"cleaver" poems
We live in a world, that's loaded down with greed. Man will do anything for money, falling to do a good deed.
Man will take a chance, to traffic people across the boarder. They pack them in like sardines, and like a selfish hoarder.
We will never stop allowing drugs, from entering our land. Men thinks that they are cleaver, by planting drugs, within the body of man.
With the technology we have, something need to be done. The slavery of woman who 's brought to our country, to them, it's not fun.
By, Sandra Juanita Nailing
Feb 28, 2014
Feb 28, 2014 at 11:58 PM UTC
Ears pressed cool against
glass tables and vinyl flooring
words score high drained slowly
slow like wasps caught in guttered draining
not like velvet names etched in casing, but weathered like bricked and beaten graffiti –
Waning like wax always melting
Tools: spelling and grammar – uncheck
Don’t fret too many gerunds grounding air suffocating hearing between the lines that past lower truths out straight in dirt and stinky face: eyes drawn with pensive staring
lines drawn global remains of words unused: boycott form because it isn’t daring.
Adopt sonar because it traces the smokestack between eaves drop
and scrap metal hearing like thorns prickled cut by cleaver.
Clink, clink, clank.
Unlatch cellar doors of images fixed in meaning: glances slanted
heads poked out behind legs enchanting ink under eyelids.
Clank, click, click.
Wishing: Sunday morning came to rest and the cat perched rest without the windowsill and the space between my legs lost meaning.
Forgetting: Painted houses haunting furniture misplaced, training lessons in memory fading.
Dreaming: Sounds dipped in vegetable oil, Van Morrison in teething states caring.
Still lost without my last breathe wondering…
Mar 2, 2011
Mar 2, 2011 at 1:31 PM UTC
We meet again, young debutante!
but what next?
shall we ponder over coffee,
or dance through the streets
with only our thoughts to keep rhythm?
Let us ask thine friend, the caterpillar.
nay, he says, neither are to be,
it is a picnic that you seek.
where the ground is warm,
and the sun is hot.
What a grand idea!
I shall go right off
to make thy picnic one of perfection!
but where to start?
to the butcher for meat.
the baker for bread.
...............................
Why must he bother me yet again?
He stalks me like a shadow,
claiming I talk to caterpillars.
he’’s raving mad!
A picnic? I will do no such thing?
however, I can use this to my advantage.
The butcher’s cleaver never looked so beautiful,
the soft glimmer in the light,
Oh but if i could get my hands on it!
His back is turned, now’s my chance!
.................................
Oh dearest! please have some ham and bread.
come sit by me and tell me of your day!
Oh I pray you tell me about your learnings!
What beautiful hair you have!
It glows like the sun shines,
and your dress is even more beautiful than before,
tell me, how do you radiate such beauty?
................................
I will lie.
I can feel the cleaver in my bag,
a weight on my shoulder,
the meat and bread are horrid.
he is so pathetic!
Beauty is the way the blood spurted from his chest!
glowing is how my face feels when it is splashed with his blood!
gentle is the wind over his lifeless body.
Oh what a grand picnic indeed!
Sep 8, 2010
Sep 8, 2010 at 6:15 PM UTC
She was the rain
when I was spring
but summer became I,
alas it was just a fling
Naked branches in a
dendritic pattern
fastening on to leaves
as Fall fell.
But drives away the soft snow
the blizzards unwanted
a stormy winter
unexpected
Skyward, the dark side of the moon
drawn to the faint traces of light -
continuously teased the edges
of the forgotten surface
obsession consumed I
to start a spin
I grow to become the
hunter only to see
the chamois conquering
my struggle
like an insect trapped
in the strings of
the eight legged
she beast
beating a
rhythmic tune
signalling a
tell
tale
heart
the end of me
no bang
only a cleaver
silently shushing
with an overdrawn
whimper
and
repeat.
Aug 6, 2014
Aug 6, 2014 at 3:31 AM UTC
He struts down the sidewalk
With a hint of a frown
His spoon swings beside him
Jaunty hat as his crown.
Childers peep with a gasp
As they watch him strut down
The musk that follows him
The stains on his gown.
There he goes, they whisper,
As the sun settles down
The Badass Chef, they say,
Of this Badass Town.
He pounds dough to a pulp
Whisking eggs beyond shape
Beets up on the salad
Stomping vatfulls of grape.
Skewers meat without thought
Chops neat through a bone
Flays sharks without care
Needs no sous, works alone
The Badass Chef
Of this Badass Town.
He hangs up his cleaver
At the end of the day
Dripping droplets of what
None have courage to say
He blows out his flambe
Spoon back at his side
Turns back to his war zone
Fists clenched with quiet pride
There he goes, they whisper,
As the sun settles down
The Badass Chef
Of this Badass Town.
Jan 29, 2018
Jan 29, 2018 at 2:46 PM UTC
I know a guy,
he is a friend.
Whom the cops often have to,
apprehend.
He used to do
some crazy ****
But now he doesn't do most of it.
I know you are thinking,
who is this man.
He is a friend who drives a van.
Although not to pick up kids with treats,
he uses his ride to satisfy his needs.
Which includes dolphin collecting,
live or dead,
he's always selecting.
Vaping real hard
every single day,
is how he spends,
his hard worked pay.
His job is selling,
illegal pelts
of rare albino beavers.
He sets up traps
and waits in the bushes
with an over sized cleaver.
Stalking and waiting for the perfect catch,
he watches the ****** closely.
And right as it comes into reach,
he slits the baby's throat boldly. (baby ****** not a real baby.)
My friend makes his way to the flee market,
where he sells the pelts.
He greets his customers happily,
as the beavers hang from his belt.
Blood on his hands and pride in his eyes,
he knows he's got a great prize.
The money rolls in,
and he know it is true,
that night he will party
until his lungs are blue,
(due to the fat rips he'll be vaping)
On the weekends when he's not working,
he hops into his van,
and drives to the border,
to make sure no illegals are lurking.
Loving his country with deep passion,
my friend protects us,
with the guns he has stashed in. (his van.)
After his duty is fulfilled,
he spends the rest of his time,
all alone,
drinking gallons
of acetone.
Then in the big city
he streaks for hours,
with bags of broken glass,
that he likes to devour.
I totally agree,
my friend is insane,
and on his family,
his acts cause great pain.
Although,
he treats his slaves
with a lot of respect,
and he gives porridge to the
needy and other rejects.
He's better than me,
because I like to suffocate,
small injured birds.
And barge into restaurants,
to steal cheese curds.
But my friend is the best,
friend he can be,
as I described in this poem,
that you can see.
Unless you are blind or stupid,
or don't have anyone to read you this,
just know that my friend,
has your children in his shed,
and they'll sadly be missed.
Apr 23, 2016
Apr 23, 2016 at 4:23 PM UTC
*No stabbing pointy bits
Comfortably thin and wide
Yet sharp, so precise
Unchallenged dexterity, ranging
intimidating in-sight
hidden held secret
Interesting restful beauty, with
a swinging-kissing-singing bite of genius
The Chinese cleaver
used since Cambodia
Joyous Valley Girl’s hidden past
a poetic heroic fame
Travel companion to my
extended Sashimi blade*
.
Apr 26, 2010
Apr 26, 2010 at 2:12 AM UTC
Under silver wing
San Francisco's towers sprouting
thru thin gas clouds,
Tamalpais black-breasted above Pacific azure
Berkeley hills pine-covered below--
Dr Leary in his brown house scribing Independence
Declaration
typewriter at window
silver panorama in natural eyeball--
Sacramento valley rivercourse's Chinese
dragonflames licking green flats north-hazed
State Capitol metallic rubble, dry checkered fields
to Sierras- past Reno, Pyramid Lake's
blue Altar, pure water in Nevada sands'
brown wasteland scratched by tires
Jerry Rubin arrested! Beaten, jailed,
coccyx broken--
Leary out of action--"a public menace...
persons of tender years...immature
judgement...pyschiatric examination..."
i.e. Shut up or Else Loonybin or Slam
Leroi on *** gun rap, $7,000
lawyer fees, years' negotiations--
SPOCK GUILTY headlined temporary, Joan Baez'
paramour husband Dave Harris to Gaol
Dylan silent on politics, & safe--
having a baby, a man--
Cleaver shot at, jail'd, maddened, parole revoked,
Vietnam War flesh-heap grows higher,
blood splashing down the mountains of bodies
on to Cholon's sidewalks--
Blond boys in airplane seats fed technicolor
Murderers advance w/ Death-chords
Earplugs in, steak on plastic
served--Eyes up to the Image--
What do I have to lose if America falls?
my body? my neck? my personality?
June 19, 1968
4.5k
You're an inspirational exciting jolt
Like an invitational lightning bolt
I'm suddenly shocked by the results
When I am blocked by your revolt
You have my beating heart in your hand
Holding me hostage where I silently stand
Staring at your ****** butcher's cleaver
That morphs me into a landlocked ******
You're a two-hander
Like a sledgehammer
Or a radar jammer
I start to stutter and stammer
When I see your weekly planner
And the lack of my presence
Because I'm incessant
You hold a pencil and an eraser
You delete when I become a tracer
And start to draw a better replacer
You hold the scales of justice
Though I claim you're unfit
You say add that to the list
From the throne where you sit
And there's no avenue for any recourse
When your other hand holds so much force
I must deal with your actions
So I can stay in your faction
For my heart's attraction
I am never right
So we never fight
And we never might
Understand each other
When we're taking cover
From exposing vulnerability
An exploding soul is filling me
Because the cold mist killing steam
Between us until you are only a dream
And my mind starts bursting at the seams
Until there's a monster barely mentally caged
But the bars shake when it is constantly enraged
When your saccharine emotions are cynically staged
My bustling brain will unfortunately always be plagued
By your neutral reactions which I'll never be able to gauge
You hold two hands behind your back
Will it be an attack?
Our two hands should meet
Instead I'm trampled by feet
Nov 23, 2017
Nov 23, 2017 at 5:00 AM UTC
Skating on thin ice my whole life like a figureskater.
First price on sight but the stripes, resembles a broken picture.
A golddigger... Go figure.
Writing straight from my heart so every bar tender. I remember a night in december,
from a walk in the park to a shot in the dark, I wasnt that cleaver.
Pretended to be concious and smart but now the scars on my arms shows that Im a beginner.
Sober for 3 years yet addicted to your liquor.
Sparked my transmitter when ladys slipper fell off after our first dinner,
But I never knew cinderella was a heavy hitter.
Couldnt connect the dots so now im on the ground with seven stars above my head like I got hit with the big dipper.
PTSD...
But **** all the modesty, I just need honesty...
My writtens a blasphemy (blast for me) but I can't be myself anymore like broken prophecy so God,
accept my apology, beacuse there's a monster inside of me that produces sick thoughts like it knew biology.
Some might say im insane but **** my brain, my heart is always by my side. Deranged thoughts but love tells me when its a lie.
So stay in my lane and embrace the fact that we all are going to die or live to busy and miss the heartbeat that takes you to the otherside.
Nov 11, 2016
Nov 11, 2016 at 9:16 AM UTC
Do not invite me to your wedding, for
I will refuse to come and attend it.
I have reasons that keep me away, but
Do not mistake, they are not spiteful ones.
I'm not jealous of your love either- since
He'll be handsome, and a good honest guy,
He'll be cleaver, and full of funny jokes,
He'll be decent, a man of perfect ways,
He'll have success and he can provide; so
You should devote your life to treasure him.
I'll be thankful for you every day; and
I will rejoice that you are happy and
Have found someone who so well matches you.
Please don't invite me to your marriage for
I couldn't bear to sit there watching you
And him standing up there to declare that
You now belong to just each other, and
You vow before God to be faithful; and
That you promise to love and cherish him.
Do not request that I come attend; for
No thought ever could make me sadder than
That the person you shall wed isn't me.
Dec 16, 2014
Dec 16, 2014 at 12:05 AM UTC
Laboriously beleaguering hypercritically meticulous hypotaxis apomixis strive
Rainbow mare aura roan exude emote derive
Syntactical propinquity habitation harbinger harangue stoic hive
Colloquialism vernaculars prurient adage jargon idiom clichés jive
Mirador bartizan panorama stalwart bastion bulwark tableau live
Canny cleaver crafty cunning furtive sneaky stealthy connive
Poignant cogent piquant ephemeral effulgence temporal refraction arrive
Paradoxical dichotomy greaves gauntlets gamut catalyst abstracts survive
Hectic mayhem , proximity parameter perimeter peripherals , annihilate rive
Zingy zesty zany zenithal azimuth entity zeal alive
Jan 13, 2013
Jan 13, 2013 at 9:11 PM UTC
Billy Joe Clown walked down the street.
Looking for a good treat to eat.
Billy Joe Clown walked all around.
Not a single good treat, Billy Joe felt down.
But out of nowhere, came, something nice, and good.
Jeffrey Joe Child, a treat, eat it he absolutely should.
So Billy Joe Clown swooped right to the scene.
And tried his best, not to look mean.
Eyes open wide, he came to the peasant.
“Would you like a present?
Or a great big surprise?
Something served with fries?”
Billy Joe Clown said, as he smiled so wide.
“Why yes I would,” said the good child, who had nothing to hide.
And so with the quickness of a cat or a bear.
Billy Joe Clown took out a cleaver.
But the child didn’t care, so to his surprise.
He chopped up poor Jeffrey. And ate him with a Big Mac burger and fries.
Oh such a demise.
Oh such a surprise.
So if in the future, your a peasant or a pheasant.
And you hear these Clown words, “Do you want present?
Or a great big surprise?”
Run like the wind, before Joe chops you to size.
Cause he’s always out there and he’s never to die.
Chopping up children, and eating his fries.
Perhaps he’s out there right now,
Don’t ask me how.
Perhaps he’s spying on you.
Looks like Honey Boo Boo.
It wouldn’t be a surprise, to me or you.
For Jeffrey Joe Child read this poem, too.
Mar 7, 2014
Mar 7, 2014 at 8:56 AM UTC
Blood come, blood lust
Pulse and closed trickle
Pledged and disloyal
Come beckon her closer
The red grin dismantles
Flesh as well as the cleaver
Pain left drowned within
Infinite desire
And heir blackens and boils
Skin softer than petals
Split apart for the curious /
The insatiable
Come beckon her closer
Come beckon her closer
We all die in the moment
And live for nothing.
Nov 29, 2013
Nov 29, 2013 at 9:02 PM UTC
As soon as you're born, they make you feel small
by givin' you no time instead of it all,
'til the pain is so great you feel nothing at all;
A working class hero is something to be
A working class hero is something to be
They hurt you at home and they hit you at school,
they hate you if you're cleaver, and they despise a fool,
'til you're so ******* crazy, you can't follow their rules;
A working class hero is something to be
A working class hero is something to be
When they've tortured and scared you for twenty-odd years
then they expect you to pick a career
when you can't really function, you're so full of fear;
A working class hero is something to be
A working class hero is something to be
Keep ya doped with religion, *** and T.V.
and you think you're so clever and classless and free
but you're still ******* peasants as far as I can see;
A working class hero is something to be
A working class hero is something to be
There's room at the top, they are tellin' you still,
but first you must learn how to smile while you ****
if you want to be like the folks on the hill;
A working class hero is something to be
A working class hero is something to be
If you wanna be a Hero, well, just follow me.
If you want to be a Hero, well, just follow me.
Nov 29, 2013
Nov 29, 2013 at 8:27 AM UTC
I find that chromium-vanadium steel,
while holding glimmer and shine
through much abuse,
is harder to hone
to that razor-like edge
that truly makes chopping a breeze
(watch the fingers, please),
merely mangling fine fruits
and tomatoes, instead.
(just tilt your head, thus)
It's a tool best left
for whacking at meat,
as its heft and its strength
make short work of bone;
more cleaver than scalpel,
if truth will be said.
I've always preferred
the high-carbon alloys,
though now out of fashion
in today's haute cuisine.
While rusting and blackening with age -
not the type you'd put on display -
the blades stay as keen
as the day they were minted,
and wipe down nicely on sleeves.
Oct 23, 2010
Oct 23, 2010 at 6:48 PM UTC
Electricity is talking; we understand
losing interest in conversations. creating land.
droplets of ice define the day
August ends in the middle of May
intrepid peeling; scabs of the earth
the hands fail; a dumbed feeling
Eins, the seeing blind have never seen
on screen, a shape of many faces
in through the open windows outdoors
smoke dries the unseen. air dry.
so paragon goners repulse the cleaver
the system has failed
so much detail to attention
when pink isn’t even a color
time is wasted on time itself
unfortunate cookie
wires once made you. complete.
ask for the answer to the question is nothing
Zwei light birds on a wire
the happenstance, the fire
where hell listens, there sight is drawn
selfishly we glare and mourn
******* ice cubes yelling “Jesus may…”
cold as **** the cesspool lay.
So, maybe I’m over thinking this.
Apr 14, 2014
Apr 14, 2014 at 4:38 AM UTC
DEDICATED TO THE FAT HIDEOUS BETTY, MY NEIGHBOUR
**Does anyone here know of a good mohel?
As I urgently need someone to circumcise
My neighbour's Yorkshire terrier, canine boil
Needing lancing, joybringing to my eyes.
A kindly mohel simply will not do;
He must lack scruple and human pity;
That hound’s not been bathed for a year or two
So th'event might turn out a bit ******
Yorkshire terriers are of two classes:
The insistent yapping ones we all hate
And the ***** ones with hairy arses;
But both look good nailed to your garden gate.
And he needn't be a mohel either,
Merely someone with a willing cleaver.**
Mar 26, 2015
Mar 26, 2015 at 8:05 AM UTC
The grief that broods in your soul
gushes as a fiery deluge
drowning you
in the flames of a sulphurous agony.
Between the layers of consciousness,
like a brutal cleaver,
it tears up the umbilical cord
that knots you up with your life's script.
On the wings of a melancholic sigh,
you glide to a land of psychedelic dreams
where the hypnotic beat of conga drums
carry you to a world
beyond the dreary beats
of a mundane chore.
The ecstasy of your steps
creates a mystical rhythm
for your Galala dance!
Even the shadow of your dreams
has a sapphire blue
woven into its consciousness!
Oct 17, 2018
Oct 17, 2018 at 11:29 AM UTC
My words are cutting themselves again;
razoring their loosely-sutured syllables,
deep as white-eyed bone.
The suave dipththongs butchered
to the cadence of bloodletting
in hemorrhagic oppositions.
Stapled-closed sentences, smeared with Iodine,
and subcutaneous sentence diagramming
for the retractable scalpel
swiveling along the edge,
of the well serrated cliche.
Once I pressed my wordy flesh
against the wrong side
of a paring knife, while paying no attention
and suddenly,
and without warning
it gave, like an over ripe peach
to the cleaver-
and after that, I was hooked.
Oct 31, 2011
Oct 31, 2011 at 11:05 PM UTC
There's blood on the floor
And gristle on his cleaver
\
Masks in the box at the corner
of the small apartment flat
/
Hidden behind a moto-helm
Driving by fun, of the socio-style
\
Richard, Phil, Charlie, the gang
Over the head, face remains changed
/
Travel through the Phonehom
Slashing through the fleshy barriers
\
Coming on a grisly scene
Awaiting something new to see
/
Quick rap-tapping
Keyboard strokes
\
Pushing through the double doors
This is it folks
For the US, for the US!
The Ruski's will fall
But these two,
At the moment, don't know it
At all
Jul 6, 2013
Jul 6, 2013 at 1:56 AM UTC
Stare at your bedroom wall
and bard me a story about
the creeks of white between
the sun-patches of blue paint,
the faded yellow of the door
where the damp towel was hung
day after day after day.
Tell me about the mark
of a swept paintbrush
that accidentally destroyed
distinction between wall
and radiator.
They're no longer clean,
either of them.
How are the door handle dent marks
from that hurried moment when
you rushed into your room
away from our argument?
What of those stories?
Will you need a new place
to erase the memories from your mind?
The flies and the walls cannot speak
to anyone but you now.
It's all rotten anyway.
The sweet stink of evenings
spent in an intimate supine,
with a cleaver caught upright
in the cutting board bedpost.
We were atop one another
with our faces to the ceiling,
reading passages of poems aloud
after drenching the bed sheets
in varied indentations.
Cut words and minced gazes,
we grayed as shadows
against those weathered walls.
I remember those walls,
moonlight had reflected off the frames
of littered photographs, those stories,
and created a dance floor pattern of crescents
and plank-meeting-plank askew.
Those walls will tell me stories
even if you decide not to anymore.
I'd buy them all up, I would,
as I do the meat hook-hanging
in the butcher shop.
Sep 9, 2012
Sep 9, 2012 at 1:01 AM UTC
mark of cain in my hemoglobin, i'm more open to repast on brains.
to dine on flesh enmeshed in baseball parks and homes restrained
by greed of the same. and the cry of the people takes great pains
to refine the message of a blank stare. a blemish, stark with catacombs
disarranged in harm honey. the ogre of pine. the amber pane
where we bleed. we name nameless, by the by,
to the finish.
but not
alone.
up your petticoat with my blind cleaver. my Occam razor to your stain.
a fine mess express in hateful art and boneless jade
we feed on the frame of our reference. skylarking harmonious curves dismayed
by their own mind. they confess it. at the statefair. replenished, they knish in falderal
disengaged from honesty. the poker blind. where the eye staid.
where we need. we need most ... tell ya why.....
to diminish
but not
atone.
and so it goes. i erode the continent. sneaky pete in the crease of all strange.
itchy feet. maimed in false lies of the ripple. made fake
to real love. unclaimed. a gangly part of broken promises made
we retreat at last. with our last mimes. we undress. with savoir faire. distinguished in our dashery
ill fated. calamity's bark. hard to define. where the mind misbehaved.
we're complete most where the hole resides...
to imprison
but not
hold.
Nov 8, 2012
Nov 8, 2012 at 10:29 AM UTC