Bereft and Out of Breath
Bereft and out of breath, I am a pile of laundry. Tumultuous and gratuitous on the 5AM floor. I am waiting. I am still. Inactive. No not waiting; inanimate. Oblivious to obligations. Obliterated and obedient. Bleak and oblique. I am waiting for clothes pegs. Clothes pegs snapping my linguine ears and pinning me onto a wirey wire, highly strung across the crispy frosted yard. I want to hang my sentance and survive the jealousy of a dryer. A tumbling, falling, warm alternative. I can't accomplish and im harbouring mould. I need some action. "Come on house cat. Don't the moist folds of my outer pile seem inviting?" I am the dregs of a person. A husk, a shell, a crust, mere packaging. Jam me in your drawers. Cram me in your closets. Toss me aside while you swim or have sex. Dip my fucking sleeves in ketchup while you're eating. Spill coffee on me at work. Do what you will. All I ask is that you facilitate my jealousy so that when I'm washed and dryered I can coat your entire naked body with my hot clothy love.
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Ben CrawfordOk, facts about me. Here we go: I was born in Red Rock, Ontario, Canada. I was a home birth due to blizzard. I hate anything too sweet. I love tea. I love poetry. I love theatre. I love the colour green. I am colour-blind. In concept I like cats more than dogs. I am a libra. I was born in the year of the horse. I am a phlegmatic-melancholic but I'm also quite sanguine. My spirit animal is the raven but I am unanimously thought of as a goat. I love coffee. I love the night. I hate the word "sesame". I love rolling on the floor. I love painting the legs of tables. I like walking. I contradict myself.
