Clean Laundry
Clean Laundry,
how I love to nestle my nose inside your sweet scent.
Cold-pressed symphony of your dry-cleaned sheets,
comfortable pillows of a strong chest upon which I breathe,
heavy.
Feather-like laundry, how between your fabric my limbs flow,
weightless.
Our folded shirts are sometimes pressed too hard
and miscommunication makes our ironed selves crumple,
yet in the machine we do not discolour,
but adorn each other of new hues.
We tumble-dry laughter in childish bodysuits
as well as hand-wash our delicates with softening hearts.
We squeeze out old water and shake ourselves clean,
so that our clothes may be immaculate tomorrow.
We cleanse our prettiest Sunday clothes together,
Clean Laundry.
And the lace,
the enticing black lace
that lies in the laundered basket also,
it quickly becomes dirty as we interlace.
We stretch it out and pull in back in,
gentle or hard wash,
turn it inside out,
and try,
to wash it with similar colours.
Gather your quarters,
I say,
for I would like to press start.
Commence the roller-coaster,
bring in the detergent,
the inadvertent zips
that may tear our fabric,
bring in the waters.
As long as we swim around together.
Let your long sleeves wrap themselves
around my tights
and thighs
as we get pulled out of the machine.
Put us out to dry and bask in the sun together,
let us dance gracefully to the flowing wind,
rising up and down
with tumultuous and passionate emotion.
But by god do not peg us on our hanging line,
and let the right breeze blow us over
to new winds and ways of washing.
For even laundered souls change dyes.
With my back to the wall
I realise I have nowhere to hide,
nowhere to turn.
For have climbed all the walls
That pave the outside roads
of my town.
In turn,
I dip my feet slowly
into the container
Of my body.
Inch by inch,
Water to skin,
I must turn within.
Tall enough
When I think of love
I think I must be tall enough
to reach it.
But as fingers graze
a cotton-candy bottom,
the illusion falls into itself.
Sugar covering my eyes.
Falling
Fall
fall
falling
into the most rising
of moods.
Strange
how much it feels like falling
yet how we find ourselves
higher
with every word,
every exchange,
that four pupils make.
Birthing rainbows
I'll love you
like how unicorns give birth.
Atop the clouds,
in an elusive manner.
I will colour you
my own.
Bird Haiku
Birds open up the space
between the earth and the sky.
Why oh why can't I?
Not an Ant
I don’t want to be
an ant
Stuck in my colony
Just another copy
Please
no bioscopy
We are all insects
Centipedes
Cockroaches
Crickets
Bees going aimlessly
From one flower to the next
The taste of one never enough
Desire does not sate
Constant mental state
More
More
M O R E
Ghost ant
In the middle of the street
No strangers you meet
All passing
all panting
no stopping
Would these lavish legs
give you respite?
For a second could you feel you might
Find s e n s e in the pavement
Find what is adjacent
To your own understanding
I t f e e l s
Pictures
Taken of
everything
Filled with
nothing
Hollows of
being
Snap snap snap
No thought
No time to contemplate
To contemplate later
On a computer screen
Or not at all
Ever
To be stored in a database
Never to be thought of again
Memory e q u a l s data
That’s what it means to be human
If we were to compile
All the meaningless files
Would we realise?
To prove is not what matters
R E A L I S E
Reality is a fiction
Always subject to revision
And with a sail you navigate
As the world around you
d i l a t e s
Instant coffee
Grown in South America
Processed somewhere else
Money and body circulation
Price is all that is made available
To measure what we hold valuable
There are other ways
To interact with people
Than with your credit card
Alternative possibilities
Of making contact with reality
Than this technology
S t i l l
The ant
is
Here
but not
Talking
but mute
Seeing
but blind
T i p t o e i n g around
Conversations are m i n e d
Politically correct
Don’t offend the subject
That’s what it means to be human
I t f e e l s
The sea level rise
And just levels the size
Of another sunrise
But still
All rushing all running no ceasing
Feel these words
K a l e i d o s c o pe
Inside your head
Explore the s e a m of your limbs
Find the f l i c k e r i n g edge
To your Reality TV obsession
Access a glimmer of sociality
To feel sane is society
Cease the
p a r t i c l e s
of possibilities
Glimmers
of utopian potentiality
In the midst of
all
human
a n x i e t y
You and I will make a desert
I will resist sand.
The smallest particles of earth
which you send my way
Will not make their bed
In the creases of my eyes
You will throw and throw
and we shall bathe in a desert.
Wide-eyed up to the heavens.
Loved
I was never loved
the way I wanted to be.
Forever until today
I was not loved
for my scary optimism,
for my unhinged dance,
for my too bright smile.
Not loved
for the way I mouth my words.
But now I am,
and how sweet the sound.
Christening
Tonight,
I make a name for you
sweet child.
Tonight,
you are christened,
in the church of my mind.
Lilacs and Plantains
I dream of lilacs and plantains, embroidered on a summer dress.
I dream of the way it flows as the wind grazes its fabric, like an all-familiar lover.
I dream of the way it caresses a thigh, gently revealing instances of skin as it rocks,
up and down, side to side, back and forth.
I dream of a dress, embroidered with lilacs and plantains.
I dream of that dress strolling through a busy street,
avoiding other garments, and occasionally brushing up against a tote bag or a lamp post.
I dream of a dress, turning each wanderer’s eye as it passes,
bringing light and cheer into everyday commotion.
As if to say:
Stop, look, smile, and carry on.
While suits and jeans roam the pavement,
off to a day of work,
the dress dances.
Free from it all.
Free from the banality of everyday life, free from routine.
Not just another piece of fabric going aimlessly along the waves of sound.
I dream of a dress whose sound is so peculiar that it blanks out all other frequencies
- a silent pedal on the rest of the world -
I dream of a free dress, embroidered with lilacs and plantains, with no care in the world.
Travelling along cafés and boutiques, before it vanishes into an old bookshop.
The smell of ancient treasures renders it sad and envious.
It is no longer standing on a golden podium.
While it’s jealousy implores it to get out and continue its reign on the pavement,
it is constrained to stay, alongside the daunting scripts who eye it in despise.
Just long enough for the cash machine to make a sound and the dress is set free again.
Pleasing the sense of yet one last street before it is confined to the indoors,
where, after gracefully entering the front door,
it creases gently as it rests.
I dream of a dress, embroidered with lilacs and plantains, unfolding gradually,
as it purposefully rises up to the stairs into the bedroom.
I dream of a delicate summer dress,
suddenly coupled with a strong, heavy leather jacket and sturdy Doc Martens.
Afraid and wary at first, it soon finds comfort in the protection of the biker jacket.
The heavy material brings it composure and as the Doc Martens grace it with courage,
it suddenly feels unstoppable.
I dream of a dress, embroidered with lilacs and plantains,
ready to reign over the realm of the night as it swifts out of the front door,
and waits at the bus stop, eagerly.
I dream of that same dress, fading into a dark alley and vanishing into a bloodshot door.
I dream of a summer dress dancing to rock n’ roll, to a buzzing sound in high frequency.
Back and forth it launches itself into the arms of a beat,
losing control as the music reaches its stitches.
I dream of a dancing dress, at full twirl it’s ruffles smile.
The lilac and plantain dress comes down from its golden cloud,
as an entire pint of beer splashes against it.
You can no longer see it
.
Too many people.
Too many torn shirts and rugged jackets.
It shines no more.
The summer dress feels small and lifeless,
At the centre of attention no more.
As alcohol tarnishes its lilacs and the crowd crumples its plantains,
it gasps for air and its long lost reign.
It is now the mass
.
No longer exempt from it all.
I dream of a summer dress, embroidered with lilacs and plantains,
grabbed by filthy hands and pushed in all directions,
no mercy for it.
I dream of a dress, dragged back out into the dark alley,
into a cab and into a stranger’s home.
I dream of a dress, stained with beer and rum n’ coke,
pushed against torn black jeans and a sweaty ACDC t-shirt,
screaming out for help,
but no one is there,
and its voice is muffled.
I dream of that dress, pushed into a dark, dusky bedroom before it is torn off,
savagely.
I dream of a summer dress, embroidered with lilacs and plantains,
dumped onto the cold, concrete, catastrophic mess of a floor.
I dream of a dress, free and innocent no more.
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