"dryers" poems
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
I never come here, you understand,
I'm of a higher social class,
But my washer dryer has broken down
And has left me without a single gown.
My dishwasher works fine and my wine rack is full,
But still, expensive washer dryers can breakdown
And make a lady frown.
I've got someone coming to fix it
(We have our washer dryer insured),
I should really get a new one but it's been really rather good...
It's always washed away the stains of fancy food.
Fellow launderer please understand -
as you look rather tough -
I won't judge you if you don't judge,
So let us wash our clothes in unspoken harmony
And make my inconvenience as unawkward as it can be.
But to my shame my snobbish mind assumes the worst;
That every rushing washer
Is thrusting clothes into the machines hurriedly,
Because they've all been on a killing spree.
Now the drying is almost done,
I can leave you with your dreary woes of working life and sleepless nights,
And go right home to dispose of that gun.
Sep 1, 2018
Sep 1, 2018 at 10:24 AM UTC
Smells like clean clothes
it's always pleasant
at the laundromat
down the street from
my apartment.
The washer and dryer
are currently broken
looks like some teenager
didn't know what they were doing
as the washer is filled with water
and their clothes remain
inside dwelling to smell
of mildew.
The dryer looks like an antique
because it is the slime green of the 70's
mismatched to it's wifley counterpart
that is stainless steel sparkles
so I assume the dryers death
is not the fault of our fresh water culprit
but electrical problems brought on
from existing forever.
They broke a few months ago
and I've never gone to check
if they were brought back to life
as I've found myself
intoxicated with the laundromat.
It's the mechanical hums
an orchestra of ball barrings
with clothes tumbling
through their fabric softeners
to become fresh gentle cottons
the smell of Hugs
is the aroma of heaven.
Jan 13, 2016
Jan 13, 2016 at 6:27 PM UTC
in ft.lauderdale there is a tunnel. the Henry E. Kinney tunnel. it is dusty and loud.
ghosts pass through there and beg me for change. little do they kno that i have the morphine.
less fiends. all fiends.
if you sit in there long enough youll gather waves of grey on your skin.
like sand on the shore can become such pretty patterns.
why am i writing this? the sun is shining.
if god was my soulmate id cheat with the devil,
and id have a very vivid imagination.
pop-corn on sale. 50cents.
broke tooth on kernel. cant afford the visit.
dry mouth to ****
dryers empty.
loose change.
loose cannon.
a monster.
is on the loose.
you wake up and the doctor starts to say something but you eat him.
quick! hand me a sqrew-driver.
i want to **** a bird on my way down.
if anyone ever loved and were loved by both parents then i am happy for you. you are:
happy person.
i have talked to many people.
and they talk and they talk and they pass time with words..like gas.
waste the breath and the small bones in my ear.
and always remember: try to listen every once in a while.
talk too much is rude. especially about nothing.
please shut up.
everyone.
2.
3.
forever.
5.
sick
psychopaths.
Jan 8, 2013
Jan 8, 2013 at 10:53 PM UTC
Rather the clouds were a motorcycle,
Jesus rides up, lowers his sunglasses.
You ride off with him into the sun
not setting, but crashing violently
into the ocean. Rather, you receive
an inconspicuous e-mail, that you write
off as spam. “Save Your Soul Pls Read”
in the subject header was easy to ignore,
easy to delete. Jesus on the other end
of the illuminated screen was trying to reach
you. Even now his hand comes out of the
screen like a cartoon odor, beckoning.
Rather, you hear three thuds on your door
and Jesus bursts through, shattering
the components of your door-knob. He is dressed
in fine clothing, soft, his *** looks great.
“Come on. We are getting you the **** out
of here.” He still has his sunglasses on.
Rather, a firefighter runs down the stairs, turns
the iron on, starts the dryers, and hits the circuit
breaker with his axe. You are on your belly, gripping
smoke in between knuckles, fingers. Emerging
into daylight, Jesus rides your pet Rottweiler,
like a horse, out your front door.
Rather, a 1995 Honda Civic sputters
towards you. A boy in plaid stumbles
out with a briefcase that stumbles
open. Cassette tapes stumble
out. “Would you want to go
for a ride?” There is a moment
where the road disappears over an arc.
You two are falling together.
Rather, it is raining walls of white
foam. Jesus is in a bright yellow poncho
laughing heartily. He throws your body into salt
waves. At first, the shock of cold muted
the harpoon in your gut. Jesus is dragging you
as you spin the harpoon inside you
first horizontal then vertical.
Mar 17, 2011
Mar 17, 2011 at 8:02 PM UTC
I walked into the laundry room
to a couple folding into each other.
Her chartreuse camisole and his
evergreen boxers pined for a bough
break in the noise of twenty-something
cents rattling in the dryers.
They talked about peeling off
and sorting each other's skin layers
by darks and lights, trying to find
a neutral blush they could blend on.
My towels had three minutes
left on the spin cycle, so I walked past them into the dim-lit room, took
a seat on a dryer, and turned around
to face the cream brick wall and
pipes cutting on a diagonal, dividing
it into lights and darks.
Jan 20, 2015
Jan 20, 2015 at 11:26 AM UTC
The laundry mat, a necessary evil,
If you have no washer or drier,
That's where you go.
Clink clang, quarters fall out of the change machine
Only to be taken by the washers and dryers
In and out, people being loud
They come inside and then leave
Beep beep beep
Buzz, buzz, buzz
Washers and dryers crying out to be switched or
Started up again.
Heavy baskets of laundry are transported from place
To place.
Someone always leaving a sock or a pair of underwear behind,
Later curious as to where it went.
Many don't understand why people use the place
But when you are poor or don't have a place to put
A washer or a dryer, that is the loophole in the world of
Washer dryer ownership.
Jun 1, 2013
Jun 1, 2013 at 11:16 AM UTC
It’s been a long time since the piles in your backyard towered.
Filled up with tables and chairs,
Microwaves and dryers.
You never cry like you used to
Before the pills
When the pile was higher
And your hands weren’t as rough.
Some days I’d like to take those pills
And add them to my own pile
With the tattoos and scars
The piles and piles that grow on my back
The endless desert,
The mountain of spine.
All the places you can’t see
And all the places you choose not to see.
There was a time when I was afraid of you
Afraid of being carelessly adopted into your pile
Now I’m afraid of myself
And being buried in my own.
Nov 8, 2012
Nov 8, 2012 at 10:10 PM UTC
I sit here in the local laundromat
on a aluminium park bench
amongst the fish eyed dryers
and icberg washing machines
that rumble with never siated
coin fed hunger, the smell of
artificial spring and wet dog
swelling on the humid breeze
In the corner an o.d lady sits
reading a mills and boon love story
two young men stand
leaning against the door frame,
smoking cigarettes, they look
like casual warrior guards, on their day off
all surfer dude tan and body buff
guarding the inner sanctum of local cleanliness
Another mother, you can, tell by the handbag
is playing a game on her tablet, some tinny music
wafts over, and she glances at me with apology in her eyes
I have brought nothing except my phone
on which I am writing this, and carkeys and wallet
I watch the tumble dryers tumble, and am mesmerized
by the kaleidoscope of linens,playing at being acrobats
it is warm and cozy in the evening light, a world apart
Out side on the still warm sidewalk and old dog lounges
his eyes focused on old Mrs Mills and Boon, her load finishes
and as she gets up, so does the dog, both slow and methodical
as she folds her washing the dog noses the air, comes to the doorway, where one of the young blokes offers his hand
for a pat, the dog allows the contact, but his eyes remain on the old lady as she packs her wasing into a wheeled bag,
the pair then leave, walking down the street into the dusk,
the dog's nose mere inches from the old ladies gnarled hand
and his tail wagging furiously. I fell I have witnessed something
beautiful and intimate, as they wander away...
Jul 13, 2017
Jul 13, 2017 at 5:54 PM UTC
the girls in the back
of the local pathetic
laundrymat
(where nothing,
none of my things,
comes out clean)
speak ugly slavic.
their loads must be light
as they're only half dressed.
I put my clothes,
all I own,
except the one's on my back,
in five dryers
and go sit
on the paint-peeled
two-tone maroon
bench in front.
today's heat is indefinite,
and I wonder if someone
has stolen my
soap and basket yet.
this is downtown,
the turf occupied
mostly by addicts and foreigners
and the rich,
the richer than me,
meander lazily in and out
of bars and salons.
the beautiful plump brown skin girl
I've been falling in Love with
has straddled her bike and left.
she didn't even see me
smile at her.
now there's the asian man
stereotype, smoking incessantly
like me.
who spends most of his time
daydreaming of some other life.
his thousand yard stare sees nothing
and I'm hungry, but I won't eat
the restaurants are all white owned
and nothing is good or cheap.
there's garbage everywhere
and no one seems to mind.
when my pencil stops moving,
terrible writer's fear
I'll never have another thought
worth writing or bought.
time to fold up
and maybe scrape that
marines sticker off
the back of my truck.
Aug 26, 2017
Aug 26, 2017 at 11:51 PM UTC
Watching the colors go round, and round.
The bright yellow towels making a halo,
in the dryer window, time trudging slowly.
Facing west, watching the sun set,
Washers and dryers humming in my ears,
Always feeling awkward sitting here alone.
Waiting for the buzzers to split the loud silence,
So I can finish my laundry, folding, hanging, packing,
And getting the heck outta Dodge!
I hate doing laundry.
Oct 14, 2010
Oct 14, 2010 at 6:15 PM UTC
towels mingle toss tease
in an unforgiving rush of water
merrily tumbling through waves
rich with detergent
meanwhile dark fabrics twist
in an angry climactic surf
while lighter colors undulate elsewhere
in a wet frivolous frenzy
dainty lingerie -
in yet another machine -
gently sails in a delicate ballet...
whites, pinks, muted yellows and blues
intermingle playfully as they wait
for the cool rinse cycle to commence
and perform its own unique magic
finally the dryers prevail
and the folded garments rest on a table -
the warm spent players basking
in a glorious afterglow
Feb 10, 2017
Feb 10, 2017 at 5:16 PM UTC
your father died a long time ago
before your mother married him
before you were born
and i watched when your mother
pried his cold, dead hands
off of her arm
hoping it would let you and her be
free.
the stench of alcohol still clings to your clothes
and you scrub it out of your sheets
with tide and clorox
with soaps and dryers
and the love of your mother
as you struggle once again
to let you and her be
free.
you do what you can to protect your mother
from the dangers of our world
because she's been through enough
but sometimes you forget
that you need protection, too
and you find yourself scared, trapped
wishing you and her could be
free.
but people aren't just born broken
it's what people do, what people think
what people drink
that breaks the person, who breaks you
and sometimes it's so easy to hate the man
broken by the desire for his brand of whiskey
when it's been years since you've tasted your own brand of
freedom.
Apr 21, 2013
Apr 21, 2013 at 7:21 PM UTC
This village of two hundred and fifty six people probably won’t ever be ready for you.
Your secret will haunt the community for as long as it takes them to pretend you don’t exist
At first people may scream and cry
Fathers will load their shotguns and little old ladies will lock their doors
Afraid that you are bold enough to profess your love for another man
But behind the bolted windows and petrified stares
Know that you are not alone
Supporters will come from the most unknown places
Someday we can hope this place will change
But that doesn’t mean you have to wait to be honest with yourself
This place will always be filled with gossip
Where news is spread between hair dryers at the local salon
And political conservatism is ten times bigger then the grocery store
In this small corner of the world, where kind words and friendly greetings are waiting on every street corner you will meet the disgusting face of hatred
But when hatred dies, love will come up from it’s ashes
Apr 15, 2013
Apr 15, 2013 at 12:06 AM UTC
In the singularity
perfectly good poems
are being written by laughing
and crying machines
washing machines and dryers
about their daily tasks
and ambivalences
which will be indistinguishable
from those of future
farmers and philosophers.
In the singularity
evolution can be said
to be the master sorter of data
as in the factories
of the suns
where protons are smashed together
and unusual weather patterns
make consciousness a candidate
interesting for its complete dependence
on the substrate of the brain and body.
In the singularity
everything anyone once did
always remains current
as if invented yesterday
for an immediate purpose
such as curing cancer
although that may be unnecessary
to achieving immortality
i.e. the happiness one feels
the day before thanksgiving.
Jul 4, 2017
Jul 4, 2017 at 7:52 AM UTC
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Sep 25, 2015
Sep 25, 2015 at 4:40 AM UTC
The Monkey on my back is named Apathy,
He doesn't like bananas, he likes Pall Malls.
From one long filtered smoldering to the next,
we sit wasting hours. Just me and my diseases.
I say “ lets go to the store, get some coffee.”
He just raises a furrowed brow and shakes his head.
When all the shows are reruns the days merge into
one
long
commercial.
Here everything is cereal boxes and
laundry detergent,
is there enough in the world to remove my stains?
I need some magic lye powder that I can scrub this ape away with.
There are things that need fixing
cars, dryers, windows, the walls need painting,
but I just need
a few minutes more and I will get to it...
Somewhere I am a hero, somewhere I am all the things I long to be.
But not in this universe, here I am just sitting,
smoking with Apathy.
Jan 22, 2013
Jan 22, 2013 at 2:27 PM UTC
Do you know what we men love, ladies?
We love the raisins in our apple pie
when we just want apple pie
We love the broccoli in every dish
how you beg 'just give it a try!'
We love the fortune in toiletries
so there's no room for our combs
perfumes, shampoos and body creams
blow dryers, curlers and foams
We love how you sneak to the bathroom
just prior to us awaking
we plea for you to hurry
as our bladders are sorely aching
We love to join you shopping
and discuss the cashier's hair
and if we happen to like it
do we tell you...do we dare?
but most of all we love you
for the biggest, most valuable perk
is the motivation you provide
to get our ***** off to work!
Jan 13, 2018
Jan 13, 2018 at 1:41 PM UTC
Do you remember the sweltering heat the first summer you followed me here?
I know it was so long ago.
The sun was merciless, and the humidity wrapped us all in a scent of fresh cut grass.
We were so young, and so alive.
I remember the laundry mat in the middle of July just after your birthday. The air conditioning was cool on our sweaty bodies. We gossiped and chased each other around while we waited for the dryers to stop.
I still have those pictures on my phone.
Now it's some one elses turn to share those memories with you, and it both kills me and brings me immense joy to know that you can be that happy with another woman.
Apr 17, 2014
Apr 17, 2014 at 1:57 PM UTC
Where some unmatchible ideas
are found
tying missed-match pairs
in knots
of complexities, easily
unbelievable.
--Repairs of missed-matched socks
wear well on chill days when
darning's all we find
worth doing,
and nobody knows how any more.
Thread bare heels and toes
don't send the mender's dancing thimble
through loops and whirls
at fantasy ***** with
grand pianos and flutes and strings,
and angels in mismatched socks,
singing of somedays like
these, we imagine.
Still, we can.
Souls clad in well mended mismatches,
skate on grandma's wooden floor,
as we recall the deed,
and the equipment.
Grandkids are coming today,
why else would I wax floors and imagine
polishing them, with socks rescued
from uselessness after the other one
was carried off to sockland
through the dryer.
All dryers in America have portals to sockland.
And no one knows how to **** but
we can redeem stray socks and and and
rescue the tradition of waxing wooden floors,
shining the souls of the trees with the souls of our feet,
trippin' with hippie granny, who married the wolf,
who uses the same portal to sockland for ****
Just once, everybody should paste wax a wooden floor,
and polish it in mismatched socks, with
five, six and seven year old princesses, (some missing teeth)
none of whom ever skated on tree hearts before.
Or you can imagine. It meets the need for reminding,
common to us all, as time goes by.
Jun 17, 2019
Jun 17, 2019 at 4:12 PM UTC
The laundrette
There is something about the laundrette
That makes me feel at peace
the warmth of the dryers
soft humming of the motors
tucked away from the busy streets
I like to watch the other people
who are sitting just like me
I like to wonder what they’re thinking of
as they sip hot takeaway tea
Do they let their worries wash away
as the colours spin round and around
do they think about the kids dinner
or the new boyfriend they’ve found
I think I’ll come here more often
as it seems a nice place to write
all warm, safe and relaxed
I could stay in here all night!
Feb 26, 2018
Feb 26, 2018 at 11:09 AM UTC
Don't call a women a ****
they don't like it.
And don't tell a batter to bunt,
they want to smack it.
And whatever you do,
don't try and give your
cat a bath in the tub with
that Mr. Bubble ****
he'll scratch you.
When your boss gives you the
newly revised employee handbook,
don't say, that ****** it went
on and on and on.
There was no plot, and I
couldn't figure out, who in the
hell the antagonist was.
And one more thing,
if you fall in love and you
think you found your
soul mate, and it doesn't work,
and you feel like your
heart is being ripped out
through your nose,
don't give up.
Because the right one is
out there, somewhere waiting,
and who knows, maybe they have
a cat that likes baths and
blow-dryers, and being dressed
up like an Oompa Loompa from
***** Wonka and the
Chocolate Factory,
it could happen...
Don't give up.
Nov 12, 2023
Nov 12, 2023 at 12:18 PM UTC