"carpel" poems
In the book Going Solo,
Roald Dahl wrote about a woman
Who refused to eat anything with her bare hands
Instead, everything had to be handled with utensils
Knife in one hand and fork in another
She described the satisfaction of fruit cutting
The inexplicable joy at cleanly cleaving peel from flesh
Skill precise as a surgeon
Cutting it up according to Nature's dotted lines
I tried it on the same fruit
Somehow it just didn't feel right
Too refined, too silent
Unlike the practised deft peeling with bare fingers
Fingernails digging into the fruit, both refusing to compromise
Until eventually, the rind gives way and a cut is made
And from that same opening, tearing outwards
Sounding like strips of velcro are slowly being separated
The uneven globe of translucent orange flesh coming naked
Its pith shielding you from its full bright glory
Pulling it apart by halves, and then quarters, and then tenths
Each crescent shaped carpel in its mouth sized perfection
Sacs accidentally bursting, fingers sticky with juice
That is how an orange ought to be peeled.
Mar 19, 2013
Mar 19, 2013 at 10:24 PM UTC
These days drag on
while I drag on my finely
rolled cigarette of relief
But the relief is only a hazy
mask, fading with every lash
that falls on my cheek
My hair is too weak and
unkempt, for days spent
inside enduring darkness
take a toll on one's
mentality and physicality
I am a shell of who I used to be
Lips stuck together, crooked spine,
fingers jammed from carpel tunnel
Apathetic eyes grow weary from the
vast toxins that reside behind them
seeping through like an absorbent napkin
and rung out with listlessness
These days drag on and on
I hear the same songs
and make the same motions
I miss the fresh air and
the sound of the ocean
I almost miss the faint
smell of burts bees on
your lips--I'm sick with
nostalgia and dying for the future,
hating the present, wishing these
days would drag to an end
Oct 17, 2012
Oct 17, 2012 at 4:26 AM UTC
it comes
when you're reading one of those books
written by pseudo intellectuals buried
in their despondent lookout on life
comes when
They're writing on human's self-sabotaging nature,
when they're peeling
layers off and off, revealing the
truth of ourself like they're
gods,
Hermes the messenger, or angels, Michael,
bringing to us thoughts we'd never have grown organically
that's what they believe,
what they tell themselves as they prune their feathers with pride
as they impregnate you with the god honest truth
and how did you live before knowing this?
it's been with you all along, kicking and breathing and pushing
you just didn't know it, yet,
but now you can as
they preach their outlooks like it's a message that
changes everything, that your life will implode as your mind
wakes itself up -
they try to baptize you
gripping your throat with their
carpel tunnel fingers, reading glasses
slipping down their noses as they lean over
you, watching their words pour into
you, their victims' throat, as they will it
and all the while they blame
you, because:
Humans make themselves miserable
They write
They bury themselves in all they hate and
choose to burn all they love until
they're alone and self-loathing and scarred
unrecognizable
They write
Of our hatred for humanity
for every single individual that surrounds us and
How we surround ourselves with them
with crowded supermarkets and lanes of traffic because
they fuel our suffering and
That's all we crave
They write
On our thirst for blood
our lust for **** ****** war on
How our society is fueled by violence and how
we bathe in it with a grin
stretched across dry bleeding lips
sharp teeth that rip through our neighbors' flesh
with delight
They write
that we're alone in suffering and surrounded by hate and
we're wild animals driven to war
out of boredom and
That's human nature in a nutshell
That's the truth revealed
nasty, gritty, honest
They write
and that's when
it comes, that gnawing in the
pit of your stomach, that
scratching in the back of your mind
that claws its way
down into your throat where it
squeezes
Nov 21, 2013
Nov 21, 2013 at 2:28 PM UTC
What pretty words flow,
From carpel tunnel hands!
Fingers click clock on keyboards,
Time sifting like sugar.
Creativity ebbs and flows--
Like the gentle rock
Of cerulean tide,
Lulling soul after soul to sleep.
The smell of arabica,
And chicory soup
Stifles surreptitiously--
(Twentyfourseven)
With admiring eyes
I glance down at the stark white background--
My bones ache for the lush black ink
To be my own words!
But until then I'll sit at the bottom
Of this empty poetry well,
Chain smoking and longing
To be on that **** front page.
Jul 10, 2013
Jul 10, 2013 at 2:07 AM UTC
i think that writers have a hard time loving people
because we fall in love more often with words
than we do with the people w beating hearts standing before us.
"just remember that the way you think about someone is the way that they actually are."
we fall in love with metaphors and similes and conceits.
we fall in love with the idea that we're the hopeless romantic
and that they're our savior.
but the paper has its limits.
and one day,
our pen will run out of ink.
our pencil will be out of lead,
and our hands will have cramped so bad
that we'd probably believe that we'd have carpel tunnel.
and what would we be left?
heartbreak.
because we'd be left to fall in love with nothing but
smudged lines, faded words, and crumpled up papers.
Apr 17, 2015
Apr 17, 2015 at 1:42 AM UTC
my cowboy left me,
and i'm a hurtin'.
i'm a hurtin in a
real bad way,
in a hurtin' way.'
my neck is a aching,
i've got a case of
tunnel carpel,
and my new eyes
still have yet to
arrive in the mail.
i'm a hurtin real bad
and i'm a sad.
my cowboy left me
and i'm a hurtin,
i'm a hurtin' in
a real bad way.
~~~
Sep 24, 2015
Sep 24, 2015 at 2:13 PM UTC
Oh, Lily
How beautifully you lie there,
In the curly waves of the river
Golden beams gently touch your skin
As a way to wake the sleeping saint
A trumpet of petals calls me from afar;
It is the only thing that I hear
Blaring in a quiet hearth
Where a name without vowels is engraved
I wander, unaware of its gentle retreat.
I watch it dance
Six needles holding the stamen
Like a surfboard rocked by the sea's unrest
One more whirl of the winds,
Then it would fall on the carpel's feet.
I sojourn in this garden once;
You might never see me or I might never see you
Let Zeus lurk for Hera's liquid at last
'Till it splashes, stained, and bloom
In every season of my mind.
Mar 28, 2025
Mar 28, 2025 at 12:03 AM UTC
What do you think right before you go home.
Works done
Oh yay
I have to mow the lawn.
Maybe laundry
Or TV
Or a home cooked meal.
Maybe ***
Or sleep
Sounds like a great deal.
You're safe.
In your office
With key carded doors
A Computer
Your coffee
On the 21st floor
A printer
It jams
Your boss he gets ******
Your numbers are off
You sent the wrong list.
The laptop just crashed
And so did the market
Your bonus
Your promotion
All the daily commotion.
You think of the game
Or maybe your kids
Drinks at the bar with co workers and friends.
Your job is a pain
Its long and its boring
Carpel tunnel
And back pain are what make you worried.
There is another kind of job.
One that has danger
Adrenaline
Sadness
Heat
And anger.
It doesn't go away when the clock signals five.
Every single day you struggle to stay alive.
The police
Security
Soldiers
And men fighting fires.
Who run to help criers.
They don't worry about the mail or the laundry
They don't ponder on if there's carrots or broccoli
The thoughts that pass through are dark and their scary.
Their jobs in themselves can get quite hairy.
No baseball or soccer
No drinks and no bars.
No dates with the wife
Or husbands or cars.
The questions are asked on a daily basis
Will I live
Will I die
Will I leave all these places
Is he drunk
Is he High
Is he violent or crazy
Will he **** me
Will I **** him
Is this guy dead or is he just lazy.
Who's in the darkness
And who's in the fire.
Who's going to hurt me.
I'm so **** tired.
Can I breathe
Will I burn
Do I have enough air
Will I run out of ammo
Who even cares.
Will I see her again?
My wife
Or my daughter
Maybe my son.
I'd like another.
My parents my friends
Should I fire my gun?
Did he stop shooting
Was there only just one?
We all have thoughts.
Both good and both bad.
We all tend to worry.
About the day that we've had.
Most go home and leave work in the office.
Some don't have such a easy option.
Their job is their life
they never leave work
It follows them home and it always hurts.
Before they clock out
Before they clock in.
The fear and the doubt it tries to get in.
But strong hearts are rigid
They've suffered through pain.
They'll be there tomorrow
They'll do it again.
Jan 13, 2015
Jan 13, 2015 at 5:18 AM UTC
well, we’ve never had a lay off
and we’ve been here since ’44
when you see how we run this place
you’ll run screaming out the door
when you find your 8 hour shift
has ballooned to 14 or more
the labor is repetitive
with carpel tunnel galore
we bare no responsibility
when you slip on greasy floors
our health benefits
bought at a discount store
you see our business plan
treats you like a prisoner of war
until you wonder what is wrong with
being young and free and poor
Mar 16, 2014
Mar 16, 2014 at 11:00 AM UTC
Upon a dale of dandelions
running his tongue 'tween stems and leaves
to pluck the carpel
tunnel
syndrome of nectar.
Pollinating without any bird
or bee
paying the slightest
attention.
Sep 25, 2014
Sep 25, 2014 at 1:37 AM UTC
there’s a thin layer of
dirt on the top of my thoughts
gray rivulets of memory
drips of things that
haven’t happened yet
bleeding into my actions
i need a pressure washer
for my mind
to blast off the grunge
and road dust
there’s an incredible
crick in my neck
but worse than that
the panic is back
my bones ache
carpel tunnel is settling
in my pinkie finger
every callus i’ve collected
has fallen off my palms
the urge to create
something
anything
making my
skull pound
i wish i could just
pressure wash it off
clean out the corners
force it all away
May 28, 2023
May 28, 2023 at 5:02 PM UTC