Submit your work, meet writers and drop the ads. Become a member
Arke Jul 2018
stepford wife, smile bright
cook, clean, fix, listen, shine
a trophy, prize, conquest
overused, underloved, broken, dies
unassembled puzzle, incomplete
pieces an unclear fit, break
silent muzzled, scattered, quit
exhausted, out is in a box
for puzzles, games, like little talk
brought to shelved bars, stay
viewed only, never touched
succumb, suffocate, decay
Laura Jul 2018
The relentless clock ticks
like a pseudo heartbeat,
prattling platitudes
of sententious pity.
Two decades summons pragmatism:
a mouth to kiss,
a place to eat, to ****
and shove like lambing ewe.
Set it in stone at twenty-five;
a diamond glares from Facebook,
a Gorgon eye, a quick click analgesic.
Marry overborne bricks
and surrender nature’s piquancy
to kitchens where flies ****
on all the dinners not savoured.
Probe for passion in drains,
Tupperware, between stale sheets.
Aridity resists fornication
in a ***** for absent frisson;
a stretch across oceans,
portenous as premature world-weary yawns,
Three syllables ought to roll easily
yet sear acidic, two tongues curtailed
and bourne back into silence.
Laura Jul 2018
Three syllables should roll easy,
yet sear acidic the tongue,
refusing formation
of empty expression.

The sun shines no brighter
than the struggling bedside light,
and rivers flow no fresher
than saliva leaked in sleep.

The malodour of rank roses
drifts from every kitchen,
where flies **** on dishes
of all the dinners not savoured.

Inside we search for desire; in drains,
under beds, between stale sheets. 
The arid well resists fornication
as we ***** for absent frisson,

the floral miasma lingering,
as if to scoff.
Emily Jul 2018
I want to live in a big house
In the middle of a big town
And in my big house
In the middle of a big town
I want to bake biscuits in my big kitchen
And feed them to my friends
Who come to visit my big house
In the middle of a big town
Emily Apr 2018
My Baby's gone fishing
I hope he catches himself a treat
For us both to eat
And when he comes back home
I'll make him a meal
Of bread and butter
Tommy Randell Dec 2016
The bed is too short for a lie-in
The wife's dog owns the settee
There's a sun lounger out in the garage
But it's winter and 7 degrees

I can hear at least 4 kinds of music
A muted electric guitar
There's a scream like a broken Jet engine
That's the wife reversing the car

My son and his mates had a late night
I can smell beer and left-over curry
The kitchen will look like a bomb-site
Which won't get cleaned up in a hurry

The heating has just gone into turbo
Yes, there's someone else in the shower
Any minute now the alarm will go off  … 'cos
I've been awake nearly two hours

It is the usual Saturday
Believe me I've been here before
It can make me tired and grumpy
And that's not what Saturdays are for ...

Two hours later and I'm startled!
Oh, I must have dropped off
There's an ominous silence around me
Like the whole spinning world has just stopped

I know they have gone out to be busy
The last thing they want is to rest
Gone shopping, breakfast or lunching
Leaving the old man to rot and the kitchen a mess

Me and the wife's dog we'll go walkies
Skim a few stones on the sea
He'll meet a few dog pals and eat a dead fish
And sit quietly down by my feet

On the way home we might call for a pint
Meet up with the lads and de-stress
I might even text with my love to the wife
Hoping her day is filled with success

Your favourite dinner I'll tell her
Tinned Pie, French fries and beans
And she will reply with a little red heart
And you know what that normally means

Plenty of time though to clean up the Kitchen
Detox the hallway, and sit on the Loo
And time left over for some sport on the telly
And a bottle of Cider or … Three!

It is my usual Dad-Friendly Saturday
With it's uptake on free-time and space
And tomorrow my wife will get her turn
And Her Sunday can take pride of place

She can cook dinner and Hoover
Catch up with her Soaps to her heart's content
I'll wander off to see the lads at the pub
And compare how our Saturdays went

Tommy Randell    01st December 2016
You finally roll over,
after downing the remainder
of the wine you said you’d share with me
and lay the bottle to rest
beside the bed, in a graveyard of clutter
I periodically nag you to tidy up

so now
I can finally assure myself
with more than tenuous trust
that you will not confirm
your gazing over my shoulder
at my laptop screen
with that irritating ******* chuckle
when you see whatever I’m
privately trying to enjoy for myself

because
now it would make more sense
that I’m doing anything
other than typing, typing
furiously about how I can’t articulate
why I’ve admitted you
into my bed. Why
we mutually burn through seasons
of wasted time on Netflix, and
instinctively, someone’s head
falls within the soft hollow
of another’s shoulder, yet I cringe
the moment you reach over
to make the embrace
intentional

and why
when the remnants
of the drunken, desperate stumbling
to my then celibate bed
that spawned
what we can’t seem to finish
have long dissipated, do we
insist on carrying our dead within us

and why
once you turn back and see me,
do you retreat to the living room
to strum hopelessly on the
Les Paul you spent too much money on
and had shipped to my apartment
because you barely spend any time at yours,
as I type this
groggy and reaching
for what’s as reachable as mist

with only a room
between us, separately
we decode the repercussions
of being haphazard nomads
somehow assigned
to civilization.
Riley R Jun 2015
It pains me, a bit
to think about the possibilities
of life if you were here,
if I could watch your smile
bloom upon your face
see the signs of laughter brewing
just after I’ve said something silly.
I’d cook you dinner
and blush with happiness
when you teased me for my
utter lack of skill
and after you would make hot cocoa
for our movie marathon
and we’d have punch drunk discussions
on the philosophy of psychopathic ******
for dessert.
While the credits rolled
your eyes would droop
and your head, heavy with sleep
would rest sweetly on my shoulder.

Would I kiss you, then?
Softly, so as not to ruin the mood?
Or fierce and biting with the breaking
of long-held restraint?
Would you invite me to your bed?
And if you did, would I accept?
Or would I ****** your hair
and kiss you a gentle goodnight
at your bedroom door?
Would we grow old together,
counting wrinkles as they form,
marking the days with
ridiculous anniversaries:
first kiss, first fight, first joint bout of pyromania?
Or would it end, perish early
like so many things are wont to do?

Would you die first?
Or would I?
And when we were gone
would we have anyone
to tell stories about us
and the crazy things we no doubt said and did?

Would I ever tell you this poem was about you?
Maybe.
Maybe, if you were here, I could.
Next page