Ode to trainers

Odes

Americans prefer the softer sound

of sneakers; a word on tip-toe,

silent, unfitting. As pathetic

as its English counterpart.

Occasionally, they are head collectors

of bunnies made of dust;

they lurk dormant

waiting for the next exercise burst

that will set them back on track,

for God knows how long.

They hate the ground, and like fists

push their way above it,

until gravity brings them down

in a thunderous whoosh.

They come and go, they ebb and tide

and wait for the next round

to get them out of their comfort zone:

The snug spot below the bed

needs some serious dusting.

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On dust

Rants

Among the many joys of renovation is dust, my dear friends. I’ve often imagined what it would be like if dust were an actual person that I could beat up / yell at / simply evict.

I share my open letter to dust with you here.

Dear dust,

I have decided to write to you because you and I have recently developed quite a relationship. In fact, some may mistake it for a friendship, and of course, why wouldn’t they? You and I have been living together for over 5 months now, a period during which I have come to know you quite well. And I’ve decided there are a few things I want to tell you.

Firstly, how dare you spread your filmy fingers over all of my possessions with such glaring ease? It’s bad enough that you’ve taken over my entire book collection like a hungry bookworm, you’ve also infiltrated my technological equipment! It’s no longer worth keeping up pretenses: I know you raped the printer; I know you violated my laptop. You greedy bitch! As if that wasn’t enough, you took over all of my wardrobe and stained my clothes with your filthy grey breath so that when I wear an item, I carry you with me like a curse.

At nights, you sneak into bed uninvited and take over all the space without permission. You fondle my hair when I least expect it and it takes days to wash off your grimy touch. I fucking hate you.

And stop eating my food. It makes me hungry! The thought of your sooty lip stains on my daily meals makes me lose my appetite, which is of course to your advantage since it makes you take over drinks, utensils and the like at a rapacious pace.

I want you out of here, dust. The door is open, I’ve traced your escape route on the ground across your body. I hope that hurt. Because you and I, we’re through. Get the hell out or there will be blood. I’ll introduce you to my friend, the vacuum. We’ll see who laughs then!!

Yours,

plain bananas