They live their lives without curtains.
Every Tuesday night, you hide in the bushes, down by the sand, and watch them in their underwear.
So many photos surround you in your apartment.
You wish he would look at you and tell you kind things about your lips and feet.
When will he see you for who you really are?
Idle Feet
Sliding around on the DVD cases, hoping that I will catch your eye.
You don’t look at me, so I put olive oil on the soles of my feet.
I hit the coffee table and fly into your knee; now you see me.
Knife and Fork
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.
The Main Course
The table is set.
The chairs are in place.
You are the main course.
We take turns spreading butter upon you;
Our carnivorous canvas.
Planking
To
plank is to be free from the constraints of society and do something peculiar. Something no one really understands, yet certain people like to do.
To
be with you is something different and new.
To
plank for you sets my heart on fire, and my ears buzz.
To
plank on the chocolate biscuits of your love is so sweet, as we contort and crumble all over the floor.
Your Extreme Ironing Nature
Your passion for extremes has always given me a sense of excitement and this newfound energy. I got caught up in your adventurous nature, that dark curly hair, and those sparkly eyes.
I never understood why your ironing basket was always empty, why you had those strange contraptions hooked on to your ironing board, and why you always took so much care of that ironing board.
I began to question our love, for you would sneak away and then return unkempt and exhausted. What were you doing? Did you find someone else to touch and tingle?
Then one day, out of the blue, you took me into your world and showed me your soul. You showed me how much you love to go on adventures, how to conduct extreme ironing in exotic locations, why adventures together are better than adventures alone, and why power points never seem close when you are so far away.
We continue to embrace your ironing board until this day. We have photographs on our walls of that ironing board, you and me.
Hills Hoist
Since they were young, Claire and Ann loved to hang out together. Whether they were wagging physical education, using liquid paper to deface their school desks, plotting someone’s demise, or simply being fatalistically cool, these two were inseparable.
They lost touch until they were in their thirties. Instantly recognising the other, these friends decided to make an afternoon of their long-overdue reunion.
Ann loves nature, so they decided to go back to her place while the gents were out.
Claire forgot what a hills hoist looked like. It had been so long since she had seen the clothesline of her childhood. It reminded her of simpler times and the feeling of freedom.
They began to roll around together under the hills hoist. There was much chatter, chirping, and burping from these two as they re-acquaint one with the other.
They giggled as they once did as schoolgirls, despite leaving all of that behind long ago.
Under the hills hoist, they watch it spin and spin as they hallucinate about Unicorns, Dragons, and more. Colours fill their minds, and the world seems to feel so right.
Under the hills hoist, they make merry for they sampled magic mushrooms.
Saucepan Dancing
Saucepans of stainless steel sit within the kitchen cupboard. They lament the days when their forms connected with the stovetop often and tasty meals were prepared within their confines.
Lately, they seem so sad. Are the saucepans sad, or am I sad?
What should I do to help these poor objects reach their full potential? Is it me that is the problem, for I do not cook anymore and buy too much sushi?
These questions fill me with a sense of excitement as I reach for the cookbooks; a cake for one is a bad idea, but then one can be eaten for breakfast each day.
I reach for the saucepans and smash them in the air for luck.
Then it begins.
Running and jumping,
banging and clanging,
mumbling and humming,
singing and spinning.
The oven is hot,
the cake takes shape,
the saucepans tell me they are happy,
and we celebrate with a glass of champagne.
My Trusty Steed
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
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.
C & K 