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 drunk 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 that there is 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-filled a home with little.
She loved blue and white porcelain so, but 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.
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 of a head.
The toilet seat holds all of your secrets, keeping them silently.
A friend to no one, but useful to all; your safe haven.
Sitting upon your throne of bliss, you ponder.
Mysteries of the universe and 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.
Now that the concept has grown, and I’ve written about all manner of things on Instagram, I will share a few on my blog. However, I wish to rework some of the existing poems and add a few new ones to the collection.
I hope you enjoy the collection.