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Zack Ripley May 20
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 1
‘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 wiped it on your shirt
Sleeve and began 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 straightened 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 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
Ylzm May 2019
Dust, dust, infernal dust:
Mocked! Mortality mocked!
Toil, toil, burdensome toil,
procrastinator born.

I don't see, it's still clean.
I don't see, I don't care.
I don't see, just the wind.
Oh no! Now I see,
I cannot unsee, woe is me!

Dust, dust, infernal dust,
with vacuum be gone!
Toil, toil, burdensome toil,
Adam's curse, is there no escape?
hannah in summer May 2019
Out with the old
In with the new
At least
That's what they told me

Sweeping up dust
Throwing open windows
Letting in spring
That's what they told me

Clear out your contacts
Delete those old pictures
Wipe the slate clean
That's what they told me

Open up and let go
All that you once were
Rebirth yourself
That's what they told me

Letting go of the things
That kept me alive
Left with only loss
They never told me that
Letting go is hard when you never said goodbye, but I know that I'll never get that.
AM Apr 2019
i moved it
into a box
under my bed
sealed with more
layers of sellotape
than my mum’s
birthday presents

it’s not exactly
spring cleaning
and i still sleep
on top of these
dusty memories
but it’s okay;

i’ve forgotten what
was in there anyway
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