw my clothes off at the end of the day
I think it’s a lonely sight
On a bleak day
To see clothing hanging on
A washing line
But I think it’s also hopeful
You know you’re not going the win the money
You know that in the back of your head
But you buy the fucking ticket anyway
Don’t you
How much of my money will I give to my sister?
And you can imagine your life being perfect
In this perfect display home
That isn’t real
If I got on a plane where would I go?
If you look at the clothes
That are drying on somebodies Hills Hoist
In their back yard,
You might be able to ascertain
The kind of people that they are
Something about their tastes
Choices of colour
It says so much about our dreams
Maybe we dream
When we’re hanging out
That washing.
