"cutlery" poems
1173
The Lightning is a yellow Fork
From Tables in the sky
By inadvertent fingers dropt
The awful Cutlery
Of mansions never quite disclosed
And never quite concealed
The Apparatus of the Dark
To ignorance revealed.
16.5k
a flawless poem
if such there were,
will always be,
the next one
my poor soul,
my rag tag heart
has no censor,
so careless, reckless,
as if words were but
frivolous treasures,
easy spent, easy get
if only, how I wish I
could harvest my best,
with golden cutlery excise
the single flawless poem,
that I know in my possess
lay down this hand so weary
from cupping tears,
be satisfied at long last,
so much so,
that my casket lowered,
hands in repose companioned,
clutching his best, easing his rest,
a paper record to join his ash,
his flawless poem,
at long last
Jan 13, 2014
Jan 13, 2014 at 6:53 AM UTC
*all my life i held a dream
of a woman i would love
of course
she would be alluring
supple
a charming countenance
erudite, with an angelic face
her body
a muscular stretching willow
arching her legs over head
kissing her own
curving soft feet
a graceful contortionist
in confetti colored sparkle pantyhose
stretching towards me
silken hair draping a perfect symmetry
with spun sugar kisses
wafting the scent of vanilla
and candied vaporous breath
lips like cherry lozenges
but
one never knows ones destiny
i met her
my girl destiny
and except for a faint look of languor and ruin
with a tinge of withering
she was without doubt unbearably titillating
with razor-thin blackened lips
mascara slits for eyes
hair pulled straight back
jet black
jelled like hardened licorice
with satanic blood rivulets
and pitch fork tattooed ****
a vice of lechery
a malefaction of moral turpitude
her *** scarred from orgiastic beatings
her **** became
like a large wrinkly mouth
resembling the face of a bullfrog
from pleasuring herself with
tableware cutlery
her soul
a broken creel
suffering bouts of anxiety
like a weeping moon
having been institutionalized
in Mother Marys Hell House
from a ghastly bout of parricide
her father,
a hobbling gloomish troll
while the dark veins of mother
ran through her soul
leaving little choice
but to dispatch
the parents
abandoning their corpses in the kitchen
like strewn litter
turned out
just my
kinda
girl
d
e
s
t
i
n
y
May 14, 2017
May 14, 2017 at 9:14 AM UTC
Somebody is shooting at something in our town --
A dull pom, pom in the Sunday street.
Jealousy can open the blood,
It can make black roses.
Who are the shooting at?
It is you the knives are out for
At Waterloo, Waterloo, Napoleon,
The **** of Elba on your short back,
And the snow, marshaling its brilliant cutlery
Mass after mass, saying Shh!
Shh! These are chess people you play with,
Still figures of ivory.
The mud squirms with throats,
Stepping stones for French bootsoles.
The gilt and pink domes of Russia melt and float off
In the furnace of greed. Clouds, clouds.
So the swarm ***** and deserts
Seventy feet up, in a black pine tree.
It must be shot down. Pom! Pom!
So dumb it thinks bullets are thunder.
It thinks they are the voice of God
Condoning the beak, the claw, the grin of the dog
Yellow-haunched, a pack-dog,
Grinning over its bone of ivory
Like the pack, the pack, like everybody.
The bees have got so far. Seventy feet high!
Russia, Poland and Germany!
The mild hills, the same old magenta
Fields shrunk to a penny
Spun into a river, the river crossed.
The bees argue, in their black ball,
A flying hedgehog, all prickles.
The man with gray hands stands under the honeycomb
Of their dream, the hived station
Where trains, faithful to their steel arcs,
Leave and arrive, and there is no end to the country.
Pom! Pom! They fall
Dismembered, to a tod of ivy.
So much for the charioteers, the outriders, the Grand Army!
A red tatter, Napoleon!
The last badge of victory.
The swarm is knocked into a cocked straw hat.
Elba, Elba, bleb on the sea!
The white busts of marshals, admirals, generals
Worming themselves into niches.
How instructive this is!
The dumb, banded bodies
Walking the plank draped with Mother France's upholstery
Into a new mausoleum,
An ivory palace, a crotch pine.
The man with gray hands smiles --
The smile of a man of business, intensely practical.
They are not hands at all
But asbestos receptacles.
Pom! Pom! 'They would have killed me.'
Stings big as drawing pins!
It seems bees have a notion of honor,
A black intractable mind.
Napoleon is pleased, he is pleased with everything.
O Europe! O ton of honey!
7.8k
soiled.
here there everywhere.
regular like.
verb and noun,
he, both.
soiled, soiled.
verb, noun.
*****
a stupid~sounding word.
say ***** *****
***** three times fast.
what is a sound of *****
intimate.
what is the color of *****
every color that leaves you,
or even begins you,
soiled, sullied, tainted.
sweaty.
the intimate man did not intimate.
his stains were visible.
no need for polite,
needless the charade,
of legitimizing intimacy,
there for all to see.
they were no longer
intimate.
he did not know why,
after awhile,
he didn't care.
pretended intimacy,
which was a ***** thing,
a stainless steel cutlery
kind of *****
a reflection visible only to the
eye of the beholder.
cutlery was never clean,
soiled, after but one use,
think.
in the mouth, with the hands.
such intimacy,
that, they still shared.
an easy pretense.
terror.
terror is intimate
and *****
lived in terror.
not constant which implies periodic spaces.
no breaks.
the terror soiled him,
you did not need even be intimate with me.
sweaty,
see, smell it.
taste it,
even better!
though the terror was deeply intimate,
in the skin embedded,
I told ya,
easy visible.
easy to avoid the intimacy of
terror.
clean, silky clean intimates,
changed regular,
changed nothing.
intimacy was a Cain mark.
his private, public.
his public, privy.
more?
more.
shame.
shame is intimate.
there are so many kinds too.
the shame of soiled.
the shame of disrespect,
the shame behind closed doors.
the shame of public humiliation.
the shame, the stink, of failure.
the shame we share in ways
we wish not speak of.
the shame of bad grammar,
shame leaves you soiled, *****
terrified.
shame on you for having read so far.
but you can boast
you knew me when,
you knew me
intimately,
bad and well.
you knew
that you did not know
anything about me,
even though,
we had been
at least
this one time,
intimate.
who is soiled now?
Nov 9, 2014
Nov 9, 2014 at 4:04 AM UTC
It is raining outside,
Everything wet,
Soil, tree, terrace, flower *** gate, wall,,,,
But aridity stifles inside,
Head, heart, hand.....
Like the fruits of silk cotton tree,
Cutlery ruptures thought
Humanist is slaughters on the street.....
But slayer forget that
In extreme dryness
When fruits of dry Cotton silk tree explode
It’s diffuse
Germinate in wet soil
and grow everywhere,
Humanist will emit all over again!
Mar 2, 2015
Mar 2, 2015 at 1:24 PM UTC
I think I would like to make a home of your body
Like the dens I used to make with my siblings,
Before I started saying "no thanks".
To take a doctor's scalpel,
Clean and new and never used
And so very, very sharp
And to rest it in the hollow just where the breastbone ends.
Then to push it in along your soft smooth shiny skin
So unlike the mottled scarring that covers mine.
Down, down, down
To where you wear the waistband of your jeans.
A horizontal swipe at the top,
At the bottom,
Like making the fold of a window in a paper house.
Shh, is anyone home?
Lifting the heavy, wet flesh,
Your rib cage is so very white
And so very perfect
Like special cutlery for special occasions-
Births and weddings and funerals.
They hide your lungs,
Bloodshot and tired of the
Eternal
Moving and moving and moving on and on and on
Your stomach, soft
And vulnerable in its hideousness
Yet it hides the despicable necessity
Of human life.
And your heart,
Plump and fresh and young,
It is restless and strains
But for what when all that lies outside
Is incomprehensible and unnerving and unwelcoming.
So I will leave it all behind
And with damp heavy fatigue crawl
Into your torso like the unborn child
We have all been and will be again.
And your ribs will cradle me like a birdcage
That has grown so sick of the world,
And your organs will cushion and comfort me
When I feel that I do not want to live.
And blood will cover everything
Just as I have always wanted.
Flooding my eyes and nose and mouth and ears
And bathing me in the warmth, the constant gentle pounding,
That would make me feel alive.
May 13, 2014
May 13, 2014 at 2:08 PM UTC
I love the quick ***** of china cutlery when I close the plastic dishwasher
And the comforting sizzle
of the butter, which sun bursts
in the pan, as you are frying our dinner.
I love the way you say 'Nah'
and the way
my heart's pace
Increases at your sight.
I love the way the steamy light
makes shapes and shadows
on your face
as we lie together on grass.
I love the slam
of the front door after a rain day
and the lock
of our eyes
in the hall way.
I love mundane high croak
of the curtains
when I peal
them back as if I am
opening my eyes
for the first time.
Opening to see you;
China cutlery,
butter,
my steamy light,
and rain.
Apr 18, 2014
Apr 18, 2014 at 2:55 AM UTC
I remember how sweet your lips,
your cupid's bow,
the very corner of your mouth was
after we made a mess in the kitchen.
(Flour dotted cheeks and noses, the great big wooden spoon sitting dully in the sink, egg-shells laying lonely in the pastel pink ceramic bowl I insisted on buying.)
We made lemon tarts?
Jan 18, 2015
Jan 18, 2015 at 7:25 AM UTC
at the risk of being weird
I want to ask you to **** me
Even though it is only 5am.
6am comes…and I do not
And you are still asleep
And I would like to be
If my ****** wasn’t aching like an empty stomach
throbbing like a sore tooth.
Spooning is sweet but I want go get out of the cutlery drawer.
It is 7:28 and you have rolled away from me
And I can’t help but wonder if having
Me in your bed is no more than a child holding a bear in his sleep.
But stuffed bears can’t feel insecurity.
The women of your past have been beautiful and immaculate
(I saw the **** picture one sent you before we went to sleep--
instagram filters can't even make me look that good)
like
stone Venuses, lovely despite the fact that they were made from **** foam.
And I am neither immaculate or made of stone
as you well know
since you have put your hand on my stomach so many times.
And I do not want to be needy but I can’t help but think that
The reason you are away from me
asleep at 7:35
Is that the ghosts of these models that haunt you look nothing like me.
Sep 29, 2013
Sep 29, 2013 at 3:06 PM UTC
*We were squeezed from corruption
armed with the monstrous cutlery
of rippers and tearers of rationed meat
for a day, for a day, for a day:
the butcher gives his best cuts
to the young and godless divorcee
find us, keep us : a spectre hiding
in the dark pig iron rust hooks looping
through your *** and shopping lists:
smelting your coin
and punching your face
Company is the full knowledge
of our protracted, 3 -stage decay
burn drift degradation
eyes crusting shut
in doom and settling bomb silt
palms up, taking a punishment
in the mothertongue
ignoring lessons in the gracious
expectancy of departure
We, A legion of ancient clockwatchers,
in on the joke of time
and folk fetish of apple-cheek poverty
[Gasp!] The gruesome romance of class!
!you cry! !safe! !always safe!
in the nuclear hotdog option , which is
observably, the title of this advertisement
We will never get you[ ]you're awake!
and your atmosphere is still In Da Black
We watch you
watching
the 5 car pile up
catch up rolling down your chin*
Mar 1, 2017
Mar 1, 2017 at 10:20 AM UTC
1374
A Saucer holds a Cup
In sordid human Life
But in a Squirrel’s estimate
A Saucer hold a Loaf.
A Table of a Tree
Demands the little King
And every Breeze that run along
His Dining Room do swing.
His Cutlery—he keeps
Within his Russer Lips—
To see it flashing when he dines
Do Birmingham eclipse—
Convicted—could we be
Of our Minutiae
The smallest Citizen that flies
Is heartier than we—
2.4k
My lungs are beating like they have swallowed my heart whole.
Divided on who she loved more, they choke my breath so I taste sour gummy bears as I curl over wounded,
a victim of one of loves ****** battles.
As I have fallen in love with every girl I have seen since I was 10.
I saw her in the playground with hair to her waist and we picked daisies like I picked her.
Seeing something beautiful and killing it for the sake of beauty alone.
I stopped falling in love when I chose the scent of musky sweat over the scent of rose blossoms.
It left a stench on my pillow so pungent and powerful I slept by the toilet which I shared my dinner with unwillingly.
Curled over out of no love I spat into the mix of **** and princess shapes and went back to the man who thought my interest in women was a turn on, so I pushed his button to turn him off.
It was that night I left.
It was that night I put down my fork and threw out my two meat and veg into the recycling to go into the arms of another woman's cutlery.
It was that night I stopped dispensing my body like candy from a machine and instead knocked on the door of myself and welcomed her in. Fall in love she said, but with me.
After putting the kettle on I fell in love with the curve between her thighs and the scars upon her arms. I fell in love with her inability to eat spaghetti elegantly and her obsession with trees.
Ever since then I have started living in my body as a home rather than a hotel I can change every week, I have begun to uncurl my spine and untwist my mind.
I now love a girl who smiles at the sky and shares food with her lover rather than an appliance.
But love spreads faster than fire and if you're not careful it can swallow you whole.
I say swallow me whole. Swallow me completely. Rip out my lungs and replace them with trumpets as I refuse to do anything but love, love, love.
Oct 27, 2013
Oct 27, 2013 at 8:53 AM UTC
Swallows sing, I swallow that bitter pill.
Light reflects off cutlery,
and everything is still.
Shadows crawl, and then fall off the wall.
The sun that shun
when we we're young,
was big and now it's small.
The memories, cast in a golden light,
but memories can change in time,
depending on our flight.
Our hope, still sheltered with our love.
Forms the sense of who we are,
forms the sense of us.
Jan 24, 2015
Jan 24, 2015 at 5:50 PM UTC
The light of the television
dimly lit two
lovers,
but not really.
He stunk of wine
from the lips and
mauve teeth,
she stunk of wine
by proxy.
her legs, only slightly
unshaven, he stroked
gently, which they
both enjoyed, but
not really.
***** pots, plates, and
cutlery lay placid
in the sink.
They'll be washed
sometime soon,
and put away in
cabinets of wasted
white wood, very soon,
but not really.
The floor, like them,
began growing clothing
like wild moss or ivy,
and claimed the room
& claimed them too.
The movie, he'd recall,
but, then, she would
not.
He watched the blood,
and conflict,
and at times laughed,
and she saw him,
and conflict,
and didn't laugh at all,
which he knew was strange,
but not really.
On the dim, small, screen,
The lean and hungry man had his
Nemesis on the
sepia-tone ground,
and finished it all,
with rage and mercy,
with a stomp
to the
heart.
They watched, her eyes wide,
for she knew this was
them, her on the ground,
and him in the air, and she gripped
him a bit tighter,
which he noticed,
but not really,
which she noticed,
but not really.
In the dimly lit room,
they could not see
they were alone,
and it was true,
only Bruce Lee & He,
and She.
May 27, 2016
May 27, 2016 at 4:59 PM UTC
~~~
*a flawless poem
if such there were,
will always be,
the next one
my poor soul,
my rag tag heart,
has no censor,
so careless, reckless,
as if words were but
frivolous treasures,
easy get, easy spent
if only,
how I wish,
could harvest my best,
and with golden cutlery,
excise
the single flawless poem
that I know is in my possess
lay down this hand, so weary,
from cupping tears,
be satisfied at long last,
so much so,
that when my casket lowered,
two hands in repose companioned,
clutching his best,
to ease the rest,
a papered poem record to join his whited ash,
his flawless poem,*
his very best
*now eternal,
at long last*
Jan 17, 2016
Jan 17, 2016 at 9:09 AM UTC
What do you do
when you realize
your life as you know it
is a cardboard cutout,
a dollhouse scene,
Of what your life should be.
Of what it once was.
The people in my life are characters
A backdrop in the place of reality.
Scenery behind my doorstep.
Photographic fire in the fireplace.
Tiny kitchen cutlery that isn’t sharp.
Staged people in my living room
at literally, a lifeless party.
A fantastic picturesque magazine spread in Southern Living.
And I am a part of this falseness.
I am a creator of this un-reality.
I am a willing participant in this stagnant stage of my life.
This life, this love, this truth
Is a figment
Is a dream
Is a scene of a scene.
I remember when green was green
And blue was blue
And I breathed in newness in every breathe.
Reality bowed down in servitude
And I took every step into a setting sun
The world around me, my partner in crime
As I took it by storm.
The tragedy here
Is knowing that life and love and truth barren
Is knowing it naked
As it really is.
As it really was.
And knowing that you’ve settled for the cardboard cutout
is recognizing you’ve given up.
You’ve settled for second best.
You’re taking the doll house route to life.
You’d rather watch the movie than live it out.
It’s cowardice at its best.
Jul 20, 2012
Jul 20, 2012 at 12:34 AM UTC
Resume: Jewel de Saex
Address: Lost somewhere up the hills.
email: [email protected]
Tel: + network not available
Summary
Hire me if: you are looking for an adventure.
Clouds, gorges, and I never disappoint, for we can cry.
Education
Bachelor, Mistress and Widower at the University of Zoya, majoring
in Life Sciences, with a minor in the applications of horseshoe magnets.
Expertise
I know them laws of attraction well +
New languages: both Silicon and Carbon-based ++
Magic, luck and fate.
Experience
For years I steered a boat
riding a rough river that
passed storms every day.
I was the rain-maker, I can
bring tears to any passing cloud
by my mere hand-gesture:
(all the dough-kneading.)
I was also the chief gardener
for Loz, whose farms at
the other end of the Earth
I visited by the switch door
in my old photo-albums each day.
Skills
Jugglery, innovative use of cutlery, reading runes, plucking prunes,
riding boats on dunes, talking by eyes, hearing by sight.
References: Not available even on request.
*NOtes:
+ Turn pages back and you always find, only one person was in love.
++ I can decipher the meanings in the lispings of cherubs and angels.
I understand the cloud and the river, as of men in any tongue.*
Mar 11, 2015
Mar 11, 2015 at 3:15 PM UTC
I want to fall with a Poetress
Not a girl but a woman that can match my intellect.
She can cook and clean but is far from domesticated.
Need a ghetto queen like Latifah
I'm from the hood baby I can handle a skillet.
Let's split it
You cook the rice I make the chicken
A woman that understands it all from politics to religion
She fights for her rights
And some nights she doesn't want to lay she wants to ride
Never ask for nothing but is willing to die
Living for the moment
Like of our live is being directed by Nick Cassavetes
A Poetress I promise to keep smiling
Like a woody Allen movie
And if I sell my soul
I'll be Adam and she Lilith
I want to fall in love with a Poetress
That argues with me metaphorically
Poetic in her actions
When she threatens to leave me
A goddess with words and she let's me hear it
A woman I can open up like a book
And let's me eat in her living room
One that can bear baby Jesus and the anti Christ if God decides
My match
My one on one
Wether I have a bible or a ski mask
Much more than superficial beauty
But if I had to choose
She'll be Patron white with a Henny ***
Don Pergion for a mouth,
she speaks class
1880 aged wine for her mind
Her thoughts are dined
I want to fall in love with a Poetress
Who understand cutlery
But loves bacon and burger beef
A goddess of poetry
Would be the only one right for me
I want to fall in love with a Poetress
And the search begins
your majesty.....
Jan 8, 2015
Jan 8, 2015 at 3:32 PM UTC
I found a spoon in my garden.
Could you even call this a garden?
The planters are all full of
pine needles and stagnancy.
Even the bench I'm sitting on
is rotting and covered in ants.
Anyway this spoon was barely visible
among the dead leaves and dog ****
Not rusty, save for the edges that had been
knicked by a lawn mower at some time
and then bent perfectly
down the
middle.
A memory of playing superheroes
disrupts my study.
Someone was trying to prove their
strength by bending it
"with their mind".
Eventually we tired of our
mind's lack of capabilities
and used brute force to
bend the dreaded spoon
but the celebration was nonetheless
sweet after being able to bend
our mother's cutlery.
Back then the garden was tended.
My mother put us to work
and my
"secret garden" was born partly
out of my imagination and
a lack of reality.
My mother called one plant
"lamb's ear" and I didn't
argue because it was the softest
thing I had ever felt or ever will feel.
Did she make that name up?
Surely, she wouldn't lie to me.
And now that lamb's ear, like
everything else is covered in
a thick, itchy layer of pine straw
and stagnancy. To let the plants
even begin to heal from their
prolonged exposure to cold,
mistifying darkness I would have
to scratch through the
allergy-inducing tentacles.
Push them out of the way.
Dig up the dead, dry earth,
plant new seeds and tend to them
arduously--all while wondering
why couldn't my family just
take care of what they had?
but then I notice this spoon.
I've gotten carried away again
and now I forgot to write about
what I meant to write about in
the first place.
It's not healthy to let things rust.
Jul 14, 2012
Jul 14, 2012 at 11:25 PM UTC
Do you remember when you gave me your hoodie
And then got angry at me for messing with the strings?
Do you remember when you gave me your chips
And then got upset at me for messing with the cutlery?
Do you remember when you gave me your phone
And then got frustrated at me for messing with the camera?
Do you remember when I gave you my heart
And then got angry at you for messing with my feelings?
I should have known
You never dealt well with change,
But you did **** well better than me.
Jul 21, 2013
Jul 21, 2013 at 2:27 AM UTC
*plastic
tables and chairs
pinks
blues
yellows*
leftovers lie on the table
paper plates stained with chocolate syrup
beside the foam
fossil of a milkshake
brown
fingertips and corners of lips
dinosaurs and tiaras
table napkins wipe away
giggles and smiles
*wooden table
little words etched in
hearts, crosses and names
jagged lines through the middle
random doodles
curse words*
stained with grease, an empty pizza box
soda bottles all over the sticky floor
a single can
of beer, empty
touching a hundred lips
curious little sips
awkward conversations,
air thick with secrets and lies
confidence and cockiness
*clean white table cloths
long-stemmed flowers
crystal wine glasses
silverware*
no one quite fits into these
knees always banging
and cutlery always clanging
no one quite fits into these
Sep 14, 2011
Sep 14, 2011 at 10:03 PM UTC
ARISTOCRATIC CHRISTMAS
The goose was plucked for Christmas
Not a feather was in sight
The butler cleaned the silver
Cook baked with all of her might
The aristocrats in the morning room
Sipped a sherry or two
Whilst waiting for their dinner
It was the thing to do
All dressed in their finery
The children there as well
All except for Grandpa
(The stories he could tell!)
No one alas was listening
And no one noticed there
He’d on one foot a slipper
And the other was quite bare.
Below stairs was quite hectic
Upstairs all serene
And all along the passageways
And sometimes in between
Servants rushed as servants do
To make things run with ease
Tending fires fetching things
Aiming just to please
And Grandpa sat and nodded
His head sank on his chest
He remembered long ago
The Christmas he’d thought best
With one foot in a slipper
The other one quite bare
He waited for his dinner
Sat there in his chair
And soon the gong it sounded
Its boom rang loud and clear
They all trooped in the dining room
With those they held so dear
The table was resplendent
The glasses gleamed and shone
The cutlery was sparkling
The goose it weighed a ton
The master carved the mistress smiled
The children looked in awe
The butler served the vegetables
(Cos that’s what they are for)
The pudding was amazing
The brandy sauce was ace
They ate and ate until alas
No more could they face
All except for Grandpa
He was sat quite still
And no one noticed him not there
As they all ate their fill
With one foot in his slipper
The other one quite bare.
On Christmas day he died alone
Sat there in his chair.
© Pamela Brooke 2009
Nov 28, 2011
Nov 28, 2011 at 9:32 AM UTC
*We each partook of our respective
Champagne glasses almost in spot on simultaneity
Toasting to a life full of nicety
Hadn’t we been born with silver cutlery
In our mouths?
Armed with a sense of perspective
But this doesn’t guarantee an alienation of misery
We being hormonal imbalanced youths
Rational irrationality the bedrock
Of most if not all our decisions
We ourselves each other’s stumbling block
Nursing grandiose delusions.
We hence seldom ‘work ‘hand in glove
As we’re “drunk in love”.*
Feb 11, 2014
Feb 11, 2014 at 4:18 AM UTC