plank is to be free from the constraints of society and do something peculiar – something no one really understands, but certain people like to do.
be with you is something different and new.
plank for you sets my heart on fire and my ears buzz.
plank on the chocolate biscuits of your love is so sweet, as we contort and crumble all over the floor.
Your passion for extremes has always given me a sense of excitement and this new found energy. I got caught up in your adventurous nature, that dark curly hair, and those sparkly eyes.
I never understood: why your ironing basket was always empty, why you had those strange contraptions hooked on to your ironing board, and why you always took so much care of that ironing board.
I began to question our love, for you would sneak away and then return unkempt and exhausted. What were you doing? Had you found someone else to touch and tingle?
Then, one day out of the blue, you took me into your world and showed me your soul. You showed me: how much you love to go on adventures, how to conduct extreme ironing in exotic locations, why adventures with two is better than adventures with one, and why power points never seem close when you are so far away.
We continue to embrace your ironing board until this day –
There are photographs on our walls of that ironing board, you and me.
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.