"catering" poems
In the supermarket airport
There are arrivals every day.
The departures in your trolley
Come to you from far away.
Those brightly coloured vegetables
Have sat around for days
In what we’re told are
such hygienic backroom bays.
They’re obviously picked and packed by well paid sprites and elves!
Then magically appear on your supermarket shelves.
Here every carrot is straight and clean
And every lettuce crisply curled
Then gassed in plastic packets
That are filling up our world!
Take a glance inside your trolley
And if what I say is true
Then I guarantee the food within
Has seen more of the world than you.
Like the picture on the packet
Of your frozen ready meal
The colour of this far flown food is great
The taste experience, surreal.
Those ripe tomatoes in their reddest skins
We should dye brown, to match their taste
Those vivid orange carrots are a mystery of flavour-
What a waste!
A plate of vibrant promising hue
Can taste of packaging and glue.
The supermarket tells you you’re in clover
But its goods have all the texture of an old pullover.
Your supermarket says that it is catering for you
But if you’re honest do you really think that’s true?
If you don’t then there is something you can do.
At the supermarket airport
All the money’s in departures
So put that trolley back
And just depart.
If you're wanting to be vocal
Then shop seasonal and local
And hit these psuedo airports at their heart.
Apr 27, 2010
Apr 27, 2010 at 6:57 AM UTC
Camel crush cigarettes
Put them in a fancy box
No, I’m too poor to buy them
But if you pass’em
Then I won’t say no.
People say that it’s unclean
That you’re unclean
That they’re unclean
You smell like a hotel room
And it’s comforting.
Camel crush cigarettes
Your hugs speak of the habit
No, take your precious smoke break
**** it clean to dust
Barreling into death.
People say that it’s unwise
That you’re unwise
That they’re unwise
You smell like drunken Saturdays
And it’s delicious.
Camel crush cigarettes
I’ve never felt addiction
No, I don’t think that I could
It’s a scarlet dreamland
With one-way tickets.
People say that it’s unkind
to lungs and mind
They’re right, I find.
But you look like abandon
And it’s inviting.
Camel crush cigarettes
I’ve never loved a smoker
No, I’d always been too proper
But if you tasted like that
I wouldn’t mind a bite.
People say that you’re catering
To your un-ease
With a disease.
You feel like contradiction,
And I’m depraved.
Sep 25, 2012
Sep 25, 2012 at 3:21 AM UTC
we're on a break,
meaning we catharsis ****
often in public places,
often with an edge of violence,
much like the session in the
family restroom, here at
Big Daddy's Bar-B-Que (travesty, travesty).
still waiting for Em to to finish "tidying up."
and the brisket is salty.
or it's the leftovers from her forehead.
she should have cut her fingernails.
thinking of a way to hide the blood trails
running wild on the back of my t-shirt.
catharsis, she says. it's healthy, she says.
Elvis croons over the arcane stereo system
and a white-haired woman with gelatinous
arms taps her fingers on the tabletop along
to "Teddy Bear."
the waitress keeps a hawk's eye on my
half-empty/half-full glass of water.
and I'm afraid to take a drink.
here comes Em. she's an athlete. and we're on a break,
meaning we don't see each other's parents.
don't nod and listen.
and don't say things like, "oh yeah, your sister Sarah. how's she?"
hallelujah, hallelujah. Em played point guard in high school.
her last official sporting endeavor. but twenty minutes ago
she told me to look up a complicated position
via iKamastutra on my phone
because she's an athlete, and I'd be "amazed at what
this
machine [her body]
can do."
but I hate when she says **** like that.
catering to an I'm-almost-certain-peg
of my fantasy. harder, harder
and before I finish, she insists on
swallowing
and
it makes me uncomfortable
but
we're on break, and to argue
would be a crucifixion to this "vacation."
I think about Elvis.
and wonder if any
woman is still alive that
swallowed his ***
and when it's down
to just one, does that mean
anything?
"well that was fun," Em says.
her mascara wasted.
the brisket is salty.
I take a generous drink of water.
I hear the sound of breaking glass.
the waitress has busted
a bottle of ketchup in her
rush to refill my 2/3rds empty cup.
"mazel tov," I say.
Jan 31, 2013
Jan 31, 2013 at 7:57 PM UTC
You choked on chariots raw. Red egg yolk suppers, churned of the milk oceans this morning you kept.
The lintel of stone turned toward dusk. Some great dynasty of submissive spirits catering your morning
Out on a cart of muse, forms of heaven cannot even hear you. You are a soporific knot in the tale of your Old womanhood. In this infinite Tuesday morning your small black eyes, like an oil tanker toppling over The intense azure sea- shipwrecked, and lost.
Departing from your childhood you slurp Coca-Cola from a silver straw. From the corner store and inside Winter yawns. There is no face, only strikingly beautiful black hair. The body under you is at home in all
My hand's fingers have to fill. All the clothes that you could carry for the two-way adventure. There are
Never enough bubbles between your lips and the glass bottle you have. Only the score of the whistleblower. And the poor symphony you had prayed for into the dial-tone phone, the deep Wilderness, that stiff forever-ago budding from your coffee cup. Neurogenesis lifted from your Fingerprints and emblazoned into this lump of human ingenuity. The hopeless octave that cut us all short.
Every short story that was left untold. There are the brief deaths recoiling in your spiritual architecture. The ****** of morphia has bourn me awake. Inside you are often unscathed, vanishing as some of Tonight's parts assemble you, on you blue is a beautiful color. The sweet retreat that gave you life or the bountiful deaths that counted you too cutely by your side. You are the sun in my black coat. Here is my sea, your sea, you'll see.
Apr 26, 2014
Apr 26, 2014 at 5:34 AM UTC
to feel your embrace is heaven on earth
your caress, your gentle aggresiveness
the deep pleading in your eyes for my body to be intertwined with yours..
we melt into one another
our souls connecting, our skin vibrating
pleasantly awaiting that moment of complete serenity
that bliss
the trembling of our tender quakes, lost in submission..
heads in the clouds, counting wisps of broken dreams
carrying the weight of the world in our hopeful hearts, beating together as
o n e
a solid entity
i stroke your cheek, imaginging for that moment that we are the only two on the planet
far-stretched across the galaxy
our very existence shedding light throughout the cosmos..
you wink, a guilty smile
knowing the thoughts floating thru my mind
ever-dreaming, lost in space & time with you..
we shed our skin, glowing in the naked vulnerability of our souls:
on display, for only us to see
a cloak of protection surrounding each other from the outside world
our love a vast secret of hope for all the jaded souls who hoard away their love
buried under heartache and unforgiveness
relentlessly hiding their shame
an atrocity to all those who've cast aside bitter memories
grasping at the void for acceptance and bliss..
the stars shine bright in the night sky
overwhelming me with their capacity to give and give, and never take
they shed their light over our swelling hearts, catering to our every wish
a beautiful gesture of pure loving kindness
a feat i will cherish for all of my days..
you stir slightly, not wanting to jolt me from my peaceful reverie
nonetheless, unabashedly watching me delight in the unfathomable universe surrounding us
your half-cracked smile says it all, as you glow with admiration
or is it my glow that is pouring over you?
quietly, i take your hand in mine, smoothing the hair on your neck
i rest my head in the crevice of your shoulder
thoughts drifting in and out
only heaven on earth remains
Aug 17, 2012
Aug 17, 2012 at 11:40 AM UTC
Monroe Ave c. 2018, in my own dream land. K. Daniel's Revelation, cannot reverse what's starting to happen. Darker, more forlorn. No more bar and restaurant patrons, the streets are just a scattered herd of pestilence. No cars, the somnambules own the streets in silence. Honey dripping hipsters, years gone. ***** clothes, hair past their pearls. Asking for boy, asking for O.P.s, asking for girl, asking for crack, asking for methamphetamines. The only noise.
We lost the reclamation of the city our parents left. Escaping dead end cul-de-sacs of basement poverty, we no longer had to drive. Stacked with our friends in tenement commune. We delivered the body we consume in service, catering to a more privileged few. Only responsible for one when long work was done, I ensured my red blood's full of fun. We drank and inebriated with design when allowed more free time. But, darling, I think this town was already gentrified. We changed no thing.
Dec 14, 2013
Dec 14, 2013 at 11:03 PM UTC
mmm, palce lizać, albo wsadzić je w dúpe i nadawać sygnał wriggly-wriggly alter: wriggly-pigglety; counter-alt? calling it: the miracle of five croutons, and two pieces of sushi... c'mon, let's go crazy! and take it to the excesses permitted by the original feat! (yes, i mean the fish parts of sushi, there's enough carbohydrates in the croutons, so yes, no rice-bed for the tartars).
ć is the puritan's aversion to cz / chai;
or at least an exfoliation curbor.
i write honey,
honey honey honey,
i write honey,
honey honey honey
p'ooh bear
droned in on it.
when i write,
i write honey,
honey honey O'Milee.
from serving in the US and A
navy, to a beach-buggy
accident.
when i write, i write
honey -
*** e -
Atilla styled liquorice -
lee co reesh - not
liquidated rice -
ghosts of latin almost everywhere;
quadruple that.
convene and converse -
contrary collective.
some say this might as well
be the famous goldberg sardines;
when i write, i write honey,
i write: honey honey honey...
will you be my Duracell bunny?
honey, will you be my
******** par excellance?
i see... no, you won't be.
the museum of Greek sculpture
was vandalised!
guess what they took,
the ****** fiendish crooks!
with a wet splash of colour
comes the cold marble artifice -
a bit like the cool-mouth
refrigerator of a woman during
felatio... still don't know
how she gets that gob down
below room temperature.
(heresy input, never start a
sentence with an) and
there you have it,
writing, catering for
abstractionism,
just after he said: they're on a diet.
Dec 14, 2016
Dec 14, 2016 at 10:49 AM UTC
Petals weaved and laced for limbs,
Infinity intricately at his feet,
Arrows of lobster clawed feathers,
Shooting lanterns up the street.
Four corners in black,
Multiplied with moving tints,
Grey flowing into the endless drift,
Scissors slicing ribbons,
The final trick played by twins.
Redly lit and pink warmth of a bird's statue,
Emitting frozen tones,
Evermore catering his fortitude,
Fleetly plucking each leaf,
Each one falling and bending,
Into smokey cat-eyed gleam.
Oct 7, 2018
Oct 7, 2018 at 11:24 AM UTC
The Chef
As the Bourdain said a cook is nobody
he has no power no one cares what he has to say
some of them are gifted with a natural talent for food and its ingredient
and flashes of inspiration can fire the spark that is godlike.
I knew of a restaurant which was always full at lunch and dinner,
Where the chef? I asked a waiter. Oh, he is somewhere in the back.
Back of the food place an open door, the chef stood to smoke
a cigarette. I looked at me sourly, but when I expressed
interest and when an order came in of a bacon omelette
he made it with the flourish of a craftsman.
The manager of the establishment said the chef had worked here for
Six years but he- the chef- was impossible to work with.
The chef suddenly quit and drove a taxi. Less stress that way.
The restaurant faltered until the penny dropped, a chef is a star
In the firmament of catering without a flawed genius in the kitchen, it is better
to run a pizza parlour
Sep 1, 2018
Sep 1, 2018 at 4:46 AM UTC
Cigars from Summatra -
100% tobacco, strong in flavour
and catering for the hungry tastebuds
help
in between
putting on one's thinking cap
and an unadulterated
course of action.
Sep 7, 2010
Sep 7, 2010 at 7:57 AM UTC
Tracks trembled, catering for my destination westward, field
alongside industry courted, dancing the miles ahead, celebrating
scenic mystery, roaving in splendour, hills pumping spellbinding
grassy greatness, devouring, readying for mountainous masterpieces
I am sun drenched in strobed springtime, relishing the thaw
of rivers running forever, snowy peaks holding onto winters
shivering tale, huddling cold coats like pashminas trailing....
unfinished,their needlework on pinpoint exercise
Inside I sit next to myself, folding minutes into moments of memory,
tracks decreasing inner city air, and I regard
evermore with special splendour, the developing rocks and craggy cliffs
arriving neatly at the foot of the sea waving white flags, receding, chasing....
Apr 21, 2013
Apr 21, 2013 at 5:35 PM UTC
-something real. Something strong and sturdy, believable. I want to write words that are heavy with lightness and dark with their brightness, to draw on a page a life so unbelievably real, so inconceivably mine
in creation
I want to write
-not just love. Not a ***** with a couple of drink-mangled bugs. I want to write about that feeling of blood churning and the warmth of emotion not physical feeling, to put into words the unwordable joy of being in the presence of
not just anyone
Anyone. Like the not-platonic-non-romantic affection that Rudy would not fail to hint at, that so-wanted kiss that Liesel gave, it wasn't so much the action as the meaning behind it. Like that itch on Death's ear when Liesel he came near, not to take her yet, but to steal her story, to live through it. To feel the words dance in his void, non-niceness, the infinite meanings and the power of phonic combinations.
They allow even Death to live.
I want to write like Zusak, like Rowling, like me.
I want to write
-the philosophies. The thoughts and wishes and wonders of a minority. I want to write about those opinions of those whose voices are too small and their souls beautifully lit up but unseen, their ideologies so unmistakably right but also naive and innocent, to stage their feelings from transition to transition
their words to the wise
I want to write
-characters so flawed. Each with an inner splendor most radiant, but with their fields of starless black and heads that wander from this to that. I want to write lives and people so different, with not-so-good lives and not-so-normal features. People who, though lacking thereof, cliche the right things and believe
in the wrong
The wrong. Their thoughts and meanings about life and beyond, undesirable and judged but that is the human mentality, such as Hazel Grace felt about her casualties and Alaska Young wondered about the labyrinth's unending game. So standard at first, but then Gandalf came and Bilbo learned the differences between Hobbit and the untame. The reasons and purposes of life's grand living, through the eyes of those whose faces are shunned.
Hermione wasn't just a bibliosiac.
I want to write like Green, like Tolkien, like me.
Alas, the clock, a stained moon, it darkens, and the prejudice of people as well as the pride, unfortunately Austen couldn't lessen so much. Stereotypes triumphantly sit on the throne with their Mary-Sue maids catering from head to toe. I can't barge in, object to the crowning, because today I admit it: my writing is dying.
Jan 3, 2015
Jan 3, 2015 at 1:39 PM UTC
We are wine with cake
without calories, not
like icing or drunkenness,
but being frosted with intoxication.
We are stain glass caked
with sunbeams, holding light
suspended in time, like if right now,
just this once, it was standing still.
We are fragile but delicious,
like little Eiffel Tower replicas
made from buttery sugar— not hardened—
but the soft store bought kind without directions.
But I’m pretty sure we aren’t
a car window's fracture pattern
caked with cracks,
or shards of a beer bottle
in splattered birthday cake,
or even a recycling plant’s office celebration with catering.
Unless it was really good catering.
So to clarify…
you glass
me cake
Apr 11, 2011
Apr 11, 2011 at 9:20 PM UTC
only when i look through The Eyes of God am I at peace,otherwise nothing else makes sense,nothing else matters.why?there's nothing else Mathers,Marshall law we were all mislead by indoctrinated Fathers,who sought to turn us into martyrs,for entertainment only like the top five NBA starters,consumed with keeping up with the carters n catering to you haters simply by having goals that's greater,keeping faith til one glorious day Sandy comes and meets me standing in the breeze blowing trees , wind and rain set my mind at ease,caught in a storm lost in a whirlwind my head spins tilted in a dribble passing the days,still giving thanks "forever"until the day I'm carried over to the center of the suns rays...finally i see the light...yet i remain the same so many things on the brain lost,grounded,clueless;stuck like a bird in the rain.
Feb 19, 2013
Feb 19, 2013 at 12:01 PM UTC
Some types of blood arrest this mouth.
Yes, some types of lips breathe fire and shout.
Some types of women shuck men of their gain, then some women run hurriedly back to their beaches again.
Some people catch anons between their legs. Others swallow vespers BeSpoke by the lust that they crave. Then envelop Gonzo love on the tip of their quill, if only boiling themselves for five minutes to ensure themselves potable.
I live for the taste of rust. I sit in the second-to-last seat on the back-left side of the bus. And I greet her legs with my aching skin, touch my fingertips to my lips to prove that I’m alive to myself.
If her scent was obeyed by royalty. I’m traversing the world if only once more as I’m praying that she’ll see me. I’m praying for our faces to believe in we. And her taste is the bang that is big from the beginning of time, one twist of the fresh zest of a lime, while the years are turned back into the furnace of time. I’m craving faces and loves I once saw. I need to feel the skin tailored for the female gods. I’m certainly loud and catering forth, I turn up the pre, and force the gain and amp up. If only to be noted again, in a bed with my goddess together we’d spend, every moment together in eternity. Immortality conceived of the beasts we achieve. Trampled by the light and tortured by the sound of ourselves. Please won’t you help me to not be forgotten myself? I’m pursing my lips and shaking my hands, I’m jumping off rooftops and eating mouthfuls of sand. Is our hero here or has she she run? Help me find Britni West, my one true love. She’s in California last I had a taste. It’s only everyone else that I lay chaste. With her I’m on top of the world, I’d quaff her spit and champion her skin. There is nothing nor no one that could come between. She’s the only one that is for me, and I’m the only he she’s told me.
Jul 11, 2018
Jul 11, 2018 at 6:53 AM UTC
Small talks,
Written in between railroad tracks,
A track going to nowhere,
At least it's beautiful,
The houses look cozy,
Behind their walls we wonder aloud,
If its football or just a get together,
Little lives playing,
Seemingly unimportant roles,
Living lives, on stairway steps,
No longer living lies,
Breathing,
Just breathe
Return to places you've never been,
And feel the love around,
At least it's hear now,
Long timers with only today,
Saying words that feel weighted,
Because they actually know,
Caravans catering to the perpetual,
One night stands,
Take the advice,
And keep the serenity,
You won't feel it till tomorrow,
As you smile at your
Forever frustrating manager,
Leave the destruction back where,
It belongs,
Take your seat,
remember to stay awake,
And hold onto the kisses in the car,
Tomorrow reality is waiting,
And you've only,
Just begun kiddo.
Sep 4, 2018
Sep 4, 2018 at 9:05 PM UTC
Pity the wimpy Democrats
They suffer in defeat.
Year after year they don’t learn
Like Republicans you must cheat.
Stuff all the ballot boxes
And monkey with the machines.
You’ll never get a **** thing done
If you keep the elections clean.
And band together solidly
With your chosen party.
Lie and cheat and dissemble
And act like a pompous smarty.
Never worry about what is right.
Just brazen it through out loud.
It seems jerks do the best
When catering to the crowd.
Buy votes from everywhere
Especially from big industry;
Big Oil, Big Banks and Pharma
Kiss their butts shamelessly.
Make sure all the factions
That are stealing the country blind
Understand you have their backs
And treat all of the poor unkind.
Go on tour and television
And make out you’re the good guy:
Dare the opposition to debate
Then Ignore facts and lie.
Remember the public is stupid
And doesn’t know what goes on.
Run a crew of cheaters on the side,
It’s what elections depend on.
But most importantly, you must be
The most obnoxious candidate.
Start early and spend the bucks.
It’s deadly for you to start too late.
Run the most famous people:
They must be Christian and straight.
No matter how you cheat and lie
Promise America will be Great.
Cover your butts before you start.
Plant a lot of baseless rumors.
Make baseless stories about their past.
Swear voting wrong causes tumors.
Do what it takes, Democrats
The GOP has no compunctions
If they could just get by with it
They’d beat you with truncheons.
Dec 4, 2016
Dec 4, 2016 at 9:02 PM UTC
Metaphor for Metabolisms
and adventurers of culinary
conquests catering for those
with bilingual taste buds in
an Irish city called Belle Feast.
ps.
Bia is the Irish word for food.
Bia Rebel is a restaurant in
Belfast Ireland.
https://www.theguardian.com/food/2019/feb/24/jay-rayner-restaurant-review-bia-rebel-belfast-noodles-ramen
Feb 24, 2019
Feb 24, 2019 at 3:34 AM UTC
Welcome To Egypt
You want to know what a military dictator ship is?
Checkpoints at every crossing,
police disrespecting the citizens,
guns gripped tightly in the hands of teenagers,
bleached white suits with fake brass stars.
Welcome to Egypt.
You want to know what becomes of fallen empires?
Dusty streets of broken dreams and failed endeavors,
uptight men in loose jellabiyas hawking Chinese made junk,
descendants of kings catering to the whims of ignorant tourist,
and a once pristine river now so ***** it’s dangerous to swim in.
Welcome to Egypt.
You want to know what irony is?
Here denial is a double entendre,
it’s a river and a state of mind,
where the people can’t see they are biting,
the very hand that feeds them.
Welcome to Egypt.
You want to know what it’s really like here?
Well I was just harassed today,
accused by the police of trying to pray,
because in Egypt it is illegal to pray or even meditate,
I had to threaten to call the US Embassy before I was allowed to go on my way.
Welcome to Egypt.
You want to know what the real atrocity is?
The States gives this country over a billion dollars a year,
but the people that really need the money don’t see a single pound,
the money is used to further oppress the people,
and anyone that tries to stand up for their rights is beaten down.
Welcome to Egypt.
You want to know what happened to democracy?
The Muslim Brotherhood won the election,
then the military staged a coup,
kicked out the democratically elected government,
and assassinated anyone that dared to speak the truth.
Welcome to Egypt.
You want to know what the real Egypt is about?
Come witness the horror for yourself,
mothers dying in doorways children eternally crying,
horses beaten to death in 106˚ heat,
then left for dead no burial for the dying.
Welcome to Egypt.
You want to know what equality is here?
What equality woman have to cover everything up,
wearing all black in a torturing heat,
and if I man tries to hold a woman’s hand,
then they both get rounded up by the Moral Police.
Welcome to Egypt.
You want to know how bad it really is?
People die every day on boats trying to escape,
desperately attempting to flee this god forsaken country,
what a travesty and shame it all is,
how poor this country’s become that was once so wealthy.
Welcome to Egypt.
You want to know the truth?
The oppression is so bad in Egypt,
that anyone that says anything about that,
can disappear courtesy of the secret police,
seriously it happened to my dear friends dad.
Welcome to Egypt.
You want to know what?
Luckily I am not Egyptian,
so I can escape this country that’s become a prison,
leaving in a few hours and to anyone that’s considering a visit,
I’m leaving behind this welcome warning here that I’ve written.
Welcome to Egypt.
∆ Aaron La Lux ∆
The Holy Trilogy Vol. 1 available worldwide 11/11/16
Nov 6, 2016
Nov 6, 2016 at 4:35 AM UTC
There are always pieces missing
Something left unknown
To leave one reaming
draining the fruits left forlorn
Turning stone to find bugs as if the plane was rigged
Creepy crawling scarecrows up the stage inside my head
As I begin double taking every passing thought
An inception reflection hurling me to push on
Changing every pattern in the hopes for true starts
An opposition forms inside my bleeding heart
A rejection for the progression of doomsdays little songs
Trust that when you're not looking you're a part of catering business
and in our world today it truly is survival of the fittest
In breath taking moments clarity strikes me hard
In setting myself apart I feel less hallmark
I do not adapt to the world at large for I am small town garb
I'd rather adapt to space than aim to please like stars
May 27, 2013
May 27, 2013 at 8:20 PM UTC
a fire breaks out in his pants
whenever she walks into the room
but she just laughs
at how quaint he is
she has eyes only for the old man at
the end of the bar
his beat era leather socks are just up her alley
his pocket protector lifestyle is just
the thing for her wedding plans
she could always see herself
with his type of narrow shoe smart fella
he leaves her and her lover
at the dark bar
and wanders the lobster cages
looking to trap the feelings
that made him feel like
unconquerable king john
with his magna carta series pen
but this night is too full of babe sweet
and her pocket protector cowboy
so he goes home
to lay on his bed on imaginary nails
and suffer all the trials that good men should
wants to be worthy for the pay off
wants to be in line for the pearly gates
babe sweet and her man
live up the coast now
they own a bed an breakfast catering to the insane
who write great novels
on the walls in crayon
and spend their nights
hanging out on the roof singing ballads
to babe sweet
and her cowboy who lasso's the moon
its a wonderful life plays on the tv
every night year round
cause thats the dream they are sellin
that if you work hard
someday itll pay off
jerry garcia's picture hangs
in the lobby
he looks out at the changed world
with the shocked expression
of how did all these people miss the point
as they just go on beating eachother up
and crashing the gates
he is in the back room of babe sweets place
hiding from all the gretchens
and trying to redraw the lines of reality
we all got lost out there
gotta reinvent yourself
before the gretchens and the hangers on tear it all down
gotta bend the road before it bends you
just like unconquerable king john
Nov 10, 2013
Nov 10, 2013 at 5:18 AM UTC