with her dentures.
βέƦẙḽ Dṏṽ the Smartass Rabbi

When my mom died
I didn't quite know what to do
with her dentures.

If I buried them
with an apropos prayer
they would never decompose
and that would be an ecological sin.

If I stuck them in my mouth
I’d look like that creature  in Alien
with a double set of chompers
and that would be at once
an homage to the artist H. R. Giger
and a sacrilege like the doves
released from Pope's window
attacked by a black crow
(who everybody knows is Satan).

So I hid her dentures
on top of the Coke vending machine
at the Krispy Kreme on 2 Penn Plaza, NY
so mom could devour the heavenly view.
I imagine her impassioned eyes
glazed like an 'original' sinful doughnut,
her dentures munching like a wind-up toy
at the sublime sight of her favorite indulgence
that probably sent her to an early grave.

This is part of my Prosthetic Poetry collection. Please visit:
Can My Prosthetic French Heart Love Thee?
http://hellopoetry.com/poem/648434/can-my-prosthetic-french-heart-love-thee/

Amputee
http://hellopoetry.com/poem/648962/amputee/
#death   #mom   #false   #teeth   #doughnut   #donut   #dentures  
Porsche Newell
Porsche Newell
Apr 7, 2014

moved to allpoetry.com

Cori
Cori
Feb 19, 2014

If you’ve only ever smelled fir trees covered with freshly fallen snow-
then you haven’t smelled it.
It’s an acquired smell, for sure.
It comes just in between the whiffs of
mashed potatoes
mashed carrots
mashed peas
mashed turkey
hell, mashed ginger-ale for all I know. . .
Somewhere amongst that microwaved menagerie, masked with the smell of eau de toilette,
it lives, and smells sweeter the longer brown sugar bubbles on top of caramelizing yams.  

If you can’t smell it, maybe you can find it.
Not many can, or do.
It hides in plain sight, though.
A lost and found box with accumulated cobwebs - everything still unclaimed.
A flyer for free puppies that no one ever took because they were “too much responsibility.”
Maybe there aren’t enough seekers in this game of empty rooms and blank guest books.
But keep looking, until bingo prize hand-me-downs after school plays look like Oscars.
You won’t see it until it makes you believe that plastic Mardis Gras beads are Tiffany-blue boxes.

It’s not so much in the nose, or the eyes as it is in the endurance.
Endure the voiceless Glenn Miller until his brass bellows become her voice -
whispering “I love you”  to the effortless rhythm of “Moonlight Serenade.”
And imagine her,
swapping her orthopedics for black heels,
elegantly taking Pop’s hand as he helps her up from her wheelchair,
to join him for just one more dance.
Watch as they become the sepia-colored couple in every anniversary photo.
That black dress.  Those fake pearls.  
The crescendo of the band.
It’s hard to miss when it’s screaming at you.

re was a minister who ordered a pair of dentures. People wondered why his sermons got lo
Hilda
Hilda
Jun 10, 2013

There was a minister who ordered a pair of dentures. People wondered why his sermons got longer and longer. Finally they discovered he had ordered a pair of women's dentures.

with her dentures.
βέƦẙḽ Dṏṽ the Smartass Rabbi

When my mom died
I didn't quite know what to do
with her dentures.

If I buried them
with an apropos prayer
they would never decompose
and that would be an ecological sin.

If I stuck them in my mouth
I’d look like that creature  in Alien
with a double set of chompers
and that would be at once
an homage to the artist H. R. Giger
and a sacrilege like the doves
released from Pope's window
attacked by a black crow
(who everybody knows is Satan).

So I hid her dentures
on top of the Coke vending machine
at the Krispy Kreme on 2 Penn Plaza, NY
so mom could devour the heavenly view.
I imagine her impassioned eyes
glazed like an 'original' sinful doughnut,
her dentures munching like a wind-up toy
at the sublime sight of her favorite indulgence
that probably sent her to an early grave.

with her dentures.
βέƦẙḽ Dṏṽ the Smartass Rabbi

Can My Prosthetic Heart Love Thee?
Can my prosthetic heart love thee?
Let me enumerate the specs.
I shall love thee to the depth and breadth
and height my valves can pump.
I am more reliable and durable than the Jarvik 7,
or lesser ventricular assist devices,
inconstant in their commitment.
My titanium chambers will not break at bleakest news,
embedded with electronic sensors and a pseudo-skin
of biosynthetic, microporous materials
their polyurethane ventricles stand smooth
and seamless like our flawless love.
I am more perfect in my geometry,
more ovoid than the frail cardiod heart,
manifesting a less fearful yet pleasing symmetry
than the human heart dare boast.
I shall love thee with the full power
of my lithium ion battery pack,
rechargeable at 230 million beats --
and, if my Grand Designer chooses,
my prosthetic heart will still beat for thee better
after death.

Amputee
Lost my leg from an IED
off Highway 1 in Zabul , Afghanistan.
I was fitted at Walter Reed for a
'multi-axis prosthetic foot'.
I don't use it none
'cause I never leave my house
so I turned it into a sculpture
posing  in front of a football.
It  sits on my TV like an antenna.
Sometimes I feel an itch below my ankle
but there ain't nothing there anymore.
But I scratch the air and feel relief
'cause I figure that itch is just as real
as the enemies I feel behind me
the God I feel above me
and the dead buddies I feel in front of me
whenever  I close my eyes.


Mom's False teeth
When my mom died
I didn't quite know what to do
with her dentures.

If I buried them
with an apropos prayer
they would never decompose
and that would be an ecological sin.

If I stuck them in my mouth
I’d look like that creature  in Alien
with a double set of chompers
and that would be at once
an homage to the artist H. R. Giger
and a sacrilege like the doves
released from Pope's window
attacked by a black crow
(who everybody knows is Satan).

So I hid her dentures
on top of the Coke vending machine
at the Krispy Kreme on 2 Penn Plaza, NY
so mom could devour the heavenly view.
I imagine her impassioned eyes
glazed like an 'original' sinful doughnut,
her dentures munching like a wind-up toy
at the sublime sight of her favorite indulgence
that probably sent her to an early grave.

Daft dawgs and dentures
Obadiah Grey
Obadiah Grey
Oct 5, 2013

Bevelled slick edges,
and reeaal eeaasy slopes.
Chilli dip wedges
with fresh artichokes.
Wanton loose wenches
and swivel hipped whores
Daft dawgs and dentures
and granddad - who snores.

nivek
Feb 20

I am the consumer of uncountable meals
my teeth slowly wearing down
down to ancestors left behind-
who could no longer chew on Mammoth meat
or keep up with the tribe.

Michael DePasquale
Michael DePasquale
Jun 20, 2013

Denture correlation
Cause a malaise of arbitration
And fuel the fires of disagreement.

 
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