Tag: poetry

Hills Hoist

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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.

The Laundry of my Life

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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.

Broken Dishwasher

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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

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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.

Vintage Fridge

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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.

Your Socks

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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.

Dust Collectors

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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.