"celery" poems
You're just a tiny bit minimalist in your own unique way
a white star I have to squint to see in daytime sky
not a Mercedes five point but a Nissan Micra car
you park neatly in a three point turn by my netsuke
and put a circular dent on my platonic furniture
Your two humble rooms devoid of any bold sculpture
except a fold-out table and a miniature bubble chair
and a futon for a bed which is troublesome to share
you draw the line at adornments but allow a wallflower
A bulb in a bowl is your ornamental garden feature
mealtimes a nibble on grated carrot celery cucumber
you run so long on empty you're an eco friendly teacher
stretching out the energy is a passion of my lover
engaging in lessons on sustaining a resourceful nature
Your shoes two pointe ballet slip ons easy to care
barely there g-string thin cotton underwear
nothing loud to upset your understated figure
slight as a pin drop your bottom's semi-derrière
sits so light on feet I'd swear you float on air
I rarely get to hear you come before you're in my hair
with a voice pitch high as a smitten kitten's purr
your upper reaches get a score sized single 'A'
nice when it fits into our schemes of feng shui
I carry your bundle home on the roadway rivers of light
yet you only burn one ray of candle power at night
born of scintillating atoms which flow along each vein
containing so much love without clutter in your frame
a brave star small as wings formed of minuscule wire
flutters in your eyes with minimal flare
but deep desire
Jul 24, 2014
Jul 24, 2014 at 12:54 PM UTC
Perhaps I will become a waxing fiend.
A perpetrator of the nerves within my legs
In order to reach the imaginary beauty
that society has ingrained into my open mind.
Yet how can I ever fulfil this growing hole inside
Urging, commanding that I shall not be beautiful
Without Revlon mascara and tinted eyebrows,
That my diet must consist of a celery stick a day
And I must have a new wardrobe every week
- to keep in with the highest of fashions.
Do men really care if I'm wearing Gucci or Prada?
Would my restricted diet and devotion to thinspiration blogs impress them?
Has society really just given up on the love of personality,
the good old fashioned 'inner beauty'?
May 13, 2012
May 13, 2012 at 2:19 AM UTC
The poorest juggler ever seen
Was clumsy Clara cleech,
Who juggled a bean, a nectarine,
A pumpkin, and a peach.
She juggled a stone , a slide trombone,
A celery stalk, a stick,
A seeded roll, a salad bowl,
A bagel, a boot, a brick.
With relative ease she juggled a cheese ,
She juggled a lock, lime,
Yes, clara juggled all of these
. . . But just one at a time
Mar 14, 2014
Mar 14, 2014 at 10:03 AM UTC
Dat ***** Though
Hey girl, I see you at da club, shaking dat *****
And all I can think about is how that *** would soothe me.
You lookin' so fresh like celery. Baby, why don't you
come over here and put a bell on me?
I'll be your cat, rub my nose in your lap,
and you can be my doggy. We can do it in style, for a while.
Then jump in the shower, so you can wash me with your lotions
Rub your magic all over me like your hands are made of potions.
Then let's jump back in bed and keep our bodies in motion.
Girl, you fine like China, like Flo from Mel's diner.
You hotter than Tabasco, and I know you think I'm whacko,
But you got a ***** that makes me crazy.
I want you to haze me, daze me,
and if you say no, it probably won't phase me.
I'll just write poetry about you and me
as if it were real because nothin' gonna stop the way I feel.
Sep 10, 2015
Sep 10, 2015 at 11:38 PM UTC
What colour are Mondays?
Red? Well mine are.
The same colour
you’d imagine a headache to be,
tomatoes, morello cherries
or like a nosebleed.
Does that mean Tuesdays are blue?
That mouthwash shade,
brain-freeze after a Slushie.
Wednesdays? Perhaps purpley-pink
as burning potassium,
Parma Violets under your tongue.
Thoughts on Thursdays? Fake-tanned,
tangerine skin, the ugliest orange
for the ugliest day.
But Fridays are a healthier green,
think telephone-pole celery,
cucumber truncheons and kiwis.
Saturdays then? Funeral black
speckled with brown sugar
though Sundays are white.
Hurts-your-eyes-like-snow white,
almost transparent, for they come
and dash by with no tone in-between.
Jan 13, 2014
Jan 13, 2014 at 2:31 PM UTC
Pretty is what people say you are
It's a status
Pretty is limiting your meals
Limiting yourself to two celery sticks for dinner
Pretty is whether boys like you or not
Pretty is throwing up at the end of the day
Pretty determines who your friends are
Who talks to you
Who looks at you
Who knows you exist
Pretty is what you wear
Pretty is having the spot light
Pretty fathoms your mere existence
Pretty hurts
Jun 25, 2014
Jun 25, 2014 at 12:57 PM UTC
don’t worry about decisions anymore.
I can think for you. Here,
buy this brand of tampons.
Watch me now. It’s more absorbent. Here, stick them in your ears. You’ll have
s o f t e r
t h o u g h t s.
Pillowy white fluuuufffyyythoughts.
You don’t need your brain anyway.
no more thinking,
I can think for you.
here, watch me now.
Look at these happy plastic
assless women
wearing delicate bras,
so beautiful.
Why don’t you buy one?
they’re uncomfortable
well you’re ugly,
unwanted,
but you wear what
you
want.
Wear this bra.
Maybe it will keep your heart from aching.
You don’t need your heart; I can feel.
I can feel for you.
So watch me. Hey, look here.
Buy these shoes. They make your legs look like celery stalks, but your husband will “do it” with you again. That’s what you want, right?
right.
Put them on. Please your man, make the food, wear the shoes. Don’t think.
Please your man, feed the kids, do the work. Wear the shoes. Don’t you dare think.
I can
Think For You.
Aptitude is overrated. Your biggest asset is
your body, bereft of a brain. Don’t think. I can think for you.
Wear this. Buy that.
Spend your husband’s money, make him happy.
Please your man,
make the food,
wear the shoes.
Now, for your anxiety,
take these pills.
Three little blue pills, one big orange pill, one little white pill.
This one makes you skinny.
This one makes your teeth white.
This one makes you dumb, this one makes you numb.
Don’t think. Don’t worry about where your husband is.
He’ll probably come home tonight.
There is no divorce on TV, so it must not exist.
Don’t think. Oh, you poor little ****** woman.
Tiny, powerless drone robot. Don’t think.
Robots don’t have brains.
Dolls don’t have brains.
****
***
*******
legs,
don’t have brains.
Close your mouth.
Don’t speak.
I can speak for you.
That bra is uncomfortable?
Shut up.
You want me to wear a ******
Shut up.
You want to be yourself, with the brain, with the ****** with the
******* with the child. You can’t have all and be free. Choose.
Don’t choose. I will choose for you.
Please your man
Make the food
wear the shoes
There will be no discussion.
There will be no negotiation.
There is no **** on TV, so it must not exist.
No thinking
no thoughts
no brain,
just **** *** ***** legs.
wear the shoes, please your man, make the food.
Eat. Sleep. Breathe. Work.
Die.
Recognize the regulations,
recognize your place.
Your /place/ is in the shoes,
those d e v i l traps
eating your sweet feet.
all the time--wear them
They are
comfortable. They are ****
don’t think
don’t cry
don’t moan
whisper
whimper
Shut up. Don’t speak.
I will
speak for you.
Clocks, computers, **** ***
You
Are
Nothing
Jun 1, 2011
Jun 1, 2011 at 6:02 PM UTC
gold
ring
finger
nail
wood
tree
house
door
window
open
field
flower
bright
sun
light
switch
wall
picture
painting
face
nose
smell
trash
can
soda
sugar
candy
chocolate
mousse
goose
geese
duck
stew
dumplings
chicken
eggs
hash
potatos
peas
carrots
celery
peanut butter
crackers
cheese
swiss
mountains
mist
rainforest
snakes
frogs
toads
flies
fruit
smoothie
straw
hat
construction
bridge
cars
drivers
stearing wheel
brakes
that seems like a fitting place to stop lol
Jun 18, 2010
Jun 18, 2010 at 4:17 PM UTC
We blame society for everything.
We fault magazines for turning innocent teenage girls
Into anorexic beauty queens.
We point fingers at the paper thin actresses on TV screens
For bringing bulimia victims to their knees,
Two fingers down their throat as they cough up that last bit dinner,
Along with the guilt and shame that comes with it.
We blame society, but we are society.
Who wrote those magazines?
Who created the ridiculous standard that you can only fit in
If your bones are showing through your skin?
Hunger is just a feeling; thin is a skill.
Your stomach isn’t growling because you’re starving.
No! It’s applauding you on a job well done,
On another day of nothing but celery sticks and diet coke.
Who cares if all of your hair falls out?
Who cares if you get dizzy every time you stand?
Who cares if the desire to be thin and meet this sick standard of beauty
Is slowly killing you, taking another piece of that innocent teenage girl
And turning her into a skeleton?
We, as a society, don’t care.
The magazines won’t stop printing
Because another high school kid got carried away.
Extreme, even deadly diets are a thing of today,
And yes, yes, they’re here to stay.
Sometimes eating healthy and exercising just aren’t enough.
Desperate times call for desperate measures,
And under this kind of pressure,
It’s hard not to give in.
Jun 4, 2013
Jun 4, 2013 at 7:09 PM UTC
I’m rather fond of chocolate cake
I’d like to learn to knit
But I can’t abide Celine Dione
And Celery is ****
I find a book most comforting
And the odd banana split
But I hate celebrity look-a-likes
And Canadian singers
And celery are ****
I’m happiest by the fireside
Some music, I’ll permit
But I grit my teeth at gossipers
And dead ringers
Canadian singers
And Celery are ****
I love the air about my hair
And the grass beneath my feet
But I've never been too keen on wasps
And **** slingers
Dead ringers
Canadian singers
And celery are ****
I’m partial to a cup of tea
With a biscuit next to it
But I’ll never vote conservative
And insect stingers
**** slingers
Dead ringers
Canadian singers
And celery are ****
I like to bake a birthday cake
Or build a Lego kit
There are many things I truly love
But Right wingers
Insect stingers
**** slingers
Dead ringers
Canadian singers
And celery are STILL ****
**
Jun 24, 2013
Jun 24, 2013 at 7:37 PM UTC
Shall I get drunk or cut myself a piece of cake,
a pasty Syrian with a few words of English
or the Turk who says she is a princess--she dances
apparently by levitation? Or Marcelle, Parisienne
always preoccupied with her dull dead lover:
she has all the photographs and his letters
tied in a bundle and stamped Decede in mauve ink.
All this takes place in a stink of jasmin.
But there are the streets dedicated to sleep
stenches and the sour smells, the sour cries
do not disturb their application to slumber
all day, scattered on the pavement like rags
afflicted with fatalism and hashish. The women
offering their children brown-paper *******
dry and twisted, elongated like the skull,
Holbein's signature. But his stained white town
is something in accordance with mundane conventions-
Marcelle drops her Gallic airs and tragedy
suddenly shrieks in Arabic about the fare
with the cabman, links herself so
with the somnambulists and legless beggars:
it is all one, all as you have heard.
But by a day's travelling you reach a new world
the vegetation is of iron
dead tanks, gun barrels split like celery
the metal brambles have no flowers or berries
and there are all sorts of manure, you can imagine
the dead themselves, their boots, clothes and possessions
clinging to the ground, a man with no head
has a packet of chocolate and a souvenir of Tripoli.
2.9k
Our generation constantly seeks,
To find the meaning of unique,
We spend our time browsing boutiques,
Or turning our self into a freak.
We all end up looking the same,
Don’t you think that is a little lame?
Perhaps we should delve a little deeper,
Let us take a peek at what’s on the inside,
Intrigue others with what isn’t cheaper,
In fact, let’s take this nationwide!
Just like that good ol’ celery stick,
What colour you turn is up to you to pick!
What we put inside is what comes out,
Do you want to reflect what is around you,
Or whip together your very own image without,
Soaking up someone else’s goo?
Sep 25, 2010
Sep 25, 2010 at 11:22 PM UTC
This one's for you Miss Gray!
My love for you is like the most Gorgeous celery,
Your face reminds me of Adorable birds,
Together, we are like Chicken and ketchup.
Oh darling Anna,
My Gorgeous celery,
My Adorable carrot,
The perfect companion to my Chicken soul.
Hearts are red,
Diamonds are blue,
I like writing,
But not as much as I love loving with you!
Oh darling Anna,
Your hands are like Undescribable papers on a winter day,
You're like the most Mine doctor to ever walk Boston.
Your Adorable face,
Your ketchup soul,
Your Undescribable hands,
Your Mine doctor being...
How could I look at another when our Gorgeous celery love is so strong?
I love you Miss Gray!
Jun 13, 2014
Jun 13, 2014 at 10:37 PM UTC
Celery
Such a simple thing
But so complicated
Does it add weight?
Or take it?
Sort of like bacteria
Is it good for us?
or bad?
idrk
Apr 25, 2014
Apr 25, 2014 at 10:14 AM UTC
After we used to call you piglet
And after you liked celery,
After the eighth of December at eight o'clock
And after you were eight pounds eight ounces,
They took a photo of when I first held you.
You were crying your eyes out,
Like your mum was in the living room
After she found out,
Before I scurried away.
But you've grown up
In your old *** Pistols t-shirts
And your scribblings screenprinted onto new ones.
Copper hair loyally trailing behind you,
You glide around the house en pointe,
In between embroidery at noon and fashion design after lunch.
Too cool to have sushi at ten years old,
And nearly too old
To hug your big cousin without reluctance.
Like an ordinary kid.
Minding your know-it-all brother
With his resounding echos of 'youknowwhatyouknowwhat'
Making sure he doesn't burn a hole through the floor
With his new chemistry set, that he won't admit
He doesn't quite know how to use,
But will continue on nevertheless.
And you will roll your eyes.
Like an ordinary kid.
But your adenosine triphosphate,
Can barely lift it's own molecular weight
Nevermind the energy you ask it to carry.
In comparison, the ordinary ATP
Of your ordinary classmates,
Is a strongman next to your weakling cluster of N, H, C and O.
So you take your small grey spheres.
And don't drink full fat milk
And your father's taught you how to cook
And value food.
And use your nebuliser
And clean and dust and sterilise
So your glass lungs
Which clatter when you cough
Don't shatter.
And after all that
You twist your hair up in a bun
And carry on.
Not falling down the rabbit hole,
But bounding gracefully.
Like the extraordinary kid that you are, Alice.
Jul 2, 2011
Jul 2, 2011 at 7:19 AM UTC
Some dead things just won't lay down
We keep walking
Long after we've died
Wreaking havoc upon the living
Drowning
what little of ourselves that remains alive in
Vintage
Tears and shame
Throwing up on sidewalks
Homewrecking
Bringing the occasional young stranger home
To get that little drip of pleasure
From his heartbreak at dawn
But apparently
This kind of "self help"
Isn't working
Apparently
Tomatoe juice with celery sticks
Massages
And people behind desks in
Ugly polyester suits with framed papers on their walls and a prescription or two
Is now
Rehab for the dead
Apr 5, 2017
Apr 5, 2017 at 9:02 AM UTC
Take a simple packet of minced beef
Add a drop of water to the pan
Finely diced an onion and 3 chopped garlic cloves
Oh! Don't forget the fine cut celery
Now cook gently with a touch of love
Until the mince is brown
This now is the time to add just a pinch of dry mixed herbs
A liberal splash of soya sauce followed by a gentle stir
Important now please don't forget
A large pinch of marsala spice
For this will be the beating heart before you add the rice
RICE! Did I say rice?
For the amount of minced now in the ***
Cook an equal amount of rice until soft
Of course in another pan
Now just before the rice is done add mixed veg to the mince
In the other pan, frozen veg will do
Now strain the mince but save the sauce
Worth its weight in gold
Now, yes now's the time to strain the pan and add the rice
To the mince so savoury and brown
Mix the rice and mince with love until well combined
Place into a baking dish and set the oven high(160)
20 minutes will be enough so now the dish is done
Thicken the sauce you strained from the mince and bring to a gentle boil
Serve the mince/rice with new boiled potatoes and the sauce
Jun 25, 2015
Jun 25, 2015 at 12:50 PM UTC
2:00am Saturday Morning and his restlessness reclined on his mind
The room was immensely silent but held a forceful amount of chaos
His large feet plummeted to the cold floor; he roamed out of his beguiling room
*
His body was almost bare and every movement echoed through him
The empty foil tins from a takeaway he had eaten at 8:00pm casted a noticeable stare across the kitchen like a coin to a magpie
The fridge was only a couple strides away now; he prematurely stretched his arm ready to grasp the frigid handle
The fridges seal parted and a saintly yellow light radiated in front of him
He stared nonplussed into the fridge for about 3.5 seconds
Celery
Sitting there in the centre of the fridge appearing as tasteless as it would taste
Unappetising.
The light diminished as the door closed.
Dec 20, 2014
Dec 20, 2014 at 5:06 PM UTC
Gabriel,
blow your trumpet in my ear
so I may hear
the rise of lilies
Marching down my throat
Naked ladies and daffodils
King proteas and petunias
Spinach, celery and rocket
For the venus fly-trap has lost her teeth
in semi-nation feasting --
My gut is a gaza-strip:
holier than seven maries
times eleven matzot, squared
Who would raise the dandelion and the khaki-bos,
Who would shield the cornflower and the joseph's coat
in semi-nation trepidation
My gut is a gaza-strip
My nerves: a dead sea . . .
But Gabriel,
blow your trumpet in my ear again
so I can see
the significance of shattering
14 August, 2014
Oct 31, 2014
Oct 31, 2014 at 6:08 AM UTC
*(i'm 42% sure
i don't exist.)*
intensely greased
plastic hair
secondhand green day
coldplay in the rain
i love the sound
that waxed paper
deli sheets make
and i could choke
on a glassed reflection
of celery salts and windex.
*(i'm 42% sure
i don't exist
because when i look into
my eyes i see someone else)*
i'm not catholic
and do not
understand who
st. peter is
but i wonder if he won't let
us into heaven because we're
failures or if we're failures
because he won't let us into heaven
*(i'm 42% sure
i don't exist
and questioning how
bad hell can really be.)*
too quiet for a saturday
i wrote the word
decaf so many times i
forgot how to spell it
decaf
decaf
decaf
decaf
*(does decaf
have two f's?
because i don't have
two f's to give anymore
i mean i would but
i can't even find
vowels much less
extra consonants)*
when i was a child
i always counted in
mississippis
now that i'm older i
find myself counting in
cappuccinos
i dreamed my
legs were bleeding
and i remembered
that they're not
i want so badly
just to sleep in
a bag of crystallized
ginger and swim
in a mixing bowl of
tasteless tea.
*(i can't tell what's
real anymore
but i'm 42%
sure that i am not.)*
Aug 24, 2016
Aug 24, 2016 at 5:44 PM UTC
Rachel Ray is speaking.
The room in which he lays, passed out, continues on without his permission. Dead moths feather down from the less-than-steady window unit. A cockroach delights in the cabinet. The peanut butter the man swore he wouldn't touch, on account of his lack of self-discipline, self-denial, self-awareness--maybe just self--is not sealed, the lid at an acute angle, the cockroach rubbing its antennae together.
Gluten-free fish fry with a modern, chic potato salad, Rachel Ray says.
Easy to make on a work night or after the kids get out of soccer practice.
I like easy. Do you like easy? What about fast? That's what I thought.
The power flickers as the power always does when someone on the first floor of the apartment building starts a load of laundry. The man does not stir; he dreams.
But more than that, more weighty a subject than one two three lovers or falling from heaven, the muck of common dreams, submerges the dreamer.
The scene is this: The man is a boy again, three years younger than his waking self. He is in military file with boys his age. It is raining; it is night, the sky a starless miasma of electric blue.
There are men, old men, flat-topped and heavy-browed, walking the rows, handing out hammers. The dreamer receives his.
Now, a man the dreamer knows--just knows--to be the general says, lift up your hammers. On the count of three you will strike the boy in front of you. If you should survive, congratulations. You're now a man. If you shouldn't, we say thank you and goodbye.
One, the general says.
The dreamer does not lift his hammer. Won't lift his hammer.
Two, the general says.
In anticipation of three, boys start striking, skulls fracture, an odd harmony rides the air, hundreds of arms bringing down hundreds of hammers, hundreds of minds punctured, spilling hundreds of future glories and failures.
The dreamer still stands, hammer to his side. His peers groan at his feet. He is alone.
The general, taking long, purposeful strides, approaches the dreamer. He, the general, lifts the hammer in his hand, and with a singular word, three, strikes the dreamer in the forehead.
And it's just as simple as that, Rachel Ray says, presenting the boiled potatoes, baptized in mustard and vinegar, topped beautifully with celery and finely chopped shallots. Now back to our fish.
Jul 15, 2014
Jul 15, 2014 at 12:33 AM UTC
ι'μ σεεινγ
αν ωπτωμετριστ,
ανδ ναι, α γρεεκ;
i had a cyrillic (
с-у-р-у-л-ьи-ч?
celery... celeriac kayak?!)
optometrist
once, but it didn't work
out;
back to celeriac kayak canoe...
the explosion
of acronyms
and emoticons [ :) :( ;) :'( ]
in the english
language sparked the frustrating
chaos
of optic carousels.
Mar 9, 2016
Mar 9, 2016 at 1:38 PM UTC