"autoclave" poems
The female temple.
Hollow shell in the minds of men.
An autoclave
for a belly, a copy-and-paste mind
of blasphemies. A page
in man's contradictive bible. Just blondes and brunettes.
Just virgins and non-virgins.
Nothing more than breathing incubators.
I am a person, I have a brain, I say.
They smile at me with a condescending
wink. A nod. Good girl, well done.
They tousle my hair. Well fine, boys.
Watch me climb the ladder with one hand,
backwards, in heels. When I reach the top
I'll ram these six inch Louboutins
straight through your hearts.
May 24, 2014
May 24, 2014 at 3:13 PM UTC
It was the eve of a black obsidian night
full purple moon and stars shone bright
the howl of one lone wolf filled frigid air
damp cold mist needed down outerwear.
The screaming banchee's breath vapor
was noxious green befitting the caper
of scaring all children by his loud noise
of trick or treating little girls and boys.
A massive link ink wrought iron fence
surrounds eerie mansion in suspense
Frankinstein pushes thru spider webs
while a monster exercises quadriceps.
A ghost wanders in Cemetery's grave
and a pumpkin avoided an autoclave
the doors began to creak very loudly
a Raven and Owl sang quite proudly
Slick sleek ebony crows sit atop a roof
while another swoops, soars like a goof
do listen, you can hear their shrill echo
tombstone-songs by mummy's gecko
© Carmela M. Patterson
Oct 7, 2014
Oct 7, 2014 at 9:46 PM UTC
BRUSH
Brush free the carpet
of mud and fluff.
Let’s brush off the hurtful comment too,
that snide remark, those graceless words.
We’re cleaning yet collecting,
straightening up, taking out the dirt.
Repositioning dust. Always temporary,
never the same, brush, brush,
to and fro, again – again - again.
SCOOP
The ice cream tub has one
to make the portion fair
for that ever-observant,
pernickety child.
When walking the dog,
we scoop the ****
carrying the plastic bag
to the waiting wanting bin.
Yet the all-important wooden
scoop is made from a block
of a 2 by 3, with chisel, gouge
and a steady hand.
This farmer’s friend, this open spoon,
lives in darkness and under the lid
of the deep grain bin,
to feed white chickens.
POKE
Getting it out,
placing it right –
but much is trial & error.
If it won’t go in,
give it a poke . . .
and it might.
Nowadays it’s a software app
to help you cheat at on-line games
and , God forbid, an important tool
in the tattooist’s bag – the hand poke,
liner and shader with standard
8 – 32 thumb screws and
completely autoclave able.
CUT
Hogwimpering drunk
or ****** out of mind.
Seventies slang for
individual incapacitation.
A cut can hurt,
display the inner
through incision
in the outer.
Reveals, opens up,
allows a division from
one to another.
This cut of meat on the slab?
For you, madam?
I can cut it up
nice and small
for the baby to chew.
RAKE
Lying there in the long summer grass,
it needs standing up, its teeth cleaned.
When autumn comes it redeems itself,
clearing the path, letting the lawn breath.
In the hand of sculptor, ceramicist, modeller
it fashions variously, cuts, pulls away, gouges,
scrapes, a multi-purpose stick with two ends:
of wrapped wire, of ribboned steel.
LOOK
To make sure it’s right:
correct and straight,
balanced, in proportion.
The magnifier helps,
the camera too,
getting the angle,
the position , the light
gauged . . . with a little looking.
You have to look,
see?
HIT
Whatever needs placing firmly,
needs fixing permanently,
can do with a hit (or two).
A nail with a hammer,
a door with a foot,
it could be a winner,
and right on target,
strike out the opposition,
disable the enemy.
A killer noun.
I prefer the verb.
Jan 24, 2016
Jan 24, 2016 at 5:11 AM UTC
I hung you like a lantern in my dark cave
worshipped at your feet but made you my slave
sterilized my heart inside an old autoclave
and tattooed my soul so I would become brave
tried to teach the teacher about genuine apology
attempted to outrun the runner with finicky philosphy
glued the pieces together to make a seamless epiphany
and ended up laughing at myself amidst the general cacophony
I created this mess when I was not at my best
and instead of looking to you now I see right through you
nightmares of yoy dying have turned to desires that leave me crying
I pray that the Rapture may come to steal you away or take me from
the past at last is gone.
I walked the rockiest path that I could find
in an effort to toughen my soles and strengthen my mind
I kept my eyes peeled in case I found a sign
that with eyes wide open I had not been rendered blind
When I reached a plateau I thought of resting
but when you stay long enough you start to think of nesting
watching the birds overhead reminded me of cresting
no rest for the weary testers during testing
Jul 4, 2010
Jul 4, 2010 at 10:18 AM UTC