"appliances" poems
Seduced by clichés of love,
We signed on for wedding doves,
Being at those wedding receptions,
All clichés of norms' conventions,
Having a cream puff wedding day,
An expensive way of getting laid,
All clichés for the bridal industry,
Trite cant, and hypocrisy,
BUT--the appliances outlived everyone!!
Wedding gifts when once were young,
On film noir weddings I ponder on,
As these golden years I wander from,
All that phony hypocrisy,
Cliches and norms of society,
D.I.V.O.R.C.E.
(Who didn't hate going to the in-laws for tea?)
Aug 12, 2015
Aug 12, 2015 at 10:23 PM UTC
Roommate Wanted;
Dorm includes:
Kitchen,
With complete set of
appliances and a table
meant for two.
Living Room,
with a coffee table , tv
and the sofa we used to
watch movies and cry on.
A Bathroom,
with hot water and
lonely showers.
A bedroom,
with a half empty
king sized bed
And closet space
which used to house the shoes
you walked away from me in.
For inquiries please call this number:
Mar 12, 2014
Mar 12, 2014 at 2:26 AM UTC
Jane the economy toaster
Was cheap as appliances go
Her unpolished sides were all greasy
And as grey as suburbanite snow
The edge of her slot was all melted
And her tray was encrusted with crumbs
Her lever was missing a handle
And would nibble at fingers and thumbs
She lived at the back of a cupboard
With some rusty old pans and a spider
In the gloom she would dream that somebody
Would hammer a muffin inside her
That some special son-of-a-baker
Would fill up her dusty old holes
With croissants and baguettes and bagels
With waffles and tea cakes and rolls
But alas with her family broken
The whisk and second-rate kettle
Her owners replaced the whole set
With something more classy in metal
And so in her murky wee crevice
She wept and she twiddled her ****
She twitched her lever with envy
Of the toaster that lives by the hob
Jane faded away and she vanished
But in silicone heaven she boasts
That she's Jane the economy toaster
The maker of muffins for ghosts
Feb 9, 2013
Feb 9, 2013 at 6:14 PM UTC
dear . . . sweetie,
the projections of your essence is the type
to cook up a future of you;
of the home you call your heart,
or how you let it spill across the metal table,
just to knead it back together to construct wholesome smiles.
yours is the form of communication i've never known,
a presence that haunts me -
as the scent of your perfume lingers at the back of my tongue
as i taste a sweet fruit,
or how your stories speak to me
as my eyes trickle such mundane appliances around me.
you have taken not my heart, nor my soul.
you have extracted from me fragments of my time;
where i find myself caught in the air, mystically
hearing the songs that were stuck in my head when i first met you.
you are the soundtrack to my little death.
you are always right in the corner of my mind, just as i want to see you:
half-baked, smirking, and vulnerable.
May 17, 2016
May 17, 2016 at 3:50 PM UTC
I cannot spare water or wine,
Tobacco-leaf, or poppy, or rose;
From the earth-poles to the Line,
All between that works or grows,
Every thing is kin of mine.
Give me agates for my meat,
Give me cantharids to eat,
From air and ocean bring me foods,
From all zones and altitudes.
From all natures, sharp and slimy,
Salt and basalt, wild and tame,
Tree, and lichen, ape, sea-lion,
Bird and reptile be my game.
Ivy for my fillet band,
Blinding dogwood in my hand,
Hemlock for my sherbet cull me,
And the prussic juice to lull me,
Swing me in the upas boughs,
Vampire-fanned, when I carouse.
Too long shut in strait and few,
Thinly dieted on dew,
I will use the world, and sift it,
To a thousand humors shift it,
As you spin a cherry.
O doleful ghosts, and goblins merry,
O all you virtues, methods, mights;
Means, appliances, delights;
Reputed wrongs, and braggart rights;
Smug routine, and things allowed;
Minorities, things under cloud!
Hither! take me, use me, fill me,
Vein and artery, though ye **** me;
God! I will not be an owl,
But sun me in the Capitol.
3.2k
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
Nov 28, 2021
Nov 28, 2021 at 11:50 PM UTC
Surrealism gone Awry
Watch, I open my skull on pneumatic hinges,you must have a hungry compulsion to peer inside and see the steamy tomato soup.
There is a certain blasphemy in believing.
See the dictator swill Avalanche in his mouth.
By decree the narcotics language
of surrealism states, that in the hierarchy of apples
Those closest to the sun murmur the sweetest, and in dreams the diabolical devil is obliged to meet you, but a committee of angels will arrive with Uzis loaded with enthusiasm... In time!
Surrealism is the proprietor
Of flowers fervently whirling like dervishes until... It is a place where I narrate lovers melting like pennies at the sight of each other, where home appliances long for your touch.
My fetish is my imagination, wild, wild imagination extravagant as your birth child,
Gaudy and beautiful like a coach built Cadillac by Saoutchick.
Where everything utter is true.
Welcome wide eyed wonder
To my simple things,
Fuel injected heart
Needle and thread
Enameled soul made from a French mind
Small animal pelts and bones for superstition
German precision
With the eye of a Xerox machine.
So one emphatically dream
Emphatically live
Emphatically believe everything uttered is true.
Aug 3, 2015
Aug 3, 2015 at 11:19 PM UTC
"What do you think heaven looks like?"
"Clouds. Sunshine. Angels."
"But really? You don't think heaven has
desks and post offices and plastic
grocery bags?"
"Probably not."
"Oh."
Dec 1, 2016
Dec 1, 2016 at 1:21 AM UTC
I wish you all Happy Holidays, a Merry Christmas, Happy Hanukkah, Happy Kwanzaa, Festivus, Yule etc. Whichever tradition you follow, the heart of the celebration is the same. It's about rebirth (among the other good things like family and compassion and healing), the mystery of new things by some miracle born of old. We're told that we are supposed to be happy, that to not be cheerful this day is miserly and selfish, it's implied that if we aren't feeling perfect then we should fake it for people, that we should fake happiness so our loved ones can be genuinely happy by not seeing our sadness. But this is a hard, sad time for many of us, no matter how hard we try to be hopeful. I wish that I could really believe, rather than just hope, that the old world, the world of xenophobia and hatred, so many acts of violence and horror that I can't even keep track of them all...I wish that I could be sure that the world is being renewed by a higher power. In the face of so much, it may seem that you're just a small person, in a small place, with small problems and small gifts and a small heart, and this whole thing is a worthless gesture. Well, it isn't...this isn't just an accident, we're not just flotsam in a nameless, faceless mass of humanity with no real purpose and no value. Everything matters, and every day we have a chance to make a difference, every day we are given opportunities to be a part of miracles. All of us have the power to reach out and touch another person, to give hope instead of taking it away. There really is a better world out there, and every positive act, every genuine smile, every gentle word and every courageous stand against hatred brings us closer. And finally, a Merry Christmas to all, and to all a good night, and if I wake up tomorrow to find that all my appliances have come to life and burst into song and a gaggle of short bearded guys expecting food and talking about some kind of stolen gold and dragons and crap, I may just have to start taking things a little more seriously ;)
Dec 27, 2016
Dec 27, 2016 at 9:40 AM UTC
Most women do not
cook and and clean house
in preparation
for violent invasion.
But you did,
the countertops ache for lack of dust,
the appliances self-conscious in their sterility.
More than sufficient-
for anybody but the figure on the doorstep;
who, using only a key
has already torn through
your first, only, and tastefully painted
line of defense;
has pulled pins from verbal grenades to throw upon
bursting into the kitchen,
where you waited
white tablecloth of surrender and
tea like a peace offering.
Dec 8, 2012
Dec 8, 2012 at 9:59 AM UTC
I think he’s worried that if he gives me the keys I will walk into his heart and immediately start redecorating. He has things set up the way he likes and he doesn’t want his posters torn down for wall decals of birds and quotes about love. He knows (it’s happened before) that most people can’t help but want to change things. No matter how much they like the way it looks, they can’t help but get started thinking what if… They have their ideas about how it should look. They want to put in their night tables and their paper lanterns. They want to make your heart theirs.
And when they leave (which they inevitably do, we are all some sort of nomad) they take some parts and leave others and you are left with a half full, cluttered heart. You have to make the long and painful decisions about what belongs there; try to remember what was there before she came. You try to sift out which parts of you she built, and which parts are worth keeping.
What he doesn’t understand about me is that I am not in the habit of making homes. I don’t like too much to stay. A blanket, bed and books are all I need. So he can keep his posters, and hang whatever lights he wants. If I admire the décor its only because I can see the way it lights up his eyes.
So I keep knocking, I keep peeking in the windows. And he keeps stalling, putting things in their right place, worried that if he lets me in I’ll start knocking things down. And I can’t claim to not be a master of messes. I can’t claim I wont throw my laundry on the floor, and forget to scrub the toilet, and get sugar in the crevices of all the kitchen appliances for some late night cupcakes.
But I am not the type to move furniture. And when I’m gone it will be all yours again, every quiet corner. Maybe just a fingerful of sugar lingering behind a clean coffee mug will remind you that I was ever there at all.
Apr 24, 2018
Apr 24, 2018 at 9:56 AM UTC
A redwrapped
foil held
biteful chocolate
heart
stashed in a yellow envelope
with handwriting that could be yours
on the outside.
For me.
It held more than --
It held clean kitchen counters
with crumbs swept daintily under appliances.
Gritty granules of yesterday hastily moved
to make more time.
Of clean floors,
wooden,
- for the bare feet -
and shoes, helterskelter -
I did always intend to leave them tidy, but shoes have lives of their own
it seems.
- Never leave slippers in a cupboard,
you don't know what they might do
unattended --
I said.
Of wet sleeves
and damp tea towels
skinned over cupboard doors
with that scrubbed-clean
thoroughly-made-pink-from-the-evening scent.
washwet clothes dripping
but crisp new towels hanging hot
winter-fresh bedding
clothes always tangled on the floor
- for who has time to sort out socks when the body missing for months has finally come and bags are down toes out and hot water soap and hands together wet hair clean ready for cool shifting pillows and arms of dry towels -
before sun cuts skin and breakfast shouts in the morning.
Apr 15, 2013
Apr 15, 2013 at 1:51 AM UTC
Muffled voices
Crying babies
Loud adults
Louder kids
Nosy neighbors
Terrible music
Heavy footsteps
Slamming doors
Shoddy construction
Inept maintenance
Cheap appliances
Apartment living
Really *****
Oct 7, 2011
Oct 7, 2011 at 8:34 PM UTC
the house is making,
noisy demands, this morning
that i feel i am, unable to meet
the microwave,
is bleating about the coffee steaming, standing, waiting,
on it's spinning table
the washing machine,
is singing a smug little jingle.
job complete. washing done,
are'nt i neat!
the dryer,
whirring, sighing, thumping,
slumping,
to a rythmn all its own.
the roomba,
is doing,
the
rhumba,
all the way
down the
hall.
the computer,
dings and sings
you have new mail.
and worst of all
the alarmclock,
has told me.
i have,
met my quota,
of snooze recalls.
so,
now,
i have to,
get up and face it all.
how i wish,
for the days,
when the
house mechanics,
went about their work,
in quiet and dutiful ways.
requiring no praise at all.
Mar 17, 2014
Mar 17, 2014 at 7:13 PM UTC
There is a sound in a house when it’s occupants have left for the day and it isn’t silence.
It’s more of a dull collective hum of electrical appliances enjoying the chance to indulge their expression without the need to shout over humans.
There is the echo of words whispered in soft tones and the violent ones exchanged in heated debate, also the screams and laughter and the bark of dogs.
There is the sound of unfolded washing, waiting patiently to be transitioned from unkempt mess to organised functionality in a drawer or cupboard.
Their sound before such a transformation is heavy and unlovable, but once the task of folding is completed, they fall silent, thankful to have reached their destiny this week before their new cycle of destruction of order begins.
Toys, where does one start with the sound of toys in the absence of playmates. Their sound is dependent on how loved they are and how much time they have left before they, like a wife after 20 years of marriage, are replaced by the upgraded model, the new and better version.
But it’s the breakfast things, the things left on the table, half eaten toast and a mauled boiled egg that have the most sound.
It’s the sound of a dwindling life force struggling against its fate to be recycled in the compost, like us.
That sound is a deafening silent scream of a resistance to endings, an inevitable journey back into nothing.
Jun 13, 2015
Jun 13, 2015 at 7:56 AM UTC
he replaced the washer,
the refrigerator too
he liked new appliances; they
reminded him of her
especially when he opened the freezer and found
not a pint of her Haagen-Dazs Vanilla
the new washer contained old ghosts as well
for he blasphemed her by washing on hot
a prohibition when she was still here, for fear
of shirts shrinking, she always claimed
he wondered what words of hers would haunt him
when he gutted the wall for a new oven
maybe it would just be the longing for the smell
of cookies baking (chocolate chip)
the ones she prepared for the grandsons, the day
she took a "quick nap" and never woke up
Dec 6, 2016
Dec 6, 2016 at 9:13 PM UTC
It's 3 am
again
I hate that word... again
it feels so certain
so absolute
that I might never sleep... again
see?
that's why I hate it
and the way the walls feel too close together
as though they could be listening
slowly compressing the doorway to the bedroom
so that it would be impossible to pass through
that I might never climb between the soft warmth of those covers
again...
thick carpet is curling up between my toes
tickling the tired soles of my feet as I pace
again
passing through the hallway towards the kitchen
lurking shadows of appliances of which the tasks seem to escape me
the gleam of lights on their many polished surfaces
strolling through the living room
open window letting in the night breeze to kiss against the skin I have not covered
again
I cross paths with the coffee table
narrowly avoiding its sleek edges that interject into my nightly obstacle course so stealthily
pausing in the single bathroom to admire
if only briefly
reflected light across her shoulders
curve of her back
down towards her waist and toes
the color of eyes in darkness
the shape of her face and nose
how sweet
how dark, mysterious
quiet, brooding
thoughtful that girl seems to be
depending on the time of night
light from the moon across her face
we meet again
again..
Jul 25, 2013
Jul 25, 2013 at 3:32 PM UTC
Late night coffee shop buzzed on caffeine,
in tune with the buzz of electric appliances,
acutely aware of the young child sound asleep
on the arm sleeve of the man's coat
wrapped around him in ways that
his mother's arms are not,
her arms holding papers
like a poker hand,
the intonation of her Spanish by phone
easily understood as a night at the office,
telemarketing, swaying the buyer,
as Mr. Sleepyhead, opens bright eyes
wobblyturns to me to
feel out the audience.
Jul 29, 2013
Jul 29, 2013 at 9:55 PM UTC
Melancholy,
I stay behind these guarded windows
Staring out at all the commercials
And noisy car horns
And people
That covet and pervert
with their greedy, grasping eyes-
That revel in their desire and need
to possess everything new
And exciting.
They slowly peel away their humanity
Like expired bananas,
Left on the table too long,
Exposing the rotten fruits of their labors
That haunts them in their dreams.
I have no need of phones,
Or appliances,
Or whatever they're selling
At sales where everyone is
Shopping
Pushing
Stepping
Shoving
Grasping
Stealing-
Where everyone is lying to themselves.
I'm not a crazed housewife,
Or a greedy collector,
Or a corporate sales exec;
I'm just a quiet observer,
Hiding from the spiraled descent of mankind.
I'm just thankful that these events,
That these sad, depraved people
are can't touch me in my quiet corner of heaven.
They are unimportant,
And in their chaotic rush
for power and possession,
They've forgotten the reason we draw close around the fire,
Why we share food and drink and memories;
Why we celebrate the sacred bonds of friendship
And family.
They've forgotten the smell of cider,
Boiling on the stove,
The taste of roast turkey,
watched and checked with patience absolute,
The comfy armchairs next to the window
That looks out on the freshly fallen snow.
They can't remember the warmth of a house
On a bitter cold night,
filled with laughter and love,
Where stories and tales spring from lips to ear,
Recounting the years long past.
They can't stand still to cherish the beauty in the simple moments,
The richness of the holidays,
when the only thing you want to possess
Is a wide smile,
And a special hand to hold.
Yes indeed,
I look out my window at this day,
a day so dark it deserves is nickname,
And I pity then-
The sad souls that have forgotten
why this holiday is called
Thanksgiving.
Dec 3, 2015
Dec 3, 2015 at 4:16 PM UTC
Deals for Online Shopping Store www.skbmart.com this is the best for online shopping for watch, home appliances, gifts, mobile with low price laptops, gifts, apparel we have many vareity Free Shipping in all over India Pay Cash on Delivery
Nov 29, 2013
Nov 29, 2013 at 1:56 AM UTC
I forgot part of the question
what was it?
Learning history your
she was too young, so was I
need a good grade...am at the coffee shop...drank the coffee....ate the cookie
wasted time on FB the question WAS
It pulls on me and someone puts on Death Metal and there's this gutteral gravely synthesized voice
and (what was the que--)
being pulled, resisting, but it's too strong
and I'm in
floating in memory....the question
to answer I have to slit my chest open and let some of the contents run free
as I ... it wasn't all books and pencils and how dare you ask such a question
my life wasn't a hallmark card
she was only 10 and she was my best friend so that means I was only 10
My learning history--how can I even think...we had a psychic bond we did a test
and it showed and she was a little chubby with golden skin and
her father was creepy and he left out his copies of Hustler for me to see and
told me beauty was in the eye of the beholder
but to **** a ten year old that is vile
I remember...a day or so later, going over to her house where she showed me
what she brought home from the hospital
(chalk and teachers, and winning jelly beans for knowing state capitals)
and she had coca cola in her fridge and all the latest appliances from Sears because
her father worked there, like a push button phone and a washer/dryer with a digital display
and clocks, too, like that and when she told me what happened it was like
being electrocuted painlessly for about three hours and I had to leave
because...books. drawing things and teacher don't give a **** about anyone
and today, children are much more protected and people talk about things
but then
(my learning history? I remember desks, and boards and being nervous)
and how can a grown man take a ten year old he knows and tell her
they were going to find someone and instead
stop the van, just looked like her father's van
(today we are doing long division)
demand she goes into the back of the van and take off her pants
and stick his tongue in her mouth
and then kick her out
bleeding so she ran to a vet and they called the ambulance
(and she never came back to school)
and I started piling on more clothes, layers.
You can't show those ... what is happening to you
and my learning history
I can first give you this
caked in blood and no, it's no longer bleeding, thought it was
I have unearthed something
there was something in the way and
that's why I couldn't answer the question
Dec 22, 2013
Dec 22, 2013 at 10:15 PM UTC
(Just some passing thoughts)
What if.....
...the midnight blue firmament remained midnight blue?
...dawn didn't come...the sun didn't even peep...
...the lamp posts remained bright with light
...because the hours seemed to have stopped
...because the night.....didn't want to end
what if...
...everyone got tired of the night
...dreamt, and wished for a bit of light
...bonfire flames became too much for the eyes
...they burned nonstop, like those in a funeral rite
...as if waiting for the dead one to soar
...even with the wind blowing, temperature was hot
...everyone was awaiting the sun---
...the true light of day
What if...
...electricity did not return...gone permanently
...there'd be no more cell phones, ipads
...laptops, desktops, nooks and kindles
...there would be nothing...of these gadgets
...no more appliances to make life easier
But, what if...
...light came back
...we had sun...and moon...and stars
...yet we could not speak, like we speak today?
...no papers and pens...just rocks and pointed objects?
Where would you be?
where would I be?
how would we be?
Would you be one holding a club?
dressed in your off shoulder attire of animal skin?
would your hair be long, uncombed, messy?
would your house, be a cave?
Would my hair be rudely grabbed by a man
to show the rest that he owns me?
Instead of cats and dogs, would our pets
be big, long necked creatures that eat trees?
would they be friendly enough to be patted?
Would we ever know of a blood moon
apart from a blue moon, or a yellow crescent?
would we ever know of mars? jupiter?
would we still remember our own earth?
the way life used to be?
How would we be?
where would i be?
where would you be?
Sally
Copyright September 4, 2015
Rosalia Rosario A. Bayan
Sep 17, 2015
Sep 17, 2015 at 2:18 AM UTC
too much elicitation regards to my bicycle from four years ago
300 years of precipitation received below the bottom cycle
ago ago ur rotten bag is inside a banana peel
vice versa my own vices inside a banana peel
pressing keyboards onto people on monkey-bars
several years later a summertime in my yard
several kitchen appliances that I scarred
my face with as I examine Toy Story parts
in momentary glimpses of lost poems stapled to trees
Nintendo's E3 Treehouse livestream not Monster's University
67 eio eight octopus
slevo
salvo00000
4ghet
every11
ok
Aug 30, 2014
Aug 30, 2014 at 1:54 PM UTC
the tinted weakness of late day. the sound of a mother being driven into the child by its legal father. biology as paperweight. as bird hopping on earth. god as the oh well limbo in limbo. are the many heavens of discarded appliances equaled in number by dolphins unimaginably safe? does the thought, to be darkened, arrive?
Jan 15, 2014
Jan 15, 2014 at 7:45 PM UTC