Category: Poems for the Home

Tablecloth Blues

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“Darling, dinner is almost finished. Will you scratch my back? It’s so itchy…“

He gets up from the table, heads towards the man cave, then says, “I’ll think about it…“

You’re still itchy, and you know even if he is taking the piss, he’ll make you wait for a scratch.

The tablecloth has embroidered bumps that move along the fabric in perfectly proportioned lines. It suits your obsessive nature.

You take off your top, and then you begin to rub your back against the tablecloth.

The salt and pepper shakers fall over with a bump, the tomato sauce bottle rolls onto the floor, and the plates start to move towards the edge.

He comes out to investigate the cause of the noise, only to find his pretty girl scratching her back on the tablecloth.

“Are you quite alright there?“

“I’m itchy!“

“I’d better scratch you then…“

“No groping! Be nice!“

“I’m always nice, and you know it.“

You turn her head and give him a sideways eye smile as you start to moan from the nails down your skin.

The Extreme Setting

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You went on Tingly Tinglier looking for a hot date. You found this sexy chic with long red hair, blue eyes, and long legs. You swiped upwards too many times. Luckily, she was a bit desperate, so she swiped down.

At dinner, all you can think about is how nice it would be to tie her up, tickle her feet, and bang her into the bed stand.

She’s looking a bit toey and tingly, so you ask her back to your place for an extra-strong coffee with cream, milk, and sugar.

Inside your home, romance begins on your washing machine. You’ve never found a woman who likes washing clothes, so this has got you baffled.

You get into her kinky nature and turn the spin cycle to the extreme. She’s in ecstasy, her toes are curling, and she looks like she’s having a seizure.
You want to be a gentleman, so you ask her if she is alright, but she begs you to keep turning the spin cycle to the extreme.

Things progressed. Now that she has moved in with you, your clothes are always fresh and clean.

Cake Crisis

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 You love chocolate gateau cake. You’re always asking for this cake to be made and presented to you on special occasions. Sadly, your special occasions usually involve family, friends, the odd random person, and usually, someone dressed up in something contentious or cringe-worthy.

I take the challenge on with both hands. One hand would be a bit difficult, given the nature of the spatula.

I am making a cake for you.

I mix the ingredients.

I move backwards and forwards with ease as I tick off one goal after another.

Then, losing the will to live, I stand in the middle of it all, contemplating sticking my hand in the blender. I value my hand more than I value the quality of your gluten-free, almond free, dairy-free, fucking everything free, chocolate fucking gateau cake.

You still love my chocolate gateau cake.

Unfortunately, your family doesn’t. Was that plain flour I used? Oops, I didn’t notice.

A Tale of a Mop and Bucket

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Standing alone in your cafe on a scorching summer’s day. Obsessed about over-thinking and wishing for some relief from the heat, you reach for the mop and bucket.

You named your mop Boris and your bucket Dorothy. You take comfort in imagining that sometimes Boris gets a little angry with Dorothy, but Dorothy always gets Boris back when she squeezes the life out of him.

Dancing a little boogie to a random beat, you let Boris take the lead. Not only does Dorothy scold him, but you do too. He gets so hurt his head falls off on the floor. You pick it up and try to put it back on again, but it’s broken.

Dorothy will need a new Boris. You smile when you think about your new mop’s name.

Beer of our Love

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Magical yeast mixes with hops, barley, and water from a virgin spring to create a golden frothy liquid that touches the lips and heightens the senses.

Throughout the ages, monks have quenched their sexual desires by placing beer glasses to their lips, then being constantly tipsy. 

Not one for any convention; you created a beer like no other. You call it “Our golden goddess goon” as you say, I turn into the golden goddess goony whenever I drink the brew. 

The beer of our love showers us daily. It froths in our minds to foam all over our bodies, to stain the bed, sheets, carpets and the walls.

The Vent

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I lay in bed staring at the vent, thinking about you again and again and again.

Warm air blows onto my face; I cannot breathe, for the heat is too intense.

If this happens when thinking about you takes hold of my flesh, I must go now and find you.

All hot and bothered with no relief, I take a visit to the garden; the chill and the rain upon my face temporarily calm me.

Knife and Fork

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The roast lamb is carved, the potatoes are golden, and the vegetables steam happiness, which curls and weaves a path to the chandelier of crystal so bright. 

What a delightful sight amongst the candles on this moonless night.

I think of your body and the way you used to say, “Let’s die with all the money!” or how you took my body in your hands and tried to squeeze out all of my light.

Scraping my fork and knife on the dinner plate sends shivers down my spine.

I am reminded of that time you squealed like a piglet when I stuck a knife into your heart.