A washing machine that won't ever steal my coins,
Chew up my clothes,
Or leave them covered in powder,
No socks lost,
And only the mistakes are mine.
A real and actual clothes line,
Placed where the wind may blow,
And the sun may shine,
Showers are overhead and hot,
Towels thick and soft,
No more frayed or blotchy than my fragile mind,
In its hangover morning mode.
A fridge and cupboard full of food,
More than even a mythical beast might eat,
Spoils of war, renounced to the armchair traveller,
A television set I once owned myself,
Large enough that the screen could swallow me whole,
A DVD collection that once belonged to me,
Now cataloguing alotta lost time from my twenties.
The also-adopted cat curling up on my lap,
With claw-pricks undulating in and out of thighs,
And covering me in coats of her own fur,
But forgiven because she's purring our old forgotten song.
Breakfast on a verandah,
In a backyard where the grass really is greener,
Looking out over the
My God... are those trees?
Trees… are everywhere.
A car so powerful it simultaneously inflates,
And of course,
Diminishes one’s testicles,
Eardums percuss to the pulse,
Of my music on eleven at eleven,
Acoustically open up the heavens!
Floorboards shiny and waxed enough,
That I run can glide and slide over them in socks,
But not in a Tom Cruise impersonation,
And not, if anyone else was around.
But they are not,
And this is not my house,
In which I am sitting,
Eternally childish here,
A strange igloo in the sub-urban
The masters are away,
The ambivalent poet plays home-body,
In this equivalent to paradise,
My parents’ own palace,
This is not my house,
But it did used to be my home.
Ok, I promise no more list poems for a while... a little while.