Ice Cube Heart

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Ice cubes sit in the freezer. I think about how they used to be liquid from the tap, and now they are blocks of ice. My thoughts remind me of a story once told by an old sentimental fool.

A man and a woman loved each other. When his love was new to her, his heart was warm. He and she moved through life easily, for the days were sunny despite the weather. His laughter was so infectious to her that she would often bloom with a smile.

After some time passed, his heart turned into those ice cubes. In her heart, he remained dear despite the cold feelings that crept into his arteries. Although there was no warmth in his heart anymore, she never gave up hope that his love was real.

Then, on a day like any other, they travelled together in the car; He was driving and calling her names over something trivial; She was very upset. He did not realise that soon she would leave this world, and he would no longer have the sunshine of his heart.

An accident occurred. As she lay dying in the passenger seat, his heart began to melt. He then realised how much he loved her. He promised to honour her memory by climbing many mountains and exploring the Earth with her ashes so that they could both see the world together.

That sentimental old fool is the man in this story. He died a few years ago and had her ashes sprinkled all over him before he was cremated.

The Heater

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In the winter, when the southerly winds blow from Antarctica through Tasmania and make their presence known to the people of Melbourne, we turn the heating on. We don’t ask much of you. We ask that you do your job and heat the house for us. Is this too much to ask?

Winter went on for months without end. You worked for us well until you thought Spring was coming early. Now you’re resetting all the time, turning yourself off, keeping your status at the rather puzzling setting, “On Waiting”, and telling us you are going to be uncooperative.

You remind me of my good friend’s partner. She was always telling him to get turned on, but he was always turned off. She would cry to him, “Why do I always have to turn you on!?…why don’t you ever turn me on anymore!?”

Turns out, he wasn’t really into her. They end up going their separate ways. Now he is a distant memory.

Heater, please don’t make me replace you because you won’t turn it on for me, even though I’m trying to turn you on.

Cullender of Colander

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At home, she rinses the vegetables in the Colander. The water washes the vegetables and then flows down through the holes and into the drain to head to the water treatment plant. Once the water arrives, it is treated and cleaned so that humans can consume the resource again.

You stand in the kitchen talking to her about how unsuitable she is to cook your food, then how everything about the two of you is disintegrating. She wonders what you are on about or if you have lost the plot.

Unable to deal with your talking after many attempts to obtain a resolution, she turns the Colander into a Cullender, places your head in it, and washes water over you until you cool down.

Now that you are her vegetable, all the rubbish flows down through the drain from your head for the water treatment plant; Perhaps they can clean up your bullshit.

My Knees Squeak

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You fucked off.
Where you went is none of my concern, now that your heart and mine don’t sing a pretty song.
Now, all I can do is talk to myself about regrets and shit. I’m alone, in my 30’s, and my bank balance is small. You even took the cat with you because you said fluffy loves you more!
In my desolation and decay, I put on five kilograms from eating too many Swiss chocolates, my clothes don’t fit properly, and I look like a frump.
Now that I have taken the path of least resistance and succumbed to watching shit loads of television and listening to crap music, my knees squeak as I move from the couch to the coffee table, and I talk to myself in a morphed language.
When will you acknowledge that I still love you, or am I just blowing hot air up my arse?

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.