"dryer" poems
Sadness clung to you like a staticky old dryer sheet
Jun 21, 2015
Jun 21, 2015 at 3:46 PM UTC
There is something magical
in the whirring
of a midday laundromat.
A cessation of pride,
maybe.
People all dressed in sweatpants
the air full of detergent smell
and the sound of coins clicking
against great tumblers
as they go round
and round
and round
and round...
The people smile back,
no use pretending superiority here.
Whistlers twitter on, folding towels and socks into neat, organized piles.
The children are well behaved,
their hands full of potato chips
given by their parents as a pittance for their patience.
The patient patrons
ponder on,
their empty hands crumpling receipts.
This, with the crunching of chips
and the distant whistle
over the percussion of clicking
coins clattering
in a dryer
compose an unintentional opera,
an ode to humility.
Humility's honorable honesty heals humanity's hubris.
Noisy trucks pass outside the floor-to-ceiling plate glass windows,
Where the hot air wreaks its violence
and men make their ways
in spite.
Oct 6, 2014
Oct 6, 2014 at 5:00 PM UTC
It's 3:09am
I'm im the library
Desperately trying to write a research paper:
'LGBT Familes'
How fitting.
Caffeine courses through my veins
Coffee overloads my bladder
Bathroom.
I hate bathrooms.
When you have no gender
The simple act of relieving yourself becomes a chore
The heavy weight of that key decision
Chokes your lungs as you stand outside the doors
Two doors.
Men.
Women.
Not me.
The choice becomes simplified:
While I sometimes pass as a man
I often do not.
I can choose the men's bathroom
The consequence of which could end in physical violence
The same hate I explain through my essay.
The same fear that plagues my community.
The women's restroom is also an option
The consequences likely less dire than the former:
Heavy side eye and the potential of yelling.
A much safer choice.
Obviously.
Per usual, I walk into the women's room.
I take three strides inside.
Then I stop.
I've never used the men's room.
My fear of violent reactions has always won.
Yet at a time like this
How likely is it that someone is inside the men's room?
Now is my chance to face my fears.
Now I have a safe chance at peeing in peace.
In a bathroom potentially more suiting
Of my gender identity
So I turn around.
Let the door slam behind me.
Half a step into the men's room
The smell of rancid ***** hits my senses
Toilet paper liters the stalls
I have missed absolutely nothing in my years in the women's room
Women have nicer facilities
A significantly more advanced hand dryer
Cleanliness
Air freshener
Men do not have these luxuries
Now I question,
Do men not take as good of care of their bathrooms as women do?
Do the workers intentionally prioritize women's sanitation?
What causes this undeniable divide?
Is the messiness of the men's room a result of their conscious decisions?
Or simply a response to societal expectation?
Regardless,
I think I'll stick to the women's room
While I add bathrooms to my compilation
Of more discrete gender inequality
Oct 31, 2017
Oct 31, 2017 at 2:23 PM UTC
You are the rock stuck inside of my sock.
You are drying off naturally after the longest shower in history, because you forgot the towel.
Like the string that is hanging off of my sweater. I keep tugging it and
pretty soon it is short enough for July weather.
The person using the car horn instead of ringing a door bell.
The low battery symbol on my cell.
Pungent perfume from a co-worker, the grossest smell.
The **** that asks for the red piece from your package of sweets.
The friend who cancels five minutes before every time you meet.
The rap artist that thanks God when he wins an award, even though his
songs are just about killing.
Medical technicians milling about when your arm really is broken.
The chapstick left in the pocket when the clothes are in a dryer.
Dress pants for work that are so tight, you feel you must be riding a wire.
The friend's children that you think are rude,
Unexpected company when you and your lover were getting in the mood.
But I guess it is just easier to say, I just don't have a good attitude.
Apr 19, 2010
Apr 19, 2010 at 10:21 PM UTC
And all your heros are gone,
but you refuse to take off the mask.
A loudmouth, a capitalist,
with greasy hair and a golden toothpick,
he is your enemy
he is your oppressor and
he sits upon a throne of coal and blood
with armed security
and a nation built for him,
to protect him and his money,
a police state, pat downs on the corner,
murdered in the street,
your daughters gotta eat.
He grows fatter and fatter still,
he loves complacency,
he loves contentment,
he invests heavily in both.
He knows we are strong,
he knows we are many,
he knows he must divide us to win,
he knows we're his greatest weapon,
so he created Fox News,
he created TMZ,
stealthily,
we didn't even notice,
he created NPR and KVIE,
he gave them masks that look like ours.
They look poor,
they look starved,
they look like us, but they have a different master.
Our master is the earth,
our master is our coworker, our neighbor, our mailman,
our dishwashers, our bus drivers, our minimart clerks.
Our masters are not the TV,
our masters are not the radio,
our masters are not the New York Times,
they are not National Geographic,
they are not BP,
they are not our principals, our administrators,
our policemen, our CEOs, our investors, our bankers,
our insurance providers,
these people hate us,
they hate us because they can't squeeze blood from a stone,
and
the rivers are running dry,
the factories are standing still,
the people, our masters and our friends,
they're in the streets,
they're shouting "BLACK LIVES MATTER"
they're shouting "NO JUSTICE NO PEACE"
"NO MORE WAR FOR OIL"
**** THE POLICE"
"DOWN WITH THE 1%"
and soon
and soon,
The False Gods will grow so fat
and we'll have nothing left to eat but them,
and on that day we'll sit down to dine
and it won't be civilized and it won't be pretty,
their blood, our blood, will feed the rivers and their flesh will feed our hungry children and their money will burn and warm our chilled bones but we can't wait,
we can't wait for this to happen because everyday they grow stronger,
we grow weaker and the river becomes dryer.
The Bourgeois is our enemy,
they say 'All Lives Matter'
they say 'Work Hard and Your Dreams Will Come True'
BUT THEY LIE
Jul 12, 2016
Jul 12, 2016 at 4:54 PM UTC
I open the browser on my phone
And then I close it
For the tenth time
I have a dozen things to do
But nothing in me wants to
So I sit here, depressed,
Dry clothes wrinkling in the dryer
Nov 19, 2014
Nov 19, 2014 at 1:32 AM UTC
Let me taste you,
let my tongue ripen inside.
Licking your lips,
dryer that sweet wine.
Mix your taste buds with mine
your decadent flavor is fine.
Succulent as is divine,
your taste, I devour
time after time
emotions erupting
The burning passion
never subsides.
Jun 21, 2016
Jun 21, 2016 at 8:59 PM UTC
Somewhere between eggshells and landmines
Were the creaking floors upon which I played
Carefully, for her wrath could be detonated
At a footfall, just a bit too heavy
From a word uttered under the breath
A mess left too long in the sink.
But her embrace was warm,
Wrapping around me like sheets from the dryer
And when she put on pause her own life
To tend to me at my sick-bed,
Her eyes showed only tender love.
“My baby goat,” she would say, affectionately,
And leave a kiss upon my feverish brow.
She is a living contradiction, my mother:
Churning disapproval shattering the gleam
That she put into the hopeful eyes of a child
Just a moment before.
I lived in perpetual uncertainty,
Never knowing which mother I might see next:
The raven or the hen.
And now she looks at me with disappointment,
Wondering aloud why her children fear her.
Her capriciousness eroded away any trust
And much of the fondness as well
Her hot-blooded adoration
And her ice-cold tantrums
Have mixed so long now
All that is left is
Lukewarm like the bathwater
Left over from when the
Baby was thrown out.
Sep 11, 2023
Sep 11, 2023 at 7:16 PM UTC
I love da sound ya ***** does make
While slapping up against your sister, for Christ sake
Watching you all doing the ***** deed, doggy style
On ya momma's brand new, multi coloured **** pile
***** young boys, are forever slapping, keepin’ it real
While viewing ya ***** in ya year nine, high school classes
Even some curious gals, like to slip in a quick feel
While flashing their hallway entry, fancy gold passes
Da sound ya ***** makes, ya must be using an amplifier
With a **** load of flaming, boom-boom, bass
Next time though, try turning the treble up, as you were
And turning down that flaming bass, just in case
This mornin’, I woke up stiff, like feelin’ as if dead
Then flicked through the paper, my obituary, I just read
Didn't feel that great, after we had finished the missionary
Wish I was much more aware, like a future visionary
I haven't even ironed my clothes or done my face
For my very last day of this bright sunlight
Will I need to pack a jumbo suitcase
Or maybe just some shorts and thongs
On my mystery vacation, one-way flight
Da sound ya ***** was making when shaking
Was maybe way too loud for some, last night
It put me in, like a clothes dryer spin
Police came by, just to check that no one was pranking
With some spray with mace, just when I was about to sin
Everyone's got an unusual craze in life
Mine just happened to put me in a daze
Should've taken a much deeper breath
When going down between ya momma's thighs
Send flowers to my ******* and hoes
And never ever forget, ya ****** nice ways
Always tried to satisfy the whole **** world
But still hearing some sad **** woes
I like da sound ya ***** makes
Reminds me of some ole dance tracks
Played by the DJ, named Georgie O’Kay
While everyone dances to a beat
I'm hard at work, while trying to get ya
To get down lower and pretend to be ya momma.
Sep 10, 2019
Sep 10, 2019 at 6:14 PM UTC
How do you think
Those mismatched socks feel
When you pull them
From the dryer.
Do they know that they will
Never see their match again
That they will always be
Half of an equation.
Do they know that
They have lost their purpose
Never to be regained.
When you pull that single sock
From the dryer
Does it understand
That it will never be complete again.
Sometimes
I feel
Like the mismatched socks.
But then I remember
That I am melodramatic
They are just socks
And someday
I will find my other sock
I will find you.
Apr 7, 2014
Apr 7, 2014 at 12:04 PM UTC
You hold the hair dryer in your hand
Blowing hot air right at your man
Looks so nice right after the cut
Talking about *** gives them enough
Your stories keep them on the edge
What you do behind his back
How your needs aren’t met
Glad you use contraception
Underneath the veil of deception
What happened to make you this way
Thinking that cheating is ok
Betraying all your lovers trust
All your love turns to rust
Flip em over, do it again
Theres always something
That’s wrong with the men
So shallow to look inside
Find out where your fear hides
You don’t need a good reputation
Underneath the veil of deception
Someday soon you will see
That things don’t work dishonestly
Try to see from the other side
If you were deceived could you abide?
Karma isn’t a new ideal
See you one day when you are real
Apr 1, 2015
Apr 1, 2015 at 3:57 PM UTC
The old neighborhood is a labyrinth
Of second-story windows, lamplight and
Distant smells of pencils and dryer sheets
Of a Sunday dinner that never ends
Oct 19, 2021
Oct 19, 2021 at 12:20 AM UTC
The music thumps, the walls jump,
she pole dances against the jamb.
Dust rag in her right.
polish in her left hand.
House is hers for a few hours
to fulfill a fantasy.
Bump and grind it babe,
the vacumn whiiiirrrs away.
Shake that ***** strut that stuff,
transfer clothes in washer to dryer.
Wearing faded blue jeans,
kick that leg up higher.
Beds are made, bunnies dusted,
she cat walks looking demure.
Practices a sultry pout,
wiping spots from the mirror.
Work the shoulders, drop to a deep squa,t
then stick the **** up in the air.
Family is due home very soon,
straighten her clothing with care.
Greet the kids with hugs, husband with kisses,
getting dinner to the table.
While news plays in the background,
her life is happy, solid and stable.
Dishes washed, kids off to sleep,
taking my husband by the hand,
this housewife leads him to our room,
where her stripper soul takes command
Jun 23, 2010
Jun 23, 2010 at 10:31 AM UTC
Her eyes burned from ammonia and snow as she shoveled the driveway
in the parts where the cat litter failed to appropriate traction.
This is what cars are for she said before she slipped away onto a twin mattress
next to pile of laundry and a pillow of books.
Sleeping with dryer hot clothes is only comfortable until you realize
you are still alone and loneliness is only formidable when you know it is indefinite.
So she folded each item into a pile and wondered if a suitcase wouldn't be better
than her dresser. But running away is not an answer like pit bulls and vipers having daughters, even though they ran out of formaldehyde and jars.
Aug 11, 2011
Aug 11, 2011 at 8:17 PM UTC
Remember when, you were a very little boy
and your mom would warm the towels up in the dryer
so when you jumped out of the bathtub shivering you would feel cozy warm?
Remember when, you were a very little girl
and your dad would hold you in his arms
and whirl around in circles until you both fell to the ground laughing?
Remember when, you were a little boy
and you scraped your knee when you fell out of the tree,
and your mom held you close until the tears stopped?
Remember when, you were so sick you stayed home from school,
and your mom made special soup just for you
and cuddled you up and read your favorite story 6 times, just because?
Remember when, your pet hamster, Louie, died,
and you insisted on having an official burial ceremony,
and mom and dad said nice things about Louie before the shoebox was covered up?
Remember when, you were a little girl,
and your grandma gave you your first china tea set
and she had tea and crumpets with you and Bear?
Remember when, you were very young,
and a hug or a kiss or a word would repair
the biggest hurts in the world?
I remember when..............................................................
Oct 29, 2010
Oct 29, 2010 at 11:52 AM UTC
“…the grandfather’s camera with the last pictures of the youngest Colorado theatre shooting victim was stolen and the family’s sorrow has compounded…”
Veronica, why did you love Anne Hathaway
And why did you not go refill the popcorn,
Veronica? You ate it all during the previews
Though I warned your stomach would hurt.
Sweet Veronica, how did you know to hate Bane
And why did you not go to the bathroom,
My dear. The hand-dryer’s scream is loud
But it dries, unlike your wetting, red screech.
Veronica, why did you insist that you were old enough
For this fate? And how could I have agreed,
Cold Veronica. Pigtails were meant to be springy,
Not limp with blood, Pepsi, and regret.
The Bullets.
The Cape.
The damning shot
Would have slapped
Even Batman
Dead.
Young Veronica, why is the memory of you
And your innocent flesh fading fast,
To red Veronica? Wet too young and too alive
For the four-foot long coffin we buried.
Yesterday.
Cop lights.
My camera with
The last shots of you
“Stolen, sir.”
Wail, Veronica from the camera screen
In the hands of this thief, oh, convince him,
Stab, Veronica, with your pixilated smile
Until the guilt brings your smile home, to my eyes.
Oct 9, 2012
Oct 9, 2012 at 6:22 PM UTC
Socks that hide secrets
Socks that hide shame
Socks that contain
the shadows of pain
They once pranced in the dryer
They now slump in the drawer
They send little sock homing signals galore
Fermenting the anguish
Makes the smell much more tolerable
It was all part of the ineffable plan
Jul 16, 2013
Jul 16, 2013 at 6:35 PM UTC
I find myself at the laundromat
Working out my thighs and lats
I put 2 quarters in the slot
It makes a sound like a robot
I open the door and I am posed
With a question asking, where are my clothes?
I don't wanna look stupid so I improvise
So I start chatting it up with a couple of guys
I say
Laundry for hire, laundry for hire
I'm looking for just the right buyer
Come on in, into my dryer
Laundry for hire, laundry for hire
One fine chap quickly agrees
Though I see him shaking at the knees
I ask him kindly to take out his keys
Don't worry kiddo this will be easy
He squeezes in, packed so tightly
I close the door feeling high and mighty
The machine rolls round and round
The door opens, and he falls to the ground
I feast on his entrails, meaty and sweet
Taking in the smell of his feet
I end my meal and am satisfied
Though I do wish he was deep fried
I feel a hunger still raging on
I still wish for it to be gone
So I say,
Laundry for hire, Laundry for hire
I'm looking for just the right buyer
Come on in into my dryer
Laundry for hire laundry for hire
Oct 31, 2014
Oct 31, 2014 at 4:39 PM UTC
Cleaning up my thoughts with some sleep,
itemized & organized thanks to my dreams.
Cleaning up my thoughts with a mornin' bath,
last night's scents just never last.
Cleaning up my thoughts from the fridge,
uneaten words will be my nourishment.
Cleaning up my thoughts from the trash,
odious memories from the past.
Cleaning up my thoughts in wash 'n dryer,
to maintain color & getting brighter.
Cleaning up my thoughts with some smoke,
a lazy sunday daydream makes room for more.
Cleaning up my thoughts when I take a walk ,
jogging with my brain so one day I can grokk.
Cleaning up my thoughts with exercise,
working out the muscles & the third eye.
Cleaning up my thoughts through meditation,
sending stress away & on a vacation.
Sep 16, 2012
Sep 16, 2012 at 11:13 PM UTC
These words are a sock, soft and warm from the dryer
butterknife
palpable
lullabye
maroon
These words are bits of glass, attacking my ears:
Yaw
Ketch
Blurt
Epizeuxis
Jactation and
Mauve
These words are brass-knuckled fists to the face
Mogadishu
Rwanda
Desert One
My Lai
And
Nine One One
These words are a sneaky cat, slithering here and there
Mystery
Secretive
Lurking
Sly
Shadowy
These words are unknown to everyone but me. Private words for private thoughts.
Uiyak
Jackassdom
Nothingofanyvalue
Apr 24, 2013
Apr 24, 2013 at 4:26 PM UTC
i do not want to sleep
in my clothes again
but i don't have the energy
to put my pyjamas
into the dryer.
Jun 23, 2015
Jun 23, 2015 at 11:30 AM UTC
On April 10th, 1846 on the ship Devonshire from Liverpool,
one Catherine McCarty, age 17 arrived in New York during times most cruel.
She made this long journey to escape the famine occurring in her native Ireland.
We don't know if she arrived alone or with family
or whether she was married or accompanied with a boyfriend.
The passenger arrival manifest has her listed a servant as the occupation she did.
Based only on her age and her name, many historians have speculated and proclaimed
that she's the mother of BILLY the Kid.
Billy's mother died on September 16th in the year of 1874.
She was 45 years old according to her obituary.
Combine the above information and we know one thing for sure.
Immigrant Catherine shared the same age and name as did the true mother of Billy.
It seems that due to health reasons, Catherine McCarty's life had gone onto
searching for dryer climate out west as a single mother of two.
One of her sons would live a full life and then fade into obscurity.
Her other son would die very young and become one of the greatest legends to ever be.
No one knows anything about the boys' father or whether they shared the same one.
Did he/they die or abandon the family? Your guess is as good as anyone's.
Catherine was a strong, independent, gregarious lass
whom everyone seemed to like and enjoy very dearly.
She earned a living selling baked goods to customers she had amassed
and by also doing much of the neighborhood's ***** laundry.
She also dabbled in real estate, purchasing what little property she could afford,
and to earn extra income she'd often open the door to her home and welcome
all those willing to pay room and board.
It was clearly shown that she could take on the responsibility alone,
as far as providing and caring for her boys.
When she wasn't earning employment, she'd occasionally indulge in the enjoyment
that every good, loving mother enjoys.
After schooling her children, she'd take them to local dances
where she was known to be one of the grandest dancers on the dance floor,
but of all the dance partners she'd dance with
there was always one she could never resist
and he'd want to dance with her more and more.
"Of all my dance partners," she told him one night, "you are my favorite one."
To see her lovingly gaze into his eyes, it certainly would come as no surprise
to learn that William Henry was Catherine McCarty's favored son.
To Be Continued
Jul 7, 2010
Jul 7, 2010 at 4:47 PM UTC
I'm a lost sock
Longing to keep a foot from feeling cold
Even though I can't cover your entire body
Ill settle for an extremity
Because it's true that
Something really is better than nothing
I was dropped between the dryer and the washing machine
Forgotten about just like the paper clip and the thumbtack
My mirror matching partner
May have gone on to meet another
But either way I lie here in lint
I remember the comfort of being in a shoe
When the warmth flowed through me
I knew I was really getting somewhere
Always aware I was part of a pair
One of a two
Half of a couple that together made a team
Then again there was way back when
I was pressed and packaged and pristine and
Presented myself to people in a store
Who could care less to think twice or
Double take and have a second glance at me
I was as unique as all the rest
But I took my job very seriously
Now I crave to do anything
To help anyone and be of use anywhere
To maybe one day be rediscovered and
Perhaps reunite with my other or
Become a fine furniture duster or
A puppet upon the hand of a person Practicing how to be humble
It's a dream and a hope and
One of the few things left I'm free to have faith in
They can take my feet away but
They can't take everything
Somewhere out there is a bare paw
Chilled to the bone and shivering
Stinging exposed to the world
Wishing I was there
Come find me
Drop something worth picking up
So you notice that long lost missing sock
Reach and retrieve me and return me to reality
I've been waiting for this forever it seems
But through your eyes it's just a
Routine insignificant finding
Unknowing that it means the world to me and
My entire existence revolves around dependency
May 24, 2013
May 24, 2013 at 2:02 AM UTC
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