writing about objects:

OBJECT: HER SOAP

My salty substance is greasy and smooth—
It lathers into a creamy delight,
Compounded like a caramel slice—
It behaves as an organic calico coloured cube—
Its lubricating smell, mesmerises my nostrils—
This oily greasiness, smears onto my fingers,
Behaving like my lipstick,
Leaving an invisible trace.—
When water exchanges contact,
It starts to foam and fizzle—
My hands loose grip, it becomes slippery and slimy,
like a snowboard in contact with ice.—
It’s off on its own tangent now,
Riding along surfaces,
it’s so thick you can cut it with a knife.—
You can leave your nail marks,
As the block sinks into your roots, leaving a saline feeling behind.—
Your hair can get caught under its coat of grease.—
It melts in your mouth,
Casting an oily substance,
On your lips,
However stays at room temperature. –
It feels like the whisking, of vanilla essence and butter in a mixing bowl.—
Butter always leaves
this a greasy remark on your hands –
You can never see butter, but you can feel it.—
As your teeth grind against,
This flaky matter,
It shreds along the increments and dents,
Decaying with friction, like parmesan cheese on a grater.—
It can dissolve away layers of molecules;
Instantly awakening with a fresh flavour of cleanliness.—
It drops with a muffled sound, dressing the underlining outskirts of ointment.—
It sticks to your lips, like a lip balm would to jelly.—
This block tucks away a therapeutic aroma,
It triggers your nerves like petroleum on ice.—
As soon as it hits your skin,
Its translucence slithers down your spine,
However this salty substance,
When in contact with an eye, it can sting as sharp as a stingray,
Aggravating the thigh,
Gripping the veins of your eyeballs,
Leaving you helpless,
Streams of tears begin,
Washing away this oily sheet that surrounds your veins. –
You’re left with nipping bloodshot eyes,
it’s too strong to break in half,
Yet too weak to withstand tears.

OBJECT: THE PEARLS OF YOUNG DEE

I once knew a young girl named Dee—
Hailing from Colchester
Young Dee,
Rode her bike into the sea—
She fell into an army of tiny oysters,
The oysters clasped onto her dress—
She shone like Henry Croft and the Pearlies,
As it rained the oysters swallowed less and less—
Impregnated and carbonated by crystalline saliva
Creating 500 “frozen tears of the gods” (Judith Thurman)
The tiny oysters behaved in their odds
As they spat out,
These jilted clusters like my Nona’s gnocchi.
They were the colour of milky coco puffs,
However the substance was quite rough—
She was in pain from the bite of this jawbreaker,
These little irises of luna crescent’s
Could only be picked up by a girl
A women’s fertility is enhanced by a pearl (John Clarke)
However they jingled like the teeth she kept in her jam jar,
They clattered like dancing heals in a bar—
These lacquer seeds represented a dented life,
It was believed that every wife
Who wore a pearl would be cured of madness,
So Dee strung these pearls into groups of three
They were proven to guarantee
Her ticket to a white ball
Under the sea—
She wore each pearl in her hair,
They looked like Christmas ornaments, everyone stared—
As she swished lavishly from side to side
Her heavy hair would drop tiny stones
Leaving a path of tears behind her
Each pearl would glide
All over her desires
When finally they inspired
Dee to encrust her gowns—
With the finest gems
Arranged like a goodly bird’s eggs,
Girls from all over Colchester
Were ordering young Dee’s lacquer seeds,
Soon these luminous charms
Were discovered by a diver—
Their glamour came to his surprise
Young Dee’s pearls were no survivor,
Something as so rare
That the diver couldn’t dare.
Eliminating all the pearls from the sea,
Dee found it hard to see
That her beloved bourgeoisie—
Would never be the same,
As the diver was playing a whole new game—
And this is the story of young Dee