Category: Poetry

My Trusty Steed

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There was a day when the washing machine decided to display an error message. It was a Saturday. Birds chattered in the trees outside. A couple of visitors were coming over to critique the state of your furniture and interior decorating choices. There were many things to do. There wasn’t enough time to visit a repair person or find another machine.

The thought of connecting your foot with this innocent looking machine sent a jolt of joy to your demeanour. You thought how lovely it would be to throw this machine at the visitors when they walked into your home to inspect and patronise you and yours so ardently.

Standing in front of your trusty steed of a washing machine, you could do nothing but think about how the washing would be washed.

Would it be by some divine hand that the clothes would become wet and clean?

Would there be another option, such as a personal servant?

Would you give up and throw them out the front door?

The error message jolted you from a life of comfortable bliss, in which the clothes went into a machine and then came out smelling sweet and feeling wet yet dry.

Now you’re faced with manually scrubbing the little beasts with your hands, wood, kitchen utensils, perhaps the dishwasher, or God knows what else.

That day you realised that the washing machine of your life keeps fucking with your clothes.

 

The Laundry of my Life

C and K Words1 Comment

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The laundry is full of our clothes. Some clothes are small, and others are large; some display a lack of fashion sense, others are sexy, some are sloppy, and some do not function.
We wear these clothes because of our monetary constraints, the temptation to buy designer labels does not appeal to our sensibilities, and the thought of shopping sends a feeling of dread down our spines.
Sometimes, I wonder about these crumpled clothes piling up on the laundry floor.
Why do they keep piling up so high?
Will I die with a basket of unwashed clothing in my house with pictures of cats on my knickers?
Will I be remembered as the person with bad fashion sense and a taste for kinky underwear?
Does Jesus exist?
So many thoughts move through my head, contemplating important ideas about washing, clothing, life, and all that stuff that occupies no place in other minds.
The laundry is like my life: crumpled clothes keep filling up the washing basket of my life to clutter my day, making me question so much and giving me a sense of pessimistic dread at the thought of leaving connubial constraints laid bare for the world to see when I die.

Broken Dishwasher

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The kitchen was once a refuge where she could create anything; the kitchen was a creative place of her own in their tiny house. 

Then her significant other developed a taste for cooking, and this place ceased to be her creative space. 

One day, he starts mocking her for the creations; he proudly declares that his creations are better in every way. 

They stand in the kitchen together one evening as he scolds her creations for being so different. Having had enough, she fills the dishwasher, turns it on, and water begins to gush all over the floor. 

He lames her for the dishwasher malfunctioning. Without thought, she says, “When the water exits the dishwasher, I am reminded of all the bullshit that gushes from your lips”. 

He stands at the kitchen bench, unable to think of something witty to say, as she walks from the kitchen, towards the garage, and out the door.

The Lounge Chair of Luxury

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His study is a place of bourgeois reflection and hard-won luxury for a man of the people.
He reflects on the day and sometimes other things as he prepares to mix a drink.
The leather lounge chair smells so expensive to him that no candle could ever compare.
As he sits down to ponder his life, he feels youthful as a renaissance man with a full head of hair and most of his teeth.
The lounge chair of luxury is beautiful and stern, just like the interior decoration and his mood.
He reclines on the lounge chair of luxury, unable to find a comfortable spot.
The leather lounge chair cannot replace that hollow feeling felt so often, now his heart feels no love.

Vintage Fridge

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You live with a fridge from yesteryear.; her door is old, and the suction is a bit off.
Partying like you’re in your twenties, you drank too much last night and feel flat.
You descend the staircase to the kitchen for some relief from the heat and sickness.
Placing one foot in front of the other, you stand in front of your vintage fridge.
You open the fridge only to find a secret garden hidden inside your love.
Putrid smells and semi-decaying pumpkins reveal themselves to you in horror.
You see moss, mould, mushrooms and something else growing in that ecosystem.
Peachy, you feast your eyes on the greenery and decide to close the fridge for good; you value your tummy, so upon closing the fridge, you kiss her and say goodbye.

Poems for the Home Explained…

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Poems for the Home is a collection of my rather more “interesting” poems. I am constantly inspired by the absurd and funny. After sitting on my lounge chair thinking about a concept I coined while watching shows, which I call “horizontal lounge-chair enthusiasm“, I started writing about kitchen utensils and saucepans.


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