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Nat Lipstadt Oct 2013
A perfect day (in the city)

First off, it is Saturday morning!
I wake up too early,
Slip into a heated reverie,
five poems to achieve,
along with five healthy sneezes,
expelling the week's dusty remains.

She checks in on me,
to see if I am adequately watered
in my poetry riding place,
in truth, to see if I am overcooked,
still alive, still in my creative place.

A real frittata from her new frittata pan,
is the breakfast plan,
that pan,
gives her so much pleasure(?),
I will be eating them
for the rest of my weekend
life.

Tho confess I must,
The sun-dried tomatoes and
smokey mozzarella, my fav,
were pretty tasty,
maybe I am being too hasty?

She to Dracula dvr'd,
me to nap sweet,
a rest to finally complete,
for once.

we meet up again around noon,
preparatory work, i.e., getting dressed,
off to see Little Miss Sunshine,
now Off-Broadway, at
Eighth and Forty Third.

Yes it was charming and delightful,
dear Wallace Shawn,^
and there were no ****** histrionic
rutting cats in it,
not one at all.
(I know, I know,
I am embarrassingly, lowbrow)


Walked home,
so she could exercise her pet
man.
On the way,
bought us new earphones,
cause I go through a pair a day,
given that I write poetry
in a someday,
watery grave.

Up Eighth Avenue,
at my request,
a reality show,
the meandering tourists
and the grunge to
circumnavigate,

Across 57th Street,
west to east,
surrounded by the city's teemings,
people flash mobbing,
giving NYC,
its special heartbeat.

Up Madison to window shop,
it seems in this part of town
of fancy shops,
I am to France and Italy teleported,
they don't speak
no English anymore,
though told, they still accept
American
Express
and US dollars

Home by late afternoon,
she, a promise to keep,
lamb chops,
honeyed Brussels sprouts,
a sweet potato
and a very very good Pinot Noir
purchased when,
I was very very goodly broke,
and contrapuntal insanity was a
partial cure.

Romantic lighting, yeah yeah,
a date-dinner, she gets,
in return, I ecstasize semi-silently
(actually quite loudly, with every bite)
in a carnivorous man-haze.

A grand bargain.

In bed early,
a Hercule Poirot to drink on tv.
I see fifteen minutes,
so I can wake up
to record
in the dead of night,
in plain, yet
triumphant poetry,
her final words.

“A perfect day”
^ see the poem Wallace Shawn

Ironically, written on the day Lou Reed passed way, who sang one of her fav songs,
Perfect Day
Dreams of Sepia Aug 2015
My moustache it tells me you did it. Don't argue.
The Great Detective

Hercules Poirot stood alone
the lovers he had saved from the gallows
had departed.
He had tears in the corners of his eyes
and said: I, Hercules Poirot, the most famous detective in the world
I cannot understand the nature of love.
I concur.
My wife and I have been together for twenty years.
I love her dearly; she does not care about my writing; it might
upset people.
Her female logic makes me knotted in despair, but what can I do?
We have grown old together, and my nightmare is to live longer than her.
She is the practical one. I see conspiracy theory everywhere.
When Hercules Poirot could not solve the problem,
I give up too and go on loving her.
Mateuš Conrad Jun 2016
and now you're singing karaoke... so ha ha and Kyoto.

and this is the part where i tell you i love you?
it sounds like it's the part where i **** your dog off
and laugh; or maybe that's the part where
i say i'm scooch-peppery-ish!
tangy! mm hmm!
solid gold worth's an advert! aha,
Elvis just rolled up his sleeves!
while Shoon can-can the worthy,
sire nigh nigh the knighted made
speeches at a royal funeral that made 20 kings
abdicate, we all thought of Monaco
and Senna... lipstick Helsinki...
crisscross Albania and: Waterloo...
when Napoleon sniffed glue... oh Waterloo!
i too built Stockholm in a day, based on
the pop culture of Europe casually so.
but indeed Sean, the flowery basin of all
that's Essex, Sussex and Kent,
i.e. Scottish, show... i'm ashoored it'sh
Shcandinavian cartoon or at least halfwit Belgian
with the moustache, dumb-flicked *Hercules
Poirot...
authored by a nagging Agatha Christensen.
Ciaran Treacy  May 2012
Seeker
Ciaran Treacy May 2012
I am both pilgrim and detective -
A kind of penitent Poirot -
Sifting through muddy reality
In search of a woman - THE woman.

She appears to me from time to time;
Glimpses abound in those around me.
A riddle unsolved, a question unasked;
In love with what I cannot see.

We may even have met already.
Something missed at the time may grow
And consume - a glance, a polite word;
Some hidden gem revealed by time.

Her nature, like her face, eludes me.
Is she some noirish Nemesis,
With omnipresent cigarette haze
And the knell of doom in her heel-clack?

Or the timid nerd of the high school,
Revealed as a radiant beauty
Sans horn-rims, ponytail and books
(On reflection, that's probably me).

Shall we be tragic starstruck lovers,
Cut off in the peak and prime of love
To become a cliché for journalists
And poets immune to irony?

Or perhaps she is all of these things
Arrayed in sublime splendour,
Shifting dreamlike through modes of being
Which illuminate each other.

Besides, I am surely mistaken.
It is a poet's weakness in me:
Reducing his imagined beloved
To convenient literary types.

Just as well: moulds are tedious
No-one worth knowing fits into one
(My apologies to moulded readers -
You are probably happier than I).

Yet, without knowledge, I know her
Even as I search tirelessly.
For I know everything about her
(Save only her identity).
Micheal Wolf Mar 2013
Miss Marple interfering *******
Poirot  you walk like you filled your pants
Kojak I bet your teeth rot
Columbo for god sakes get a wash
Farther Dowling get back to your church
Sherlock homes is it time to shoot up yet?
****** she wrote and you bought it all
But now times changed and new blood reigns
Gene Hunts here and the city is safe
You breathe very heavily
And you're short
And bald.
You tell obscure jokes that no-one laughs at.
You get really, really drunk
And shout along to songs - all the wrong words
deliberately.
You're very annoying.
Right wing
A wind-up merchant
You watch nothing but the news, Top Gear, and old re-runs of Poirot.

It's no good.
I love to listen to you breathe, and sigh
You're just the right height for kissing
And your baldness suits you, suits your perfect smile
I laugh inside, if no-one else does
And am usually drunker, and louder, and urging you to dance.
I love your teasing
And the TV doesn't matter
Because we only have eyes for each other
when together
It's no good.
Mateuš Conrad Feb 2019
.within these words is the simple question... i'm a misogynist? i'm a misogynist? i'm such curious as to how i could get away with all of this if i, truly were a woman, but as being a man, i am prescribed the sentient double-knocker of: a ******* mea culpa!

so i spent the afternoon making
two curries...
   by now... cultural appropriatio:
whatever the hell that means
having an arsenal of indian
spices that would scare both
the russians and the h'americans
with their nukes...
but like i said:
i concede:
                 the blue indian cuisine,
i.e. from the Bengal
or the Punjab?
superior to my bland salt &
paper...
although...
when it came to the chicken chettinad?
i'm not here competing
for the white-boy-eat-a-lot-of-chillies
olympics...
one standard red chilli,
four kashimiri dry chillies,
and yes... some standard chilly
powder...
       if i want to burn my tongue:
i'll drink near-to-boiling
water... thanks...
don't know... i sometimes make
so much curry in one afternoon
i'm happy to forget doing
the stereotypical male thing of...
watching the 6 nations rugby,
or the skii jumping competition
from Letho (Finland)...
   it's like... i'm transported back
to Edinburgh,
  doing 12 hours of lab. training
once more...
              hell... no lab. work for me:
but i guess... blue indian cuisine
is the closest thing to a chemistry
experiment, notably an organic
chemistry experiment...
mind you:
   have you ever wondered why
you tend to eat a little bit more
of the sauce...
   if you don't dice the chicken,
move away from dicing chicken
*******, and instead fry (which will
come later)
       whole chicken thighs?
or... marinate them prior to...
          curating them via
                   the method of poaching
them in the sauce?
diced chicken: so bland...
         esp. from the breast....
but the meat... cooked whole...
esp. as a thigh (the best bit of
the chicken, and with the bone
intact? oh god!)...
my few favorite curry though?
the one i made later...
    a... sali murgi...
   (yes, the H is always a surd...
   moor-ghee...
    butter of the moors)...
      with those beautiful sali
crispets...
          on top...
   also... who would have thought:
dried, apricots... in a curry?
oh i don't mind this...
   "cultural appropriation"...
me cooking curry is...
so much more than someone
donning dreads...
and... by the looks of it...
          i might even, slyly,
cook better than some natives...
well i already know that
i can speak a more orthodox english
than some of the natives,
i knew that back in high-school...
  started in class 2B...
moved a year later to class 1B...
(class... tier, same thing)...
a year later i was in class 1A...
and it went like so:
    1A, 1B, 2A, 2B,
              1C... 3A, 3B,
                      1D, 2C...
and no... there was no 4A or 4B...
(it skipped every two numbers
and every two letters)...
so... me worried that i might
not cook better than some
Indian's grandmother?
   not in the least...
              a, woman, cooking?
please... give me a break...
             what's that story:
if she overuses salt...
she's thinking about something...
if she underuses salt
she's fostering ill-will...
she over-cooks the pasta
she wants a divorce...
she under-cooks it...
she wants you to start recreationally
running because you have
a "beer-belly-flab"...
yeah... i'll say it...
WOMEN DO NOT BELONG
IN THE KITCHEN...
        mind you...
i was helped by a standard-bearer
to the antithesis of saying so...
mother dear...
   mother ed gein mother dear
(this better freak some people out)...
ah...
but you know what?
frying the potato sali...
last time i used a *** and a standard
cheese grater for the potato...
ingenius...
however many chemistry
experiments i ever did...
no cliche american high-school
"faux pas"...
          but then...
like men are supposedly unable
to tell the difference
between
burgundy and cordovan...
         the **** is a...
               julienne peeler?
yes... mother dear...
or... grandma dear...
                 any other woman in
"my life"...
   no really... but i always like
to keep the ed gein joker card
in play...
   for breathing space...
             all the other women in my
life were...
    for two worthy exceptions...
the nurse in the hospital
where i was born...
                     birth-mark scared...
thought it was better to
shove suckle of a feeding bottle
into my mouth so hard
that i would suffocate,
and almost die from
a premature heart-attack...
ended up with an.. "enlarged" heart...
last girlfriend...
  now... i don't even want to begin
with that story...
in full agatha christey
alias poirot paranoid-mode...
****** her for 7 hours one night
prior to leaving St. Petersburg...
****** her in the batch while she was
on her period and it was
the first time she told me to put
on a ******,
after she first told me to take it off...
so yeah... the curry was great...
we lated sat together
like jesus mary & st. joseph
watching the t.v.
   ah... China's one child-policy...
back in Europe
i'm a dormant serial killer
and my mother is actually my sister...
and my father is a *******
Anglican priest...
or myth, or ghost,
  counter... "god"...
of me turning to the public stage...
BUMPER STICKER
RETRACTION FROM H'AMERICA...
if he died for "our", "sins"...
why is the mantra still:
  the mea culpa of...
"allowing" him to die on the cross?
so we watched a movie...
book club...
staring...
   jane fonda...
  that guy from miami vice...
that woman from ms. congeniality,
that woman from back to the future
vol. 3,
          that woman from
        father of the bride...
                       and DREYFUS!
fifty shade of grey...
   cameo by e. l. james, walking
the dog?
                         yep...
        anyway... watched that...
prior to, dressed up real fine...
was asked where i was going...
to buy some beer...
   walked to the local for some cider...
had to endure a interlude
with a drunk west ham supporter
talking to the colt cashier about
working in outer east london
but being an arsenal supporter...
the movie though...
book clup...
          so it ends on a:
and they lived happily ever after,
didn't it?
            yeah... it did...
but as i was walking about...
the demographic...
   my "neighbour"...
a single mother who still has her
son living with her -
who should look like he's ageing
but... to me he's still
a stunted cabbage-patch
                       of a 13 year old...
a daughter who sometimes
crashes...
      walking home with
a... "catch"...
                           a man...
                 who i would seriously
make ******* antagonisms of...
elsewhere? in the... vicinity?
similar stories...
                      around here
i'm the jesus, the messiah's
mother and my father,
                 the ghost of st. joseph...
last time i wanted to play roulette...
my mother was visiting
     her parents,
both of them slept at my uncle's
house,
i hosted a birthday party...
                and...
  ended up ******* a black girl
in my room on a chocolate couch...
how's that?
      don't even ask me how
i managed to persuade a thai
    bisexual with cheap polish beer
and jazz...
        done brutally / i.e. realistically
in the garden...
with a my own persistent zenith
of surprise...
the thai surprise...
           of reaching into her *****...
really... sport's bra...
and you just picked her up
   from a park bench lamenting
into the phone drinking beer
at the same time, + the short hair?
really? no... moment of "suspence"
           of... the thai surprise?
there were always the odds:
3:1 - she's a woman...
        or 4:2 - she's... he's she's
                               she's he's a man...
oi! shem?! what's up?
which is it?
(3? mouth, the floral pattern,
and the ***...
                1? choice...
  well... if you've already started
courting?
              there isn't one...
4? how many points of entry
between two men? 4...
   but how many choices?
the... teasing *******
literature and wanting to experiment
or...
   the "homophobe"...
which only applies to...
   ****** taqiyya...
                        or the thai surprise...
oh i'm pretty sure i've met
a few homosexuals in my life,
but all of them had
the courtesy to... dismiss homophobia...
what was "homophobia"
and became "trans-phobia"
was forever some borrowed
from Islam... ****** taqiyya)...                
    
                 oh but reality is brutal
on this level...
                         no... not rosey ****
friends, best buddy psychotic
                  lingering ex-girlfriends...

so i drank one cider,
watched match of the day
for all the premiership highlights...
drank two more ciders...
in between taking
a king's salute of one's
most worthy subject:
    a 10cm length of fudge-like
****...
forgot to *******...
and found myself thinking...
'what if the opening
for david bowie's song
from the man who sold the world,
the width of a circle...
could ever become something
-esque shape of things to come
by audioslave...
that subtle rhythm section...
what if all rhythm sections
of songs could have more
a more subtle air about them,
so that the rhythm section
doesn't have to compete with
the vocals...
   harmony...
                very much unlike
the rhythm guitar of Metallica...
what then?

i'll speak my mea culpa...
but i'll also imagine myself
nailing him to the cross...
and then dry *******
the erected crucifix
                         with him on it...
yes...
    and he might have died,
but i somehow managed to live,
in order to understand,
rather than forget the omni-****
banality for...
    the spec-attache-of-the-wrongly-
reattached-to-the-omni-****
as-stand­ard-the...
                            particular man.

inclined to be on a, "jonestown massacre"
style... motiff?
         please...
                  i'd need to dumb
my language down to a level of
understanding that
could no longer be riddled
with idiosyncracies,
          and, subsequently
become: peppered with rhetoric...

who doesn't,
made of flesh,
borrow a segment from
     idolatory,
of these, of all of all
of the possible days...
                oh.... subtle translation
of the german reality
at the peak of the 19th century...
what was the twilight,
or rather... who were the idols
of that frame of history?
wherever i look now...
i cannot see what twilight
there's is to speak of,
other than via my own
post-mortem...
    and by then...
             i only seem to want to convey:
but i am only making
a snippet of what an status
would perform
otherwise:
full swing wholly engrossed
in idolatry do...

        nibbling...
to better explain metaphysics...
id est:
       as simply as possible...
with a...
                 underlying principle
of metaphor...
   and subsequently:
   a literalism that only dabbles
with ridicule of,
what centers around...
self-worth,
    and self-worth-attainment,
best mitigated by
   a self-deprecating comedy...
         that... is provoked
as a modus operandi...
                by an undermining,
tragico-comic...
         of a... noumenon,
self-excluded:
              deprecating comedy per se.

thus:
   the self, returns to the "self",
returns to "the box"...
               which ends up being...
something almost bearable
to have to endure,
esp. when stacking shelves
in a supermarket.
Leaetta May  Mar 2019
the grind
Leaetta May Mar 2019
the week end far off
when I sit in sloth
in the meantime I grind
and fast forward the time
when my feet can be up
and slow down with a cup
of tisane like Poirot
at that time I'll know
the meaning of slow
in the meantime I grind
this joe so fine
dailylife tired  libations tea coffee
Senor Negativo Mar 2017
Without the rudeness of permanant dawn
They sigh from their purified hearts
Without any of our waking anchors of the evening
Against the science of flawed carbon dioxide 
They hover off of wild doubts of still air
Their minds more than lead planes in clear skies
Floating beside the Poirot
Outside that transparent declaration of ngyzma they are more than kings
Relieved without the weightlessness of drought
Those stiff torsos more than deny they are not unjust automatons 
Without a rough march of hope
The birds pass by naked to admire and denounce them
And they remember our cruelty 
But it is a disgusting screen, an obfuscation 
Robust in their certain church of ingratitude
But still here was a window, shutters, ears
And they Cannot walk completed to that chamber 
And sink without waves out of shadowed churches of the body
Where nothing is impossible, where everyone is impossible 
Here they are not free beside the temples of their torpor
And the entertainment either wakefulness this withdraws them without its awakening
They have ceased destroying, no longer withdrawing downward
To darkened definitive forms of trunks
Their plastic against the most hideous of toes
What is the negative of gibberish?
Lawrence Hall May 2022
Lawrence Hall
Mhall46184@aol.com  
https://hellopoetry.com/lawrence-hall/
poeticdrivel.blogspot.com

                Kenneth Branagh Attempts to ****** Agatha Christie

Mr. Branagh, we’re watching your reputation die
Garishly coloured in the worst CGI

In your first Poirot you made a formless mess -
It was the audience who died on the Orient Express

And then you continued without any style
And lost the plot on your sad cartoon Nile

Do whatever you want; have it your way
But we are sticking with David Suchet

For it is obvious to our great sorrow
That you are a flop as Hercule Poirot
Ashwin Kumar Sep 24
What if I love you, Ms. V?
It will make me shine like the Sun
Never again, will I be alone
My heart will beat at the speed of an aeroplane
Like a top, will my brain spin
Like a flower, will my face bloom
And from ear to ear, will I beam!

What if I love you, Ms. V?
Talk for hours and hours, we can
About any topic under the Sun
Be it Harris Jayaraj music
Or Indian or international politics
Or chicken vs mutton
Or travelling in trains
And can I go on and on
Trust me, never will I get bored
Of course, neither will you get bored
I will make sure of that
No matter what!!

What if I love you, Ms. V?
A shoulder for you to cry on, will I be
With anything and everything, can you trust me
I keep secrets
As well as Hercule Poirot connects the dots
In any Agatha Christie ****** mystery
And never will I be in a hurry
So, you can take your own sweet time to open up
Or for that matter, can you yap and yap
And I won't mind a bit
After all, every single relationship requires a lot of effort!!

What If I love you, Ms. V?
For you, am I ready to change anything
To ensure you keep smiling
Just not my character or nature, of course
To do anything for you, am I not averse
Just not anything unethical or immoral, of course
I will be there for you on your best days
And of course on your worst days
After all, love doesn't come without its share of pain
And as we all know, there is no gain without pain!!

What if I love you, Ms. V?
Definitely, will it change my life
If you are to become my wife
But yes, not so soon of course
To deciding anything in a hurry, am I averse
I will give you all the time and space you need
It's part of love, will I add!!

What if I love you, Ms. V?
Well, I hope you will love me back
If yes, then will my life be free from anything and everything dark
I will be one of the happiest people in the world
Even all the gold in the world
Cannot give me THAT feeling
Because, to me do YOU mean EVERYTHING
If no, then thank you for giving me the opportunity
To write this piece of poetry!!
I will always write love poetry, irrespective of whether I am actually in love or not!!

— The End —