We’re so relatable;
just like a knife and a fork.
We’re so relatable;
We’re so relatable;
just like a knife and a fork.
You know you’re fucking it all down to the ground with your vacant looks and your fish faced stare.
Then you spoke! I was someone else for a moment; engaged in gossip like a groupie infested with lust for fame and shiny gold plated bling.
What became of my intellectual underpinnings, a desire for books to enclose around me, and that rebel we-don’t-understand vibe?
Is it I who was mistaken when I judged you too soon? Are filled lips just as tasty as regular lips? Are vacant looks filled with more sorrow than A Picture of Dorian Gray?
I’m now bleeding philosophical perspiration from my pores. It’s flowing down into the stormwater drains to the sea.
I’m perspiring Aristotle, Foucault, Nietzsche and more. I’m infecting the sea with philosophy.
Should I worry that rich people with yachts will touch the water I infected and find Bitcoin boring?
Will they walk in a different direction or put down their Versace cushions to move about looking at the sky and the sea as they mutter eccentrically?
Would people think they were being touched by an angel, or would they melt at the thought of the devil?
Standing and speaking to this rather fashionable Nun, I’m unable to speak for a moment as her words creep over me.
She holds the rosary beads up to my height and I feel that childhood pew. My knees suffered on that wood for sins I hadn’t even committed.
Then she said, “You’re a wicked one the way you think too much. The devil will get you in the end.”
Miss Nun jolted me out of my musings and back to the dark. Without warning, words escaped my lips as I walked away, “Well if you see the Pope you can tell him I want a refund for all those rosary beads I had to buy as a kid. They didn’t work…“
The night is young, yet the mansion is ready for the party.
He’s been planning this well & thinking it through all week.
Not one to shy away from the strange & obscene, he thinks of some party tricks.
Ladies are many & boggle his mind, for he sees himself as an urban Casanova.
Unable to settle for one love, he prefers to love in threes or fours.
The time arrives, the guests are bouncing, & the party is swinging about.
Beauty abound & lovely young sights, he thinks of nibbling on chocolates or rose water delights.
Tricks do begin, but it’s the usual tosh, yet he’s thinking about what he can do.
With weird ideas swirling & too much bourbon soaking, he goes to the kitchen & thinks, “What do I have & what do I need to get my perversions on track?”
Looking & looking, he opens the cupboards & draws with swirling thoughts plaguing his mind. Staring about, but not yet drawing attention, he grabs three sturdy blue spatulas.
Like Houdini on crack or DMT, he makes frosting enough for three cakes.
It’s causing some giggles & a few weird looks, but he’s too fucked in the head to agree.
The frosting is made, it tastes like a sweet dream, so he lines the bowls up on the bench.
He waits for the prudes & the boring to leave until ten of the lovelies remain.
Once properly pinched & appropriately plucked to shine bright, he smears frosting all over the nymphs. Once frosted, he moves in & starts to carnally satisfy his longing for sweets.
There’s frosting about & in places unseen, yet he beats his best record of four.
With ten lovely ladies all over him now, he’s a man in a heaven of sorts.
You were never one to clean your shower regularly. Towels piled up and washers too, but you tended to the washing weekly.
There was this washer that you kept forgetting to pick up. Perhaps it was because the washer was so small and insignificant to you? You just kept piling towels, underwear, and clothes upon your hardened washer.
One night, you heard a noise coming from the bathroom. “What the hell! Is this a dream, or is the house alive and talking to me?“
You stand up straight and turn the light on, but the buzzing continues. “Where are you buzzing? Are you a bee, or a monster from the tip?“
A noise comes from the bathroom. You hesitate before you dare enter. Thoughts of strange monsters, lizards, and giant spiders terrorise you.
You walk through the bathroom door and turn on the light. You are baffled by what you see. Your crusty washer is alive and floats before your eyes. No longer just a washer, it hovers like a spaceship. It’s buzzing and it wants to leave.
You’re baffled, so you run outside. As you run the washer follows and terror takes your heart. Once outside, you turn to it and see it fly away. No stopping it, as it takes off at a speed you didn’t know.
Standing there, you stare into space wondering what you just saw. “My washer lived and now it’s gone. Is it because of neglect?“
Once inside you drink a brew and ponder life’s events. “I’ll never neglect my washers now, or ever again.“
Now your clothes are constantly washed and nothing stays on the floor. You never know where neglect may lead you again.
Sorrow fills the air as you juggle the pots and pans of despair.
Cobwebs fill your mind and the mood is sombre.
In amongst all the banging and clanging, she hears those words again.
She hears those words you spoke when you said, “There’s no ice cream in the freezer“.
Grandma has this old jug she uses to water her plants. It’s made of tin, with white paint and a bit of blue and red paint here and there. We think someone made it for her when she was younger. No one is quite sure.
Her grandson cannot understand how this crappy old jug seems to be back in fashion again. He’s never understood this fixation with idle objects.
He’s mischievous and often goes looking for insects, animals, and anything that crawls about. Once his mum found a spider’s nest in his room. It almost frightened her to death. Now she won’t let him have insects in the house.
One day he took Grandma’s jug for a walk to the termite mound; a dirt fortress for insects. He thinks of the king and queens inside, the workers, and the soldiers. There’s a whole world inside.
Inquisitive about how things work, he pours water into the mound to see what happens. Water starts to leak out of the various holes in the mound, but there isn’t much damage. He examines the termites on the ground. Some have wings and some do not. He thinks, “Perhaps Grandma’s jug is useful.“
Not wanting to hurt any of the insects, he retreats for the house. In a few days, he will check on the termite mound to see the results. Not only have the insects repaired the mound, but it has increased in size.
He scribbles down a note, “Experiment number 251. Termites like water. “
You always liked to play games. Sometimes sweet. Sometimes spicy.
One day, we stood in the kitchen talking about your kink for tasty toes. You often joked that you would love to set my feet on fire. I thought you were just being a bit creative.
One evening, as we sat in the lounge room, you bring the toaster to me. There’s a weird look on your face. I ask you ever so casually, “What are you doing?”
“I’m understanding the fire of feet…”
“What the…? You better not turn it on! No! Wait! Don’t put my toes in there! I shall kill you!”
“I won’t turn it on, I promise.”
“…You’re so weird…My poor feet. They cry in terror at the thought…”
“I would roast my toes for you baby.”
“No, you won’t.”
Suddenly, his toes are in the toaster.
“Please don’t turn it on!
I let you go.
Now your socks don’t
smile the same way that
they used to smile.
I dream of the kitchen
against your head,