Three Scottish hags brew up a political storm in a...cauldron.
Inspired by Suri Ben N who got me overthinking about brevity, Shakespeare, alternative storylines, Rosencrantz and Guildenstern, and the existential milieu in general.
‘We do on stage things that are supposed to happen off. Which is a kind of integrity, if you look on every exit as being an entrance
- Tom Stoppard, Rosencrantz and Guildenstern Are Dead
The cover never tells the truth,
for every story... has papercuts
when you've turned the page.
Every fable can tell a tale,
some sweet as pie, but not all apples are
syrupy, some putrefy from the core.
For this cover shows her reading,
while rabbits playfully play.
Not one for ill suspense..
The book was different ways to
cook rabbit, she knew they
attended this spot.
Know your pray,
Remember that to be at ease
gives them a false sense of passivity.
Now when your ready, make your move..
The best practice is to scare, for a moment of
uncertainty will make then scatter in directions
With that she slammed the books pages together,
startled bunnies ran in all directions...
The ground around sewn with steel teeth
gentle steps to snap shut...
She stood up proud, that the book was true,
not all tales are fairy tales some are truthful.
As a few were still squirming, she did an act
of kindness, the book heavy as it came down.
The family will feed well tonight,
she had to wipe off the fur
but there were plenty more stories
of how to capture and create
that fairy tale meal..
With ideas in her head,
she acquires ingredients from creation.
She picks up some bread,
some meats and some crustacean.
With purchases in her hands,
she assembles them into her curation.
Each ingredient has a plan,
that's all part of her preparation.
She cook in her pots and pans,
dishes of her imagination.
Juggling flavours and textures,
from experience and experimentation.
She host her friends regularly,
not any one group particularly.
With smiles, laughter and her kitchen art,
everyone sense the generosity from her heart.
She is the artist,
and my wife.
Being positive is my thing,
But I do have an evil twin,
I imagine some weird things,
Like being a gastric surgeon,
Give laryngospasms for these durgeons,
I don't think they'll ever be men,
Ah, it's no use snivelling, you ken?
Hope they get chicks better than me,
Else, who is going to cook your tea?
You must stop being such sooks,
Get off buns, and learn how to cook!
If you take too long to cook dinner,
everyone will just end up
Even though I'm a kid, I do this all the time
I feel like boiling water
slowly evaporating into thin air
becoming invisible to others.
Something that came to my mind while cooking.
I cook my food on the flames of broken hearts and hatred
Boil my water on the heat of agony
They ask " why does it taste so well? "
Poetry is a food, a fueler, a filler
Of that emptiness we hope to resolve
Words are a chemistry, a balance, an equation
For nutrition of our nonexisting soul
Words- we take, we bake, we fill
Ourselves too full, we are gluttons
Sticky letters dissolve to
Nonsense, and hang off our tongue,
Always dripping, never falling
I began this movement, this culinary labratory
Where we mix chemicals together to
Create two-dimensional poisons of ecstacy
Lost in our minds, on our lips, savoring