"washer" poems
they stained the back deck today (with a hard to match 7 periwinkle)
400 square feet of knotted pine (in a striking rivet sequence)
red ant drivers (who can forget those little ******
caked fir needles & feather cone
bug hologram & cedar moss
graffiti crack & cut joist
wheel rut & pick
pike stain (s)
sow bugs
electric
blower
purple
fueled
washer
missing
foul bits
and two of
its former pins
somewhere near
the erratic 9th stroke the
side kick (and his sloppy dullard)
fell sadly in a cacophony of sick laughter
anxious peckers, poinsettias, grub box, rail stems
lacewings (ladylike in their task), third door down windows
old ergonomic chairs (so highly touted in the checkout isle at Lowes)
all for not, I guess ~ seems they never reviewed the Homestead Manual on Fine Deck Painting ~
Jan 21, 2017
Jan 21, 2017 at 3:55 PM UTC
We all want to feel like flashing lights
but we're just stained silverware:
rusty, dusty, *****
old, unappreciated,
hidden deep inside the closet.
We're only good for certain occasions
when we're brought out
handled with care, doused in vinegar
scraping the age of our backs
bringing us into Life, anew.
Yet some sets fit certain settings.
Appetizer? Main Course? Dessert? Dish Washer? Dropped on the floor?
Sometimes none at all because
we can be "made in china"
or from fine china.
*And I hated the feeling I got
sitting in the middle of the table like a tuning fork
where everyone was passing food around
and I was just vibrating in their rhythm and sound.
I've been through many sets
much not quite like this.
Still life repeats itself like history
speaking of which, is actually me.*
*I've been held but never used,
maybe I have but not in the right way.
I was made to look like a fool
and I feel*
**just.
that.**
Oct 4, 2014
Oct 4, 2014 at 10:07 PM UTC
Isolationist theories
of my brutal development
A mask
In the world of passengers
Regretting every slight disruption
Making icy chatters of teeth
As we wonder
How will these small altercations
Affect the grand course
of my surreptitious collapse?
Just a violent object on an axis
A washer head
thrown into a tumultuous ocean of visions
A flickering correspondent
Lying on an abolition
The worst things happening to the best people
It spins and breaths and *****
This molested scared demon
Anally penetrating all that I believe is genuine
Reels of my childhood development
Played on repeat to search for ammunition
The tunneling rib cages of my insanity
The forest nymph of all that is good
The one who created me
Locked away in a windowless world
Analyzed as if lockness was one of them
I always thought it would be me
Falling to where I could not be found
How am I still standing?
Nov 30, 2010
Nov 30, 2010 at 9:35 AM UTC
Tears fall from my eyes
Like water from a faucet
That's missing a washer
I cannot help but cry
Tears fall from my eyes
My clothes are soaking wet
As a lament over
A love that has died
Take this last piece of me
Please take this wilted flower
Doesn't really matter
'Cause you've already devoured
My Heart entirely
360 days have passed
Since my love for died
But the pain just seems to last
Even if the sink has dried
Take this last piece of me
Please take this wilted flower
Doesn't really matter
'Cause you've already devoured
My soul entirely
May 10, 2011
May 10, 2011 at 11:12 PM 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
If I become unfocused
Because my day's been bad
You bring me back to earth with just a smile
No matter your misfortune
Or how far away I seem
You center me again with a small smile
When misfortune rears it's ugly head
Or the washer's on the blink
You bite your lip, and out comes that **** smile
No matter what your pain is
Or the fact the car won't start
You brush it all away, and then you smile
There's a light inside your eyes
That blazes hotter than a sun
It holds me here, I cannot get away
That light shines even brighter
When I walk into the room
I love you, and that's all I know to say
Your smile holds me hostage
It says it all, but not a word
That smile, shows me just exactly how you feel
It makes my day worth living
Knowing what's waiting at the end
Your smile, makes me know our love is real
It's a standard I cling on to
It's the rock that keeps me still
That smile and the love I know it shows
It's the reason I am living
My rainbow ending treasure
That smile, keeps me strong through out lifes lows
There's a light inside your eyes
That blazes hotter than a sun
It holds me here, I cannot get away
That light shines even brighter
When I walk into the room
I love you, and that's all I know to say
The tree that we both planted
When we started out this life
Makes me smile, when I think of it's tough start
How we planted a small twiglet
And how it grew strong over time
It's our tree, grown from deep inside our heart
I miss you dear so badly
I don't know how I can go on
Your smile, burns so bright inside my brain
It took you oh so quickly
Two quick months and you were gone
So, I smile, knowing you are not in pain
There's a light inside your eyes
That blazes hotter than a sun
It holds me here, I cannot get away
That light shines even brighter
I feel you in this empty room
I still love you, and that's all I know to say
Jan 16, 2013
Jan 16, 2013 at 4:16 PM UTC
After rain the empty mountain
Stands autumnal in the evening,
Moonlight in its groves of pine,
Stones of crystal in its brooks.
Bamboos whisper of washer-girls bound home,
Lotus-leaves yield before a fisher-boat --
And what does it matter that springtime has gone,
While you are here, O Prince of Friends?
3.3k
Can we just play ***** you and i?
I mean give me looks across the table, that you are disgusted with me, for taking my ******* off and dropping them in your crotch. I mean like you talk to another girl and glance at me, as if to say 'fuck you bitch', knowing you will **** me; Later.
Let's play ***** come on, i will welcome you in to my house, in stockings and leather, and push you against the wall; grab your hand and bend it back whilst i bite your neck. Push my knee between yours, and hold your chest in my hand whilst i make you watch me unbuckle you. Let me drag you on the floor, whilst you try to get up and say 'not here'.
Why can't we play *****
I don't want no ******* bedroom. I want the doorway, i want the hall, i want the kitchen counter, i want the living room floor and the shower. I want the couch, where i will straddle you and make you watch me as i undress myself for you, slowly, pulling, my, stocking down, so my knee is between your legs and i lean over you, so my ****** points out to your mouth, and i can hear you breathing, and every time you move towards me, i pull away.
Why can't we just play *****
Why can't you get me mad, and we argue so bad that i want to smash my fist in to your skull til you bleed all over my kitchen floor, brains on the washer...then pick me up, throw me on the bed, slap my face about, slap open my legs and grab my throat and the other hand on my chest as you push deep into me? Hear me gasp, watch my pupils widen, groan at you, watch as you come close to my ear, and say, 'this is what i ******* wanted'.
Why can't we?
Why can't we be deviants?
Why can't we go play in the forest?
Why can't we do like animals do?
Why can't we make two barebacked beasts in the moonlight?
Why can't we play *****
I touch your leg as you drive, playing the piano up and down your thigh, biting my lip, running my fingers up and down your thigh, nails pushing deeper, up and down, up and down, until you pull the car over, slam the brakes on, pull off your seatbelt and grab me, push the seat back, as i smile a secret smile as you breathe deeply in my ear as you pull off my wet knickers, and begin to take me on a journey through the stars.
Why can't we play *****
Shut your eyes. Shut your mouth. Shut everything, the, **** up. Listen to the beat of my heart, as it quickens and i place your hand over my chest, and i look in your eyes. Stop you talking about me, about what i am like, and who i am, and what it should be, and this and ******* that.
I don't want no tv before bed, i don't want no book, i don't want no midnight stargazing.
**** that **** **** me.
I want to play ***** with you.
Apr 12, 2013
Apr 12, 2013 at 4:58 PM 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
Blessed blessed
Is the heart
Whose knees
Kneel on acient hills
Because in them
Is a source of life.
Blessed blessed
Is a soul
Whose hands is digging for a source of light
Even when buried in darkness.
Blessed blessed
Is a heart
That knows a washer
That which washes impurities
And source of sin
From the a dying soul.
Blessed blessed
Are the legs
Walking in a path of truth
Even in difficulties.
Blessed blessed
Are the eyes
Those seeing a ladder to heaven
Because when the world
becomes a river of tears,
They'll easily go to paradise.
Blessed blessed
Is a hand
Holding a hopeless soul
Even when it's about to sink a ***** hole.
Blessed blessed
Is the heart
Whose life is love
Even in a bed of death.
Blessed blessed
Is an ear
Hearing this song of faith
That's giving birth to hope
With children of kindness
Whose life is patience
Even in difficult circumstances of life.
Nov 23, 2020
Nov 23, 2020 at 6:32 AM UTC
The sign sun stains in the duct taped window advertising gainful employment in a part time pay by the hour washer deryer upstairs hair stylist crumbling 1960s salon.
Chipped white washed paint draws in the custom customers offering permanates in every style and yesterday's hair of tomorrow "put it on today don't worry about it till tomorrow! The doors open to a bell and hairspray smell, something that might catch fire in a spark or cancer the lungs.
The smock and name tag carry home the hairspray scent and ghost in store radio fades the ears from sleep. The bed reminds you of the pay check though so you push it all aside.
Help wanted wanted help to get out of the make me want to die lifestyle
Oct 10, 2012
Oct 10, 2012 at 8:25 PM UTC
Big old jade earring hung from that haunted necklace, swinging from this and that and the other way where and if that sky upstairs let go of the thing I wanted you to be but a break in the system, no a malfunction in that suction of a love that you tried to forget about but feel those typing keys on the fingers that break knees and the heels up and up with the ***** a lingerin' and thats sounding like a new pounding, the one upstairs with the translucent roof ghostly and guess i got a new boot thats fixing itself to elate another prisoner upstate where the worries are always about the women.
Yeah, that women with the diamond ring with her children by her side thinking about the monastery she never visited a big time act act act in a dress that helped her enough and forgot about the rest. But we all move on quick to detest times test with the burritos that she never ate because of the figure she imposed that she got from her transistor radio and the yearly subscriptions of the ghostly ghost that haunted her in the moat around the castle of stairs up ripunzel with dragons a aflame listening to the same wishy washer story of old uncle Maury and the twenty ten twelve salute to the mastery of the fiction of listening, another riddle in the twiddle beneath the sheets that were once painted gold but her husband done left her and she's moving to seattle to start up some new cattle spreading the seed of 1910 where time stands still with his drink in his hand because the guy has got to get around to something with all that talent, with all that anger with all that impulse that proves itself time and time again it will never be enough for a salvation sanitation with the twisty fro's of yearly ye and ye bouts of fights she twisted in that shout that she knew, she knew she swears, what it was all about.
May 6, 2011
May 6, 2011 at 10:10 PM UTC
With Body pretzled up, skins converged to form
branches of rivers, mouth slack and frozen to
a permanent scowl of delirium and manners-gone,
as many swears dripped from those dry, cracked lips.
One of my mothers – gumshoed from the alley’s way of family.
“Get gumption, girlie, because everybody is full of ****
I remember that lullaby, “A tiny turned-up nose, two lips just like a rose. She sits upon my knee, she means to the world to me.”
I spy the scar on my pinky finger from her cigarette.
Could the King be witness in the Room?
Were those buttons of hollow wood over her eyelids?
Wrung of cries – we didn’t see that coming,
though we heard the flies.
And Age’s stumbling rattle through the hallway.
Do you know who I am?
Do you remember me?
Should the window washer come another day?
This stubborn sovereignty over what is reality – the root beneath the porch, the fog on the windshield.
Loosen the grip on this natural plane,
Please --
Woman of my Childhood, harvester of my manners.
Stand until the grown-ups sit.
Look away and bow your neck.
This was called the boxing match between Industry verses Inferiority.
Not child through birth – no –
but life spawned by those
strung-high fists.
There’s finality in this phone-call.
I heard it happened an hour ago.
Treading grievances and grimaces, picking through a flowerbed only to stroke the weeds.
Lifting boxes of Lead from reality to the Bridge of Dreams.
Frankly, I stole the gumption from your knotted mouth and
still cannot cry.
In a splinter of reason – I cast out the fundamental jibes of sacred hope.
That promise held between dog and owner during business hours.
Except there can be no homecoming.
The sickest liquor on the alleyway fence.
May 31, 2012
May 31, 2012 at 7:08 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
Brain waves sway in this cerebral cyclone.
Eating, breathing, bleeding in a home that isn't my home.
Breathing? BREATHING? What are we doing that for?
Abusing and losing. But who's keeping score?
Racing, chasing, running in a circle now.
The same train of thoughts has fallen off the tracks now.
Trying to abide by all your stupid rules now.
Searching for the answers in a mind that's shut downnnnnnn..
Get me out of this new cerebral cyclone.
Ringing! RINGING! That isn't a telephone!
Air-conditioned suppositions and amenities to die for.
View of the pool and a washer-dryer combo.
It's useless to use this scattered brain jumbled mess.
We go from 60 to zero.
But we wear less to impress.
Now we're preparing to pretend that this isn't the end.
When we know that it's time to detonate.
We hear the wind chime now, it's time to unwind now.
But to be thrown off the rocker' s our fate.
Oh, what we'd give for a sweet cerebral cyclone.
Noisy voices in my head, but at least I'm not alone.
Dreaming.. Dreaming... Leave us on the bathroom floor.
Lovely ****** tub with amenities galore.
May 18, 2015
May 18, 2015 at 1:48 PM UTC
She's magnetic.
I am a washer,
Pulled in by her.
I am awash
With want.
She's turned me desperate,
Starved animal.
I was so forlorn
She felt guilty.
Her eyes strained to see me,
Sad sap.
I'm not in love,
I'm insane.
Possessed by some succubus.
Tapped into my carnal flaw.
How could a demon
Smell so sweet?
Harmless sin.
Blameless craving.
She carried salvation to me
In her hands.
Her mouth.
She baptized my body.
I am reborn
Wicked as ever.
Skin wet.
Eyes open.
Every nerve aching
For her.
I am made by her.
For her.
I am succumbed to her.
To her spider hands,
And her rotten mouth,
Her allure.
I am helpless to her charms,
And I'm growing weaker every day.
Then she left.
She made me
Vulnerable.
It hurt.
But she was
To die for.
Dec 5, 2016
Dec 5, 2016 at 2:00 PM UTC
I have a pack of letters,
I have a pack of memories.
I could cut out the eyes of both.
I could wear them like a patchwork apron.
I could stick them in the washer, the drier,
and maybe some of the pain would float off like dirt?
Perhaps down the disposal I could grind up the loss.
Besides -- what a bargain -- no expensive phone calls.
No lengthy trips on planes in the fog.
No manicky laughter or blessing from an odd-lot priest.
That priest is probably still floating on a fog pillow.
Blessing us. Blessing us.
Am I to bless the lost you,
sitting here with my clumsy soul?
Propaganda time is over.
I sit here on the spike of truth.
No one to hate except the slim fish of memory
that slides in and out of my brain.
No one to hate except the acute feel of my nightgown
brushing my body like a light that has gone out.
It recalls the kiss we invented, tongues like poems,
meeting, returning, inviting, causing a fever of need.
Laughter, maps, cassettes, touch singing its path -
all to be broken and laid away in a tight strongbox.
The monotonous dead clog me up and there is only
black done in black that oozes from the strongbox.
I must disembowel it and then set the heart, the legs,
of two who were one upon a large woodpile
and ignite, as I was once ignited, and let it whirl
into flame, reaching the sky
making it dangerous with its red.
2.3k
I can tell I'm depressed
When I don't take the laundry
Out of the washer,
Where it has been cleansed of its sins
Of passion, or rage, of greasy fast food.
My filthy hands would ruin them.
So I wait for my roommate
To baptize his own spotless hands
With MY damp boxers.
The habitual thuds of my soggy clothes
Against the back of the dryer
Are a nice distraction.
My favorite flannel dances
With her tiny lost sock.
But 45 minutes isn't enough.
I don't want to end their fun,
So I leave them there
And hope that they'll fuse forever.
He tosses the clothes onto my floor,
Scattering them, wrinkling them, freeing them.
Corduroys atop henleys under crew socks and tees.
Folding them would be a waste
Of a catastrophic masterpiece.
Nov 15, 2015
Nov 15, 2015 at 11:25 PM 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
Spare parts
Nothing more than spare parts
Nuts and bolts and hair traps
Metal pins and elastic bands
A2 screws and P7 washer nuts
Fasten finger tight
After assembled
Repeat steps 1 & 2
Fixed too firmly
Adhere some glue
A mechanical recipe
The instructions to destroy and rebuild
3D printed
Pasted together
Real feel wood and triple stitched elastic leather
Catalog quality at half the price
Made in China mattress springs
Pantone color coordinated just right
Knock off
Imitation
Advertisement
Product placement
Everything must go
20% sale
Egyptian cotton stuffed with horsehair
Thank you
Come again
Buy one
Get one
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Refer a friend
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try Try Try TRY YOU NEVER GET IT QUITE RIGHT
Mar 15, 2015
Mar 15, 2015 at 11:19 PM UTC
Your heaven has failed me
On the days when I felt loading up the dish washer was a
Personal assault on my psyche
Your god has-
Run me over with his fists too many times
And made me believe it was paternal pat’s on the back
All the-
Pain I was feeling,
You carry the gravel in your teeth
To make sure its full of grit,
When you speak,
I say;
“you’re full of ****
You say im just weak for the things
That have made me unholy.
I am weak for the things that have unbroken me.
These words are shrapnel
You let them sink into our skin there is no more dirt to chew
I will spend my last moments
Holding onto the ******* noose
I’m going down swinging
And if that means I’ll hang
So be it
There are worst ways to die
I know
Because I’ve died before
Nothing special happens. Ya’ll can stop dreaming.
Kindness isn’t supposed to taste so bitter
Being saved
Isn’t supposed to hurt so much
You-
Never knew how much the night sky despised the daylight
Until you moved to a country where it gets longer every year
You never knew how kind
The sun was to your skin-
Ive got tan lines where my noose used to swing
It took me three years to untie myself
And I still have scars
Whether they will be there or not in a few more years
I guess ill stick around and see just
How much ive
lost
May 18, 2013
May 18, 2013 at 12:41 PM UTC
Each afternoon in June,
I loiter-linger on the corner of 37th avenue,
Both eyes asleep,
A summer’s sunset smile on my face,
A flock of fairies in free float round my head.
My habit, a daily pause,
Plant my haunch against the blue barrel mail box,
Old empty drum, anachronism, stubborn antique.
I cringe at the mad jazz of shrieks and horns on cue,
The hatter’s rush at end of day,
There is purpose in this cacophony,
My city boasts and brags with noise,
Intoxicated on aroma,
A frequency with every smell.
Baptiste’s Pizza owns the breeze at 4 p.m.
Inhale this baker’s breath,
An oven-joy in one warm gust,
Blond baked crust,
Tomatoes boil and bubble cheese,
Salt fresh anchovies, red peppers,
A currency of meats.
I salivate and lick the wind,
Hunger is desire.
Sudden harmony in one sweet waft,
A pleasant jet stream,
A toker passes by,
And gifts me with a 60’s contact high.
A small girl’s mouthful voice,
A jam cram of donuts is my guess.
The rattle, clap and black lung cough,
An old school diesel delivery truck,
The air brakes squeal for release,
It’s quitting time and everything wants to be free
A homeboy, my local jive,
I know his dreams,
A lacquered finish,
In love with his axe,
You feel me... tap, bump and go.
Vinegar and toxic spice,
A window washer’s delight,
He squeals a squeaky clean
Fresh roses, oh a hopeful night, bonne chance,
The catastrophe of a cigarette,
The killer joy of a fresh cigar,
An uptown girl's stealth perfume,
She knows her prey,
He knows her ploy,
A mid west girl and a downtown boy
Daylight begs to dim,
The sun will witness just enough, no more,
My corner holds its own,
Each afternoon my part in scenes,
I dream,
And never wish, but often wonder,
About the life that might have been.
Mar 25, 2016
Mar 25, 2016 at 4:08 PM UTC
My feet are cold.
The black stove in the bottom right
corner of the room must've gone out.
Grandaddy's thick green army blanket
tops just above my feet.
I can feel my sister's breath,
warm on my neck, as we lie on Grandma's black leather sleeper sofa
across from the black stove.
My cousins are on the other side,
Ashton's asthma is acting up.
Mamma and daddy are in the other
room. The dog, Lady, is snoring on Grandma's pink armchair.
Grandma's in the kitchen banging
pots, preparing Sunday breakfast.
Auntie's walking down the hallway.
I can hear her blue cotton slippers
shuffle 'cross the carpet.
Mamma starts the tub in the
small, green bathroom down the
hall from the ancient white
washer and dryer.
My crisply pressed black suit
Is laid out on Grandma's
master bed.
My suit is on and my Bible
in hand. Seated on my
father's shoulders we all filed out
the door, twenty people staying
in Grandma's tiny, old house
beside the pasture that kept the
two brown quarters that were as
old as the house itself. The rose
bush across from the screen
door at the front of the house
had flowers, the same color
as those on my sister's Sunday dress
deep blood red. A blood red rose
on every breast short, tall, young
an old. A tradition carried out
until the rose bush across from the
screen door, at the front of the
house, beside the pasture that
kept the two brown quarters as
old as the house itself, died.
Oct 19, 2011
Oct 19, 2011 at 4:13 PM UTC