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.
Tag: Poems for the Home
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.
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.
The Hardwood Floor
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.
Broken Dishwasher
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
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.
C & K 