"buttering" poems
The more we know, the less we say
All the spoken words have its consequences
The more is told in silences
The words omitted but heard clearly
What we listen, the words crafted carefully
They deceive the ears that surrounds
Every other agenda works on
What favours whose manipulation
The smile contains no smile
The efforts put to take another mile
Snooping and buttering on sides
Friends and foe, no one decides
Act so nice, what is inside
no one knows till the very end
Dress so good, please all eyes
Give help when it is noticed
Out of sight then eyes vanished
Deceptive tricks up the sleeve
It matters not whom we believe
All playing game with roll of dice
Keeping friends close, enemies closer.
Sep 24, 2019
Sep 24, 2019 at 3:38 AM UTC
Is this how happiness feel like?
Oh, the way my lips gently curve upwards is like..
Sleepy eyes kissed airily by sunshine,
buttering toast on a bitter cold winter's day.
When it is so very cold,
every breath feels like toothpaste and mint.
It is the worries being unknotted.
Little inexplicable sparks that can light even the darkest souls.
Jan 13, 2014
Jan 13, 2014 at 4:18 AM UTC
Heralding new, in skeletal chariot;
she chases fodder across Solstice night.
Bright ribbons, on garlands made of *******
Beiwe feasts.
Dec 20, 2012
Dec 20, 2012 at 4:16 AM UTC
Unfortunately you are not for everyone. Not everyone will like you. Not everyone will love you regardless of what you do and how nice of a person you are. Not everyone will vibe with your energy and not everyone will understand and support you.
Even though it is a bitter pill to swallow at times don't let it make a turmoil of your emotion and deplete your energy. Because your time and energy is so much more precious than exhausting yourself by shapeshifting to pander to the whims of others, moulding yourself to fit in every where and hence retaining no shape to call your own.
Choose not to sacrifice your uniqueness to succumb buttering up their bread. To Be selective with your energy by politely waving them goodbye to stand by your values and lifestyles that most deeply resonate with you. Choose to take social risks regardless of the awkward glances and haughty whispers. Choose to not care of what others think to the point it stifles your ability to take risks and disrupt your social satisfaction.
For there is nothing more liberating than to not waste your life allowing the faultfinders to dictate your actions. To seek to align your actions with your heart. To stand up for something, to do and believe what brings content regardless of it being disliked. It is beautifully candor being your authentic self.
Sep 18, 2018
Sep 18, 2018 at 6:50 PM UTC
There's only so much a man can take
There's only so much bullying, so much shoving
There's only so much faking and denying
There's only so much swallowing and deflecting
For every man that is 'spinning plates',
There's is a boy being stepped on.
For every man that is buttering up,
There is a boy that is being deceived.
For every man that is lying,
There is a boy that is being lied to.
I tell you this so you can
Neatly and promptly
Get your head out of your *** as
If you're not cheating and lying,
If you're not faking and denying,
If you're not shoving and bullying,
You are no man at all.
Oct 5, 2015
Oct 5, 2015 at 7:58 PM UTC
It is quite dignifying to imagine
one's self to be invincible, but
at the end of the day
we are all submissive to nightmares
mirrors can't help but reflect despair
in bloodshot eyes.
I have lived on this planted for
3 years and 20 centuries
and I can tell you that
sleeping pills don't work and
buttering burns makes the suffering
more savory.
Fire will always be enticing
and smoke will seem like clouds after a while
you can **** as many mosquitos as you want, but your blood will always belong
to the earth
and when you are drained like sandy bath water you will understand
what it feels like to be curious
Aug 11, 2013
Aug 11, 2013 at 4:12 PM UTC
She speaks five languages
& works her *** off
in an eatery
buttering croissants.
A single mom of three,
she still has the spirit to
smile like a summer sun.
What a pretty sight,
there's no wallowing in
the mire for this waitress,
she's still got fire
& no time for ********
'cause she's making it happen
on her own terms.
Jul 29, 2014
Jul 29, 2014 at 6:41 AM UTC
I'm very good at
-smuggling food
anywhere :)
-acting,
so I might hate you for what you're doing to me,
but I'll keep a smile and pretend I love you.
- -sheepish smile- buttering up teachers.
-being ***** then playing innocent whoops
-questionable flirting (?)
-blaming others
-lying
-trying too hard
-sending signs without meaning to, just trying to be nice
Nov 29, 2014
Nov 29, 2014 at 9:49 PM UTC
In her leggings,
and her striped
Cape Cod dress,
we meet Kim.
She’s in possession
of ankles the circumference
of Kennedy half-dollars,
a wasp’s nest of black curls
piled on her head,
she’s a straight line
from shoulder to heel.
She’s a real catch, Kim is,
and she knows it.
She has no idea that
she looks like a peacock
dipped in motor oil,
she’s giving ol’ Josh
the goldfish eye.
We’re all here to see The Freight Train,
The Rabbit Killer, but Kim’s hoping
for more.
Kim’s looking to get her
bunny stuffed, she
don’t care much about who
does the stuffing,
but she’s hoping for Mr. Clark,
he’s her mark, no doubt.
Now, Josh bought Kim
a beer, but was asked to
leave the cap on,
He looks at me, confused.
“It’s so you can’t Rufie her.
She wants to **** you, but
she wants it to be her idea.”
Josh nods;
so does Kim.
As the evening proceeds,
and we’ve all done
“The Freight Train Boogie”
it’s become increasingly
obvious to Kim that Josh
is not agreeable to buttering
her biscuits, she moves,
which is to say stumbles,
around the room.
Every so often she’ll climb onto
the lap of some guy she’s known,
biblically or otherwise, before.
Sam, Bob, Steve, Ralph, or Charlie,
it hardly matters.
Earlier, she’d told us about
the 6-year-old twins,
the teenaged daughter
at home, ex-husband,
boyfriend, whatever, in jail.
The Freight Train moves ever
onward, but I’ve seen too
much of ol’ Kimmy’s show,
now depressed, it’s time
to bail.
***
-JBClaywell
©P&ZPublications; 2016
Apr 4, 2016
Apr 4, 2016 at 11:47 AM UTC
We are in an empire of a thousand sons,
but in the end we all count as one.
We will do our best to not act glum,
but when push comes to shove there will always be one.
Spontaneous heartache,
a natural disaster.
Poverty stricken nations,
A dictator for their master.
In my heart and in my mind
I’ll still find the time,
to teach every bird how to fly,
and every person to live the perfect lie.
We will wish for better days,
look to the skies and we will prey,
but in my heart and in my soul,
life’s love lost moments eat us whole
as we engage in our final goal.
If she even remembers me
for flying off the handle,
for broken picture frames
and a life that’s been dismantled,
then she’s like a flame,
flickering forever on my candle.
Like my mother used to say,
the days remain bright but the sky always grey,
a reminder of the past time
a substitute for the right way.
We set our stage on the shore-line,
blankets laid beneath us,
gazed at the endless night sky,
waiting for Augusts rush.
Apr 5, 2012
Apr 5, 2012 at 5:20 AM UTC
For months you have a funny face,
our love mysteriously has shifted out of place!?!
Have you found another or is it drugs?
You mock my questioning, my grave is dug.
You reappear and claim your love
offering a dollar or shoulder rub.
My instincts quickly understanding
He is selfish and quite demanding.
For everything he asked of me
I did with greatness; to the best degree
Apparently not enough
Because now there is she.
I get the news of proud daddy with another!
just hours before...Kissing me, no talk of others.
Buttering me up, being a good man
just to tell me how you ruined our plan!!!
Jan 7, 2014
Jan 7, 2014 at 1:23 AM UTC
For bright prosperous future,
They say oiling is required.
They inform buttering is must;
If in job promotion is desired.
Butter increases cholesterol.
It is not at all good for health.
I say no to such promotions.
Poverty better than such wealth.
I cannot **** my conscience;
To make tomorrow brighter.
For oiling I've a jar of kerosene;
And I always carry a lighter.
Nov 3, 2014
Nov 3, 2014 at 12:09 AM UTC
As migrant workers in dire need of buttering their bread
To Libya, the hardest way, some Ethiopians opted to head
They spent a portion of their life in a sweatshop
Clinging afloat a better-tomorrow hope.
Tragically, they were intercepted by ISIS members with
A brain, inured, petrified and dead
After blood-thirsty, heinous, ill-motivated and bad shaped.
ISIS demons, who lavish atavism, ironically the faithful behead
With faith-based hatred. Putting on a mask, they
Bullied 30 cross-necklace-bearing Ethiopians to a desert shore,
Showcasing the brutality they adore —the way a cat
Plays with an inescapably captured rat-
Rattling a sabre at the kneeling down victim's back
Making sure their brutality to others proves stark
Like a Hollywood movie they ordered 'attack! '
Oblivious
'Even slaying a sheep or a hen
Must be handled in a way that doesn't inflict a pain! '
The Prophet's word ISIS members misconstrued
"The Muslim Faith owes Ethiopian Orthodox a gratitude!
So Never attack a peaceful Ethiopian! "
What do they care, disciples of satan,
When an Ethiopian Muslim challenged them
"Where is your logic or reason? "
They shot him, taking his act as a treason.
It is martyr's soul that goes to heaven
While the unrepentant terrorists' souls
Are destined for hell's oven!
Sep 27, 2017
Sep 27, 2017 at 10:36 AM UTC
*Truth’s a double edged sword
And true lies have a façade
For each occasion that’s mundane
Or otherwise and when peddled they’re mostly plain
Eliciting brouhaha meant to send mixed signals
Kind of “stones” hitting an “undisclosed” number of birds.
A crop of good fellows, politicians that is
Barely ever leave the populace at ease
Buttering them up with falsehoods, platitudes even half truths
And by virtue of being inherently over-excitable, these verbal missiles
From ‘slingshots’ cause strife, discord, discontent even apathy
In all manner of forms and so nationhood and integration atrophy.
Funny enough this happens from a seemingly divided
Front “truth” is there’s a common denominator, self-preservation and that’s farsighted.*
Sep 19, 2016
Sep 19, 2016 at 3:22 AM UTC
when i want
to build a wall.
i take the stone,
formed by,
anger or hurt
from my gullet.
wash it, so it's
dark facets shine.
then place it,
in the footings,
of my insecurity.
find another and repeat
til they form a line.
using as my mortar,
pain, embarassment
and indignation in equal parts.
mixed with tears and bile.
and then, i begin again
buttering bricks and
offsetting, them.
i want, no need,
my wall to be strong.
tho i never build,
my walls too high
three or four courses,
never, no more.
i want to be able to,
step over them
and be free
i have seen those
and watch them still,
thoese who, built a high, formidable wall,
a fortress, it does become,
with them, still locked, imprisoned inside.
so i learnt to build,
walls strong, but squat
so i can,
when ready,
emerge.
righteous and graceful.
but this is my folly,
the flaw, in my scheme.
my walls, they run
***** nilly, everywhere.
and over them i trip
**** over beam..
so now...
i must find a school
to teach me the art
and give me the tools,
of how to deconstruct a wall.
with out the haphazard use
of a wrecking ball.
Apr 25, 2014
Apr 25, 2014 at 11:59 PM UTC
in Portugal austerity is biting...
good luck everybody.
Sat around the crowded table
Wrangling chair legs and buttering
Conversations about banalities whilst
Being bathed by full cool moonlight
Is of course a fair enough sweet delight.
Yet there is smoke in the air!
Then one by one my souls depart;
Stunning my heart yet keeping me close
Causing fears to become unshadowed.
As somehow, I must open my eyes to find
There is always a child quite near.
Oh how do I keep it fed?
Mar 5, 2012
Mar 5, 2012 at 12:56 PM UTC
I was plugging your woman,
see she was the socket,
And I was the one that gave
Her the charge.
She was the amp, I was the watt..
Arching her back,
like I'd electrocuted the g spot.
You were a one use battery,
dead on the first use.
I'll recharge her when you at work,
earning the bread.
But I'm buttering her with my tongue..
spreading it even.
She needs you.
Wants me.
The reason that you don't
have a florescent
bulb in your bedroom.
It would be like shooting stars
across the sky.
I'm the javelin thrower,
you the tap drip,
drip,
dripping in the bedroom.
A Rottweiler growing, you the poodle.
But don't worry,
not here to ruin you bro.
Just to ruin her wet spot,
And I'm already thirsty.
Feb 7, 2020
Feb 7, 2020 at 8:02 AM UTC
This was prompted by the wonderful The Queen Creative over at Wordpress.
From Wikipedia:
Honne and tatemae are Japanese words that describe the contrast between a person’s true feelings and desires (本音 honne?) and the behavior and opinions one displays in public (建前 tatemae?, lit. “façade”).
1. Sent Up For Good (Tatemae)
I’m a convincing stranger.
My Englishness pulls at my
Starched white collar.
My fingers,
So piano fine and buttoned down,
are little sticks of ivory.
My spittle mouth brushes away
indigo blushes
of spent ink
and my hair
has a perfect parting
separated by
a red pencil
in the morning.
A little gentleman in
Tom Brown tails,
Nervously buttering bread.
Hammy, clipped,
Knows it off by heart,
( Lucien tells me that
He plans to get a new suit made).
2. Sent Down For Bad (Honne)
In my Prince’s bedchamber
My Englishness pulls at his
Starched white collar.
My fingers,
Like white-wine and goose down,
Flick with the
little kicks of bribery.
My little mouth flushes
with overflowing gushes
Of his spent ink
And my hair
Has an imperfect parting
Which will be separated
By a red pencil in the morning.
A little temperamental man in
**** detail,
Gluttonously giving head.
Jammy lipped,
The School ****
(Lucien tells me that
he plans to **** a maid).
Sep 12, 2013
Sep 12, 2013 at 12:19 PM UTC
jack fiddles life away on his thumbs~
the little digits beating like drums~
over loaf he brows~
buttering skid rows~
from his jam, he awaits for crumbs
Logan Robertson
7/08/2019
Jul 8, 2019
Jul 8, 2019 at 2:02 AM UTC
piano keys dance slowly
as the smoke curls
gently
around gnarled fingers
holding the fate of nations
mindlessly
fidgety interns wait for orders
secretly regretting promoting military service
rooms full of children
interested and in-tune
signing up to die –
blankly looking at the clipboard
experiencing wetness in the corner of distraught eyes
visions of burning children and screaming mothers
entire cultures blinked from existence
once again sits at the forefront of options
no longer dissuaded by position
the smallest sound escapes pursed lips
echoing forever in the void –
crimson rivers cascade down suburban streets
the sins of the youth collide with the aggression of the infirm
and treachery once again rules the world
placeless faces taste rusty train cars
the ovens still work, even if they are museum pieces –
daybreak beckons and broken bearded ********
bent on beguiling those beneath themselves
barter for breadcrumbs
billing services and
buttering palms
sit atop fanciful castles
waiting for the next royalty check
……the invention of war
still is prosperous in the right families –
Jan 16, 2015
Jan 16, 2015 at 10:14 PM UTC
Driving In Ireland
Try buttering toast with a tulip
on horseback. Skittish nag, twisted chaps,
flogging a slice, reins in your teeth,
waving a battered Black Parrot
heading a slow parade.
Oct 11, 2016
Oct 11, 2016 at 9:15 PM UTC
the "abstract" fun of drinking wine
from a bottle on the day
you find out your mother is a pain-killer
******
a: near-death experience of...
flashing... memory cinema...
of every single time you experienced
love at first sight...
and you know the cast.... by names...
the "abstract" fun of drinking wine
from a bottle on the day you
decided: drinking is becoming boring...
literally: you have drinken so much that...
what the drunk you said of sober
you: said of sober per se...
now the sober you is saying of the drinking
you that the drunk: of you...
the moral hangover is a *****
i don't want to feel sorry for...
something that's not akin to drink-driving...
but i am...
but i am... drinking some wine from
a bottle...
after all... that tally-game of:
100cl of whiskey...
divided by 3: divided by ||
||
||
||
and sometimes over-stepping the division...
all wonky...
||||||||/|||...
eh... drinking beer from a bottle...
no head... beer... glass... afro... head...
beer... glass... afro... head: albino afro...
better than bleached afro... head...
a totally different experience when drinking...
wine from a bottle...
but... it's not a red... and it's not a white...
it's a rouge... a... rho-z\y...
**** it's a... rosé...
4am and sitting up so late...
that was... fun... when...
i still had... all the love for writing in me...
but the funz not there...
anymore...
porphyria... no syphilis...
paraphernalia: chiromancer...
necromancer... and that lost one...
pyrotechnic... fire-reader...
or no other alternative...
the electrician...
chequers with fuses...
in the plugs... sir...
before one... throws away...
a perfectly good appliance...
there were two variations of a sentence...
but then... the sentence became too long...
the original...
the "abtract" fun of drinking wine from a bottle...
vs.
the abstract "fun" of drinking wine from a bottle...
and: drinking wine...
also... drinking wine...
from a bottle...
not smoking a cigarette for a whole
day... i say... cigarettes go best with wine!
drinking wine from a bottle...
a welcome break from drinking that sort
of knock-out bourbon...
invested in purpose: wait and hour...
oh the heavy "stuff" doesn't kick in...
so early on... it's no fun...
not enough... sugar...
it's no fun... clearly none...
s. beckett's watt contra... anything by dr. seuss...
anyday... that sparring...
i'll bet on that... too!
rhyme rhyme rhyme: confined to rhyme?
rhyme is best guised by an importune surrender
of chance...
a champagne: a discovery of champagne...
not that... repeated...
hammering of a horse's head against
a wall because: it has a grain of sand
lodged in it...
a rhyme by no surrender...
by chance... a rhyme by no caging...
this pretty pretty pretty sore-spot
of.... buttering the exit... for a thorny sort...
sort of "soul"...
the joy of drinking wine from
a bottle... the need for a glass...
when drinking beer... for the head: froth...
crown... head: afro: froth... head...
all the joys of drinking wine from
a bottle.
Jun 29, 2020
Jun 29, 2020 at 7:25 PM UTC
Smooth like hot butter
I slice a piece of sweet bread
It never grows old
Mar 2, 2014
Mar 2, 2014 at 3:36 AM UTC