"domesticity" poems
Perfection is terrible, it cannot have children.
Cold as snow breath, it tamps the womb
Where the yew trees blow like hydras,
The tree of life and the tree of life
Unloosing their moons, month after month, to no purpose.
The blood flood is the flood of love,
The absolute sacrifice.
It means: no more idols but me,
Me and you.
So, in their sulfur loveliness, in their smiles
These mannequins lean tonight
In Munich, morgue between Paris and Rome,
Naked and bald in their furs,
Orange lollies on silver sticks,
Intolerable, without mind.
The snow drops its pieces of darkness,
Nobody's about. In the hotels
Hands will be opening doors and setting
Down shoes for a polish of carbon
Into which broad toes will go tomorrow.
O the domesticity of these windows,
The baby lace, the green-leaved confectionery,
The thick Germans slumbering in their bottomless Stolz.
And the black phones on hooks
Glittering
Glittering and digesting
Voicelessness. The snow has no voice.
28 January 1963
20.6k
We are sands astride and in the tides
Waters which tare us from both sides
Passion and fury
Duty and honor
Pushes us in
And pull us out
Love to hate
Pushes us in
And pulls us out
The desire for domesticity
And the desire to be free
Pushes us in
And pulls out
Till we are bludgeoned
By the flotsam
Tangled in the terrible debris
Battered by the violent sea
No more you than I am me
And I wish I had the gills to breath
Before those tides overwhelm me
Nov 29, 2014
Nov 29, 2014 at 12:46 PM UTC
Submissiveness:
give into man. silence yourself. his word is final. rush to his beck and call when he is angered. we are wrong. man is dominant, and woman is soft. if man is the bone, we are the gushy cartilage cushioning his fall. body dominated and composed of bone, but we are the organs that keep the body functioning. forever being transplanted, while our men are broken. submit.
Purity:
save yourself for man. wait for him with all your white so you are not tainted. innocence upheld. it is all for him, only him. wait for him to take it all, whenever he desires. be pure.
Domesticity:
the home calls our name. it is our calling. our knees bound to scrubbing, hands tied to kneading because our family needs us. we are to be the slaves of our homes just as we were to the white man. permanency of pressing collars that are not our own. domestic labor.
Piety:
we come from the rib of adam. without the presence of man we, ourselves would not exist. for this reason, we worship. we worship to reiterate our purity, to maintain our sanity when others challenge our virtues of womanhood. the lord is our shepherd. we uphold our lord. besides our husbands, he is all that we shall want.
womanhood.
Apr 27, 2014
Apr 27, 2014 at 12:08 PM UTC
I'm an olympic housewife.
My mantlepiece of medals
is perfectly folded washing
arranged in mahogany drawers
with calm elegance
like swans on a lake.
I’m an elite athlete of the mundane.
My scrapbook of 1st place ribbons
are surfaces that sparkle
a masterpiece of purity
zen arrangement lust
like Ikebana in an empty room.
I’m an extreme sport star of domesticity.
My list of world class honours
gluten free bake-offs
blogging my parenting tips
a domestic online celebrity
like an effortless Demeter.
Jul 4, 2015
Jul 4, 2015 at 11:19 PM UTC
Women aren't defined by their beauty. Woman are strong! And a woman can equally do the same things a man can do. Woman have evolved from following the idea of cult of domesticity and fearing to speak out but today we can be anything we set our minds too. Today is the day where we put an end to being quiet even when we know the answer like we were trained to. Today is the day where we compliment each others body before questioning our own beauty. Instead of body shaming we should embrace the fact that all women are different. Women shouldn't be afraid to wear anything because women are not property. As a society we shouldn't blame women for getting **** because we wore "something revealing". Instead we should all raise men and women the same !
Mar 9, 2016
Mar 9, 2016 at 1:37 AM UTC
There's a Sofa in my kitchen
and a Bread-bin in the lounge-
the missus won't stop *******
and the kids are on the scrounge.
the atmosphere is thick with queer
Simon Cowells on the telly,
Tom Jones's bones are
th' microphones n
his bowels are
Ooozzing smelly.
through atrophied
arseholes who choose
between iconicity
n the domesticity blues.
There's a Sofa in my kitchen
and a Bread-bin in the lounge
the missus won't stop *******
and the kids - are on the scrounge.
May 7, 2012
May 7, 2012 at 2:41 AM UTC
Little Dutch girl
So plainly dressed
In white frock and apron
And cotton cloth cap.
Feet made for walking
The hard cobble streets
Hands that will carry
Provisions bought.
A life of simplicity
Quietly led
With homemade toys
A wooden dolly's bed.
You hear stories from
Maids in the house
Kitchen mischief
And musical mice.
When you're a woman
What will you choose
A life of domesticity
Or another route.
Love Mary ***
Mar 3, 2018
Mar 3, 2018 at 8:42 AM UTC
I'm a Londoner
I embrace diversity
I relish cultural complexity
I feed on cross border connectivity
I laugh at the concept of heritage unity
I revel in the uncertainty of multi race identity.
I love my God, in His graceful domesticity
Here across this broad city.
Nov 29, 2016
Nov 29, 2016 at 4:02 AM 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
In these stuck between hours
I discover the noise of being
that comes from an atmosphere
not used to being heard
The warping of the wooden doors
goes on unabashedly.
Like animals in untouched climes
they scurry along unaware
of conscious eyes that stare
only for selfish reasons
The observer adulterates
a once selfless night
Nowadays the timbers under
the floor have lost their
native timbre, taken on
a softer echo of carpet covered servility
Even after mistakes are recovered,
these once savage floors can no longer reclaim
any primal creak after being tucked into
domesticity for so long with soft footsteps of children
paired with repressed stomps of soul-starved adults
left cold by countless other floors never once
imbued with the life of a home.
Oct 22, 2013
Oct 22, 2013 at 7:06 PM UTC
She is
the Ethereal Wonder
and I am her trusty sidekick
Dream Boy.
Her obsequious protégé,
I chop at the shadows
of the baddies
and glass ceilings
to which she delivers
swift kicks and merciless punches.
In the Dream Mobile,
my eyes are at her hand
on the stick shift,
her thumb flipping the
oil slick switch and pressing it—
the sounds of cars screeching and
careening off cliffs
fail to deter me from imagining
the gloved hand in mine.
Off she darts into the fray,
and I hear
the shocked public
gasp,
and the narrator expound,
“Faster than men less qualified but
more likely to get the job,
as powerful as histories
of suffragettes and debutantes,
able to leap over the confines
of impressed domesticity
in a single bound!”
Into her arms fall
the thankful victims
at the last second,
and the baleful embrace
of malevolence
gropes at thin air
where the Ethereal
Wonder once was.
She receives thanks
with a wave of a gloved
hand and bounties
of humility.
She is no damsel in distress,
she is no mere love interest,
and to be her partner
in this great dangerous adventure
will be the most heroic story
ever told—
And perhaps one day she will need saving,
and I will rise to the occasion—
owing my strength, wisdom, and ability
to all she has ever taught me
of being a hero.
Jun 16, 2017
Jun 16, 2017 at 7:13 PM UTC
To the author of the Huffington post “article” We Are The Generation Who Doesn’t Want a Relationship you’re wrong.
We Are The Generation Who Doesn’t Want to Be Straight, but you won’t let us.
I want domesticity like a fish wants a bicycle, which is to say that it would be nice but not useful.
I want the next boy I date to be able to flirt with the bar tender and to be tender and kinder than the last one. You keep putting us in jars with labels and naming us after stars and hurricanes but when we want to tear down your system you just say “shush now, just listen.”
I don’t want to hear your voice anymore – I don’t want to be told that I can’t love who I always have.
I don’t want any more halves, I want whole people to love me and make me more than the person who got called ***** all through high school because they couldn’t keep just one partner I don’t want to be an outsider anymore.
My darling says she wants someone to hold her hands when the world ends. You’ve put the fear of God in her and it makes her cry so much louder. My dearest says he wants to bring smiles to the people on the street and when he sees someone he thinks is cute his whole body goes mute I want to help him speak.
We keep swiping right like gamblers hoping for a chance at more than a second glance, we don’t want divorces or anymore court cases we don’t want second or third bases we just want patience while we pick up the pieces you dropped in front of us.
We want to keep believing in what you lost. We want pumpkin spice lattes and lately I want ladies, but not always because his smile drives me crazy and we don’t want babies.
We don’t want “consent is **** we want control over our own bodies. We don’t want binaries we want multicolored beanies and maybe, just maybe, we want nothing but to be gay.
Sep 20, 2016
Sep 20, 2016 at 6:06 PM UTC
We house a soul
from time to time,
but often find our corridors
left empty.
No house can stay full forever,
lest those filled with zany dreamers
who seek thrill beyond their own
four walls.
Souls do travel
from time to time,
like old visitors who leave tips
on the breakfast table
of their favorite inn,
shortly before seeing themselves off.
Souls may stand
on our back porch while they torch
a cigarette
and quietly ponder on minute,
existential mysteries.
Souls may seek comfort
sprawled at our fireplace
or perched atop a kitchen bar stool,
seeking to feel the comforting
complacency of domesticity.
A soul may find
that cozy comforts are ever elusive,
exceptional to an existence in which
the most stupendous feel bewildered
and insignificant.
Alas, such is the nature of a soul:
from time to time,
a soul might not recognize
its own might.
A soul will fight to find a home
and seek comfort from its peers,
but a soul does not often hear
the invitation to call a place one's own. . .
Home.
We are not souls, we house them
and from time to time,
if we are lucky,
our houses open their doors for more
than just one stray soul
to invite himself in.
If your home can house many
it houses the greatest of things,
above all else:
Love.
Aug 21, 2015
Aug 21, 2015 at 8:27 PM UTC
This anodyne morning *** of tea,
Is clearing the nebulous morning,
Plans that threatened to topple on me
Have muted much of their scorning.
Still there is reticence to put to the shovel
This mound of pending work-a-day tasks
They clutter my head, my week, and my hovel
Snoozing away days behind farcical masks.
Why do you mock me, oh gods of inaction?
What did I ever do to your ilk?
Did I once neglect to grant satisfaction
Tributes in gold, obeisance or silk?
Secretly though, I plan retribution
For what this torpor is stealing from me.
I'll wield hours of output and contribution
Office deliverables and domesticity.
But oaths and threats deliver poor solace,
Whilst I pontificate, not facing my work
The monster of time still tends to his malice
And here I yet sit, among the tasks that I shirk.
Oct 7, 2013
Oct 7, 2013 at 11:33 AM UTC
The Strid, at ground level, seems
A calm stream. A peaceful bath.
None foresee being swept into
My roaring depths, trapped under current and crag
I want to merit photographs, but
I am midday with overcast skies
The light isn’t quite right, the
Scenery you see seems trashed
I picture myself behind the wheel of
The steel frame of a 1967 Chevy Impala. Black and
Worn down from its time in domesticity
Its escapee driving fast, kicking up dust, so
He can never look back
Praying the engine doesn’t clunk or thrash
My heart is the library of Alexandria
Endless tomes taken from open trade
Open to few, elites within not knowing they’re kindling
An empire of knowledge gone to waste in
A night of passion and fire
My mind lives in Constantinople
Unbroken walls build in fear of failure
I am the fire in that city, uncontrolled
I consume myself from within, and
My walls crumble
Prized relics of pride swiftly settle
Kicking up dust at the bottom of the river
The bosun yells “man overboard!”
Too late; they’re trapped
Under current and crag.
May 14, 2015
May 14, 2015 at 12:55 PM UTC
Once, i had love and music.
But people come, people go
but the few that stay ..
if any stay.. who wants to
stay?
A head full of breezes,
nothing
that lingers
No one that
lingers
Nothing that
matters.
Poor emo ***** *****
lost in their houses.
If wishes were fishes i might do the dishes
but domesticity kills.
(Paralysis too)
I'd rather do nothing than
something i might lose.
Out look is everything
Look in the mirror
and what do you see?
You really are who
you want to be.
I want to be ****
I want to mean
nothing.
Cause nothing from nothing beats nothing from something
"What of the morning?"
The watchmen he said,
"This morning is this evening and this evening ill be dead."
I find my self
lost inside a home,
not my home,
my home is with you.
You make me feel like a crazy fool.
I'm childish
I'm selfish,
immature to boot.
You would think all this knowledge would give me something to do.
Art requires heart, and a heart I don't have.
See i gave it away to this lovely young man.
Art with out heart, is like Bell with out Beast.
When they dont come together, nothing is complete.
Dec 3, 2012
Dec 3, 2012 at 12:06 AM UTC
Could you give me a sign?
Or better yet, drop a line?
I'm just getting tired of pretending I'm fine.
I'm ready to call you mine.
Instead I'm downing another glass of wine.
You said you felt electricity.
But saying it without giving it reeks of toxicity.
To get the point across I shouldn't need publicity.
All I'm asking from you is a little domesticity.
Just a hand to hold when we walk.
A kind word when we talk.
Arms wrapped around me with a gentle rock.
On occasion make my headboard knock.
And keep my heart on lock.
I've never been much good at this game.
Always fills me with a sense of shame.
Maybe I'm boring or a little tame,
But all I want is a name.
And I just want you to feel the same.
Dec 2, 2015
Dec 2, 2015 at 2:03 PM UTC
And there was time
were time dissapeared
and there was none
but holy disgrace
how much can it be
to become a beauty bee
we try to retrieve
we seek our need
So they yelled.
and what was there?
Let it be,
scream a renaissance
retrieve baroque
or simply Byzantine
along with
an illusion
we find something
then Zeus started to *****
and left was dear Promt
Rather a darkness of trust
to have the world
rapt in dust
were we seek for the light
once in a year,
while the revolutionair
is not the visionair
since our promises of
big men, ruling
we became slaves
of our domesticity
and rabbits, said
no!
were is our hole ,
we survive.
Mar 28, 2017
Mar 28, 2017 at 3:15 PM UTC
Born of the earth;
He is a feast for the human soul.
His father is a velvet fungus,
who invented the cult of domesticity.
His mother is pregnant
with crisp autumn nights,
and speaks to him in
the language of the
sun and the moon.
He lives in ancient waters,
with the singing oracles
of passion, pain and pleasure.
He drives the heartland express
and his air freshener smells like musk.
He collects squished whispers from your ceilings,
and feeds them to you until Sunday morning
comes to take him back.
Jul 1, 2011
Jul 1, 2011 at 8:11 AM UTC
-
‘you’re the only hell that I’m gonna know’
i pledge this with spears/
i greet me
goodbye of you
and approach my new interaction
with life-path,
a heaven in preproduction...
but a few steps on the road
i’ve a bone to discover...
...i recover and cultivate
a little hellscape
that travelled within me all this time/
in some form or another
it seems i owe you
an apology/
i also harbour an imp and
without the dominance of your
raging villain
my brute loosened from it's domesticity
/that said
you still remain
my significant
past tense
abuser
Jul 2, 2019
Jul 2, 2019 at 2:25 PM UTC
room
to room
reflections of
youth
the set of
things a timid under-
standing this womanish
body
reverberates
the lie like sun
shine on water
domesticity close to
home a slick casing
left as the pulsing
breathing thing moves
on
I'll decorate anyway
the hollow
where I dwell and see
slivers of memory
in every picture
hung
Aug 11, 2015
Aug 11, 2015 at 8:10 PM UTC
"Why do you always walk around like you're in love, when you aren't at all?"
"I am in love.
I'm in love with the flowers I pet,
I'm in love with the smiles of the awful people in this town,
I'm in love with the sun on my neck,
the ground under my feet,
the fact that I've been alive for this long,
the fact that I could die at any second and I'd still laugh at a pun.
I'm in love with pain, because it let's me know I'm alive.
I'm in love with thrill, because it makes me feel invincible and fragile at the same time.
I'm in love with every skin cell I've ever touched.
I'm in love with the way the world changes without me.
I'm in love with the eclectic bodies I see.
I'm in love with naivety and wisdom.
I'm in love with domesticity and wilderness.
I'm so in love with my surroundings, I can't help but show it."
Jul 2, 2016
Jul 2, 2016 at 8:50 PM UTC
No problems, just theories
and excuses both lame and creative
extravagance in rare form,
perfect, really
if you wish to boil down the exteriors and denature the proteins
fleshy and energized, totally organic
like a Tropicana Sunday
complete with yellow Voltswagons and STDs.
Why speak of such things?
Shock value isn't worth much,
just a fist in the ***
if that's what you're into
and even if you're not
(especially if you're not)
because then you can't appreciate a good smack when it's deserved
and you begin to feel lonely
like a kid who can do no wrong
so never enjoyed the beauty of time out
only the isolation of magnets on the refridgerator,
domesticity a promise but not an end
only the beginning, a cycle of strife that is fully necessary and advantageous
when placed on the plates of the right eating bunch,
and goodness it's a lovely night
because the stars are still shaped like those homely spoons and beasts
and all the world's at the feet of the manor's Lords and Ladies
such wonderfully pitiful people
though can't blame them for much
only for being so flea- bitten and haughty
when the serfs are just as alive.
May 26, 2012
May 26, 2012 at 11:04 PM UTC
lying on my back in the warmth of too early southern california morning
in a too empty bed that smells like memories
breathing slowly as I watch the moonbeams shine through the blinds
beams of light jittering slightly on the ceiling
and all that is missing from this moment
is the familiar purr of my cat in the corner
and the feeling of another's heartbeat under my chest
why do I crave domesticity the way I do?
is it because I come from a broken home
and desperately seek that which I never had?
is it because I watched too many movies
and read too many fairy tales?
or was i simply always meant to be this way
craving simple touches and the sound of your breathing
the way some people crave gin and cigarettes
Jul 31, 2012
Jul 31, 2012 at 3:57 AM UTC
is that your mother’s grave.
no she lived in bournemouth,
buried there.
why did you not bring her
here?
look a leaf fell, it
must be autumn now.
so we built the dens,
one with leaves overlooking,
one with sheets, pegs, ironing boards
as befits domesticity. it got hotter.
i lost touch, did not know
he is in hospital.
sbm.
Aug 27, 2013
Aug 27, 2013 at 1:42 AM UTC