Poetry | Stories | Photography
Water streaming towards the kettle
emptying my emotions into the sink
My favourite jumbo cup awaits
The kettle tells me she is finished
pouring boiling water into the plunger
Watching the way the coffee grains move
The milk and sugar do whatever they want
watching the empty spoon of my life
A final sound as the teaspoon hits the sink
Sea pigeons do circle
The scent of methane, rotten and sour
dreaming of verdant green
forgotten by the world
sitting beside a broken toaster
kettle without a cup
We remember a home
to be of service, to have purpose
boiling, steaming, toasting
Idle
We sit contemplating
Waiting
Walking with respect
for the trees feel the cool winds
Whispering winter
Visions of killer tea cosies haunt your tea making experience. Every night since Thursday, you dreamt of animal, building, and flower tea cosies leaping off teapots, then chasing you down and snuffing out your life.
It’s been so long since you tasted tea; why it’s only been one hour. Desperate to feed your addiction, you shake too many leaves into the teapot.
“It’s all wrong!” you shout as your favourite tea cosy waves at you.
Your fancy porcelain throne
has stood the test of time.
A safe haven from your nagging love,
where a zen calm resets your soul.
You sit upon the throne looking at memes
and giggling uncontrollably.
A knock at the door shatters your zen
calm, and you look startled.
Your love peeks in to remind you there’s
a boring lunch on soon.
You say something pleasant, and the eye
rolling from your love begins.
The door doesn’t close properly, and the
zen moment has passed.
You let the trumpet play a wild tune, then give
your sweet porcelain pot a pat.
The thought of being one with the seat again
makes you smile.
The possessed biscuit tin despised him, you see,
for he ate biscuits and never refilled thee.
The tin could move from room to room at will,
so he blamed me and called me names, a dill.
The possessed biscuit tin didn’t like the cold sea,
so I threw it to the sea and set it free.
We’re the rebels in your backyard
stealing
your sweet-smelling clean closet.
Off they come from that clothesline
and
we’re takin’ ’em from your hills hoists.
See us as we fuck with your day while breaking
a beat or two as we dance and move.
There’s nowhere for you to hide your
fresh
sun-kissed clothes as we pack ’em up.
We’re the morning-fresh sunflowers
and
switchblades of the badass suburbs.
The docile teabag sits
waiting for boiling water.
Sitting and waiting still
to release sweet smells.
The teabag reminds me
of so many life moments.
Sitting and waiting still
for the internet to work.
Sitting and waiting soft
to play the next episode.
Sitting and staring at
a book until cross-eyed.
Crisp and cool,
cucumber love.
You’re brave venturing into the sunlight,
for it is not yet summer in your world.
Clumsily assembling the banana chair,
while neighbours take the whispering piss.
You look, sigh, and flash your bikini,
lounging in the 12-degree sunlight.
The Curator
of ancient cutlery admires
the knives and forks.
C & K 