Poetry | Stories | Photography
I saw a smooth and beautiful hardwood floor made of oak the other day; When I saw the hardwood floor, I recalled that hardwood floor that you and I lived upon in that place.
I recalled the nights of cold and terror, the torture of your words, the way you humiliated me, and the way you changed me forever.
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.
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.
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.
We loved each other so well.
You used to throw your socks at the bookcase when you arrived home, I would scold you, and then you would give me that disarming smile of Satan.
I would always wash your socks, hang them up to dry or put them in the dryer, and then lay them out in pairs only to fold them into smiley faces.
You decided to stop throwing your socks at the bookcase. Instead, you started taking them off in your computer room surrounded by your books, snacks, and hentai.
I wept for us and decided to let you go.
You’ve gone away, never to throw those smelly socks at the bookcase.
The ones you left behind don’t smile the way they used to.
She read widely about minimalism and how joy fills a home with little.
She loved blue and white porcelain so much, yet it sat in her house behind glass.
Something changed as she listened to doom metal: an understanding.
Something had to be done with the porcelain that irked her so.
She lined the porcelain teapots, cups, and saucers in front of the speakers.
She took a breath, blasted the porcelain with doom metal and watched them dance.
The beloved porcelain is no more, but oh, how entertaining it was.
I dream of the kitchen cupboards
smashing against your head,
and I cannot stop smiling.
You, falling from me so forlorn,
as the wood connects with
that round shiny ball, your head.
The toilet seat holds all of your secrets, keeping them silently.
A friend to no one, yet useful for all: your haven.
Sitting upon your throne of bliss, you ponder the mysteries of the universe as ideas awaken: you come alive.
The room spins,
your mind is alive;
one with the seat.
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.
lamp light in the fog
echoing whispers from trees
luminosity
C & K 