#domesticity
The silence
is not deafening,
the flowers
are not listening
to my hushed soliloquy -
and so I speak;
I only ask for an ounce, but
I yearn for more bouts
of domestic felicity.
It's not some grand wish,
no mere flight of fancy -
only a gentle plea
for an interlude
from the monotone
blur of days.
At first, it sounds
so very twee:
layered harmonies
and classical strings,
like an echo of
Vivaldi's "Spring"
But Pomme asks,
"Pourquoi j’y pense encore?
Y a quoi de mieux avant?"
Why do I still think about it?
What was there
that was better before?
In an earlier verse,
I was slowly
singing towards
my dirge.
Jul 22, 2025
Jul 22, 2025 at 12:22 AM UTC
Cured salmon glistening
between thick seeded slices.
Three plump tomatoes.
Like castle guards.
I watch in awe:
my toes poke through
knitted holes in the
blanket, fleshy moles.
Nan pushes in The
Thornbirds VHS and
she rambles about
the birds going west.
She says: ‘I’m glad
I can stay here and
not fly anywhere.’
cosy and safe.
Nan places another fleece
blanket on me. We drink
dark hot cocoa and
watch birds from the sofa
Nov 28, 2020
Nov 28, 2020 at 11:26 AM UTC
Domestic life, wouldn’t it be nice,
wine in hand, topped with ice.
Your hair shining ginger in the sun,
at the BBQ, loading sausages in buns
as our son screams and trips over. Twice!
On Thursday we lounge and eat egg-fried rice,
all we do is laugh and you say: 'This is Paradise.'
Then we shout over cake, it’s overdone!
Domestic life.
You see my tears and hug me, feels nice.
You’re still the man with the best advice.
So take me to Harvester, just for fun,
then we talk in funny voices to our sweet son.
Let’s drink more wine we bought half price.
Domestic life.
Apr 28, 2020
Apr 28, 2020 at 5:17 PM UTC
I do not understand
Why he sabotaged me so consummately,
And made me look like
Such a pathetic old patsy,
Could he not discern the misery
He was shoring up by degrees,
Over the course of the years
For the self he would ultimately be?
It was perforce a former version of me,
Who led me to this place
Of near-incessant mourning,
A narcissistic anomaly,
Who never wanted the precious gifts
Of peace and domesticity,
The little ones that might have been,
He spirited them all away from me.
Jul 10, 2019
Jul 10, 2019 at 9:15 AM UTC
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
Jul 17, 2018
Jul 17, 2018 at 5:25 PM UTC
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.
Jul 8, 2018
Jul 8, 2018 at 5:20 AM UTC
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.
Jul 4, 2018
Jul 4, 2018 at 3:30 AM UTC
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
Jul 4, 2018
Jul 4, 2018 at 12:30 AM UTC
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
Apr 2, 2018
Apr 2, 2018 at 5:30 PM UTC
Have you been shredded
By the tenacity
Of your alcoholism
Yet,
Or will we have to funnel
More worldly atrocities
Into you,
Filling you to bursting?
The swish in your belly,
The boldness of your talk;
Decimated.
Let me be the one
To **** all you are
With my well-kept home
And all-American children.
Let me poison you
With my son and husband's baseball game,
My seasonal dish towels.
Let me tear your being
With my baby
Who doesn't even suffer a diaper rash,
With my laundered and ironed clothes.
Let me destroy you in domesticity,
A cold beer at the end of the day
And too many addictions
Kept hidden.
Let me dismantle your establishment
While I bear my blemishes under the skin.
Let me break your concentration.
Let me make you think
I am perfect.
Let me make you think
That my family is sound.
Let me convince you
That you mean nothing
To the world
If only because
My children will be more intelligent
and more well kept
Than the one you poisoned.
Let me be
The Stephen King novel,
Bruce Springsteen song,
All-American house wife
And let me be kept far,
Far away from You,
Dazed and Confused
And depressed and medicated,
You.
May 11, 2016
May 11, 2016 at 4:07 PM UTC
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.
Aug 31, 2015
Aug 31, 2015 at 7:46 PM UTC
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 stroke 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.
Jun 8, 2015
Jun 8, 2015 at 12:00 PM UTC
After the dust settled,
the mess tidied;
they ate peacefully.
May 24, 2015
May 24, 2015 at 8:49 AM UTC
We are both struggling to get breath in, laying next to each other in bed;
Your snores are loud and could shake the walls while I'm just choking on my thoughts
The blue of the room reminds me of the blue of the waves I am obsessed with, and how I want to put them permanently on everything, even myself
My feet are warmed by a small dog who doesn't move unless he wants to, and I'm afraid to disturb anyone in this fairly domestic dreamland
Do you know I write poems at one A.M.?
Mar 30, 2015
Mar 30, 2015 at 12:48 AM UTC
The shining, gleaming, easy-wipe
linoleum-tile future is here!
You’ll be the talk of the town,
with our new and improved model
hard at work in YOUR kitchen!
DE-LUX features now available
at a low low cost for the smartest, most efficient,
top-of-the-line psyche of your dreams!
Oct 23, 2014
Oct 23, 2014 at 4:34 PM UTC
I knew the orange on the orange tree
you had an ache in your shoulders
uncomfortable in an unnatural way
yesterday I passed you talking to flowers
you hadn't moved you hadn't strayed
but hiding in the leaves was a forced disguise
the omens told me something quiet and unceasing
reminding me of a slumbering domesticated cat
dreaming of cutting yourself loose from truncated ease
dropping down from the branch with panther steps
licking fruit lips ripe with revealed acidic petals
riddled with a past you revelled mixing in with zest
shocking chances stepped in for the next dance
sleep taken aback by wings cut from a dark sky
the sidewalk pitted and cracked beneath the pounce
relief escaped the twigs with a spring like waking prey
pressing into night foliage shaken from a nice balance
as I saw you take control with nothing to mask your face
on the surface too smooth for violence
was laughter of glowing gloom to embarrass
and deter such rebellious arrogance
with a twist struggling from a lame curse
its flavours sharp against your sweetened perfume muscle
expecting you to build a limestone shed for tears
rather than take on the night with a mind to wrestle
the outside aches for your physical attraction
gaining courage from the purpose in your eyes
tense as the tightness of your dress' intention
demanding that my hands draw from such lines
the sinuous heat of pulsing flesh's invitation
curved upon seeds not chaste but not quite refined
which I try not loving with some cool disambiguation
you left me the taste of syrup of grenadine
too reputable to ripple vain red tipple eyed
on a table spilt with pink gin and mandarin
sharp teeth tingling a tartness into my hand
sliding slowly at a tilt like drops of sweat on skin
focus dwindling into the clasp of an escaping shade
wrapped carefully under soft rice paper and then
tucked under a heel with a pointed kick like a blade
only to feel you relent and burst open
soft in appeal again and again
Jul 19, 2014
Jul 19, 2014 at 3:28 PM UTC