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1969 Hartford art school is magnet for exceedingly intelligent over-sensitive under-achievers alluring freaks congenital creeps and anyone who cannot cut it in straight world it is about loners dreamers stoners clowns cliques of posers competing to dress draw act most outrageous weird wonderful classrooms clash in diversity of needs some students get it right off while others require so much individual attention one girl constantly raises her hand calls for everything to be repeated explained creativity is treated as trouble and compliance to instruction rewarded most of faculty are of opinion kids are not capable of making original artwork teachers discourage students from dream of becoming well-known until they are older more experienced only practiced skilled artists are competent to create ‘real art’ defined by how much struggle or multiple meanings weave through the work Odysseus wants to make magic boxes without knowing or being informed of Joseph Cornell one teacher tells him you think you’re going to invent some new color the world has never seen? you’re just some rowdy brat from the midwest with a lot of crazy ideas and no evidence of authenticity another teacher warns you’re nothing more than a bricoleur! Odysseus questions what’s a bricoleur teacher informs a rogue handyman who haphazardly constructs from whatever is immediately available Odysseus questions what’s wrong with that? teacher answers it’s low-class folk junk  possessing no real intellectual value independently he reads Marshall McLuhan’s “The Medium Is The Message” and “The Notebooks of Leonardo da Vinci” he memorizes introductory remark of Leonardo’s “i must do like one who comes last to the fair and can find no other way of providing for himself than by taking all the things already seen by others and not taken by reason of their lesser value” Odysseus dreams of becoming accomplished important artist like Robert Rauschenberg Jasper Johns Andy Warhol he dreams of being in eye of hurricane New York art scene he works for university newspaper and is nicknamed crashkiss the newspaper editor is leader in student movement and folk singer who croons “45 caliber man, you’re so much more than our 22, but there’s so many more of us than you” Odysseus grows mustache wears flower printed pants vintage 1940’s leather jacket g.i. surplus clothes he makes many friends his gift for hooking up with girls is uncanny he is long haired drug-crazed hippie enjoying popularity previously unknown to him rock bands play at art openings everyone flirts dances gets ****** lots of activism on campus New York Times dubs university of Hartford “Berkeley of the east coast” holding up ******* in peace sign is subversive in 1969 symbol of rebellion youth solidarity gesture against war hawks rednecks corporate America acknowledgment of potential beyond materialistic self-righteous values of status quo sign of what could be in universe filled with incredible possibilities he moves in with  painting student one year advanced named Todd Whitman Todd has curly blond hair sturdy build wire rimmed glasses impish smile gemini superb draftsman amazing artist Todd emulates Francisco de Goya and Albrecht Durer Todd’s talent overshadows Odysseus’s Todd’s dad is accomplished professor at distinguished college in Massachusetts to celebrate Odysseus’s arrival Todd cooks all day preparing spaghetti dinner when Odysseus arrives home tripping on acid without appetite Todd is disappointed Odysseus runs down to corner store buys large bottle of wine returns to house Todd is eating spaghetti alone they get drunk together then pierce each other’s ears with needles ice wine cork pierced ears are outlaw style of bad *** bikers like Hell’s Angels Todd says you are a real original Odys and funny too Odysseus asks funny, how? Todd answers you are one crazy ******* drop acid whenever you want smoke **** then go to class this is fun tonight Odys getting drunk and piercing our ears Odysseus says yup i’m having a good time too Todd and Odysseus become best friends Odysseus turns Todd on to Sylvia Plath’s “The Bell Jar” and “Ariel” then they both read Ted Hughes “Crow” illustrated with Leonard Baskin prints Todd turns Odysseus on to German Expressionist painting art movement of garish colors emotionally violent imagery from 1905-1925 later infuriating Third ***** who deemed the work “degenerate” Odysseus dives into works of Max Beckmann Otto Dix Conrad Felixmulller Barthel Gilles George Grosz Erich Heckel Ernst Ludwig Kirchner Felix Nussbaum Karl *******Rottluff Carl Hofer August Macke Max Peckstein Elfriede Lohse-Wachtler Egon Shiele list goes on in 1969 most parents don’t have money to buy their children cars most kids living off campus either ride bikes or hitchhike to school then back home on weekends often without a penny in their pockets Odysseus and Todd randomly select a highway and hitch rides to Putney Vermont Brattleboro Boston Cape Cod New York City or D.C. in search of adventure there is always trouble to be found curious girls to assist in Georgetown Odysseus sleeps with skinny girl with webbed toes who believes he is Jesus he tries to dissuade her but she is convinced

Toby Mantis is visiting New York City artist at Hartford art school he looks like huskier handsomer version of Ringo Starr and women dig him he builds stretchers and stretches canvases for Warhol lives in huge loft in Soho on Broadway and Bleeker invites Odysseus to come down on weekends hang out Toby takes him to Max’s Kansas City Warhol’s Electric Circus they wander all night into morning there are printing companies longshoremen gays in Chelsea Italians in West Village hippies playing guitars protesting the war in Washington Square all kinds of hollering crazies passing out fliers pins in Union Square Toby is hard drinker Odysseus has trouble keeping up  he pukes his guts out number of times Odysseus is *** head not drinker he explores 42nd Street stumbles across strange exotic place named Peep Show World upstairs is large with many **** cubicles creepy dudes hanging around downstairs is astonishing there are many clusters of booths with live **** girls inside girls shout out hey boys come on now pick me come on boys there are hundreds of girls from all over the world in every conceivable size shape race he enters dark stall  puts fifty cents in coin box window screen lifts inside each cluster are 6 to 10 girls either parading or glued to a window for $1 he is allowed to caress kiss their ******* for $2 he is permitted to probe their ****** or *** for $10 girl reaches hand into darkened stall jerks him off tall slender British girl thrills him the most she says let me have another go at your dickey Odysseus spends all his money ******* 5 times departing he notices men from every walk of life passing through wall street stockbrokers executives rednecks mobsters frat boys tourists fat old bald guys smoking thick smelly cigars Toby Mantis has good-looking girlfriend named Lorraine with long brown hair Toby Lorraine and Odysseus sit around kitchen table Odysseus doodles with pencil on paper Toby spreads open Lorraine’s thighs exposing her ****** to Odysseus Lorraine blushes yet permits Toby to finger her Odysseus thinks she has the most beautiful ****** he has ever seen bulging pelvic bone brown distinctive bush symmetric lips Toby and Lorraine watch in amusement as Odysseus gazes intently Tony mischievously remarks you like looking at that ***** don’t you? Odysseus stares silently begins pencil drawing Lorraine’s ****** his eyes darting back and forth following day Lorraine seduces Odysseus while Toby is away walks out **** from shower she is few years older her body lean with high ******* she directs his hands mouth while she talks with someone on telephone it is strange yet quite exciting Odysseus is in awe of New York City every culture in the world intermingling democracy functioning in an uncontrollable managed breath millions of people in motion stories unraveling on every street 24 hour spectacle with no limits every conceivable variety of humanity ******* in same air Odysseus is bedazzled yet intimidated

Odysseus spends summer of 1970 at art colony in Cummington Massachusetts it is magical time extraordinary place many talented eccentric characters all kinds of happenings stage plays poetry readings community meals volleyball after dinner volleyball games are hilarious fun he lives alone in isolated studio amidst wild raspberries in woods shares toilet with field mouse no shower he reads Jerzy Kosinski’s “Painted Bird” then “Being There” then “Steps” attractive long haired girl named Pam visits community for weekend meets Odysseus they talk realize they were in first grade together at Harper amazing coincidence automatic ground for “we need to have *** because neither of us has seen each other since first grade” she inquires where do you sleep? Todd hitches up from Hartford to satisfy curiosity everyone sleeps around good-looking blue-eyed poet named Shannon Banks from South Boston tells Odysseus his ******* is not big enough for kind of ******* she wants but she will **** him off that’s fine with him 32 year old poet named Ellen Morrissey from Massachusetts reassures him ******* is fine Ellen is beginning to find her way out from suffocating marriage she has little daughter named Nina Ellen admires Odysseus’s free spirit sees both his possibilities and naïveté she realizes he has crippling family baggage he has no idea he is carrying thing about trauma is as it is occurring victim shrugs laughs to repel shock yet years later pain horror sink in turned-on with new ideas he returns to Hartford art school classes are fun yet confusing he strives to be best drawer most innovative competition sidetracks him Odysseus uses power drill to carve pumpkin on Halloween teachers warn him to stick to fundamentals too much creativity is suspect Todd and he are invited to holiday party Odysseus shows up with Ellen Morrissey driving in her father’s station wagon 2 exceptionally pretty girls flirt with him he is live wire they sneak upstairs he fingers both at same time while they laugh to each other one of the girls Laura invites him outside to do more he follows they walk through falling snow until they find hidden area near some trees Laura lies down lifts her skirt she spreads her legs dense ***** mound he is about to explore her there when Laura looks up sees figure with flashlight following their tracks in snow she warns it’s Bill my husband run for your life! Odysseus runs around long way back inside party grabs a beer pretending he has been there next to Ellen all night few minutes later he sees Laura and Bill return through front door Bill has dark mustache angry eyes Odysseus tells Ellen it is late maybe they should leave soon suddenly Bill walks up to him with beer in hand cracks bottle over his head glass and beer splatter Odysseus jumps up runs out to station wagon Ellen hurriedly follows snow coming down hard car is wedged among many guest vehicles he starts engine locks doors maneuvers vehicle back and forth trying to inch way out of spot Bill appears from party walks to his van disappears from out of darkness swirling snow Bill comes at them wielding large crowbar smashes car’s headlights taillights side mirrors windshield covered in broken glass Ellen ducks on floor beneath glove compartment sobs cries he’s going to **** us! we’re going to die! Odysseus steers station wagon free floors gas pedal drives on back country roads through furious snowstorm in dark of night no lights Odysseus contorts crouches forward in order to see through hole in shattered windshield Ellen sees headlights behind them coming up fast it is Bill in van Bill banging their bumper follows them all the way back to Hartford to Odysseus’s place they run inside call police Bill sits parked van outside across street as police arrive half hour later Bill pulls away next day Odysseus and Ellen drive to Boston to explain to Ellen’s dad what has happened to his station wagon Odysseus stays with Ellen in Brookline for several nights another holiday party she wants to take him along to meet her friends her social circles are older he thinks to challenge their values be outrageous paints face Ellen is horrified cries you can’t possibly do this to me these are my close friends what will they think? he defiantly answers my face is a mask who cares what i look like? man woman creature what does it matter? if your friends really want to know me they’ll need to look beyond the make-up tonight i am your sluttish girlfriend! sometimes Odysseus can be a thoughtless fool

Laura Rousseau Shane files for divorce from Bill she is exceptionally lovely models at art school she is of French descent her figure possessing exotic traits she stands like ballerina with thick pointed ******* copious ***** hair Odysseus is infatuated she frequently dances pursues him Laura says i had the opportunity to meet Bob Dylan once amazed Odysseus questions what did you do? she replies what could i possibly have in common with Bob Dylan? Laura teases Odysseus about being a preppy then lustfully gropes him grabs holds his ***** they devote many hours to ****** intimacy during ******* she routinely reaches her hand from under her buns grasps his testicles squeezing as he pumps he likes that Laura is quite eccentric fetishes over Odysseus she even thrills to pick zits on his back he is not sure if it is truly a desire of hers proof of earthiness or simply expression of mothering Laura has two daughters by Bill Odysseus is in over his head Laura tells Odysseus myth of Medea smitten with love for Jason Jason needs Medea’s help to find Golden Fleece Medea agrees with promise of marriage murders her brother arranges ****** of king who has deprived Jason his inheritance couple is forced into exile Medea bears Jason 2 sons then Jason falls in love with King Creon’s daughter deserts Medea is furious she makes shawl for King Creon’s daughter to wear at her wedding to Jason  shawl turns to flames killing bride Medea murders her own sons by Jason Odysseus goes along with story for a while but Laura wants husband Odysseus is merely scruffy boy with roving eyes Laura becomes galled by Odysseus leaves him for one of his roommates whom she marries then several years later divorces there is scene when Laura tells Odysseus she is dropping him for his roommate he is standing in living room of her house space is painted deep renaissance burgundy there are framed photographs on walls in one photo he is hugging Laura and her daughters under big oak tree in room Laura’s friend Bettina other girl he fingered first night he met Laura at party is watching with arms crossed he drops to floor curls body sobs i miss you so much Laura turns to Bettina remarks look at him men are such big babies he’s pitiful Bettina nods

following summer he works installing displays at G. Fox Department Store besides one woman gay men staff display department for as long as he can remember homosexuals have always been attracted to him this misconception is probably how he got job his tenor voice suggesting not entirely mature man instead more like tentative young boy this ambiguous manifestation sometimes also evidences gestures thoroughly misleading after sidestepping several ****** advances one of his co-workers bewilderingly remarks you really are straight manager staff are fussy chirpy catty group consequently certain he is not gay they discriminate against him stick him with break down clean up slop jobs at outdoor weekend rock concert in Constitution Plaza he meets 2 younger blond girls who consent to go back to his place mess around both girls are quite dazzling yet one is somewhat physically undeveloped they undress and model for Odysseus radio plays Roberta Flack’s “Killing Me Softly With His Song” both girls move to rhythm sing along he thinks to orchestrate direct decides instead to let them lead lies on bed while curvaceous girl rides his ******* slender girl sits on his face they switch all 3 alternate giggle laughter each girl reaches ****** on his stiffness later both assist with hands mouths his ****** is so intense it leaves him paralyzed for a moment

in fall he is cast as Claudius in production of Hamlet Odysseus rehearses diligently on nights o
Jay Jun 2018
I'M MAKING nachos in your toaster oven. The chips fall in the pan without a problem. Beans, evenly distributed (if I do say so myself.) Salsa- good to go. Then the cheese. Generic brand shredded cheese blend. I dangle my (washed) fingers into the zip-lock bag, grab a generous pinch and rain mild cheddar down on my gourmet meal. And I feel the tears building. "No," my conscious scolds, "you will not cry over shredded cheese." I add another pinch for flavor, then another to assert dominance. I slide the pan into the tiny oven- triumphant! But the next task breaks me. I freeze when I try to adjust the heat setting. I hear your voice so clearly, like you're still calling from the next room: "you have to press the TOAST button, it cooks much faster."  The tears start to roll. I think about how excited you were when cheese bubbled perfectly- "just a little brown, ever so slightly crispy." We would joke about your persnickety preferences, likely a product of your superior taste. Of course, you would have appreciated anything I made for you, but it was always better when the dish matched the idea in your head...when I made it like you would have made it (if you were only well enough to cook for yourself again.) In the present, I poke the TOAST button and flee the kitchen as to not cry in front of the smothered chips. I sit on the sofa and break down, gasping in childish sobs. "I miss her," I wail to an empty house. Warm tears coat my cheeks in the air-conditioned room. I feel so small. I feel so foolish for crying over stupid, little things. I feel so... so... A bell dings in the kitchen. I wipe my sleeve across my face and traipse back to the toaster. Hand into oven mitt, mitt onto pan, pan onto table. I grab the plastic tubs of sour cream and guacamole from the fridge and a spoon from the drawer that sticks a little when you try to open it. I pick the non-wilted bits off the head of lettuce and rinse them under the faucet. I finish the recipe. I pull out a chair. I sit down to nachos for one.
Grief is such a strange emotion/process.

*Oh my! Thank you all so much for your support! I wrote this back in June when I needed to get it out of my head and had no idea it was chosen as a daily until I just logged back on and thought there was a glitch with my notifications number. I was slightly mortified that a piece of my mourning got exposure but after reading your comments I'm glad that I documented something many of you identified with. I've since journeyed a bit farther in my grief- slowly overcoming my initial instinct of trying to instantaneously analyze every feeling to determine whether I'm "allowed" to have it. I went to a group bereavement meeting offered by the hospital that treated the loved one in this poem and the nurse running the session made a good point- no one can fully understand another person's relationship with an individual who's passed on. Interpersonal relationships are unique and so is grieving. Being gentle with yourself (especially in times of struggle) is woefully underrated. And with that, I send love, gratitude, and positive vibes to this wonderful community
Nat Lipstadt Oct 2013
October 2013

for Maria and Logan...

you need two hands, one foot.
count my years.
each finger, worth a decade.
each toe, well, a century...

birthdays.

point of inflection,
point of opportunity,
presents itself,
to rewrite history.

a second coat of paint,
gift-wrapped in weak excuses.
how I lied, how I ain't,
grimm-fated fairy tales
somebody created.

invisible suits of gold-cloth
worn to my party of
past rewrit and
future foretold.

one single thought,
memory,
seizes my heart,
as I fall to my knees.
cracks my temperate ease,
renders open the
woof and weave
of recycled deceptions,
causing all to be revealed
and ask,

what if the poetry ceases?

you know prostrate?
you taste grief?

have you not but
one pain,
one act,
one deed,
one memorization,
act of cowardice,
act of desertion,
mistake maden, taken,
for which
forgiveness
can never
be given,
be taken,
attained?

do, does, did.

let me then
win the birthday lottery,
let floods of relief from
daily chores, not drown me,
chauffeurs to drive,
masseurs to massage,
cooks to cook,
les delicious treats,
keep theologians, logicians
on retainer, if need
explanations.

none know, can provide,
still and yet, a
priestly sacred chord,
grants relief,
absolution,
song of hallelujah
the ache of
perpetuity worry,
that ancient pain,
grows fresher daily,
the loss of one,
of my body,
my primal knot
unreasonable,
everything should be
permitted to be untied,
on my birthday, no?

this day, these days
breathe through words,
molecules of vowels,
stem cells of consonants,
the fabric, the tissues of life,
veins are a dictionary
of corpuscles,
red blood cells are
nouns of nutrients.

this day, these days,
the infection of my soul
is tempered, kept at bay,
tamped down from the
full flowering
of white blood cells
of rhyme, verse.

what if the poetry ceases?

Though the bones creak,
the body they carry. resurrect
for morning, afternoon
and evening prayers.

thrice daily poetry I recite,
roses red, violets blue,
my marrow transfused.

though my prayers refused,
the poetry act immolates
the fringes of my disease,
for which the common cure
is not currently invented....

what if the poetry ceases?

but be assured, told
scientists hard at work,
on the
forgive n' forget drug.

meantime,
take a bubble bath in
rosemary and mint
trap some words,
tap some words into
your cell phone bone,
the poetry heat that
provides aspirin relief.

through this poem,
on one day annual,
I am relieved, relived
the muse is feted, sated,

gone for few moments
concerns, worries of
exposure today,
agnostic's foxhole of hell
is dis-remembered,
the gloss returns,
the faux dispatched,

ain't birthdays grand?

what if the poetry ceases?

what rhymes with
Sorrow?
mmmmm,
could it be
Morrow?

bath drains, rosemary and mint
odors dismissed, the  Argentine disparu,
the Spanish Medievalists,
the Neo-Raphaelites,
all gone,
didn't they have birthdays too?

didn't know
the Renaissance come
and go,
and nobody
tole ya?

please recall t'is the day
after my sweet city recorded my
naissance in the
Hospital of the Flowers
on Fifth Avenue.

the 'crats put the datum
in the bureau with the
night creams and
the statistics
as follows:

on this day + a few,
six or twenty decades ago +
a few centuries,
a question was born,
and an ache that is
sometimes relieved,
by a poem song.

though do not celebrate,
t'is a day to calibrate,
review, edit, tinker,
rewrite, often a stinker.

always one thought recycles:

what if the poetry ceases?

(how will I breathe?)
Notes: my birthday was a few weeks ago. One of a number poems I've written about birthdays.  This one was modified, but only slightly for Maria and Logan.
To end up alone
in a tomb of a room
without cigarettes
or wine--
just a lightbulb
and a potbelly,
grayhaired,
and glad to have
the room.
...in the morning
they're out there
making money:
judges, carpenters,
plumbers, doctors,
newsboys, policemen,
barbers, carwashers,
dentists, florists,
waitresses, cooks,
cabdrivers...
and you turn over
to your left side
to get the sun
on your back
and out
of your eyes.
from "All's Normal Here" - 1985
Unlucky the hero born
In this province of the stuck record
Where the most watchful cooks go jobless
And the mayor's rôtisserie turns
Round of its own accord.

There's no career in the venture
Of riding against the lizard,
Himself withered these latter-days
To leaf-size from lack of action:
History's beaten the hazard.

The last crone got burnt up
More than eight decades back
With the love-hot herb, the talking cat,
But the children are better for it,
The cow milks cream an inch thick.
Mateuš Conrad Aug 2018
.ludo savis... play nice... ludo savis... play nice:

i knew the relationship was over when i encountered her ex-boyfriend sitting in her st. petersburg flat drinking ***** with me, no, wait, it was when she started questionning me using cosmopolitan magazine quiz about perfect girlfriends on our way from st. petersburg to moscow to see metallica, while all i wanted was to listen to bob dylan and appreciate whatever rural russia had to offer... beside that? it took me quiet a time to fiddle through and find the glagolitic alphabet, the slavic alphabet before the learned greek came across "my" people, given the romans never venture that far... good luck finding an african phonetic encoding system, beside the hieroglyphs... i won't bother looking right now... not to insult, though: so much for a large phallus megalomania contra envy... Ⰶ: życie (life) is not the half of the caron ž in the form of: the acute... (ź): ździra (don't ask, seriously, the word implies worse than ***** / szmata)... źródło (source)... eh... the one-armed caron (ž)... ź... i can't explain it any further: you need to speak the lingo to keep the "nuance" alive... southern slavs treat the caron akin to ž = ż... how beautiful... given the english language has no diacritical marker application: can't exactly claim diacritical markers using only the automated hovering decapitated heads above ι & ȷ... i'm not english i'm tired of looking up h'america's *******! i don't need not fancy pants to debrief the people i'm concerned with to mind, not giving a **** about them... thanks for your jeans: subtitle made in canada... beside the whole mao shitshow of: made in china.... back in the 1990s! *******... even in terms of music h'america isn't really relevant.. it just is... and "whatever" this "is" is to be, will remain... but only as an r.e.m. ref. pointer, that requires the physical translation of the lyrics: the one i love... a simple prop: to occupy my mind.... fire! the silesian vampire... because... said so... learning about monsters is what i could only fathom, which included me... but, sorry... the glagolithic script... ⰄⰀⰏ: dam... i.e. i will give... fun fact: r.e.m. didn't sell their: it's the end of the world as we know it (and i feel fine) to microsoft for a commercial break.. glagolitic script... where are the africans? oh, right, nowhere when phonetic encoding is turning heads... **** me... even the blind are onto the affair...  i went as far back as the glagolithic script: pre cyrillic, about the same time that the latins incorporated the northern "savages" with applying the chisel to the ᚱ / R... ᚠ / F... copernican "up-side down": why do all tree (beside the pines) resemble a Y shape, a gamma? why did god compensate his existence with opiates?! refresh my memory, though, why am i drawing blanks at african phonetic encoding? **** me, the blind drew something, the deaf too... if you played the guitar, forget about reading braille... you need tender, french, fingertips.... you can't play the guitasr and read braille... mind you... encoding morse overshadows braille... but even the european blindman overcomes the fully ****-naked butter-cup sprinting *** of a black man every day of the week: i'm not here to compensate for a leprechaun's sized *****: mind you... in the hands of a porcelain ***- beauty? everything looks like a hiroshima... i just started to entertain an asian fetish... 4th knuckle mizzing... missing... the most ****** aspect of a female aesthetic? her hand... when *** & the city cited trimming ***** hair (no circumsion, really?), so no asian porcelain hands, no 4th knuckle missing?! i hate what the anglo-speaking world has become, it's this, this, this quasi-Islam.... at least i respect the Quran... but 1984, by the secular prophet of the western world? why do people still calling it: silicon vallyey... it's a ******* curtain, smart-you not seeing the replacement mechanisms of the silicon curtain: now wow... ******, where you're getting-to-go get from? any ideas?! a tehran baza?! ******. 1960s homosexuals fiddling their way past the tunis police, happy? loitering sucker-****** pansie? again... entertain me... where is the african phonetic encoding system... this is my "i.q." avenue masterpiece... i don't care about i.q. but a ******* blind man beat the african at phonetic encoding... personally?


one just simply falls, tired of the right-wing momentum regarding beauty, it's such a bothersome crtique of its generic foundation if beauty..... i hate it, this objective classicism: back to the future take no, 4; *******...

             again, where were the africans sorting
out their invetement in the slave trade...
ONLY WHITE PEOPLE
WERE BAD, CONCERNING BLACK PEOPLE...
Idi Amin... Idi Amin Idi Amin Idi Amin Idi Amin
Idi Amin... Idi Amin Idi Amin Idi Amin Idi Amin ....
******! please!
ever see an african-h'american in africa?
   ******! please!
ever see an african-h'american in africa?
i said: ******! please!
ever see an african-h'american in africa?
i'd love to see an african-h'american
in africa... mouthin-off their stature...

                   african phonetic encoding....

debussy                                       chopin




satie                                              schumannn...

­and?
              there's too much of loon'don....
                   had enough of it, ****'s....
too much ***-kissing,
too much of the h'american swindle...
carelesss buggers; these brits...
******* ****** jolly-tribe
               ****-ups....
  
i drink and relax solving a sudoku -
i'm not doing it to compete -
   just having a conversation with
my neighbor about the difference
between Alzheimer's
and dementia brought back memories
of what i negated for some time...

it's only when someone else tells
you of their elder relative's dementia
you muster the courage to
spot the same symptoms in
your relative...

         my grandfather has dementia...
my early teenage years,
every summer visiting him,
traveling to Krakow,
     going fishing,
riding our bicycles in the afternoon...
he feeding my what books
i should read...
      i still visit,
  spend about a month,
say, keep him company,
   fix up the kitchen...

  but it's such an exhausting disease...
not so much for the sufferer -
this mild form of Alzheimer -
no killer proteins eating away at
the brain cells -
   dementia?
the ontological nadir of old age...
then again, perhaps the zenith...

a closure...
   the long term memory opens,
while the short term memory
closes -
   he still can solve a crossword
puzzle like a mad genius...
but he lapses into what is
the cinema of mortality...
                 he remembers things
like the two SS-men
   posted in my home town,
running up to them
and saying -
herr bitte bon-bon!...
  the raven black of the uniform
and the glaring *******...

    i blocked the fact that it was
dementia, when my grandmother
thought it was wise to scare all
of us, uncle, mother and father
into thinking it could degenerate
into Alzheimer's...
        he still recognizes me!
Alzheimer's sufferers can't
even muster that!

   at best... dementia couples itself up
with melancholia,
  the natural melancholia
akin to the sadness expressed by
Nietzsche: only when the house
has been completed,
but never during the construction...

dementia is just an endless memory
loop...
   when man is allowed to finally
put down the hammer, the sickle...
and retire?
  he's standing on the precipices of mortality...
on a dam about to crack open,
and release a surge of the sea
of memory...
   why wouldn't he take the time
to remember?
  to remember himself?
        
the tedium comes when the same
persons implores others to listen to them...
when memories become less
of the old man's cinema and more
affairs of an oral culture -
our culture has lost the point
of oral transmission -
  hence dementia sufferers have
to evolve -
                  into not talking so much...
not as a mean spirited conviction -
why? i do the same -
   i have about 10 focal memories
that constant revive me -
               and i'm only 32...
          but i don't talk about them...
hell, i won't write them...
   it's my own, private cinema -
but my grandfather comes from
a time before the optical explosion
of television...

         i don't need to hear what he saw -
all i need is to tattoo his mannerisms
and face onto my psyche...

   but dementia, thank god,
is a listening tedium...
                     point being...
a life opens up,
   but any immediacy of life disappears...
hence his persistent ability
to solve crossword puzzles,
enjoy reading the newspaper -
but the significance of remembering
yesterday is missing...
    
he's an old man...
   he has no obligations in terms of
duty in a professional arena of
the metalwork factory...
why wouldn't he attempt to push death
aside and not linger on
the memory of his, magnum opus -
his life sigma oeuvre?

     me?
  some would call this music neo-**** skinhead
****...
   wumpscut, two songs...
   thorns & wreath of barbs,
     bunkertor sieben (reprise)...
but it relaxes me when sitting on a sudoku,
drinking Bacardi cola and lime...
      enjoying the cool August air
after just enough rain
that manages to exfoliates the flowers
with refreshed sensuality...

  sudoku no. 10101...
    after enough numbers pop up,
the tactic is to hone in on one number
in each of the 9 squares and 9 vertical
and 9 linear line...
for sudoku no. 10101 in the Friday's
edition of the times?

   it went something akin to this

[8, 5] - [3] - [1] - [9] - [7] - [2, 6] - [4]

that's the closest schematic
i'll have for you,
   with regards to how the grid is filled.

i drink and relax solving a sudoku -
i'm not doing it to compete -
   just having a conversation with
my neighbor about the difference
between Alzheimer's
and dementia brought back memories
of what i negated for some time...

it's only when someone else tells
you of their elder relative's dementia
you muster the courage to
spot the same symptoms in
your relative...

         my grandfather has dementia...
my early teenage years,
every summer visiting him,
traveling to Krakow,
     going fishing,
riding our bicycles in the afternoon...
he feeding my what books
i should read...
      i still visit,
  spend about a month,
say, keep him company,
   fix up the kitchen...

  but it's such an exhausting disease...
not so much for the sufferer -
this mild form of Alzheimer -
no killer proteins eating away at
the brain cells -
   dementia?
the ontological nadir of old age...
then again, perhaps the zenith...

a closure...
   the long term memory opens,
while the short term memory
closes -
   he still can solve a crossword
puzzle like a mad genius...
but he lapses into what is
the cinema of mortality...
                 he remembers things
like the two SS-men
   posted in my home town,
running up to them
and saying -
herr bitte bon-bon!...
  the raven black of the uniform
and the glaring *******...

    i blocked the fact that it was
dementia, when my grandmother
thought it was wise to scare all
of us, uncle, mother and father
into thinking it could degenerate
into Alzheimer's...
        he still recognizes me!
Alzheimer's sufferers can't
even muster that!

   at best... dementia couples itself up
with melancholia,
  the natural melancholia
akin to the sadness expressed by
Nietzsche: only when the house
has been completed,
but never during the construction...

dementia is just an endless memory
loop...
   when man is allowed to finally
put down the hammer, the sickle...
and retire?
  he's standing on the precipices of mortality...
on a dam about to crack open,
and release a surge of the sea
of memory...
   why wouldn't he take the time
to remember?
  to remember himself?
        
the tedium comes when the same
persons implores others to listen to them...
when memories become less
of the old man's cinema and more
affairs of an oral culture -
our culture has lost the point
of oral transmission -
  hence dementia sufferers have
to evolve -
                  into not talking so much...
not as a mean spirited conviction -
why? i do the same -
   i have about 10 focal memories
that constant revive me -
               and i'm only 32...
          but i don't talk about them...
hell, i won't write them...
   it's my own, private cinema -
but my grandfather comes from
a time before the optical explosion
of television...

         i don't need to hear what he saw -
all i need is to tattoo his mannerisms
and face onto my psyche...

   but dementia, thank god,
is a listening tedium...
                     point being...
a life opens up,
   but any immediacy of life disappears...
hence his persistent ability
to solve crossword puzzles,
enjoy reading the newspaper -
but the significance of remembering
yesterday is missing...
    
he's an old man...
   he has no obligations in terms of
duty in a professional arena of
the metalwork factory...
why wouldn't he attempt to push death
aside and not linger on
the memory of his, magnum opus -
his life sigma oeuvre?

     me?
  some would call this music neo-**** skinhead
****...
   wumpscut, two songs...
   thorns & wreath of barbs,
     bunkertor sieben (reprise)...
but it relaxes me when sitting on a sudoku,
drinking Bacardi cola and lime...
      enjoying the cool August air
after just enough rain
that manages to exfoliates the flowers
with refreshed sensuality...

  sudoku no. 10101...
    after enough numbers pop up,
the tactic is to hone in on one number
in each of the 9 squares and 9 vertical
and 9 linear line...
for sudoku no. 10101 in the Friday's
edition of the times?

   it went something akin to this

[8, 5] - [3] - [1] - [9] - [7] - [2, 6] - [4]

that's the closest schematic
i'll have for you,
   with regards to how the grid is filled.

oh sure sure, the uncircumcised man,
crucified when all the orthodox were
drunk,
                   פור day,
       drunk cruxion?!
                 lovey purin "misgivings";
what's next?

   oh sure sure, the jews would hav e crucified
me on the hill of: tel megiddo
****-heads throwing up their kippahs
into the air in some skewed form
of celebration...
       like bacchus entering
Valhalla asking: where's the mead?
    i've had too much wine...
where'y the whiskey?

   i'll keep repeating...
              talk about jews among the polonaiase?
hush hush: ****, dont want to bring
bad luck... jews in poland are very much akin
to roma gypsies: lucky charms...
but... do you see any ******* leprechauns
around? look at me: i see none...
  let's tell the joke in verse,
not the stadard: a priest a rabbi and an imam
walk into a bar...
****... is that even a joke?! muslims don't drink!
what's the imam having; cranberry juice?!

and englishman a scot and an irish walk
into a bar... the three of them walk
out on stag-duty with inflanted sheep and
speaking cymcru... terrible joke...
as all my jokes were to begin with...

         i am currently navigating,
my uncle's ex girlfriend is sleeping downstairs
on the couch,
blah blah Tuscany... blah blah prosecco...
i'm becoming suspect: she's a gemini,
isn't she? all the geminis i ever met where
extroverted self-absorbed louis XIV types...
they need to, they need to self-absorb themselves
in order to extract the sort of energy
associate with rhetoric,
   and how they constantly digress,
there's always a sub-plot to the plot... nay,
there are always sub-plots...
          great company, i mean...
when a person speaks all the time there are
no awkward moments of silence,
until the said person tells the "eager" listener...
play some music...
she's a warsaw girl, so she's a pretty learned
in the ways of the world,
i'm just an ostrowiec commoner...

    oy vey! oy vey: she'***** 40 and lamenting...
i too complain about my uncle...
she had an abortion with him...
i once talked with my uncle about music
while he surfaced at mrs. roshandler's back garabe...
we ate sri lankan fried chicken wings and
chips and listened to californication
for the very first time...

   abundance of hope in Tuscany...
"apparently"... but if you have ever watched
a woman, borderline on asylum incarceration?
i was looking at one just example...
  it's not a pretty sight...
even when she asked: how's *** and business?
i'm a monk...
          or at least i tend to...
even if she came from a stock of
failed relationships: fine fine...
            now?

i served up decent food,
a malvani and a tikka masala curry...
          naan bread,
     turmeric infused rice,
vanilla cheese cake with strawberries...
she enjoyed it,
i like to please people...
    mind you: ever see a slim chef?
i wouldn't trust a slim chef,
i never have, i never will,
you need some chubby chub chub rounding-offs...
mind you: i much prefer cooking
food than eating it,
but i would never trust a chef associated
with a c.o.d. associated with counting calories...
never have, never will...
two noteworthy proverbs:
1. too many cooks in one kitchen =
no decent meal is being made...
  one cook, one couldron, that's your best bet...
2. never trust a slim, athletic cook...
those ******* can shove their kale
       smoothies....
they can slurp up those smoothies
turning their ***** in straw ******* vortexes!
i'll cook on lard trimmings,

em....
  [9] - [2] - [6] - [3] - [8] - [1] - [4] - [5, 7]?
that's when the sudoku puzzle was filled...
all the nines... all the twos... etc. became filled
in the 9 grids...

well...
     "apart" from: my uncle's girlfriend:
i've been living in englamd
for nearly 30 yeasrs...
i've dated a french girl,
an australian, a russian....
but u've never dated an english
girl: i guess they much prefer
aged pakistani grooming gang
members....
            i guess:
**** gasoline on them,
they're all readied and geared up!

braille contra morse?
if you want to play the guitar?
forget the braille....
you need tender fingertips
to read braille...
morse? nit so much...
here's a comparison...
i see!

    a.:   ⠓⠑   ⠺⠓⠕
                       ⠎⠑⠑⠎
    ⠊⠎       ⠁⠃⠇⠑
                   ⠞⠕
                                     ­   ⠗⠑⠁⠙

b. play the guitar and learn to....
read finger tip braille, ******....

· · · ·  ·         
· − −  · · · ·  − − − 
· · ·  ·  ·  · · · :
                  · ·  · · · 
▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄ ▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄ · − · ·  ·  (a / b)
      −  − − − 
                   · − ·  · ▄▄▄▄▄▄▄ − · ·  (a)

(he who sees: is able to read)...

           i can attest...
             i would find myself readily reading
morse in braille,
than braille by itself...
                far more easier.

finger-tips... i'd sooner read your morse
as braille, than braille as morse..
ogdiddynash May 2017
shock and awe, shown the light, shown the door,
by the literary muses, kings and queens,
and the royal cooks, of course,
all rouse me at 4:00 am,
to salute those who can cook,
knowing how to summer simmer a simple broth of love
with richest, tasty, succinct, succulent brevity
that
keeps this wordy would be poet,
honest

all the varied spices,
artful adjectives, verbose verbs, numbing, never-heard-of nouns
are humbled in joy, all join this poet,
to honor the
curried simplicity
of  
the Bengali cook of love
from India
who says it reverently,
all
in
one
simple sentence,
sourced locally
love is his staple,
love is rice
~


5/31/17

4:10am
How to Cook Everything

the secret is in the human spices...

all dishes require clear cool scented breaths blown of pure lung oxygen,

hot dishes need heated, thrumming,
heartbeats,

stir with skin cells of a clean
finger,

stir with skin cells of a garden soil digging
finger,

to taste, a dash of salted directly dropped eye
tears,

a sprig of mind
mint,

spring water to clarify
the recipe,

the sweat of love and joyful


did you think of the kitchen speaking?

nay, the prep of the human mind
swollen with the possibilties of love.
the touch taste of two
bodies

how I love to cook!
Kaity Williams Sep 2015
Women aren’t better than men
we stand on the same ground
we can do what they can
women aren’t weaker
or less important
we want to be treated the same
human is all of our name
we don't want to be judged by our physical traits
our body parts aren't to be used as baits
equality is all that we seek
for everyone to see
what we can be
a girl shouldn’t be stopped by her looks
she shouldn’t be judged by how she cooks
or what books
she reads
A girl shouldn't be afraid to chase her dreams
because of society’s screams
if she wants to be president she shouldn't be stopped
because her opponent is in a suit and she's in a dress
they say she can't be trusted with such big choices
because women's judgement is worth less
women are too emotional
they make everything personal  
they overreact
they’re weak
too soft
attention is all they seek
are all stereotypes of what I am
even though I never knew them
the ones who said these things
the ones we're supposed to look at like kings
but there can not be kings without queens
there can not be peas without beans
men need women to stay alive
for humankind to thrive
why is it so hard to be the same
to be equal
what kind of pull
does it take
for everyone to finally wake
to open our eyes and see
your insides are the same as me
black, white
short, tall
men, women
none of it means anything at all
it doesn't matter what you wear
it doesn’t matter how much you care
about what others think
women want the same things
they just want to be able to reach everything life brings
they just want to be free
to be what they want to be
I don't want something as small as gender to limit what i can say
or what i do with my day
i want to live my life in my own way
gender shouldn't define you
or what you can do
it shouldn’t limit your dreams
or your life goals
women shouldn’t be set on a pedestal
women weren’t created only for your pleasure
to be used whenever
they aren’t to be used for you to shame
they say she chose to wear that
so she's the one to blame
if she didn’t want it to happen maybe she should have worn a hat
what happened no one can know
About it you can't talk
They tell you to continue to walk
schools dictate what girls wear
because schools care
more about their clothes
than if they learn
or what the teacher actually knows
no shoulders she can show
your shorts have to be this long
spaghetti straps are wrong
leggings reveal too much
they persuade boys to touch
but maybe if boys were taught
that girls weren’t toys
to be sought
it wouldn’t matter what i wear
or how i do my hair
you wouldn’t pull me out of class
because you think my outfit looks like trash
all we ask for is respect
to be equal
neck to neck
we achieve the same feats
we walk the same streets
yet women are inferior
men are superior
but men and women were created on the same day
created in the same way
we eat the same things
in school we swung on the same swings
as children who we played with
didn't matter what you were born with
gender doesn't determine who could be friends
didn't matter who was by your side around the bends
but as you got older
it started to change
your priorities started to rearrange
men became dominant
women submissive
women suddenly became not permissive
childbearers they say
The kitchen is the place for you
Cooking and cleaning is what you do
home makers is the woman's way
Women aren't just a piece of ***
To be caught like a Bass
Women aren't to be just thrown back when you're done
Thinking you have won
Women aren't to be forced to their knees
As you ignore their pleas
Just because you say she's a tease
Doesn't mean women were created to just please
women have been mistreated
and to get them men have competed
they've been used
thrown on the ground
bruised
Everyone has times they are wrong
Women and Men should be free to feel strong
its why all we want is to be equal
to sit down and write the sequel
Gender equality isn't here to dictate your life
It's not here to take away your wife
It gives you  a choice
where you can finally use your voice
gender equality is seen as a woman’s issue
but it concerns men too
It's the woman’s right
as much men
to continue to fight
another name people call it is feminism
but that name is considered bad
because many see feminists as women who are just mad
Mainly because they don't know the truth
They get their facts from a sleuth
it's actually the right to receive social, economic and political
equality , it's really not diacritical
It's more about doing what you believe
to strive to achieve
Am I a feminist?
sure it's not a sin
to stand up for what i believe in
Edna Sweetlove Jan 2015
O how I recall with joy a visit to Jackson, proud capital of Mississippi,
The land of the fearless fatties, the glorious land of the uber-obese,
A paradise enjoying amazingly high blood pressure and diabetes rates,
Thanks to the greed and gluttony of its 'proud-to-be-portly' inhabitants.

How delightful to stroll along its leafy boulevards, admiring the advertising
For junk food shops: "Super-Size Your Deep Crust Giant Pizza for only $1!"
"Real Men love our Emperor Size Cheeseburgers, King Size is for Kids!"
And "Come Try Our All Day Giant Breakfast with Triple French Fries!"

How enchanting to see furniture stores offering discounted extra big sofas,
Builders and carpenters with their cut-price floor-strengthening deals,
Tailors' shops with their displays of buffet pants and elasticated jeans,
Realtors promoting houses with double porches and wide internal doors.

And, O the trailer parks, those truly splendid residential areas,
With their giant size immoveable vehicles with spacious entry portals
To allow the immaculately dressed residents to carry in an armful
Of multi-packs of chocolate iced crème flavour filling Krispy Kremes.

But most wondrous of all, the myriad rival Pentacostal Chapels
With their guaranteed reinforced concrete padded sofa-pews
And their portrayals of plump Jesuses to make the fatties feel at home.
And all those "funeral parlors" with their gaping super-wide caskets.

How I loved the blinking stares of the sleep-deprived bible students
As they staggered out of an architectural wonder of a chapel,
Bleary-eyed after an all-night bible study session, and all eager
For a healthy breakfast of a dozen flash-fried sugar encrusted "donuts".

I was there in this glorious world centre of ever-escalating obesity
With my latest gorgeous lady love (at only 140 pounds and five foot two,
possibly the slimmest woman in the entire Jackson Metropolitan Area)
And we decided to try some good ol' Mississippi fine dining as a treat.

Holey Moley! What a feasts on offer: pan-fried catfish, deep-fried catfish,
Steaks the size of an encyclopaedia and all accompanied by unlimited fries!
Sweet potato and pecan pie with butter, sugar, eggs and extra cream,
And Mississippi Mud Pie with its chocolate crust and sticky chocolate filling!

(The chef de cuisine in our upscale diner told us that Southern cooks
had created this wondrous dessert because its sophicated ingredients
were available cheaply and the recipe required only minimal culinary skill,
and what's more it came with a treble serving of supermarket ice cream!)

We declined the bottomless cup of watery coffee with compulsory sugar
And enquired if we might have a bottle of his finest wine. Quel faux-pas!
The dear fatso was mortified and told us his was a Christian establishment
And strong drink was frowned upon. Did we think he was a degenerate?

That night we lay bloated like beached whales in our tasteful motel room
(its bed reinforced with ferro-concrete to deal with the horrid possibility
that any gargantuan visitors might wish to copulate vigorously);
Oh how we burped and farted, longing for a dose of bicarbonate of soda.

All good things come to an end so, after a nessy session on the toilet
(we filled it thrice), we bade farewell to the desk clerk and sloped off.
"Be sure y'all come back real soon," he declared, patting his fat gut,
"Cuz you both sure do look two real skinny Limeys, ya hear me?."

As we drove out of this elegant city that steamy Southern summer morn
In our rented 4X4 super-strong chassis Land Rover, how we smiled
At the scene outside Walmart where the special offer of the day
Was five pounds of free candies with every single assault rifle sold.

But alas! And alack! Tragedy was not so very far away that day:
Some corpulent teenagers toppled off the sidewalk under my auto's wheels
In their indecent haste to take advantage of the latest McDonald's bargain:
A quart of complimentary Dr Pepper's with a whole oven-fried McTurkey.

Oy! What a horrid mess my fender made of their pudgy, mottled flesh
And how wise we were to speed off before the cops arrived
At least, we avoided being beaten us to a pulp for being leftist libtards
Come to laugh at the dear redneck ways south of the Mason-Dixon Line.
She married off to a village chief at age of 14,
But only after being chopped of a ******* in a Maasai
Ritual of FGM, chlitoridectomy or you name it,
For the African elders strictly marry circumcised virgins,
What a ritual so pernicious that my nerves panic with fire.
She gets into a marriage now, Male sided marriage,
Where women and distaff are seen, but not heard whatsoever,
It is her well rounded buttocks, sharply ***** *****
Tight thighs and sweet sensuous moans to be made in bed
That matters most, but not her thoughts not even human feelings.
She starts of her day by morning glory; early morning *** at 5.30,
Then she jumps of her bed, whether sexually satisfied or not,
She goes straight for her broom then begins sweeping,
And scrapping her house, the main house then the kitchen,
No brassiere under her blouse or lingerie under her skirt,
For you never can tell when the chief’s cloud will accumulate,
Into thunderous rain, ready for planting and planting,
She then prepares porridge from millet and sorghum
Or Soya beans, ground nuts and simsim for the children
To take before they leave to school, both her children,
And those sired through out-growing by her husband,
Then she goes at the cow shed to milk her native cows,
Which she milks by dodging ceaseless kicks from the angst ridden cow,
She sings and whistles hymns for the cow to calm and stand balmy,
But coincidentally her last-born baby, three months old boy,
Named after the paternal grandfather wakes up,
Starts crying and croaning for attention, suckling,
She shelves milking aside, and rushes to pick the baby up
Not because of anything but lest its crying may disturb her husband
From sweet morning sleep, it is so bad and punishable.
She picks back the baby, using a shawl as a cot,
Then comes back to the milking shed, to resume her work,
Only to come to a surprise; the calf un-knoosed itself
And has suckled its mother’s udder dry, foam frothing
At the mandibles; she picks two litres of milk to her house
To the kitchen, starts cooking for her husband, two calabashes
Of tea, over spiced with milk and Kericho tea leaves,
As the husband is called to a treat of mellifluous tea,
She jumps at washing her husband’s clothes;
Unmarried brother-in-law passes by, and runs back to his cottage,
Scoops and brings his grimed Jeans Levis Straus trouser,
Also to be washed by his in-law, as the woman belongs
To the clan, to the entire community but not singly to the man
Or the husband who married her, she washes it minus qualm,
Lunch hour knocks, she rushes to the kitchen and cooks,
For the children are about to come from school, they must eat
Eat on time, if not declare this woman a public disgrace
Who can not cook for the community, forget of the children,
Evening comes; she cooks again, her baby still on the back,
The husband complains of the food being not delicious,
Salt was not enough, she did not put in pepper; a stupid woman!
She accepts her mistake and apologizes effusively, or else fire!
She goes to mend the bed for the husband to rest, plus the baby,
She goes out behind the hut to take a bath,
The husband has not yet constructed a bathroom,
For fear that evil neighbours can plant there voodoo
It can **** the husband to forego his wives and cows,
She comes back to her bedroom, when drying herself up,
The husband goes up in libido; he forcefully shoves her to the bed
As the giggles desperately, he jumps on her bust, minus foreplay,
No single kissing, pinching, nor fondling of the breast or even kissing her
On the stunted *******, he penetrates her mechanically, like a block of stone
He introduces himself deep and deeper into her,
Then he releases warm ***** into her, before even she is aroused
He falls asleep like a log of wood, leaving her wide awake on a flame
Flaming ****** desire, burning and torturing her like an abyss.
This rhythm repeats like a circa, on a pattern of regular basis,
She endured and finishes one year without getting pregnant,
The husband gets self-suspicious and irritated, very irked,
As per why the woman on whom his cows were wasted is not receiving
His very powerful seeds, to become pregnant, to carry his son,
He beats her up, ruthless flogging and kicking, kicking her buttocks,
Insulting and lambasting in heavyweight measure, down to ash pit
She apologizes and promises to be pregnant in a fortnight,
To which the man accedes; but…but…but let it be
That you miss to be pregnant, I will chase you away,
I will repossess my cows, I squandered on you
In payment of your pride price; dowry
To marry a reproductively better wife.
(translated into Germany as below)

FRAU OHNE FREIHEIT FUR GEWISSEN

Sie ist erst vor heiraten
Zu ein Holunder im Dorf,
Gerade noch im Alter von vierzehn
Aber danach sie klitoris,
Auf traditionell rituell von Maasai
Wiel afrikanisch mann streng
Heiraten Jungfrau wer  er bescheiden,
Sie begin ihr tag am morgen
Mit verkehr bei tagesanbruch,
Dann sie sprung vor der Bett,
Und direct sie gehen fur besen,
Sie haben ein kinder auf ihr Ruckeseite,
Dann sie gehen draussen au kuhstall
Sie begin melekn die kuh ahnlich der fabric
Dann sie gehen au kuche
Zu Koch Tee fur ihr mann
Wer ist schlafend im der haus
Danach ihr mann haben tee trinken,
Sie gehen draussen fur next kempf
Sie begin wasche kleider
Von ihr mann und die schwiegereitern,
Weil afikanisch frau gehoren zu gemeinschaft
Aber nicht zu individuell mann.
Sie wasche der kleider ohne bendenken,
Dann mittagszeit klopftes
Sie gehen au der kuche zu Koch
Dann ihr mann essen ahnlich schwein,
Abend kommen fur ihr ein pause machen,
Die kinder still auf ihr Ruckseite
Sie jetzt hinstzen die kinder auf Bett,
Wo ihr mann ist still schlafend,
Wann sie beginn ausiehen sich
Ihr  mann auf Bett gehen Libido
Er stossen sie auf der Bett,
Und sprungen auf ihr Buste
Ohne kussen , er eindringen  ihr,
Tief und tief er eindringen ihr
Ahnlich ein klotz von Holz.
Ihr liebe ist ahnlich diese zeiteleute,
Fur diese frau wer haben nicht
Freiheit fur gewissen sosehr sie kempf.

*****Vergnugen******
Little Birds are dining
Warily and well,
Hid in mossy cell:
Hid, I say, by waiters
Gorgeous in their gaiters -
I've a Tale to tell.

Little Birds are feeding
Justices with jam,
Rich in frizzled ham:
Rich, I say, in oysters
Haunting shady cloisters -
That is what I am.

Little Birds are teaching
Tigresses to smile,
Innocent of guile:
Smile, I say, not smirkle -
Mouth a semicircle,
That's the proper style!

Little Birds are sleeping
All among the pins,
Where the loser wins:
Where, I say, he sneezes
When and how he pleases -
So the Tale begins.

Little Birds are writing
Interesting books,
To be read by cooks:
Read, I say, not roasted -
Letterpress, when toasted,
Loses its good looks.

Little Birds are playing
Bagpipes on the shore,
Where the tourists snore:
"Thanks!" they cry. "'Tis thrilling!
Take, oh take this shilling!
Let us have no more!"

Little Birds are bathing
Crocodiles in cream,
Like a happy dream:
Like, but not so lasting -
Crocodiles, when fasting,
Are not all they seem!

Little Birds are choking
Baronets with bun,
Taught to fire a gun:
Taught, I say, to splinter
Salmon in the winter -
Merely for the fun.

Little Birds are hiding
Crimes in carpet-bags,
Blessed by happy stags:
Blessed, I say, though beaten -
Since our friends are eaten
When the memory flags.

Little Birds are tasting
Gratitude and gold,
Pale with sudden cold:
Pale, I say, and wrinkled -
When the bells have tinkled,
And the Tale is told.
Raymond Walker Apr 2012
The Dawn.



The sails hang large,
upon the sundered crew,
His father had not looked
on him with pleasure.
Poseidon’s son, and king,
of the Athenian dream,
he lands upon distant shore
in disrepair and lean.
a mighty voyage undertaken,
to gain iron for Athens might
but tide and storm wracked seas
has built upon this plight.

They land for food,
upon an endless plain
succour wanted, nay required,
lest all have been in vain.
Approach is made
by women strong in might
proud horses they sit and watch
before the sun, a glorious sight.
Amazons he knows of
they are too watched with fear
they are stronger than men he knows and watches as they near

















War queen she sits
upon her horse and awaits
these men that dare to land
But give them sanctuary she states.
her lover and second
looks in awe to the queen
these men given succour by amazons
this never has she seen







Antiope queen of all,
the plains for leagues around
Knows not a men, allows them not
but for trade on holy ground
Eluthera, freedom her name,
her second and lover same
wonders of this tall man, slim waisted,
lean, and asks his name.

Theseus he calls himself,
states his intentions and past
Antiope sits and listens and wonders
the seeds of fate are cast.
Eluthera watches Theseus’  face
and knows there is love there born
Though she believes it not,
from her home by love is Antiope torn
boats repaired and sail set
Theseus sets sail for home.
Antiope returns with him, they marry,
she is never more to roam.












Theseus song.

This woman of the plains, Amazon.
She sits her horse, sweet and proud yet strong.
She protects my honour, though tis' not her due
and speaks with eloquence no savage she.
Never before have I met my equal, in all things, man
or woman.
She is this and more
I can feel love from under her mein
This I know was destined
this even I without peer they say.
this even I understood.
yet here she stands, and walks and runs,
and here love awaits.














Elutheras song.

Here I have lived with the horse
and the sky,
who is god.
My name is freedom
and that is what I have
what can civilisation give us?
that we do not already have
what can walls provide,
that we, do not already know.
God, the sky. The horse, these our walls are.
He speaks well this Athenian, but what is speech
he looks well, but what can he give her.
She has all that there is.
and love she has, love of her sisters,
in her bed, and in our heart,
what can he give her.

Antiope's song.

To her I owe honour,
to him I give love.
what will become of this?
to her I owe love
to him i give honour,
what will become of this?
he is everything
she is everything
the plains are everything
the horse is all
yet I will betray my sisters
I know that now.
I will betray this life
I know that now
he is my equal in all
she in war I betray my people.
for love.































Part2

The tears of Eluthera.

Dripping
Burning
Hating
Loving
She must be returned
Rising
Loving
Lying
Hating
She must be returned
Rising
Rising
RISING
RISING
She must be returned
RISING
She must be returned
To her people
She must be returned
To her horses
Her gods
And me

RISING

She must be returned
They have taken her
She must be returned
She has not left













RISING

She must be returned
For they have taken her
Kidnapped, stolen her
He has taken her
Loved her
***** her
She must be returned
She is ours
She is our queen
She is
My love

RISING

Arise, sisters, arise
And let us take back what is ours
Arise, sisters, arise,
Let Athens quake at our power
Arise sisters arise
We will take back our queen
Arise sisters arise
That the might of Amazonian be seen.

We will raise an army
The greatest ever seen
To Athens and battle
For bloodshed keen
Unite the plains
And march and ride
And no quarter
Given either side.

Masii geti and copperhead
Scyths,Thracians, tower builders and
Copperhead Scyths
Dardanians, and all
The three tribes of ty kyrte ride
For Athens and revenge
To Athens and revenge.











Antiope’s song(2)

I stand here, beside pillars of stone
I watch from the acropolis
And wait
Theseus works with his people
He rules not by might
Of arms
But by deference
He holds his rule
With love
I hold the babe and watch
I can feel fate
Drawing near
I hear the thunder
Of hooves from the plains
And wait
I know he will prevail
This man I love
And wait And so I know
I will wear armour
Again
Before the end.
Before the end    
























Part 3
The battle.

Athens

We waited
We awaited their coming
Rumours formed
Rumours grew
Of a foe so strong
You can hear thunder
In their passing they say

Arm the cooks
Arm the carpenters
Athens will fall
Arm the viniers
Arm the boys
Athens will fall
The plains tribes
United they say
Athens will fall
Impossible I know They hate each other
More than us
They say

Thunder in the distance
And smoke fills the air
The dust of advance
Reaches our lair



Was that the flash of lightning?
Or glint of sun on a spear
Amazed we stand and watch
As they draw near
The lion of Athens will
Hunt now from its lair
To contend with the
War-horses baleful stare











One hundred and fifty thousand you say
One hundred and fifty thousand
One hundred and fifty thousand
Against 20 starts this day.

We arm the cooks
The carpenters,
the old men
And small boys Barely out of swaddling
Not yet finished
With their toys

We surge and struggle in the press
And surge again
Shields locked
And helms down

We surge and struggle, and they gain
And surge again
And retreat
And die
And die

Our own archers and artillery
They fire on us now
There’s no escape
There’s no escape
But forward to the press
To surge and struggle
Forward to press
Back to die
Forward to death and back
And we die
We die
We surge and struggle
Ever backwards
Ever backwards
We surge and struggle and we die
And we die










We surge and struggle
And widows are born
We surge and struggle
Like children forlorn
Ever backwards
Ever backwards
And we die
And we die

The toll is paid

We surge and struggle
But Athens will fall
Now wounded all
And dying
We surge and struggle
But hope has fled
Ever backwards
And to death

The advance of ty kyrte

We hold the field
But at great cost
We hold the field
Many horses lost

We are at the gates
But with great cost
We hold the town,
Many sisters lost

One more push sisters
One more charge
We are at the gates
Athens is lost









Back we were pushed
And back we fled
Through the town
The city streets
And fortress
Back we were pushed and back we fled




With shout and moan
Curse and groan
Clash of shield
We did yield
Every yard
With scream and yell
Fay and fell
Warriors now
We did yield
Every yard
































For every step
They paid
Like us
In blood
For every inch
They died
Like us
In mud






Horses skittered
Legs and bones broken
For every step and token
Move, every surge
And repulse
Until we stopped
Until we stopped
We could not see
We could not tell
But there was no
Where else to go
We stopped






















PART 4
The end

No where else to go,
No further back to fall
No retreat
No quarter
We stood
The battered
The bruised
The wounded and dying
We stood
For there was no choice










A commotion to the left
A horse rides out
On it rides death
And beauty
On it rides hell
And hope
On it rides Antiope
Armoured, and armed
Dressed
For death


Heroes she slew
Theseus behind her
Glauke, grey eyes
Queen was first
We advanced and slew









Kings she killed
Theseus behind her
Saduces of Thrace
Fell there, as his son
We advanced and killed.

How many heroes fell?
To her axe and bow
To many here to tell
Whispered word
Silence fell.
As Eluthera took the field
The fighting stopped
And silence grew
The battle decided here

The fate of Athens on the scales









Antiope rode for higher ground
Eluthera the lower
Antiope charged and threw
Javelin with all her power
Three times they charged
Three times they threw
And both wounded waited
A final charge, for death
They knew, the outcome fated.

There Antiope fell
By her lovers hand
Unarmed
And seeking death








Eluthera sat atop
Her steed and keened
Victor
With victory lost

Theseus faced her now
On foot and sword drawn
Deplete
And cursing fate





Theseus king no more
But husband bereft only
Maddened
Down  on her bore
There Eluthera fell.
































Twenty Years have past
fleeting,
Twenty, tears been shed
Weeping,
Twenty, lives lost,
mourning,
twenty hopes, die
burning,

The people, return,
Zeus smiles
rich in livestock
and strength.

Twenty years ago
the titans clashed.
Twenty years ago
the winds of fate lashed.
Twenty years ago
lovers died.
Twenty years ago
The Scyths lied.

Theseus, in memory,
plans sacrifice,
for his lost love,
once his wife.






Antiopes shrine
is sundered as Poseidon
shivers,
earthshaker.













And on the plains
the battle rages,
deplete,
bereft,
Eluthera, whole again,
freedom once more,
leads,
the charge,
the last charge,
of the Amazon
against the Scyths.


The End
I am kind of sorry for adding this for i wrote it years ago and well you can see for yourself it needs some work, but i do likle the idea of the classical poem
Nigel Morgan Oct 2012
I'm imagining it's Christmas Day. There's snow of course. Wet boots in the hall. We've walked up on the hill and looked across to Wales illuminated in a brief yet vivid sunset. A parliament of crows gathered by Dafyns to honour the day. All the while we made secret love with our fingers through black knitted gloves.
 
But just two days before Advent begins I stand in my kitchen cutting up the fruit for our soon to be made cake, a cake we'll bake together. This is such joy I tremble a little that it can and is so.
 
I run through the recipe mentally checking what I know to be here. I love this bringing together of ingredients I know to be in my cupboard, this ’ having things to hand’. So comforting. Cranberries, figs, whole hazelnuts, ground almonds; they are all here waiting in the dark of my store cupboard. I long now to bring them into the open and together in my fingers, touch their particular textures and then mix and bind and stir.
 
He's zesting a lemon and an orange, a gentle presence in my kitchen, keeping a respectful distance. He regards cooking as gift-giving. He says each meal he cooks is his little gift to me, made with love. I know this to be true.
 
He talks about writing an Advent letter to an Austrian friend. This lady, who I once met at an opening, celebrates the Feast of Advent with a party. She bakes the traditional sweet breads and cakes, has made a wreath for her table and placed the candles that mark the journey of Advent into Christmas. Four red, one white. After tea she will sing her childhood folk songs and those indigestible Lutheran hymns to the accompaniment of her zither.
 
He is I know reflecting on this period of preparation for the birth of the Eternal Christ. He talks of 'being away' at this time when the university term ended weeks before Christmas and he would walk the empty beach at Porth Colman where this summer he swam naked in the sea whilst I drew wild pictures with charcoal from a recent fire, and he told me my eyes were so very beautiful, and that he loved me with all his heart.
 
And I stand in my kitchen with my ‘soon to be baked’ Christmas Cake. I am imagining now the fireside, my cup of Jasmine tea, the knife in my hand firmly breaking into icing and almond paste, into the dark womb of our fruit filled cake bringing into the soft firelight of my sitting room a texture into which together we stirred our wishes for the future, and will soon taste the possibility of it all.
Specs Apr 2018
Seven cooks in the kitchen, making spaghetti,
Each one hurrying and rushing to ready.
My *** of bolognese, succulent, simmering,
Sits on the front right burner, heat shimmering.

One chef diligently tossing a salad,
Another one turns on a calm Italian ballad.
"Help!" Cries a cook as she comes running in.
"My Alfredo sauce won't work! It's much too thin!"

"Not to worry, my friend," I console the bereft.
"My burner is hot, take my place." I move left.
Things are a bit more crowded with her,
But I happily give my sauce a good stir.

Things are running more smoothly now,
'Til another chef bursts in (also having a cow).
"The spaghetti is cooking, but keeps boiling out!"
I think long and hard as the chef starts to pout.

"I'll push my *** back, so you can still see,
"My sauce will be fine for a minute or three."
My time in the kitchen has made me a quick learner,
So I smile as I move bolognese to the back burner.

"Stand and watch through the oven door," I said,
To keep a chef from burning his garlic bread. Another chef needs melted butter in her dessert.
Letting her use the microwave can't hurt.

All these chefs doing their work in a blur
Prevent me from giving my sauce a needed stir.
As minutes pass— five, eight, twelve, sixteen—
I begun to understand what the phrase means.

Although the situation is very fitting,
There's just too many cooks in the kitchen.
I don't want to let the wind out of their sails,
So I take a step back, waiting and biting my nails.

Time to dish up, and all chefs leave the area
And I approach my sauce on the verge of hysteria.
It's now much too thick, the bottom is black.
I've neglected my job while picking up slack.

There's no one to blame, I should've learned
If you move to back burner your dish will be burned.
Other chefs are being praised by our boss,
And I'm in the kitchen with a *** of bad sauce.
Raymond Walker Apr 2012
The Dawn.



The sails hang large,
upon the sundered crew,
His father had not looked
on him with pleasure.
Poseidon’s son, and king,
of the Athenian dream,
he lands upon distant shore
in disrepair and lean.
a mighty voyage undertaken,
to gain iron for Athens might
but tide and storm wracked seas
has built upon this plight.

They land for food,
upon an endless plain
succour wanted, nay required,
lest all have been in vain.
Approach is made
by women strong in might
proud horses they sit and watch
before the sun, a glorious sight.
Amazons he knows of
they are too watched with fear
they are stronger than men he knows and watches as they near

















War queen she sits
upon her horse and awaits
these men that dare to land
But give them sanctuary she states.
her lover and second
looks in awe to the queen
these men given succour by amazons
this never has she seen







Antiope queen of all,
the plains for leagues around
Knows not a men, allows them not
but for trade on holy ground
Eluthera, freedom her name,
her second and lover same
wonders of this tall man, slim waisted,
lean, and asks his name.

Theseus he calls himself,
states his intentions and past
Antiope sits and listens and wonders
the seeds of fate are cast.
Eluthera watches Theseus’  face
and knows there is love there born
Though she believes it not,
from her home by love is Antiope torn
boats repaired and sail set
Theseus sets sail for home.
Antiope returns with him, they marry,
she is never more to roam.












Theseus song.

This woman of the plains, Amazon.
She sits her horse, sweet and proud yet strong.
She protects my honour, though tis' not her due
and speaks with eloquence no savage she.
Never before have I met my equal, in all things, man
or woman.
She is this and more
I can feel love from under her mein
This I know was destined
this even I without peer they say.
this even I understood.
yet here she stands, and walks and runs,
and here love awaits.














Elutheras song.

Here I have lived with the horse
and the sky,
who is god.
My name is freedom
and that is what I have
what can civilisation give us?
that we do not already have
what can walls provide,
that we, do not already know.
God, the sky. The horse, these our walls are.
He speaks well this Athenian, but what is speech
he looks well, but what can he give her.
She has all that there is.
and love she has, love of her sisters,
in her bed, and in our heart,
what can he give her.

Antiope's song.

To her I owe honour,
to him I give love.
what will become of this?
to her I owe love
to him i give honour,
what will become of this?
he is everything
she is everything
the plains are everything
the horse is all
yet I will betray my sisters
I know that now.
I will betray this life
I know that now
he is my equal in all
she in war I betray my people.
for love.































Part2

The tears of Eluthera.

Dripping
Burning
Hating
Loving
She must be returned
Rising
Loving
Lying
Hating
She must be returned
Rising
Rising
RISING
RISING
She must be returned
RISING
She must be returned
To her people
She must be returned
To her horses
Her gods
And me

RISING

She must be returned
They have taken her
She must be returned
She has not left













RISING

She must be returned
For they have taken her
Kidnapped, stolen her
He has taken her
Loved her
***** her
She must be returned
She is ours
She is our queen
She is
My love

RISING

Arise, sisters, arise
And let us take back what is ours
Arise, sisters, arise,
Let Athens quake at our power
Arise sisters arise
We will take back our queen
Arise sisters arise
That the might of Amazonian be seen.

We will raise an army
The greatest ever seen
To Athens and battle
For bloodshed keen
Unite the plains
And march and ride
And no quarter
Given either side.

Masii geti and copperhead
Scyths,Thracians, tower builders and
Copperhead Scyths
Dardanians, and all
The three tribes of ty kyrte ride
For Athens and revenge
To Athens and revenge.











Antiope’s song(2)

I stand here, beside pillars of stone
I watch from the acropolis
And wait
Theseus works with his people
He rules not by might
Of arms
But by deference
He holds his rule
With love
I hold the babe and watch
I can feel fate
Drawing near
I hear the thunder
Of hooves from the plains
And wait
I know he will prevail
This man I love
And wait And so I know
I will wear armour
Again
Before the end.
Before the end    
























Part 3
The battle.

Athens

We waited
We awaited their coming
Rumours formed
Rumours grew
Of a foe so strong
You can hear thunder
In their passing they say

Arm the cooks
Arm the carpenters
Athens will fall
Arm the viniers
Arm the boys
Athens will fall
The plains tribes
United they say
Athens will fall
Impossible I know They hate each other
More than us
They say

Thunder in the distance
And smoke fills the air
The dust of advance
Reaches our lair



Was that the flash of lightning?
Or glint of sun on a spear
Amazed we stand and watch
As they draw near
The lion of Athens will
Hunt now from its lair
To contend with the
War-horses baleful stare











One hundred and fifty thousand you say
One hundred and fifty thousand
One hundred and fifty thousand
Against 20 starts this day.

We arm the cooks
The carpenters,
the old men
And small boys Barely out of swaddling
Not yet finished
With their toys

We surge and struggle in the press
And surge again
Shields locked
And helms down

We surge and struggle, and they gain
And surge again
And retreat
And die
And die

Our own archers and artillery
They fire on us now
There’s no escape
There’s no escape
But forward to the press
To surge and struggle
Forward to press
Back to die
Forward to death and back
And we die
We die
We surge and struggle
Ever backwards
Ever backwards
We surge and struggle and we die
And we die










We surge and struggle
And widows are born
We surge and struggle
Like children forlorn
Ever backwards
Ever backwards
And we die
And we die

The toll is paid

We surge and struggle
But Athens will fall
Now wounded all
And dying
We surge and struggle
But hope has fled
Ever backwards
And to death

The advance of ty kyrte

We hold the field
But at great cost
We hold the field
Many horses lost

We are at the gates
But with great cost
We hold the town,
Many sisters lost

One more push sisters
One more charge
We are at the gates
Athens is lost









Back we were pushed
And back we fled
Through the town
The city streets
And fortress
Back we were pushed and back we fled




With shout and moan
Curse and groan
Clash of shield
We did yield
Every yard
With scream and yell
Fay and fell
Warriors now
We did yield
Every yard
































For every step
They paid
Like us
In blood
For every inch
They died
Like us
In mud






Horses skittered
Legs and bones broken
For every step and token
Move, every surge
And repulse
Until we stopped
Until we stopped
We could not see
We could not tell
But there was no
Where else to go
We stopped






















PART 4
The end

No where else to go,
No further back to fall
No retreat
No quarter
We stood
The battered
The bruised
The wounded and dying
We stood
For there was no choice










A commotion to the left
A horse rides out
On it rides death
And beauty
On it rides hell
And hope
On it rides Antiope
Armoured, and armed
Dressed
For death


Heroes she slew
Theseus behind her
Glauke, grey eyes
Queen was first
We advanced and slew









Kings she killed
Theseus behind her
Saduces of Thrace
Fell there, as his son
We advanced and killed.

How many heroes fell?
To her axe and bow
To many here to tell
Whispered word
Silence fell.
As Eluthera took the field
The fighting stopped
And silence grew
The battle decided here

The fate of Athens on the scales









Antiope rode for higher ground
Eluthera the lower
Antiope charged and threw
Javelin with all her power
Three times they charged
Three times they threw
And both wounded waited
A final charge, for death
They knew, the outcome fated.

There Antiope fell
By her lovers hand
Unarmed
And seeking death








Eluthera sat atop
Her steed and keened
Victor
With victory lost

Theseus faced her now
On foot and sword drawn
Deplete
And cursing fate





Theseus king no more
But husband bereft only
Maddened
Down  on her bore
There Eluthera fell.
































Twenty Years have past
fleeting,
Twenty, tears been shed
Weeping,
Twenty, lives lost,
mourning,
twenty hopes, die
burning,

The people, return,
Zeus smiles
rich in livestock
and strength.

Twenty years ago
the titans clashed.
Twenty years ago
the winds of fate lashed.
Twenty years ago
lovers died.
Twenty years ago
The Scyths lied.

Theseus, in memory,
plans sacrifice,
for his lost love,
once his wife.






Antiopes shrine
is sundered as Poseidon
shivers,
earthshaker.













And on the plains
the battle rages,
deplete,
bereft,
Eluthera, whole again,
freedom once more,
leads,
the charge,
the last charge,
of the Amazon
against the Scyths.


The End
I am kind of sorry for adding this for i wrote it years ago and well you can see for yourself it needs some work, but i do likle the idea of the classical poem
Zainab Attari Apr 2014
Breathe here, stare there
Gorgeous people everywhere
Mind chases, heart races
Breath-taking men with briefcases

Black suits and coloured ties
Witty minds with pretty eyes
Pulled up socks, polished shoes
Ink pens, all blues          

Strong souls, real men
Captive in a cemented den
Pick one or pick seven
All good as heaven

Hard working, on time
Romantic talks with wine
One sings the other cooks
Charming words, ***** looks


Unexpected, unsure
My boss makes me lure
His Lamborghini, his yacht
Finest of the lot

His dimples, his hair
His tantrums I can bear
Surprise gifts from his side
Strong feelings, stronger vibe

Look here, look there
Gorgeous men everywhere
Single girls form a line
Take them all, boss is mine.

-Zainab Attari
Inspired by Beauty & the Briefcase (Movie)
As a uniform, he always wore
the grey ironmonger's coat
immaculately pressed and bore
clipped hair neat as well as a
close shave.

Mr. Cornthwaite (all of us
minions called him only Mr.)
was no "Do It 'Cos I Say So" boss
but with patience would teach
and preach retail folklore:

Cooks' staples stored well inside
our mini-market shop advanced
for its 50s' existence; shelf-stacking
to re-arrange for early use-by at the
front; fast-moving lines checked
hourly if not sooner; trusted staff
becoming the Tasting Squad for
new fresh produce being considered
for supply - The Cornflake (never
uttered in his hearing) circulating
to ensure not only that his ever-clear
commands were reflected in full shelves
but also that staff were coping not
rushed or overwhelmed.

The best Warrant Officer cares
just as much commands as
my de-mobbed Warrant Officer
father used to tell me when I asked.

(c) C J Heyworth
Two pieces of advice I received when much younger have had a huge influence on how I have lived:
Dad's observation that forming people into a team is just as much about care for them as it is about command, and my grammar school headmaster's certainty that our education in his school was intended to turn us into NCOs who actually make the world work satisfactorily.

Stanley Cornthwaite was shop manager of Booth's 1950s' Blackpool mini-market which stretched from the Promenade back to The Strand, and sold far more varieties of the groceries, meats, breads and cakes than many of its competitors.  
Working there during several school holidays when I was a very impressionable 13/14 year-old was my first significant work experience, showed me that I would not go into retail, but was very pleasant and informative for most of the time.
I'm unsurprised that Booth's has grown and grown, and now has several high-quality, medium-size mini-markets across the North West.  It is not at all a Pile'em High & Sell'em Cheap company.
Michael Benton Aug 2010
Life’s about the adjectives,
it’s how we know the world.
Nouns, you see, are only names,
with adjectives - life is knurled.

Think about the apple,
just fruit upon the tree,
red ripe skin with tasty pulp,
better lets us see.

Providing us the texture,
of color if you will,
ADJ allows us space,
to give our lines the fill.

Life’s about the adjectives,
spice for the written line,
Verbs, you see, are motion,
and index things like time.  

Think about the race car,
going around the lane,
zipping fast with lightning speed,
better feeds the brain.  

Providing us the feeling,
of nature if you will,
ADJ gives the taste,
to writings we distill.  

Verbs contain the action,
and nouns have the heart,
adjectives add the flavor,
for cooks of written art.  

Life’s about the adjectives,
how else could it be,
that words paint the pigments,
in poems for us to see?
Copyright © 2007 MH Benton
Lyn-Purcell Sep 2018
EᔕᔕᕼI
~ ⚪♫⚪ ~
The kitchen's air is redolent with spices,
peppers and cinnamon, all-spice and star
anise, thyme and curry. The cooks are
shouting orders; taking rose-silver pots
and copper pans; each having the print
of the Lily of Aurelinaea; from the wooden
shelves, plates and bowls from the cup-
boards; some are stirring soups over
coal-fire stoves; others are dicing carrots,
potatoes, fresh poultry and more.

~ ⚪♫⚪ ~
Esshi, in a light-green off-the-shoulder
dress of rose-silk with a triple ruffle trim,
lined with yellow ribbon, a thigh high slit and
white lilies beadery, is speaking to the head-chef
who nods. "Certainly, Lady Esshi." he says
and turns to his busy staff. "Bring out
the paella pans! We have orders for the
Queen Mother!"
"Yes, chef!" a woman says as she pulls
out a rose-silver paella pan and places
it on the stove. The head-chef turns to
Esshi. "You need not worry, Lady Esshi,"
he smiles. "I will make the dishes with
care."

~ ⚪♫⚪ ~
"You always do, Bael," Esshi chuckles as
he washes his hands and she walks to
the corner, sighing. 'My Lady...'
she thinks worried.
"Lady Esshi?" her thoughts are broken
by a woman's voice. She turns to see a  
florist behind her. 'So lost in thought,
that I did not hear the door open.'

She thinks as her eyes fall on the flower
vase.

~ ⚪♫⚪ ~
The vase is art noveau style; a deep emerald
green with a maiden in flowing silks, her
hair bejewelled with lilies. Esshi's eyes then
rise to look at the flower arrangement - white
lilies with lilac kisses, purple roses and
several stems of lavender.
"Lady Ainhara said I should bring this to you."
"It's lovely," Esshi sniffs the fresh flowers.
"Very beautiful! You certainly outdid yourself.
It's for our young Queen, I take it?"
"Yes. And Lady Ainhara said I should bring
you this also."
She sees her place some paper, quill and ink down
and Esshi smiles.
Hard to believe that this is my 800th poem! ^^
Wow!
Anyway, enjoy part 4! ^^
Lyn ***
Tommy Johnson Apr 2014
Winnie the Pooh is trying to think
As are Plato and Socrates
While The Little Rascals get rambunctious
And The Marx Brothers cause calamities
Jim Jones stirs the Kool-Aid
And Georgie Porgie makes his move
Bo Peep and Miss Muffett start to blush
Red Ridding hood just swoons
The Muffin Man does a deal
With Johnny Apple seed
These beings and people our real
In our Surreal Reality

******* lets the paint splatter
And Moses parts the sea
Belushi buys an eight-ball
Bruce is on trial for obscenity
Rorschach is on the case
Right behind Sherlock Holmes
John the baptist goes for a swim
Along with Brian Jones
Jack and Jill meet Hansel and Gretel
They're hungry, they're thirsty
These figments of imagination do exist
In our Surreal Reality

Rasputin was so evil
As bad as Captain Hook
Now was it ** Chi Minh or Nixon
Who said "I am not a crook?"
Mao Zedong looked at Stalin
With a shared murderous grin
Booth stormed the Ford theater
And shot President Lincoln
Kennedy and King we're both casualties
Of the process of the deciphering
Of our Surreal  Reality

Zeus said to Aphrodite
"Wow, you look real good tonight"
And Handel says "Hallelujah!"
As the Wright Brothers take flight
Baby Face Nelson
Teams up with Dillinger
Moe, Larry and Curly
Mengele, Mussolini and Adolf ******
Three bears, three little pigs
Along with three blind mice
Sit together, while Maurice Sendack
Cooks them chicken soup with rice
Charlie Bucket had a buy out
Wonka gave up his factory
Fiction or nonfiction it's all a apart
Of our Surreal Reality

Chicken Little tried his best
To warm The Little Red Hen
Of the sly trickster
They call Rumpelstiltskin
Rimbaud applauds Leonidas
And his 300's final stand
Da vinci  paved the way
For both Newton and Edison
Folklore and war heroes
And those with intellectual mentality
Are all just pieces
Of our Surreal Reality

Wee Willie Winkie's scream
Wakes up Rip Van Winkle
But not Sleeping Beauty who's been asleep for thirty years
But has no acquired a single wrinkle
Caligula has lost his mind
And Nero's lost his fiddle
What does Beethoven's hearing aid
Have to do the March Hare's riddle?
Abbie Hoffman fights for civil rights
Thomas Jefferson for democracy
Products of the conceptual
In our Surreal Reality

Berryman writes an ode
To Washington's wooden teeth
Manson speaks of Helter Skelter
Neruda damns the fruit company
Charles Schultz frames the story
And Seuss gives it rhyme
Some where far, far away
Taking place once upon a time
And the villagers all had omelettes
Thanks to clumsy Humpty Dumpty
It's all food for thought
In our Surreal Reality

Santa brings us presents
And Cupid bring us love
But we can never get back
The members of the 27 Club
Warhol makes his movies
And Buddha meditates
Joseph Smith reads the golden plates
Mohammed and Jesus save
Theses figures bring people hope
In life's dualities
Trusting faith
And our Surreal Reality


Han Solo is in carbon freeze
Don Juan's preoccupied
Sinbad sets his sails
Simple Simon didn't get his pie
Caesar looked at Brutus
Brutus looked at Saddam Hussein
Hussein looked at L. Ron Hubbard
Who prayed to Eloheim  
Dionysus can out drink us all
We cringe at Achilles fatality  
As Ra soars through the skies
Of our Surreal Reality

Aristotle says to Shakespeare
"Well Billy you old bard"
Frodo trades the ring of power
To Fidel Castro for a Babe Ruth Baseball card
Biggie and Tupac write their lyrics on paper
Ted Bundy is put in jail
They're making another skyscraper
For King Kong to scale
Hemingway is too far gone
Kant's take on morality
Einstein says it's all relative
In our Surreal Reality

Churchill said victory
John Lennon said peace
Judas gave back the silver
Then hung himself in a tree
Tojo and Kim Jong-il
Wanna be as cool as Brando and Dean
George Carlin warned us all
Now Hermes leaves the scene
So do the butcher, the baker and the candle stick maker
Followed by Old King Cole and his Fiddlers Three
As they make their way to find
A sense or Surreal Reality

Odysseus pines for Ithaca
Paul Bunyan chops the trees
The Jersey Devil has not been found
Noah herds the animals by twos not threes
Anubis wraps the mummies
And Augustus leads Rome
Bugs Bunny laughs with Pryor
All at the expense of Job
So what can we all make of this
Is this all actuality?
Symbolism or nonsense?
Realistic Surrealism or Surreal Realty?
Raymond Walker Apr 2012
The Dawn.



The sails hang large,
upon the sundered crew,
His father had not looked
on him with pleasure.
Poseidon’s son, and king,
of the Athenian dream,
he lands upon distant shore
in disrepair and lean.
a mighty voyage undertaken,
to gain iron for Athens might
but tide and storm wracked seas
has built upon this plight.

They land for food,
upon an endless plain
succour wanted, nay required,
lest all have been in vain.
Approach is made
by women strong in might
proud horses they sit and watch
before the sun, a glorious sight.
Amazons he knows of
they are too watched with fear
they are stronger than men he knows and watches as they near

















War queen she sits
upon her horse and awaits
these men that dare to land
But give them sanctuary she states.
her lover and second
looks in awe to the queen
these men given succour by amazons
this never has she seen







Antiope queen of all,
the plains for leagues around
Knows not a men, allows them not
but for trade on holy ground
Eluthera, freedom her name,
her second and lover same
wonders of this tall man, slim waisted,
lean, and asks his name.

Theseus he calls himself,
states his intentions and past
Antiope sits and listens and wonders
the seeds of fate are cast.
Eluthera watches Theseus’  face
and knows there is love there born
Though she believes it not,
from her home by love is Antiope torn
boats repaired and sail set
Theseus sets sail for home.
Antiope returns with him, they marry,
she is never more to roam.












Theseus song.

This woman of the plains, Amazon.
She sits her horse, sweet and proud yet strong.
She protects my honour, though tis' not her due
and speaks with eloquence no savage she.
Never before have I met my equal, in all things, man
or woman.
She is this and more
I can feel love from under her mein
This I know was destined
this even I without peer they say.
this even I understood.
yet here she stands, and walks and runs,
and here love awaits.














Elutheras song.

Here I have lived with the horse
and the sky,
who is god.
My name is freedom
and that is what I have
what can civilisation give us?
that we do not already have
what can walls provide,
that we, do not already know.
God, the sky. The horse, these our walls are.
He speaks well this Athenian, but what is speech
he looks well, but what can he give her.
She has all that there is.
and love she has, love of her sisters,
in her bed, and in our heart,
what can he give her.

Antiope's song.

To her I owe honour,
to him I give love.
what will become of this?
to her I owe love
to him i give honour,
what will become of this?
he is everything
she is everything
the plains are everything
the horse is all
yet I will betray my sisters
I know that now.
I will betray this life
I know that now
he is my equal in all
she in war I betray my people.
for love.































Part2

The tears of Eluthera.

Dripping
Burning
Hating
Loving
She must be returned
Rising
Loving
Lying
Hating
She must be returned
Rising
Rising
RISING
RISING
She must be returned
RISING
She must be returned
To her people
She must be returned
To her horses
Her gods
And me

RISING

She must be returned
They have taken her
She must be returned
She has not left













RISING

She must be returned
For they have taken her
Kidnapped, stolen her
He has taken her
Loved her
***** her
She must be returned
She is ours
She is our queen
She is
My love

RISING

Arise, sisters, arise
And let us take back what is ours
Arise, sisters, arise,
Let Athens quake at our power
Arise sisters arise
We will take back our queen
Arise sisters arise
That the might of Amazonian be seen.

We will raise an army
The greatest ever seen
To Athens and battle
For bloodshed keen
Unite the plains
And march and ride
And no quarter
Given either side.

Masii geti and copperhead
Scyths,Thracians, tower builders and
Copperhead Scyths
Dardanians, and all
The three tribes of ty kyrte ride
For Athens and revenge
To Athens and revenge.











Antiope’s song(2)

I stand here, beside pillars of stone
I watch from the acropolis
And wait
Theseus works with his people
He rules not by might
Of arms
But by deference
He holds his rule
With love
I hold the babe and watch
I can feel fate
Drawing near
I hear the thunder
Of hooves from the plains
And wait
I know he will prevail
This man I love
And wait And so I know
I will wear armour
Again
Before the end.
Before the end    
























Part 3
The battle.

Athens

We waited
We awaited their coming
Rumours formed
Rumours grew
Of a foe so strong
You can hear thunder
In their passing they say

Arm the cooks
Arm the carpenters
Athens will fall
Arm the viniers
Arm the boys
Athens will fall
The plains tribes
United they say
Athens will fall
Impossible I know They hate each other
More than us
They say

Thunder in the distance
And smoke fills the air
The dust of advance
Reaches our lair



Was that the flash of lightning?
Or glint of sun on a spear
Amazed we stand and watch
As they draw near
The lion of Athens will
Hunt now from its lair
To contend with the
War-horses baleful stare











One hundred and fifty thousand you say
One hundred and fifty thousand
One hundred and fifty thousand
Against 20 starts this day.

We arm the cooks
The carpenters,
the old men
And small boys Barely out of swaddling
Not yet finished
With their toys

We surge and struggle in the press
And surge again
Shields locked
And helms down

We surge and struggle, and they gain
And surge again
And retreat
And die
And die

Our own archers and artillery
They fire on us now
There’s no escape
There’s no escape
But forward to the press
To surge and struggle
Forward to press
Back to die
Forward to death and back
And we die
We die
We surge and struggle
Ever backwards
Ever backwards
We surge and struggle and we die
And we die










We surge and struggle
And widows are born
We surge and struggle
Like children forlorn
Ever backwards
Ever backwards
And we die
And we die

The toll is paid

We surge and struggle
But Athens will fall
Now wounded all
And dying
We surge and struggle
But hope has fled
Ever backwards
And to death

The advance of ty kyrte

We hold the field
But at great cost
We hold the field
Many horses lost

We are at the gates
But with great cost
We hold the town,
Many sisters lost

One more push sisters
One more charge
We are at the gates
Athens is lost









Back we were pushed
And back we fled
Through the town
The city streets
And fortress
Back we were pushed and back we fled




With shout and moan
Curse and groan
Clash of shield
We did yield
Every yard
With scream and yell
Fay and fell
Warriors now
We did yield
Every yard
































For every step
They paid
Like us
In blood
For every inch
They died
Like us
In mud






Horses skittered
Legs and bones broken
For every step and token
Move, every surge
And repulse
Until we stopped
Until we stopped
We could not see
We could not tell
But there was no
Where else to go
We stopped






















PART 4
The end

No where else to go,
No further back to fall
No retreat
No quarter
We stood
The battered
The bruised
The wounded and dying
We stood
For there was no choice










A commotion to the left
A horse rides out
On it rides death
And beauty
On it rides hell
And hope
On it rides Antiope
Armoured, and armed
Dressed
For death


Heroes she slew
Theseus behind her
Glauke, grey eyes
Queen was first
We advanced and slew









Kings she killed
Theseus behind her
Saduces of Thrace
Fell there, as his son
We advanced and killed.

How many heroes fell?
To her axe and bow
To many here to tell
Whispered word
Silence fell.
As Eluthera took the field
The fighting stopped
And silence grew
The battle decided here

The fate of Athens on the scales









Antiope rode for higher ground
Eluthera the lower
Antiope charged and threw
Javelin with all her power
Three times they charged
Three times they threw
And both wounded waited
A final charge, for death
They knew, the outcome fated.

There Antiope fell
By her lovers hand
Unarmed
And seeking death








Eluthera sat atop
Her steed and keened
Victor
With victory lost

Theseus faced her now
On foot and sword drawn
Deplete
And cursing fate





Theseus king no more
But husband bereft only
Maddened
Down  on her bore
There Eluthera fell.
































Twenty Years have past
fleeting,
Twenty, tears been shed
Weeping,
Twenty, lives lost,
mourning,
twenty hopes, die
burning,

The people, return,
Zeus smiles
rich in livestock
and strength.

Twenty years ago
the titans clashed.
Twenty years ago
the winds of fate lashed.
Twenty years ago
lovers died.
Twenty years ago
The Scyths lied.

Theseus, in memory,
plans sacrifice,
for his lost love,
once his wife.






Antiopes shrine
is sundered as Poseidon
shivers,
earthshaker.













And on the plains
the battle rages,
deplete,
bereft,
Eluthera, whole again,
freedom once more,
leads,
the charge,
the last charge,
of the Amazon
against the Scyths.


The End
I am kind of sorry for adding this for i wrote it years ago and well you can see for yourself it needs some work, but i do likle the idea of the classical poem
The lion had just lost his dear wife,
Madam lioness a couple of years ago,
She was in the prime of her life,
When she succumbed to deathly udder cancer,
Mr. Lion grieved with all energy of the bereaved beast
To make it worse, he was also terminally ill
Of the vicious lung cancer, boring his windpipes,
That when he respired sweet music came out,
Like classical xylophones of eyeless Mehrun Yurin,

His sons were away commanding respective territories
Each son a territory in the order of traditional monarchy,
No one was to cook for the sick lion, don’t mention washing,
Hence the sons hired the squirrel alias madam Caroline,
She cooked as she did all other chores in the palace,
She was good in a concocting a matchless soup
From white mushrooms and cured goat’s meet,

As Caroline cooked she also sampled by tasting for her perfection
This little by little tasting made her to increase the strength,
Her skin became smooth, her buttocks swell
Her tail became shorter and steady, but very clean,
Her skin very oily and comely, exuding no evil smell,
Her walking style purged to majestic fashion
Even the type of songs she sang
Were not peasant spirituals,
Mr. Hyena wondered and wondered;
Is the squirrel pregnant?

Only to discover she was not,
But she has a new job;
Of cooking for the sick king lion,
Hyena also heard from the public domain
That she often cooks, goat meat and mushrooms,
But the ram tail twice in week; Tuesday and Sunday,
Jealousy and bigotry, malice and prejudice ganged up at once
And gripped the hyena simultaneously,
And swore to himself that come anything;
Spells of sunshine or blizzards of snow,
He must and must; root out the squirrel
From the palace kitchen,

That bright morning he went to the palace,
Singing a Christian song in praise of Lazarus,
Who resurrected from the dead,
He entered the palace still singing,
He commanded every to stand, put off the laurels,
For he wants to pray for the sick,
He made long and noisy circumlocutions of a prayer,
With regular stamping of feet and amen,
Commanding the devil of cancer to leave,
The lungs of the king, the mighty lion.


He said final amen and all sat down
Two sons of the king, the young lions,
Were all in somber moods, their father was sick,

From the kitchen, the squirrel surfaced,
With goats meat on a metallic platter,
He served the sick lion first,
Then each of them present,
On the first taste of food,
Hyena lost control of nerves
His tail jumped out of the white trouser
That he was wearing that day,
He ate voraciously with a crazy appetite,
No such delicious food had ever crossed his way.

He cleared his food first as expected,
Then he kept mum like a stooge,
Only wagging his long tail
His long tongue hanging out
Flagging in avarice like leaves of banana,
When all others stopped eating,
Hyena began in form of a question,
To which the lion’s family listened
Indeed with kingly caution;
Am asking you the king,
Why is Madam Caroline the squirrel,
Eating your food everyday,
And you are dying of a treatable disease,
To which she has the medicine,
Why is she betraying you?
To such a simple death?

All the lions plus the sick one
Jumped to the squirrel with all horror,
For the squirrel to bring the cure
Or the be killed first be the lion dies,
She pleaded for a minute to bring the drug,
Hyena in full gear of happiness
As his friend chews misfortune,

She blamed her small body size to be the  barrier
To bringing the medicine for king lion,
But nonetheless medicine was available,
Lions roared tell us! Where is the medicine?
In a soft voice the squirrel said;
The only cure for this disease of the king,
Is a fresh liver of a male hyena!

The hyena was frozen with surprise,
Like any other foolish bigot,
He begged to leave as his time was over,
No answer came to his request,
Other than abysmal darkness
Of violent death gulfing his body,
King lion drunk Hyena’s blood
In addition to the liver
On the squirrel’s instructions,
The lion became well
And began walking strong,
Out of this joy
King lion  promoted the squirrel
To be a minister of health
In the kings palace.
- Apr 2014
champion* they whisper as he struts down the hallway
head held high
shoulders back, chest pumped out
his two best friends flanking his sides like guard dogs
hero the voices surround him
fawning, falling over their feet
to be the first to praise him
to get a minute to bask in the glow of his attention

but they don't see him when he's alone
******* to the very picture of masculinity
washing his hands in a daze
trying not to cry when he can't sleep at 4 am
thinking thinking thinking

they don't see his parents
not technically fighting nor abusing
but they don't speak to each other
his father sleeps on the couch
his mother cooks a hearty dinner
then eats a salad, no dressing please

they call him a champion
but he isn't all that different
Herbs, garlic,
cheese, please let me in!
Souffles, salad,
Parker House rolls,
please let me in!
Cook Helen,
why are you so cross,
why is your kitchen verboten?
Couldn't you just teach me
to bake a potato,
to bake a potato,
that charm,
that young prince?
No! No!
This is my county!
You shout silently.
Couldn't you just show me
the gravy. How you drill it out
of the stomach of that bird?
Helen, Helen,
let me in,
let me feel the flour,
is it blinding and frightening,
this stuff that makes cakes?
Helen, Helen,
the kitchen is your dog
and you pat it
and love it
and keep it clean.
But all these things,
all these dishes of things
come through the swinging door
and I don't know from where?
Give me some tomato aspic, Helen!
I don't want to be alone.
ZT Feb 2016
Though as innocent as she looks,
                An evil deception she cooks.
Plotted events,
                she disguised as Destiny
Flaunts her perfect body,
                But behind the curtains counts every calorie
A hint of arrogance,
                while saying "I'm just ordinary"
Compliments given
                As a product of her calculating eyes
Thus your ego being fed with her lies

Her hidden smirk,
                 Behind her pretentious worries
Those men, they fell, to her made up stories...
Some girls though they look innocent...  They could hide something you wouldnt want to believe thay have.
Amanda Goodness Jun 2013
When I was eight I got very sick.
I got to eat mac n cheese on the couch,
and drink chocolate chip milkshakes.
Today I felt sick.
So I made some mac n cheese,
and I sat down on the couch.
I wanted the milkshake.
I didn't have any chocolate chip ice cream,
So I made strawberry.
Then I sat at the counter and looked at my mess.
The milk was out,
The ice cream was uncovered and melting
The blender was on its side.
It looked very sad.
Like it was a Roman village I had just conquered.
I killed all the strawberry milkshake children.
They had such bright futures until they drowned
In a puddle of one percent milk.
I discovered I don't like strawberry milkshakes that much.
And now I have a mess in the kitchen,
My car needs gas,
And I smell like cigarettes and self deprivation.
And everything is easier when you're eight and your mother cooks you your special sick person dinner.
Larry McDonough Jan 2013
I am numb
Numb am i
Numb we are all
Numb nuns
Numb nuts
**** nuts
*******
****
****
****
**** my ****
**** my ****
Until it is numb
Crumbs
****
Drum
Hum
Numb
Stuck in gum
Or ***
Or drool, ****, wine and glue
Like me stuck to you
*******
**** me
I’ll watch
And use both hands
To tell the time
A crime
Committed
Omitted from books
Like cooks and crooks
****
Numb
I am numb
None
Nom nom nom
Numb
Succumb to my ***
On a street corner
Begging for change
It can’t stay the same
Someone might notice
Notice Otis?
They’re *******
**** *******
They must be numb
We’re all numb
Numb nuns
With guns
And **** puns
To **** tons
Ones and sons
Under one sun
A numb sun
Like god
God is numb
Dumb founded and *** pounded
Until it is numb
No feeling
No ceiling
Just sky
High
****, smack, *****, and ***
Up my nose
**** my nose
With a hose
Like one ***** hoes
No one knows
They’re all dumb
Numb…
OnlyEggy Nov 2011
A woman is perfect
in her own eye
when the mirror tells her
that the curvy reflection
is no lie

A woman is perfect
in the public eye
when she cooks
and she cleans
and she saves money when she buys

A woman is perfect
in a family’s eye
when she teaches the girls
and she bathes the boys
and her only complaint is an exasperated sigh

A woman is perfect
in a man’s eye
when she celebrates his victories
and manages the bills
and keeps his ego riding high

But a woman is only perfect
in the inside
when her man is at his lowest
and all hell has broken loose
the money’s all gone
and the house they’ll lose
and the children are wearing hand-me-down’s
and worn out shoes
the car’s broken down
and all the unemployment ‘as been used
and yet she still has the strength
to pick up her man
and carry the family on her back
and get them all to stand
with chin’s held high
and still give her man a kiss
and look him in the eye
to tell him the she loves him
and everything will be alright
(AIP)  
Wrote this awhile back. Enjoy :)
n stiles carmona Dec 2018
Momentary
mourning peace.
Mama pours a glass of mulled wine,
lights a scented candle
                               (- "cherries on snow" -)
and drinks to ol' Joan.

Passed down with the jewellery box,
somewhere in the will, the daughters
receive the annual chore of roasting
the turkey (delicious!) and the veggies
(good job!) and (could you pass the?) breadsauce
for their brothers and husbands huddled
            on a threadbare sofa -- and a younger girl,
            barely there, staring at a laptop screen.

Mama's not festive - always too tired -
barely celebrates, but orchestrates.
Years barely there 'cause she's needed in their kitchen
and someone's gotta cook can she please get a hand? and
one chivalrous male puffs out his chest, takes one for the team, gestures to the girl with no discernible attention span and
half-laughs an "ay, one day this'll be you!
Best get in there while you're young!"

                                                       ­   ((A baritone chorus of laughter.))

"You outdid yourself on the turkey."
"S'great, ain't it? Pass the potatoes."

Sometimes here, sometimes Spain.
We stay over. It's tradition: we're
scattered across the country,
maid duties are the least she can do.
Never our kitchen or living room.
Tiny. Messy. Unwelcoming.
Come Boxing Day, Mama gives
a bear hug goodbye and an
"it's good to see you";
Because it is, she thinks.
Thank you for inviting me
to carry out your labour.
I'm just grateful to be needed.

A month of red 'SALE' tapes
scouring the clearance shelves;
overtime for extra cash
scraped to afford the food she cooks you;
paying half for gifts she'd brainstormed
while Dad buys partial credit on the gift tag.
We vanish from your house
- like elves -
by morning.
happy holidays! if you rub your eyes, it semi-looks like a christmas tree.
A L Davies Sep 2011
get up early & open the windows to get that
fresh balcony air from the slow-waking city
whisky claws still in my scalp;
smell of last night's stale smoke inside from the girl sleepin' upstairs
and her after-glow cigarettes down on the couch.

nothin' quite like cooking up
some eggs in a greasy skillet,
-- big hot mug of stiff coffee.
(the way it sits like oil in the stomach)
slouched at the table by the window
in longjohns and
an old familiar shirt (no sleeves/girl playin' baseball)
might go smoke in the rain, talk to the neighbour who
feeds the pigeons ...
then pad upstairs and wake up miss new *****
for a little *joviality.
1280 rue st. marc, apt. 501
Rahul Luthra Dec 2013
Library - It is a world full of books
All are interested, whether they are engineers, peons or cooks
Books of all genre you will find
It never fails to attract one's mind
But please remember the Golden Rule
Please be silent; it isn't a sin
Never be violent or else you'll disgrace your kith and kin
You may even make the librarian your friend
And he/she will provide you with books of the latest trend
Harry Potter, The Godfather and The Da Vinci Code
Not that keen? Well you could always try The Princess and the Toad
Books are for everyone; age doesn't matter
Idiot box or reading? I'd rather choose the latter
Whether you want science or fiction
The Library is a world of addiction
Once you pick up a book you will get glued
You'll shout yourself hoarse if anyone dares to intrude
You'll be reading it in class, the toilet or the bus
And when the teacher confiscates it you'll create a big fuss
Oh, Miss please! Just one more page!
It's the ****** part between the pirate and the sage
We should thank Gutenberg for inventing the press and bestowing upon us this boon
Else we'd all still be stuck watching cartoon!
Nigel Morgan Dec 2012
‘This is a pleasure. A composer in our midst, and you’re seeing Plas Brondanw at its June best.’ Amabel strides across the lawn from house to the table Sally has laid for tea. Tea for three in the almost shade of the vast plain tree, and nearly the height of the house. Look up into its branches. It is convalescing after major surgery, ropes and bindings still in place.
 
Yes, I am certainly seeing this Welsh manor house, the home of the William-Ellis family for four hundred years, on a day of days. The mountains that ring this estate seem to take the sky blue into themselves. They look almost fragile in the heat.
 
‘Nigel, you’re here?’ Clough appears next. He sounds surprised, as though the journey across Snowdonia was trepidatious adventure. ‘Of course you are, and on this glorious day. Glorious, glorious. You’ve walked up from below perhaps? Of course, of course. Did you detour to the ruin? You must. We’ll walk down after tea.’
 
And he flicks the tails of his russet brown frock coat behind him and sits on the marble bench beside Amabel. She is a little frail at 85, but the twinkling eyes hardly leave my face. Clough is checking the garden for birds. A yellowhammer swoops up from the lower garden and is gone. He gestures as though miming its flight. There are curious bird-like calls from the house. Amabel turns house-ward.
 
‘Our parrots,’ she says with a girlish smile.
 
‘Your letter was so sweet you know.’ She continues. ‘Fancy composing a piece about our village. We’ve had a film, that TV series, so many books, and now music. So exciting. And when do we hear this?’
 
I explain that the BBC will be filming and recording next month, but tomorrow David will appear with his double bass, a cameraman and a sound recordist to ‘do’ the cadenzas in some of the more intriguing locations. And he will come here to see how it sounds in the ‘vale’.
 
‘Are we doing luncheon for the BBC men? They are all men I suppose? When we were on Gardeners’ World it was all gals with clipboards and dark glasses, and it was raining for heaven’s sake. They had no idea about the right shoes, except that Alys person who interviewed me and was so lovely about the topiary and the fireman’s room. Now she wore a sensible skirt and the kind of sandals I wear in the garden. Of course we had to go to Mary’s house to see the thing as you know Clough won’t have a television in the house.’
 
‘I loath the sound of it from a distance. There’s nothing worse that hearing disembodied voices and music. Why do they have to put music with everything? I won’t go near a shop if there’s that canned music about.’
 
‘But surely it was TV’s The Prisoner that put the place on the map,’ I venture to suggest.
 
‘Oh yes, yes, but the mess, and all those Japanese descending on us with questions we simply couldn’t answer. I have to this day no i------de-------a-------‘, he stretches this word like a piece of elastic as far as it might go before breaking in two, ‘ simply no I------de------a------ what the whole thing was about.’ He pauses to take a tea cup freshly poured by Amabel. ‘Patrick was a dear though, and stayed with us of course. He loved the light of the place and would get up before dawn to watch the sun rise over the mountains at the back of us.’
 
‘But I digress. Music, music, yes music . . . ‘ Amabel takes his lead
 
‘We’ve had concerts before at P. outside in the formal gardens by AJ’s studio.’ She has placed her hands on her green velvet skirt and leans forward purposefully. ‘He had musicians about all the time and used to play the piano himself vigorously in the early hours of the morning. Showing off to those models that used to appear. I remember walking past his studio early one morning and there he was asleep on the floor with two of them . . .’
 
Clough smiles and laughs, laughs and smiles at a memory from the late 1920s.
 
‘Everyone thought we were completely mad to do the village.’ He leans back against the gentle curve of the balustrade, and closes his eyes for a moment. ‘Completely mad.’
 
It’s cool under the tree, but where the sunlight strays through my hand seems to gather freckles by the minute. I am enjoying the second slice of Mary’s Bara Brith. ‘It’s the marmalade,’ says Amabel, realising my delight in the texture and taste, ‘Clough brought the recipe back from Ceylon and I’ve taught all my cooks to make it. Of course, Mary isn’t a cook, she’s everything. A wonder, but you’ll discover this later at dinner. You are staying? And you’re going to play too?’
 
I’m certainly going to play in the drawing room studio on the third floor. It’s distractingly full of paintings by ‘friends’ – Duncan Grant, Mondrian, Augustus John, Patrick Heron, Winifred Nicholson (she so loved the garden but would bring that awful Raine woman with her). There’s  Clough’s architectural watercolours (now collectors want these things I used to wiz off for clients – stupid prices – just wish I’d kept more behind before giving them to the AA – (The Architectural Association ed.) And so many books, first editions everywhere. Photographs of Amabel’s flying saucer investigations occupy a shelf along with her many books on fairy tales and four novels, a batch of biographies and pictures of the two girls Susan and Charlotte as teenagers. Susan’s pottery features prominently. There’s a Panda skin from Luchan under the piano.
 
These two eighty somethings have been working since 8.0am. ‘We don’t bother with lunch.’ Amabel is reviewing the latest Ursula le Guin. ‘I stayed with her in Oregon last May. A lovely little house by the sea. Such a darling, and what a gardener! She creates all the ideas for her books in her garden. I so wish I could, but there’s just too much to distract me. Gardening is a serious business because although Jane comes over from Corrieg and says no to this and no to that and I have to stand my corner,  I have to concentrate and go to my books. Did you know the RHS voted this one of the ten most significant gardens in the UK? But look, there’s no one here today except you!’
 
No one but me. And tea is over. ‘A little rest before your endeavours perhaps,’ says Clough, probably anxious to get back to letter to Kenzo Piano.
 
‘Now let’s go and say hello to the fireman,’ says Amabel who takes my arm. And so we walk through the topiary to her favourite ‘room’,  a water feature with the fireman on his column (mid pond). ‘In memory of the great fire, ‘ she says. ‘He keeps a keen eye on the building now.’ He is a two-foot cherub with a hose and wearing a fireman’s helmet.
 
The pond reflects the column and the fireman looks down on us as we gaze into the pool. ‘Health, ‘ she says, ‘We keep a keen eye on it.’
 
The parrots are singing wildly. I didn’t realise they sang. I thought they squawked.
 
‘Will they sing when I play?’ I ask.
 
‘Undoubtedly,’ Amabel says with her girlish smile and squeezes my arm.
This is a piece of fantasy. Clough and Amabel Williams-Ellis created the Italianate village of Portmeirion in North Wales. I visited their beautiful home and garden ten miles away at Brondanw in Snowdonia and found myself imagining this story. Such is the power of place to sometimes conjure up those who make it so.
Mateuš Conrad Jan 2020
.i left an excess of a B somewhere in here... within the confines of a word giblet... i probably thought: bigger... bouncier... gibblet looked better... and so very far removed from goblet... i'm not going to look for it.

i haven't done much today -
and i don't suppose i will finish this day of
with some grand poo'em...
but one can almost be proud
to have perfected a chicken breast roulade...
the rest of the chicken missing
the butterfly? well... bound to a very
decent soup... clear and not atypical
western cream-soup...
but the roulade! the roulade!
no... you don't beat the butterfly *******
like you might turn to: "sadistically"
for a schnitzel...
you do beat the meat,
but you more or less... press down the mallet
onto the meat, until you reach
the right equilibrium of pressure and
there's that squish-sound / feel of the *******
expanding...

if it was a whole roast chicken:
of course i'd stuff the space between
the skin and the ******* with some thyme
infused butter... to capture the richness...
but this is a roulade...
the stuffing? goats cheese... toasted almonds...
fesh dates... thyme...
i might have just over-balanced
the equation with the dates...
but as i explained to the fussy-eater:
what are you implying that we do not
serve poultry with a sweet attache?
cranberry sauce and turkey?
and as i've learned...

it's best buying potatoes from a turkish
outlet by the 25kg bulk...
from a warehouse where the buyers
walk with bundles of money and do not
use debit card "finger" prints...
the free passing of money is still retained
in some tiers of society...
but the idea, regarding the potatoes is
to poach them from a bath of cold water...
once they start boiling leave them for
five minutes, then turn the heat off
and wait for the bubbling water to stop...
drain them... then leave them on
the already turned-off stove to get rid
of any excess water...
drizzle some chilly infused olive oil
onto the baking tray, place each potato individually...
then drizzle some olive oil onto them...
shove them in the oven when the roulade
is finished...
my first most pristine roulade...
of course you have to pan-fry it to get some
colour... the filling is kept intact given that:
goats' cheese is no mozarella...

it doesn't melt and subsequently ooze out...
and the whole lot should be be done within
the hour... the roulade can be pressured
to go for 25 minutes...
depending on the colour of the tatties...
i still had to take it out and "glitter" it with
a 1:1 ratio of honey and lemon juice...
the remains of this juice i designated on al dente
cooked greens... there was no need
for a dressing...
left-over red cabbage coleslaw...
that helps... sweet chilli sauce with some mayo
and crem fraiche...
it even looks the prettier picture:
leftover but it still works...
***** of a ******* butterfly *******!
of course it was going to spit oil back at me,
i was frying the skin... the fat from the skin
was melting the skin was getting crisp
and mingling with the olive oil fat...
also... it's a myth that the temp. should
read: 165°F... that's really just a circa...
mine read 156°F... and given the time i let
it rest...

oh right... this is not a food blog...
perhaps the moon is just too beautiful tonight
to have to attach words to it?
perhaps my love is better left alone and unused
and it doesn't demand sleeper idealism
for it to be celebrated?
it's cooking food... it's not a hip-replacement
surgery...
when cooking was married to chemistry:
i sometimes miss the laboratory
and the cooking up of esters...
my new found calling is in cooking...
and something i... wouldn't exactly want to earn
money for...

and what is surgery if not elevated butcher's ******>antics? oh no, it's needed...
but the meat is supposed to be raw
from beginning to end...
and if i was only given the chance to recycle
a recipe for a stake tartar...
or sushi... well... it wouldn't be much...
esp. when i come into my own
and cook an indian **** of spices...
but then again... the indians butcher their meat
in their curries...
i've come to some serious realisation...
the indians butcher the meat with their curry sauce...
it comes down to baking the meat...
in order for the meat to still retain its
original juices...
i quiet enjoy that little detail of cook...
in that: i don't remember the last time i was
in a restaurant...

i can't imagine eating while having to talk...
conversation over food is no better
than sitting in field of grazing cows
and their leech clouds of flies all bothersome...
with regards to the quality of the meat....
there is always some excess of meat from
the butterfly ******* before you start moulding
them into a shape that will satisfy it being
rolled...
it's a supreme joy working with a whole
chicken... i sometimes wish i was also the man
who could see the whole procedure of:
and be involved in the slaughterhouse...

oh god... the brute village beheading is
rather uncompromising... one chicken is caught
and beheaded on a stump of wood...
the head still moves with its last remaining
short-circuit tongue extending out of the beak
and the eyes roll... and then all the other chickens
congregate and perform a Kuru ritual of pecking
the blood... sipping it...
that's how killing a chicken in a village
looks like... i can't imagine an industrial scale
precision... but i would't mind...

every time i hear of veganism: the ethical argument
i start conjuring up an antithesis of
cannibalism... which is not exactly edgy given
my catholic background (i haven't been
confirmed, personal choice):
this is my body, this is my blood...
i hear a vegan talk i make a fetish of
imagining cannibalism...
believe me... these limbs look akward...
to begin with... where can you find a *******
drumstick of poultry on it?!
nowhere!

only a few days shy off today i made a most
delightful broth of chicken hearts...
i can't explain how the sight of washing...
oh... around 30 pultry hearts feels like...
given that they're hearts and not the entire chicken...
but as ever... the internal organs are a delight...
pork or poultry liver...
poultry hearts...
poultry stomachs...
cow intestines...

come to think of it... you never really cook meat...
you... curate it... it become a fine art specialist...
for those who turn to veganism or the vegetarian
"alternative": perhaps they never curated meat,
perhaps they simply butchered it?
the chicken roulade of butterfly poultry *******
always came out dry-*****?

after all, wasn't ol' Adoolph the one to say:
'hello mr. carrot, hellooo jew no. 1269230 of
auschwitz'... that's the puberty of my distrust
for vegans... they were never able to
cook meat properly... they probably ate
a decent piece of it served in a restaurant...
but when it came to cooking it themselves...
they would have probably butchered
a pasta and never reached the quality: al dente...
either...
and i'm worried that they can't cook
vegetables al dente either...
so it's back to the gulag of roots overcooked
and turned into mush...

oh i believe that meat is butchered...
but it's from the actual butchery...
it's from a lack of respect in how it's finally
"cooked"... well... curated...
are vegans the sort of people that never
ate a stake tartar... or found the most
arisotractic flavours in the giblet?
oh my god... if you can eat a drumstick
of chicken clean to the bone...
and, like me... sometimes bite off
the budding pulp of the bone for the marrow
gnash?
perhaps that's why i own cats...
delicate courtesans of the table...
a dog would go hungry at this table...
sharpnel of bones and some lurking marrow
in the "shins"... and that's about it...

you can never truly be a vegan...
not unless you repudiate the fact you've only
tasted muscle tissue...
what about the giblets and the cartilege?

every time i would perform oral ***
on a woman i could only conjure up one distate...
this is not a steak done rare...
this is not an oyster...
this is not a steak tartar...
there are "things" pulverising this meat...
there's an unexpected pocket of heat
in this... "thing"...
this is a sensation that lends itself
to the pastry section of my diet...
a warm apple pie... a custard drizzle
over some chocolate sponge...
oh qui qui... the marvels of a bilingual mouth...

if the meat is of good quality....
as the chicken roulade i made today...
and there were leftover snippets...
which i fed to the cats...
and the meat was eaten... in totality...
i was eating good chicken...
cats regarding meat are like...
those ancient jobs equivalent to...
Halotus...
god! give me a chance to own a cat!
i'll name him: Halotus!
he'll be my meat taster...
he'll tell me if i'm eating bad meat...
i'm not a Claudius but...
this cat could very well be the next Halotus!
dogs eat leftovers...

beside this one instance of catching
a female mosquito by the leg
and feeding it to a cat...
the most pleasure i ever received was
when i was preparing a rainbow trout
for grilling...
the head couldn't be used since:
i wasn't planning to cook a base fish stock...
so i plucked those pearly eyes from the head...
and my... what a delight they were...
not me... the cat...
i'm guessing that's the equivalent
of me gulping down an oyster...

female maine **** fascination with dairy
products...
any cream will do... even cheap-oh cheese...
dairylee spreadable...
but all manner of cream whipped...
i've heard of cats being fond of red wine...
i once owned one that was fond
of... olive brine...

again: what's with this need for people to cook
your food? what sort of decency of conversation
can one have when presented with food?
i don't like restaurants simply because:
well i can't exactly cook roadkill...
and shooting at birds is not my kind of thing...
so if i can't catch it and **** it...
i can at least: cook it...
i distrust what i eat that i haven't prepared
myself... notably the hygiene dilemma...

it really is on my head whether i'll catch
salmonella when i sometimes drink a coffee
with a guilty pleasure of mine:
whisked egg-yoke and sugar... on top of the coffee...
that's my problem...
but eating is never a synonym with conversation...
and it's never necessary to loiter and wait
for someone to shove pretenses above
the food in the first instance of: the waiting staff...

i blame the rise in veganism surrounding
the people who never allowed themselves to appreciate
the animal: in total...
there's no fun just sticking to ingesting muscle
protein... first you have to cook it properly...
this chicken roulade didn't have to reach
the internal temp. of 165°F - that's a circa proposition...
at 156°F and allowed to rest is just as good...
because it's an art-form to cook meat...
then again: what's cooking and what's about
to be curated?

the people who turn to veganism are also the people
who never bothered with gibblets...
the liver, the heart, the stomach,
in some cases the intestines...
hence my critique of Islams critique of ol' porky Bella...
this most unique animal...
which you can eat in total...
tenga deep fried pigs ears...
again: the cartilege...
ethics my *** if all you know about a pig is a bore
chop or a **** or... you never get into
the knitty-gritty details of the interior of
an animal... lamb is a stinking meat...
it's hell-rot when the male is slaughtered...

oh right! right! how could i forget the star
pinnacle... poached giblet supreme...
the neck... if you know how to eat a drumstick
down to the bone...
poached poultry neck...
the teeth and tongue wandering around
the crevices of this elongated spine...
i can imagine monkey's extended coccyx
tastes as tender... but only among
the macaques...
otherwise: when what's about to be eaten...
can be elevated to a status of ****** fetishes...
gimps in leather...
when rummaging among so many
boyscouts & aenemic vegans...

i'm yet to taste this, one specific, delicacy...
flaki (flački) is not new to me...
i need to marry a girl from ******* Masovia...
somewhere in the vicinity of Płock...
for i can eat some černina...
duck blood and clear broth soup...
as long as most of the animal is used...
the dogs can have the rest
and so can the vegan ethics society...

but of course this is no an anathema...
or some curated vendetta...
all the roots in the vicinity...
even the fungus... can vegans eat fungus?
are you sure?
what about those "thinking" magic mushrooms
that... if you looked into 1960s:
quick-n-easy philosophy courses...
the fungus is the botanical hitchhiker
that strapped itself to the humanoid brain
and... broadened our horizons and what not...
can you eat the godhead 'shroom?
it might just very well be...
that i'm picking a half-brain half-mushroom
entity in some alcohol to allow myself
to ease a tongue out from
its standard formality of the mollusk...
and waggle waggle waggle brute...

but yes... one is most certainly butchering
a piece of meat when one cooks
a broth... or a curry... unless its a gibblet
of sorts...
to "curate" muscular meat in a broth of a curry...
poaching it to death and worse than death:
dry...
it's about allowing the meat to retain its
natural juices...
how else to enjoy a poultry butterfly breast
roulade - with the natural juices still intact?

- i stopped paying attention to these *******
moralists...
if you have ever figured your way around
cutting off the butterfly of ******* for a roulade...
and you know what it feels like
when you stuff the space between
the meat and the skin of them
with some butter and fresh thyme...
and you're still not circumcised...
well... that's what skin feels like...

how else to reiterate? Ava Lauren is probably
the best example of a brothel beauty...
mandible beauty... something that contorts
and appeals to a perspective of cubism...
wretched beauty of the squashed square
into a pseudo-rhombus contort...
at least doing it from time to time leaves me
without a single buoyancy of thought regarding:
am i having enough, am i not having enough:
and if i'm not having enough -
what are the chances of me contracting some
s.t.d.?

bad beef...
again... juxtaposing a reiteration...
there's something worse than visit a brothel...
there's the... visiting a resturant..
i can't stop thinking about alien,
unwashed hands, preparing my food...
it's already one kick-in-the-***** not having
hunted the food... but to be left ******-over
twice by not having cooked it?!

at least if you know what flesh feels like
between the two crucibles of
death's kiss and man's tongue tease...
you will know when...
you will at least know when...
death comes with its kiss...
and its breath... the meat will turn all
yucky... as if a mollusk decided to prance
upon it in an imitation zigzag...

hence? i have no respect for islam because
islam has no respect for Miss Porky Bella!
seeing how most of the lamb -
except for the kidney in a steak pie
is not wasted...
the pig could feed two african villages...
if done properly...
while a lamb would only serve a pittance
for a poor man of yemen harem...

again: the pig is the enemy...
while not making crab meat a haram is not?
vulture meat... scavenger meat...
that's a: o.k. but the sophisticated nature
of the pig: sophisticated in that:
almost all of it can be eaten...
that so much of it can be you would probably
burp out an oink...
done properly...
the giblets in tow...
pity that such a desert god would never
appreciate the pig becoming a dog on
its truffle hog days...

beside all the arguments...
imagine how the "one true god" goes down
on a platter of those ignorant Beijing folk...
Warsaw testing! Warsaw testing!

pristine my *** when all they ever do
is eat the muscles and never appreciate the detials...
no wonder they become aenemic vegans!
at least butchering a vegetable is less of a concern...
you can almost get away with butchering a root...
it is... oh most certainly it is a shame...
when you can't cook meat properly...

but at least i never feel ever as bad going to a brothel
seeing the sort of people who venture into
restaurants...
i don't like being cooked for, i don't like being
"waited" for...
i don't like this modern orthodoxy affair
of a restaurant... i wish these people
learned something about how meat is: never cooked...
and how... it's always most certainly most necessarily:
curated...

pedantic? perhaps... you should have seen
me in that athenian strip-club with two-clingy *******
either side of me... starwberries in their *****
and we are all fine and giggling...
stealing kisses from prostitutes is: truffle hog
"learning" parabolla...

a date and a "promise" of *** is always
a limp **** affair...
i always want to know whether what i'll be eating
still entertain the existence of salt...
or whether i'll have to find alternatives
of: extracting the juices and finding the right
bites...
because love is long over-due and i'm not going
to butcher it further with whimsical hopes...
my love is a dead love is no ideal...
my love is donning a ball and chain of memory:
i have left the better parts of myself
in the wrong sort of people...
they're hardly coming back...
the people or the pieces of me...

but at least i can attest that:
oral *** and the cool crisp gulp of an oyster
passing the Charon of my tongue...
oysters are only fascinating to eat...
because you always want to concentrate
on the fact that: you're eating something that's still
alive... not even a steak tartar or a sushi slice
gives you that hope and thrill...
unless... you're hoping for some tapeworm
embryo being lodged in the flesh...
which how man can almost arrive
at the conception of foetus and womanhood...
i can't be impregnated: exclusively...
i can't be... pregnant: exclusively...
but i can allow a parasitical tapeworm
to become my new-born-*******-out-abortion...

inclusively... how else?!
i'm also tired of being left immoral by the act
of *******...
not unless you know what not being circumcised
feels like... and what chicken skin feels like...
the people at the restaurants...
a palette disgruntled by minor changes of heat...
and... there's always a very precise detail
when it comes to the temp. of a piece of meat
being cooked... and when it's allowed to epilogue
when resting to ****** with all its juices
left intact...

over-sexed society, are we?
at least doing the one-eyed-bandit's favor
doesn't allow me to ferment...
to pickle such repressive thinking...
itself pitched against: in itself...
and these this Radeztsky March forward...
over-sexed also can imply:
not exactly culinarily-savvy...
these are always twins walking side by side...
and they are always siamese problems...
over-sexed implies...
not cuninarily-savvy...
the better part of this critique is already wide open...
why all these cooking channels,
all these cooking programs?
and all this ****?

can't **** can't cook? broomstick! and to sabbath
with you!
i can't no better comparison...
over-sexed and also: terrible at *******...
******* is terrible to begin with...
you can't exactly quip yourself with
having done some lessons in tango or salsa...
the chances are that the *** turns out to
be a laughable take on tango and
you're going to step on a day-dreaming
dancing partner...
it's exactly what's it's supposed to be:
a gamble at best...
but when you throw in bad cooking?
recipe for disaster... bad dates that begin
in a restaurant and arrive at a black-out
bedroom with cockoon *** under
the bedsheets with you gasping for air!

'god let me out! let me out!'
K Balachandran Mar 2016
She cooks her dishes with such panache and zest,
as if both are  two new  dishes for me to taste,
her dainty waist, arrested my eyes,
then the mind ******, thunder thighs,
all I want is to stick to her all over like curry paste.
wicked mind never would let one rest..to fight or surrender?

— The End —