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lua May 26
it's dusty, i swipe grime off my skin
my memories piled up in stacks of
knick-knacks, yellowed notebook pages,
and drawings from when i was twelve
i haven't cleaned my room in a year
too scared, anxious
to touch anything
the fear of breaking my fragile sense of identity
that i've clung to

it's desperate, lonely
sleeping in a dusty room

i wipe the sweat from my forehead
cobwebs weave through my strands
clinging in clumps as i
rummage through my belongings

i hadn't seen these things in a while
remnants of when i was
happier, even though i said i wasn't

i'm a year older again
and soon i will be years and years older
and i will leave this room behind

for now,
as i stay for
a little bit longer
let me revert back into
the child i was.
Michael R Burch Nov 2021
Hymn to an Art-o-matic Laundromat
by Michael R. Burch

after Richard Thomas Moore’s “Hymn to an Automatic Washer”

O, terrible-immaculate
ALL-cleansing godly Laundromat,
where cleanliness is next to Art
—a bright Kinkade (bought at K-Mart),
a Persian rug (made in Taiwan),
a Royal Bonn Clock (time zone Guam)—
embrace my *** in cushioned vinyl,
erase all marks: ****, vaginal,
******, inkspot, red wine, dirt.
O, sterilize her skirt, my shirt,
my skidmarked briefs, her padded bra;
suds-away in your white maw
all filth, the day’s accumulation.
Make us pure by INUNDATION.

Published by The Oldie, where it was the winner of a poetry contest. This poem was inspired by the incongruence of discovering "works of art" while doing laundry at a laundromat with coin-operated washers and dryers. I was reminded of the experience while reading Richard Moore’s “Hymn to an Automatic Washer.” Keywords/Tags: hymn, art, America, Americana, laundry, laundromat, washer, dryer, appliances, clean, cleaning, cleanliness, clothes, clothing, underwear, god, godly, godliness, water, baptism, inundation, sonnet, analogy, humor
Jammit Janet Aug 2021
Dusting off cobwebs
From the corners of my mind
Giving them the proper love
To disintegrate the grime
That takes me off point
And wastes my time
Parker Vance Feb 2021
There's a certain wraith
in the cleaning of kitchens
scrubbing of floors
ringing of towels til
the fingers puff up
and bleach seeps
beneath your fingernails.

There's a certain wraith
to all these quiet burdens.
Dreamypretty Jan 2021
How amazing it is
that when you clean your closet
you find things you lost, that you forgot you had.

Is it then
if you clean your mind
you will find memories you made but dint know existed?
And if you clean your heart
the love you never felt?
Just Sunday things
Zack Ripley May 2020
Washing my hands even though
I know they'll never really be clean.
Too many stains
From the blood, sweat and tears
That will never be seen.
My hands may never be completely clean, but I won't apologize.
I did what I had to to protect, love, and survive.
annh May 2020
‘First, the toilet paper panic.
Then a cleaning frenzy,
followed by a baking bonanza.
Now, slow-cooked casseroles
seem to be on the menu.
It's like the seven stages of grief,
…in groceries.’

Economists aren’t generally known for their ability to sustain a metaphor. Woolworth’s CEO Brad Banducci - the exception to the rule - watched the mood of Australians change during the COVID-19 outbreak through the prism of their shopping choices.
Nat Lipstadt Oct 2019
an au revoir here penned,
man on a cliff doing a spring, fall over cleaning

a few rusty drafts still needy for completely
but you know times up when tide rushing out
and on your leg is a big red rash that wasn’t there
when you waded in a few minutes earlier

tastes changes, like seasonal entrees on a restaurant menu,
seasons come and go, reappearing, but last years dish,
out of style, except for the occasional recalling

the body and the work must together concert,
poetry like a lifetime of lovers, you leave them behind
for loving them too well, using up the verses left inside,
then comes the time when love dries up and the words concomitant

the nighttime scraps will still be kept in that sewing box,
that storage space rented on a 99 year lease
but now for my eyes lonely only, this nub is stubbed,
this last one, at last, succinct

au revoir mes amis
A B Faniki Oct 2019
While waiting for your date, you brought
Out your car key, then wipe it on your shirt
Sleeve and begin to pick your ears with it.
I shook my head.
Done with picking your ears clean with your
Key, you used your handkerchief to clean
The key, then put it back in your pocket.
I kept staring at you.
Our body left to itself is in constant motion;
So you blinked, scratched your chin, and shifted from
One buttock to another: on the chair outside the cafe.
I smiled at you.
Done with the motion, you looked around you
To see if someone was watching you; satisfied
That no one was, you started picking your nose.
I peeked at you from behind my book.
When you realized what you were doing and
Where you were doing it, you quickly removed your
Finger from your nose and straighten your tie.
I shook my head.
After a while, you began observing your
Nails; before you know it you have started
Biting off your nails, one after the other.
I kept staring at you.
As you put the finger that you used to pick
Your nose with into your mouth, realization
Dawned on you. Quickly you removed it.
I smiled at you.
You spite air three times while cleaning
Your tongue inside your mouth. Using your hands
You covered your mouth and nose, and then breathed into them.
I kept peeking at you from behind my book.
Your date arrived and gave you a peck on your check.
I, your observer, sitting two tables across from you,
Took a sip of my tea then stood up and left: thinking cats
Are not the only animals that groom themselves publicly.
From broken souls.
Nat Lipstadt Jan 2017
humans born a mess,
messengers carrying blank notepads, sheet music,
brought from within to the without

a baby-sized handful of historical residues retained,
garnered from all too brief a prelim existence,
arriving possessing hints of what may be

most emerging crying,
crying over loss of the womb security,
for seers all, all see unaccountable futures clouded
by an inevitable chance of rain
and death

all of us, no one excepted,
covered for months in **** stained fluids ,
a holy, ***** combination
of amniotic nourishment,
and our own waste

a hint of what is to come?

human then spends the rest of life
cleaning up after himself,
mostly with tasks of addition,
punctuating by the occasional cleansing of
elimination subtraction

making room for the next love,
labored birthing of a baby poem,
from your womb, midwifed,
haunting ghosts of three note tunes,
begging for a set of lyrics and a
great chorus everybody can sing,
a completion competition

going along, all along, to the goings on,
all our routes preternatural crooked,
lived a life of pretense, a straightened out life,
which is the nuanced, connected summary of our components
which are all curves, dots on a line

and the composition source,
the secret chords employed,
tech installed just prior to birth,
effacing glorious sadness, glorious joy,
the human building blocks,
with the certainty that
everybody knows,
that's how it goes
everybody knows,

only fools believe,
you'll live forever

but live at least long enough to sing and write of
a man cleaning up his own life's messes,
and perchance, after our absence,
leaving the world better for it
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