Thursday, May 19, 2005

dirty laundry

the lives and collective adventure of stink, sand, sex and sandwiches caked upon clothes lying the laundry basket

there is a campaign of hate in the laundry basket. the semen encrusted panties are being shunned by the Christian tendencies of the scone-crumbed tweed. they have been festering next to one another all weekend as the washing machine sits silently in the kitchen, zenlike and pondering.

this machine is deeply content with its position in life. it feels like a priest, taking the corrupt and stained souls of the laundry pile, cleansing, absolving, leaving them pure and saintly. white. the grime shimmied out of them like broken locks and hidden away. like the strange euphoric high after an hour vomiting, the washing machine delves deep into the laundratic souls and releases them from their owner’s sins.

tucks them back into the drawer.

but this weekend the washing machine is silent. perhaps there is a powercut in the building, perhaps more powder is needed from the cornershop, perhaps there are simply more exciting things to be done today than laundry. the owner of the laundry seems unconcerned at any rate. but then, she does not need to dwell inside the laundry basket and simmer among the tension and stains. she does not have her sticky knee pushed deep inside the sandy lace trim of her 36D brassiere, thickly scented with an intense musky woodsmoke and tingles of seawater.

there are secret eroticisms in the basket.
things are entwined.
and things are moist.

talk of the laundry basket is not always appropriate. these are the dirty secrets tucked away. these garments have spent hours (even days) rubbing against skin, exploring crevices of bodies and seeing

they are there in the quiet moments. the closed curtain moments. they are watching as the hands stray. we assume they are inanimate, we never stop to think that they are judging. watching our every movement with barely concealed gasps. the thong we take to be so suggestive is actually eternally revelling in a private world of disgust. the thong is horrified. it has seen things no thong should have to see.


lost laundratic souls of a mistress who forgot the power of clean.
paying penance for once-spilled bowls.
sock soul mates separated by sex.
jammed into different sudsy loads.

the poor girl only had one foot.

in the corner
where she kept her laundry to clean,
rocks in pockets and jam-kissed jeans.

smoky dress from the party
and a filthy thong that made him keen
as the mustard he smeared
her skirts and stockings.

but they're not talking.

the basket fills.
the smells grow restless.
the cat stops sniffing round for chippie scented cloth.
smoke overpowers the clothing tower and the flies buzz round.

the dirty misshapen garments can no longer be separated or made to fit her sticky form, so she leaves them in a mangy pile. hides them behind the curtains
and begins to go slowly go nude.

the clothing pile languishes in its forgotten glory. generations of moths are spawned in its cotton folds. no one larger than a cockroach visits until one day...

there is a great thundering on the pavement at the one-legged girls house. is it her now ex-lover looking for more mustard-smeared love? sadly, no. he lost interest once she began runing around with the creepy nudists.

in fact, the shadow outsider the girl's door is a strange fat shaman on a quest for the corner of infinite pain. when he stumbles upon an alarming stench coming from the pile of crusty clothes, he thinks, this MUST be it, as the smell tuggs his goatee to a halt.

through her front door he crashes, hot on a crusade for pain. upon finding the clothes, he is overjoyed, for all of us have our own personal requirements for a corner of pain. he throws himself prostrate on the floor and heaps the rotting fibres upon his heaving bosom.

slowly the smells of the dapper spring day disappear and he finds himself suffocated in the fish-smoky world of moth mating.

and there he lies to this very day. just waiting for his princess to come home and heap more soiled knickers on his face.


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