Despite repeatedly shaking her pincer... much as a sprightly pensioner might brandish a furled umbrella at a grappling contestant, currently being boo'd at in the red corner... the baby crab stamped her foot in annoyance as she glowered at every passing wave that rolled along the shoreline.  In absolving herself of any guilt she may have felt over her prolonged excursion, she had become, even further marooned by a failure to catch a succession of tides back home, an oversight she later confessed, to observe local tide-tables in 'Old More's Almanac...' on sale in all discerning book shops and selected High Street newsagents, priced 10/6d... for unless fluent in the Russian vernacular, it was just about as articulate to the little crab as a map of the Moscow Metro during a blackout, only to have the Rouble finally drop with a throat gagging 'Gaaargh...' clunk, that you were currently standing on the down-line platform, when you should've been stood on the up... as the last train lurched unsteadily out of the station whistling a jubilant entente cordiale... 'wish me luck as you wave me dasvidaniya'.

     Still stamping her foot, only now in strict rotation with the other seven, the baby crustacean peered out from beneath the shade of the large pebble, rearing its bulk out of the rockpool like a lollypop-lady's 'STOP'!!! sign, her beady eyes twitching independently, first this way, then the other, cut withering swathes through every cardinal point of the compass that didn't duck quite fast enough, was rapidly coming to the conclusion that the rock-pool in which she found herself tapping her foot in today, would be no less aquatic as any other rockpool that she may find herself still tapping a foot in tomorrow and that the best course of action was simply to stay-put and take the matter up with the local town council, then petition for additional fare-stages to be implemented... and with the cost of shoe leather at current prices... well, with eight legs to consider it would make savings that weren't to be sneezed at.  

     It wasn't everyday of the week that a young and upwardly mobile baby crustacean had occasion to move both up-market and down the beach, all in the same mouthful... and into what could only be regarded as a desirable, detached beachfront property, a rock-pool of distinction with all available mod-cons.  She felt relieved that apart from the occasional day-tripper, who invariably dropped litter wherever they went, that a baby crab of distinction such as herself, was certain to be accepted socially and hob-*** with a new and discerning circle of acquaintances... you only had to take that nice lady earlier in the week, they both seemed to have so much in common... then she would roll up her sleeves and really show the neighbourhood what knitting was all about...  

     With as much enthusiasm as that of a three year old screaming for an ice-cream in the middle of an heat-wave, Red marched up the beach and as far from his wife's waspish tongue as a lame excuse would carry him, heading back towards the growing crush of holidaymaking fathers who were only there presumably, for the sake of their own children, laying siege to the mobile vendor... only this time, having already stood in the same queue ten minutes earlier, now had a sufficiency of funds to purchase that which he'd unsuccessfully queued for the first time.

      After an unspecified time which by his wife's reckoning was grounds for divorce... Red, now laden down with the iced confectionary picked his way through the same throng of fathers who moments earlier had been happily chatting in the queue together, were now enjoying the same berating as the one Red was looking forward to as he made his way back towards the rock pool, juggling more ice-cream than two manly hands could intelligently control... while in a bid for freedom, the rapidly thawing confectionary were hatching plans of their own, ones quite independent from those intended as they embarked upon their meandering exodus, known only to iced creamy desserts on hot sunny days... and into the unknown, roaming across Red's hands and trusting their fate to a far higher authority.

     "Did I mention that I was on a diet" snapped his significant other, as she sat licking pistachios from the melting cornet... "don't you ever listen," secretly smiling to herself... "and you did remember to bring Sockeye's water this morning.. didn't you..!" she continued "someone with half as much sense would've stood it in the rockpool to keep cool, I'm sure the little crab wouldn't have objected..!"   At the mention of his name, Sockeye with ears far too free-lance to ever consider gainful employment of their own, needed no further persuasion and charged straight through the rock-pool to his mistress's side, walloping the thermos flask for a tail whopping six... bringing his personal batting average so far this holiday to a self congratulatory forty not out... and found the baby crab spluttering flat on her back and having second thoughts on any immediate savings in shoe leather were she to stay. 

     Generous to a fault, Sockeye now thought to shower everyone's ice cream with liberal helpings of the seashore as several parasitic irritations had Sockeye hard at work serving eviction notices on some of the more exotic zoology that only a patent Bob Martin's would dare to muscle up to... the local wildlife, by the look on his face were having the time of their lives bivouacked behind his left ear, throwing wild parties and disturbing the peace.  Cross-eyed, it was only while launching a double pronged assault on the latest settlement of interlopers that Sockeye finally succumbed to his injuries and surrendered to a neighbouring sandcastle... it really didn't do to mention a certain name too loudly at times like these, especially when you just happened to be on the receiving end.

     For some strange reason he was undoubtedly in the dog house... they'd shouted at him, which made him sad, all except his little master who had pushed him away... which left him bereft.  Sockeye sat down on dads beach-towel and had a long, thoughtful scratch... where had all the fuss gone? he searched for appreciation their faces... his tail gave one disheartened thump before it stopped... and all those little pieces of ice-cream dipped wafer, which up until now had always appeared as if by magic.  

     Catching sight of one such treat, undoubtedly forgotten by the rock pool, a marauding seagull pulled out of a rolling dive and swooped, at the same instant as two gaping jaws launched themselves skywards... canine jowls quivering bravely in the light sea airs... and not too dissimilar to a heat seeking missile, rose gracefully from the ground to meet it... 'well intercepted..!' as both ears applauded in mid-air... no aerial freeloader was about to skip town with Sockeye's ice cream wafer without paying... leaving one solitary wing flapping its willingness to pay up.

     At least it kept her husband in useful employment Tina decided... and mercifully out from under her feet, as she brushed a fragment of affectionate pistachio from her bikini top... she'd have to  make sure he went for the ices in future... and without the means to pay for them... a mischievous smile turned the corners of her mouth as she leant towards the beach-bag and invested herself with several more juicy grapes... that everyone who fell within her sphere of influence had been warned well away from... under threat of dire consequence... and it would take a brave man indeed, or a very foolish one... she gave her husband who was sitting well within arms reach a caustic glance... and Tina's particular variety of justice had a very long arm indeed.

                                                        ­           ...   ...   ...**

a work in progress.                                                        ­                                                                 ­  1297

fROM THE dESK OF THE pOET**

I'm embarrassed to admit this. The night before last I ate an excessive amount of Sour Chewy Sweettarts. If you've ever had them you know that just one or two have enough toxic chemical dust sprinkled on them to make your mouth numb for several minutes. Well I got into a rhythm of eating one, then adding one to it, then another for three, then four, then five, then  six all the way to seven at one time. In that experiment alone I consumed no fewer than 26 Sour Chewy Sweetarts and even that was after having warmed up with several single helpings.

Sour Chewy Sweettarts were at one time marketed under the name  "Shockers". Let me tell you they should have respected the truth in advertising inherent with that label. The intensity of tartness conferred from all these ***** Wonka treats was remarkable and very well could have been the most face-squinching sourness I've experienced in my fifty-plus years.

The unfortunate downswing of these hijinks is that I developed a chemical burn that spread across the entirety of my tongue all the back to and including the area where my uvula hangs.

It's my own stupid fault. I could feel the chemicals eating through too many layers of cells long before the administration of candy pellets had reached four, even five-count multiples. By the time I had the seven pack ****** down to gel the burning was so bad I had to squint my eyes. The question that found priority amongst all that came to me at that moment was "how long is my mouth going to be so alternately sensitive and numb that I won't be able to eat my beloved jalapenos and spicy vittles?" A couple of days later and that answer still has not been found, although progress has been made to the point where I have faith it WILL indeed heal...you know how paranoid I can think sometimes, surely my mouth will never heal from THIS god forsaken self-inflicted injury, after all, I deserve it, hence the term "SELF inflicted". It's nothing but payback being it's usual self. If I never get to taste the wondrous seasonings of a well-mixed chili recipe cooked to perfection by someone who really knows how to make chili...if I never sigh with uninhibited satisfaction after downing a swig of Dr. Pepper or Miller's High Life or Guinness Stout...if I never again will be able to tell the difference between prime Angus beef and succulent Maine Lobster it is for good reason that I've been deprived of these tender mercies. It's because I knew when to stop and I kept on eating, though tears had begun to form.

No, it's more than that. It's because Universal Forces were all the while begging me, whispering in  my ears, "Stop! Stop! Enough! No more!" What would have happened if Joseph had ignored the Lord on that cool December night? Gabriel let Mary in on what was going down, what do you think would have happened if she'd gotten jealous of Joseph and disregarded the angel because he didn't have quite as much clout as her husband's Messenger? What would have happened? Nobody knows. But I know what would have happened if I'd heeded the advice of the benevolent spiritual  beings who were trying to warn me to lay off of the Sour Chewy Sweettarts. I wouldn't be sitting here typing on the hp laptop about how I got the chemical burn from hell.

But it seems like valuable lessons may be learned at every turn. So it is that with almost every experience I am resigned to also look at this one as the hard earned silver lining. Just what exactly have I learned? Well, first of all I've learned that it would probably be a good idea in the future to regulate severely the amount of Sour Chewy Sweettarts (aka Shockers) I eat in one sitting. If I ever eat them again, If the emotional scars of the chemical burn will free me in my sweet tooth's cravings for Wonka Sugar to ever again opt for the sour stuff. I learned that eating Vlasic Kosher Dill Pickles with such a freshly de-sensitized/throbbing chemically-scorched tongue is a prospect that shares much in common with a full day of taste-testing ghost peppers. Only on a slightly smaller scale does the briny pickle juice pack it's own searing acidic punch.

Other lessons? Oh I'm sure I could fill a book with lessons this has taught me. Writing that book might be the most useful, benevolent gesture I ever offered my fellow man but I don't know if I can do it. But if I did, this would have to be the first couple of lines on the very fist page:

Make sure you're going to have a LOT of alone time the morning after.

But that's just plain good advice.

Bun o'clock
I'm hungry but I don't say anything
Because I can hold on longer

Chew pm
Someone says I look thin
Have I lost weight??

Three pounds
Potentially three pounds
But I don't know because I always think I look bloated

Four ice cubes to tie me over
I don't need to eat
I'm okay

Five fat shaming *******
Stroll past me in their skinny jeans
Reminding me who deserves to be a size 0

Tricks o' the mind
Start to play
As I tell myself I don't need to eat because I did yesterday

Age seven is when
Mama first told me to stretch my shirts
Hide my figure
Watch what I eat
Stop taking second helpings
No dessert

Eight
Looks like a couple of donuts.
Muffins.  Pizzas.
Any round food.
My round stomach.

Nibble pm.
It's okay to eat a little?  Maybe?

Ten pm?
Or ten candy bars?

Eleven hours later
Nothing in my belly
But four ice cubes

Twelve: time to taunt my taste buds
Trick myself
Tell myself that I'll eat tomorrow
Tomorrow will be the day
The day I really splurge
Everyone knows that's a lie
But my tummy doesn't

i am a sinner
my sin keeps me awake in the night

walking with the devil isn't easy
with God by your side
my heart inspired by the love
my mind corrupted by evil

no wonder i never sleep right

hugging tight my broken pillow
i forgot to say my prayers to mend
hope God awakes me in the morn
just so i can sin again

never born a perfect
never lived a saint
i'm in love with second chances;
sometimes third helpings on my plate

today He has already sealed my fate
i just don't know the date

i can only hope He continues to forgive
as i continue to live
self destruction never wins
it's always too late

i was made a true believer, but i've
fallen victim to the biggest deceiver
and while i know the liar won't offer me a thing
i swim in pools of blood from the ring

save me oh Lord,
is there an angel you can send?
no doubt You are my Father,
but you see the devil is my friend

there it is
i've gone and sinned again

forgive me Hail Mary Hail Mary Hail Mary
it isn't as easy as it is written
you eat it, you breathe it, you reap it
you sow, sow, sow
the guilt; you keep it
forever and ever
in a church we sin together
and point a finger or two
because that's easier than accepting what is truly wrong with me and you

there are priests who touch little boys
there are ****** killers as well
and today i told a lie to God
so together we all go to hell

Lord, save me and help me mend
help me sleep, help me wake
walk with me as i sin again

We see the strong supportive woman you have always been,
- Now it's our turn.
The unselfish way you have liberally spread your time on us, right to the edges,
-Now it's our turn.
The generous helpings of patience that seemed to come so naturally, with seconds for those who want it,
-Now it's our turn.
You're guiding words seasoned with kindness, so full of flavour,
-Now it's our turn.
The unconditional love you have always poured out on us, full and overflowing,
-Now it's our turn...

Please can you write down the recipe?

Savages

The sting of your words concentrated
at my left temple,
As cold as a barrel
awaiting the blow.
These wounds have torn me apart.
So many hands have
Snatched away my substance until
all I am reduced to is bone.
Savages,
cave dwellers,
ready to run like a cannibal
With my heart
in your hands.

How can I go on aiming my arrows in midair?
Hitting nothing,
going nowhere,
relentless but hopeless.

My identity is formed in your merciless hands
and ignorant eyes
which see beyond the petty and toxic names
you throw at me.

Didn’t I coax your wounds?
Wasn’t I there?
Didn’t I let you lay your head on my lap,
and tickled your back?
But now I realize you eat your two helpings
of manipulation and a vindictive
Side, cleaning the plate.
And with your belly full
you are fully aware
of how to trap me.

Why did I even tell you my past?
Expose my vulnerabilities?
I wanted to share so much,
I knew it would last.
But if trust is thrown around
like a grenade in the summer wind,
It will blow in my direction.
Annihilate trust for good, rip apart my soul.

You are uncivilized
While I am civilized
You are unpolished and ferocious
While I am polished and kind.
You are a savage
And I am an angel.
And one day you will be reduced to the filth
you walk on
While I will ascend to the sky
you will never see…

Kena SunGoddess Dawn 2010

Take me up. Let the devil take me up, like the morning when we left ourselves. The ides are upon our lives, maybe backstabbing partners really won't pay the bills. The irreverent god, the irrelevant clause that speaks too soon, comes upon the midnight waning sky. Like the moonful of ham in the stock of the flesh, second helpings because I could not resist.

Pick me up. Pick me up. Like a devil born again in the flesh. Your womb is a rotten tomb of forced reclusion, I'm wide awake before I can even sleep. The Time, our heaven is pyre, we're in it now like you thought it had been. But the flesh never whispers when I tried to break it in, it only clung to me like pre-used clothing.

Write it up, tomorrow we make Japan. Tomorrow, the island is our vesper. Your nine lives have come, and you'd decided to trade all of your needs to please me. We intertwined into an elusive butterfly, you're dead inside my beak, chewy, squishy, crunchy meat. You're eleven but you've never tasted better.

Your lies are so stupid, I had to have you in supine. I had to lie to myself to placate me. I survived by being a witness to a life. A dusky, grayish shadow four feet yonder.

To the simple minded man
This day would have been like the rest

Would have been an overdone steak dinner
Alone

But he plays a broken bone remix
Of ex-lover’s gritted teeth

It is the click in his jaw over steak
That reminds him of the gnashing

He nurses a beer
In between helpings

But there’s always the click
A painful metronome
For past music
When he was capable of lapping the language out of her mouth

Days when he was all noise
Like a hallway echo
Or a fist through drywall
Or a nightmare gasp

But now all he needs is the cotton he eats
To soak up the sound

So he won’t have to listen to himself keep sayin’

There used to be this growl my gut made
For your bitter music
When we choreographed a collision
Of bone
And breath
And teeth that touched when I still thought I wasn’t pressing hard enough

The masticating click
Reminds him of her smile

It hurts his jaw
And his memory
But he continues making her painful sound
Like it might actually bring her back

And it does a little
Just for today

And tomorrow?

Tomorrow is too far away

Giant portions of tender beef; bring me a field of cattle.

Large helpings of diced pork; hunt down the fattest sow.

Unlimited gallons of alcohol; brew the strongest in the land.

Ten times the amount of cheeses; let ever mouse envy me.

Tempt me with exotic women; from every corner of the world.

Order another kilogram of cigarettes; block out the blue of the sky.

Never let the chocolates run out; richer than the sweetest syrup.

You think this is too much?

Adam4's acquaintances who frequent
Foxholes as salivary soliloquy,
Usually suspected no second helpings

A dim ambience for an active bedroom
On battery powered candles
Concorde lighting
The carpet's edges chewed thin
Receding hairlines
And he uses me as bait..?

Our neglected puppy's teething
Nesting under California
King Mojo's hollowed cushions
Keeps him gnawing these nights
Misters and oil burners

I was mistaken, there are those
That revisit--reacquainted with him,
Must of shared a Starbucks,
As his Sasquatch hands
Rub wet platinum on his old fellow
Bears and their Cubs

Silicon smooth pets, house boys
Fished from the deep web,
Plagiarizing with their eyes the pleasures
Of Eurocreme
Bare back dreams, hours heave
The subtitled felatio scenes

I tell the old man, they only ***
After and mostly when
Most of the guest leave,
There is one hovering quick
To accommodate his
Ginger manly girth

I'll be out in the smoking section
At the side of the house
Through the slider door
From off the kitchen dining area
Where he had once
Replaced the table with billiards
For a Lenny and his troop...

His Samsung vibrates every time
I take a five to breathe
Chain smoke and self defocations grief
He posts another ad.

If only you heard
The vagrant shout
A banchee in my skull
For these off the street urchins
Plugged in to the internet's latest
For a place to squat
For winter will be cold
For them to just
****** off

And here I go again,
Assuming that these were decent folk
Come for the holidays
Between taint and pocket rocket
Wallets drain
When one lets the desperate
Indigents
Free range...
"What's there for dinner?"  

**** chicken heads again?
*Same ole same old dope...

When your child sleeps for 16 hours do not call them lazy; ask them if they are feeling alright and do not accept that they're "fine".

When your child skips dinner do not just assume it's a diet, sit them down and ask why they are not eating their favorite meal and don't let them convince you that they are not hungry because odds are they're famished.

When you see scratches and burns and bruises and cuts on their body I hope to god you don't look the other way, I hope you hold them tight and tell them how much you love them.

When your child begins skipping classes and asking to stay home do not yell at them, climb in bed with them and ask them what is going on at school.

When your child eats 3 helpings of food and snack after snack after snack I hope you don't think this is normal and I hope you ask your child what is troubling them and I hope you tell them they're beautiful.

When your child pulls away from you and shuts you out and starts destroying themselves I hope to god you don't think it's a "phase" and I hope to god you take on your job as a parent to try and understand and love them, do not tell them to "grow up" because odds are that's the exact problem.

My greatest poem—in every letter, creation
of new words and those profound sentences.
Line breaks of the metered stanzas, patterns of
end rhymes, All those wanting to be messages
in cryptic form. A wordsmith written in stone.
—I'm still searching.

In similes alike, metaphors based on everyday
pictures of life. Food for thought; in second helpings
of a secondary meaning. Allegory, an axillary joint
of alliteration. The alluring allusion of a shoulder
none present; I refer to being a connection. In all
other pieces written before, written in corresponding.
—I'm still searching.

In these continuing words—a couplet, in the irony
of a leading conclusion not intentionally lead.
But what is once read; is best to be read again....
a repetition. What is once read; is best to be read
again, what is once read; is best to be read again.
—I'm still searching.

In the deepest parts of a piece; the meat is on
the bone. To describe what's at stake, to be words
thrown at your face. A reminder the second time
of when we'll meet again. In puns of patting myself
on my back—these a self praises of being an ode.
—I'm still searching.

             And will I find my greatest poem,
                             ...Rhetorical question

I’ve had enough. I’ll eat no more;
my bloated waist is very sore
and second helpings, not so wise
when all my jeans have shrunk a size.

I will not take another ****
and lardy cakes, I’ll never start.
No cocktail snacks will pass my lips,
nor will I nibble cheesy dips.

No more the joys of Sunday roast,
instead it’s herbal tea and toast.
I have this strong, profound belief
I can live off a lettuce leaf.

Resistance takes an iron will
and abstinence a real skill.
But sticky donuts do look fun,
I think I’ll have another one.

                     ~

For sure the woman
killed her husband -
she served him hot soup
mixed well with poison

But her defense lawyer wanted
to give her a chance
so maybe she could get
a few years instead of life

And so he asked her as
she stood in the box:
“Mrs Tile, did you feel any remorse,
considering you killed your husband?”

“Sure, I did,” said Mrs Tile
*“when he asked for second helpings”

You used to crave me.

I was fresh from the oven
Still steaming
Sauce dripping
You could smell each spice individually
You noticed the garnish
You were there to check on me before the timer went off

Unable to wait,
You'd take the first slice
Sauce smeared on your face
Fork and knife a blur

Second and third helpings were a given
And you were sure to order it the next night
You'd lick your plate clean
You'd lick the serving dish

Never a scrap went to waste

But lately you accept a polite portion
You wait until the right moment to lift your knife and fork
Your tiny bites aren't enough to appreciate robust flavor and savory scent
Your left-behind scraps contain the new spice that you failed to notice

You leave another meal's worth of leftovers in the pan
It sits and watches as the refrigerator door opens and closes
You'll pick at it
Eat a slice with your main dish

The scraps at the bottom aren't edible by the time you get to them
And you're in no hurry to start again
The spices aren't tempting you from the cabinet
You don't see the sauce in every plump vegetable you see
You don't get hungry just by catching a glance of the recipe or the oven or the carving knife

Who knows the next time you'll have a taste.
Your oven is cold, your whisk and spatula sparkling clean, and the sauce splatters have faded from your shirts.
Your tongue seems to have forgotten.

We are, when bruised by some new qualm,
capable of human knowing;
indebted to the open palm.

Some trials, surely, test our charm -
are we sane, still? Life is showing
we are, when caught in some new qualm.

So someone's hand has brought us harm?
Violent smashes; hateful throwing
indebted to the open palm?

Do we ourselves give in, alarmed?
Powerful and old; we're slowing,
we are, when caught in some new qualm.

Or human friend – you need alms,
others' helpings to keep you flowing,
indebted to their open palms?

This mandala of loving arms
is ever-present handshake-throwing.
We are, when caught in some new qualm,
indebted to these open palms.

Radio Transmission---Static
Quantum---Tunneled
Cycle---Depart
End Transmission.

With twists like a dying withered thing,
my senses are dulled,
my senses are dulled.

Vaccumed slowly in a first kiss,
the taste of another is potent;
curious you hold fast.

Spiralled into thick pitch,
envision the veil of a muslim woman,
impenetrable,enfolding.

A form rises and waits in the void,
she prepares to receive, to overcome,
to swallow and consume.

Wooing you, gliding about
whispering to and fro
at once ravished by words,
your presence evokes her.

A substance flows through
puckered moistened lips
inflamed and permeated with longing.

Embraced by ghosts lips,
tangling you, while pecking
at cloak, face and body,
siphoning life.

Tingles upon the flesh,
lend to ******* never quelched.
Her words:
"Delicious mate lounge with me,
partake of my sorrows, my intimacies.
One cannot revel alone, replace
the fickle before you."

You languish; absorbing
pungent flavors.
A masked perfume laced
with sufferings.

This longing gnaws,
within the organs of men.
Beating and pawing
against the tissues of the mind.

Kneading fences around the skull,
encasing it in its grip.
Following forth,
lips will seek
lips,
hips will ****** against
hips,
arms will encircle All.
This net will count its catch
when caught, feeding
the glazed fervor of greed.

Stabbings of hunger
seep from your coiling tongue,
elongating, wrapping around tidbits
served aplenty.

Dainties, morsels, spoonfuls, sips
and bites,
these are the helpings evident between,
chompings, gurgles, and slobberings.
Meat suckled from the passages of your teeth.

Becoming a porpoise thing
without definition, moving layers
of corpulence and indulgence.

Before long, you incite wrath;
your skeletal companion eats you,
a banquet of your own making.

On the crest of the wave I decided to sit down at my  14 year old escritoire

On the advent of spring I decided to
Fill up the moats in my backyard  

The quill in between my fingers commemorating the fall of the mighty empires when I was actually rubbernecking the flowers I filled up the ditches with.

Two universes in my mind helpings shape intricate designs and the inkwell acts as a magnet attracting my soul to get lost within these paradoxes

If I walk towards the palaces the kings will ask me to extemporise tricks of which are on my finger tips

If I walk towards the patio I will fall into the area next to it and be buried beneath the flowers

Met with an accident 20 years ago when I was thinking of neologisms
when I was thinking of atypical aphorisms
when I was lost in between the metaphors.

Oh Christmas comes but once a year
Waistlines swell with good food and beer
Mince pies, chocolates, nibbles and nuts
Watch vintage TV, with no 'ifs' and no 'buts'

Wrapping paper deal, 2  rolls for a pound
Sneaky wrapping later, shhh, don't make a sound
Christmas tree needed you know what to do
Get a last minute deal down at Rhyl B & Q

Got the presents sorted, a job that so hard
That sinking feeling from a last minute card
A phone call and text is never too much
A welcome long chat just to keep in touch

Christmas day approaching are all the jobs done?
Eat drink and be merry is the way it should run
But often a snooze can be the best part
That can end with a grunt, a snore or a ****.

Turkey all gone but there are sandwiches still
Three helpings of trifle can make you quite ill
Then cheese and fine biscuits with coffee and cake
Might slow you right down on the After Eights

So off to the sofa  where you sit if you dare
Waistbands all loosened on the reclining chair
A tea or a beer shows who's still in the race
While a quick 40 winks puts a smile on your face

Well there it was done and soon off to bed
You sleep like a log having been so well fed
In the night you are gasping you must have a drink
You make it to the bathroom and drink from the sink

The next day is hellish, there are wrappers gallore
With crisps, cheese and crackers ground into the floor
Red wine in glasses fermenting and mulled
You turn and retreat with your senses quite dulled

So no breakfast needed just a whole lot of quiet
After indulging on what was a plain liquid diet
A quick clean around is a job for us males
As your partner heads out for the Boxing day sales!

my palate favors
particular concoctions
over too many pots
and helpings spurned

I don’t need
to taste everything
imported from China
suped-up HFCS and MSG
the first bites are yum
across hungry tongue
but the rest are all meh
instigating regretful churns
and nutrient deficiencies

I just want that
raw, organic, GMO-free
concentrated, satiating
perfected recipe
crafted expertly
on my tongue
daily

x3

Lawrence Hall
Mhall46184@aol.com
https://hellopoetry.com/lawrence-hall/
poeticdrivel.blogspot.com


                                    Thanksgiving Dinner
               with Generous Helpings of Biological Functions

Would you please pass the bowel-movement stories
Gosh, this lab-test casserole sure looks great
I love the well-steamed vasectomy glories
And a helping of dentistry on my plate

This year I fried the potassium levels
They taste as yummy as a cancer scare
And here’s heart surgery with our revels
For Christmas I’m getting a new ***** chair

The kids have gone outside, oh what a fuss -
Why don’t they want to have dinner with us?

For the smallest lick of kindness
I'll forgive ******
I'll move mountains, lay my belly flat down on the ground, ******* up **** syrup, frolicking in ****.
For your smallest act of kindness,
I'll strip naked
Let you touch my body and pretend I love you
Just please God hold me through the darkest night.
Look at me with kindness,
And I'll clothe you, take you to my home
Feed you all my hard-earned food and shove second helpings on your plate.
For a little bit of kindness,
For the one who stitches back together my shredded sanity
I'd do it all, God, let me do it all.

I wish that I breathe only your moons
so many pleasant helpings for myself
the water is a selfish being I have yet to tame
as it watches you more than my eyes have the days
to dwell too long too much into it's waters
would be a curse unforgiven by those in your yard
to ripples away you would become the vision betrayed
and I would not give but the rare moment
to see you as an interpretation of a freeing spell
of something other that what you are when you are ripe and full
blessing the scarcity of the sun's light to touch you
to feel you when the chorus of my fingers sing for me too
but the trance of my eyes wait for your easy so long
as the others in the puddles of their skin
twice died to be of a fragment spinning sphere thought of your beauty

Gentle winds move
Words spoken, forever carried
Be mindful of what escapes you to have been forged in love
Blissful thoughts move in tandem with these gentle winds

Ill fated speak rises from the darkness of an evil heart
Forged in hate and envy
Baneful suppositions disturb placid winds
Blue skies depart overwhelmed by gray

Cold rain dances uncertain in quivering winds
Storms approach celebrating generous helpings of lament
Thoughts are of miscalculated omnipotence
Be mindful of what escapes you to be forged in love

Giving up sounds more beautiful the harder you push it
Like a cream cake in a window
Or staying out too late with the one you love

A cushion to sleep on, on fathers armchair
Second helpings

Nothing is helping

a poet has much to say
in a flurry of small helpings

a poet sings like a bird
in a secret forest

a poet finds a muse
flitting amongst the branches

a poets lot is to sing
even when a muse has flown.