"cutlets" poems
He sleeps in evergreen trees
tying his long beard to a branch
and there he dreams of rabbit stew
wishing to snare one per chance
His emerald coat is perfect camouflage
so he lays on his shinny gold buttons
thinking of mint tea and chocolate cake
after a feast of lamb cutlets and mutton
This little greedy plump fellow
with stripy socks purple and yellow
will sing in his sleep to the birds in the tree
with a voice so sweet and so mellow
With nightfall's, he descends to the ground
making sure no human presence are around
and he speedily sifts through park litter bins
looking for cooking pots made out of tin
By Christos Andreas Kourtis aka NeonSolaris
Sep 7, 2013
Sep 7, 2013 at 2:18 PM UTC
In a misguided attempt to escape you
I fled to Nietzsche.
Weak
Inconstant
They are cats and birds
At best, cows,
he mocked.
I don't know about that
But I've never stolen glances at a cow
And felt my heart turn to ash
At the gentle devastation of its beauty
While praying that the mild curry in my mouth
Somehow shrivel up my tongue
And singe off the unspoken entreaties simmering within.
(And my affection for cows
Extends only to veal cutlets)
Today
Nietzsche and curry failed me
Tonight
It'll be the familiar embrace of alcohol
Until you fly back to Beijing.
After which
Are other substances and their derivatives
To deal with the fallout
Your transient smile
Wrought on my worn soul.
Mar 20, 2014
Mar 20, 2014 at 6:03 AM UTC
I am the key to the lock in your house
You burned a hole in my heart
Where the arteries flow.
And the veins are
blocked
like gutter drains,
No one can pass -
through the Red Sea,
A no go area.
A hairline fracture into a million capillaries,
Split arteries to take each feeling individual to the tips of my skin.
Still covered beautiful
but a nails cuticles,
Impaled on a cross resembling a torso.
Hollow bones that play like xylophones
In the tombs of hidden organs that echo
&
resonate through the decay of a necrophiliacs playground.
Dislocated limbs swing round a rib cage,
Splinters shatter the skin revealing the droplets of blood that pour like rain and tears combined.
Twist past as they gloop through a cutlets spine.
Always on my mind,
always on my mind.
Cobwebs of memories,
Embedded in a decayed gut,
Dug up like skeletons in cemeteries to find the remedy or medicine to plug the bullet shaped holes you made in my heart.
Feb 23, 2016
Feb 23, 2016 at 6:26 AM UTC
I'm a tool pondering skyscapes.
Fondling a memory
Left behind
On sunset marquees.
It raced into the horizon like
A toad on the road.
A neon dream waving farewell.
Exploring mindsets:
An act in caressing
Bloodbath tesseracts.
A roundhouse rollercoaster,
Spinning at velocity of perfume
Hitting nasal perforations.
Core memories surface along spine cutlets,
No longer intrinsic
Doubt.
I'm settling for more.
Time is a moment
Too long to endure.
Hindsight is
A parson's lake passage;
A mad monster yet to be tamed;
A grain of salt to a fresh wound made;
Moments of grace from a fake great ape.
Blue morons slide
Into Mormon jovial footsteps.
Derided ice forestry into
King's cloaked ancestry.
A sad fisherman sailing
Ceaselessly out to sea.
And yet here I am
Talking to you,
Eyelight through obelisks
In hotbox barricades.
Hiding behind
A past of newspapers.
Headline reads 'ONLY DEVINE'
'TRADE REIGN WARNS JEWELS'
'PRINCE THREATENS ECONOMY
... AND CROWN.'
Wipe the frown,
Draw the sword.
Don't be ignored anymore.
Aug 22, 2017
Aug 22, 2017 at 5:17 PM UTC
you’re not adams apple
the fruits from tree of the knowledge
of good and evil
in the centre of the garden of eden
in genesis
yet at you
the round oranges of this afternoon-town
i stare
and my pate gradually
becomes pregnant
the wind that comes after
having a touch of your lips
puts the waging of its tail on my forehead
and my guava-leaf begins to melt
thus my hardware-business is going
into liquidation
the physician to the king is telling
it’s the symptom of an awful fever attended with
the morbidity of the three humours of the body
used… and used… and used…
your smile has not yet become
stupid
so from where the lamp-posts of the
town start
there are the cutlets
and the bolster
they are not the only ones
to utter the last words
about the pill
i’m too
in this summer
trying to decorate
the gate of my cage like wedding ceremony
if any silent dew-drop comes
to prepare and feed me
my birth-day frumenty
but i’ve no tongue
at all
all over the face there are only the eyes
and to the fate of my staring-at
has ever
so much blessings been available
Sep 10, 2010
Sep 10, 2010 at 5:36 PM UTC
I am visiting a friend.
I buy sweets.
The bakery is good.
I buy chicken cutlets too.
Five of them.
They are corrupted by time.
If they are safe to eat
By the evening,
I am not sure.
It’s already noon.
“They are freshly baked,” says the sales woman.
She is not just a sales woman.
She is also the wife of the owner.
So I trust her.
Time is 1.00 PM.
My wife is waiting for me to return.
She is also coming with me.
It’s our first visit after marriage.
We are visiting our best friend.
I raise a lot of dust
With my tires
As I rev the engine hard
For a quick turn and a fast return.
I pick her up at her home, one hour’s drive.
From there, we took the most romantic route
By the reserve forest,
On a macadam road.
From Panoor* to Peravoor**,
She won’t feel bored,
The road is fine, and the nature divine.
My friend was told
That we will reach by evening, at four.
We are a half way when it’s three thirty.
I try to smell hard for the chicken cutlets.
Any variation in smell
Meant they are lost to nature.
I slam the accelerator.
The car flies.
The road is not straight.
On both sides, Wild Life Reserves.
If I drive any faster
We may end up seeking room
For our dead bodies
Among the wilderness.
I try to tell my wife.
She is already nodding.
So I keep focused on the road.
I wanted to take the cutlets out
And check them one last time.
I pray they are patient
Before they decide to give in
To the instinct of nature
To transform in an inedible form.
By the time, we reach his house
It was raining at Peravoor.
Before greeting him
The first thing I did
Was to check on my chicken cutlets.
I thought I could just leave
The cutlets inside the car
In case they are rotten.
Before I could smell them,
My wife snatched them away
And placed them on a table
For everyone to see.
She seemed confident.
Had she seen the owner’s wife?
I urged my friend
To take the banana chips first
Wishing, he would forget
Chicken cutlets until we left the place.
That way I hoped to save my molten pride
From spilling over
The heated veins of the body.
I decided to trust
For the time being
What I was told
By the baker’s lady.
Sep 11, 2017
Sep 11, 2017 at 11:49 AM UTC
and I still like to imagine
you're sitting across from me
as I swallow my lamb
cutlets.
Apr 4, 2013
Apr 4, 2013 at 8:53 AM UTC
Housed in a walking stick
the King stuck a feather duster at the top
fancied his fourth wife and tickled his fifth.
Ten mutton chops later
a gourd of red blood wine
two scoops of brain cutlets
he was feeling better.
With a bowl of imported shrimp in hand
battered and buttered
with chilly powder ,a chilli *****
he was getting excited at the prospect
of knocking his seventh wife
but a flagging spirit ruined his ********
and he commanded the courtyard maidens
to dance like Queen of Sheba
on the High Priests entrails
as the music beat a violent end
to heads rolling in the dusty desert sands.
Done.
He counted the bowed heads
and picked the odd number out
to even his court ****
The cradle of all creation was found ten yards
away in fossilised rock after five years of
guessing it must be around here.
Author Notes
Parody of procreation.
© Marshall Gass. All rights reserved.
Apr 5, 2014
Apr 5, 2014 at 2:51 AM UTC
for
we only
meet on Thursdays.
Lamb chops, veal cutlets
and back to separate worlds.
Had
I not
The slightest courage
Just to tell him
What he could plainly see?
Why
Had I
Bled so long
In a fruitful marriage
When I truly wanted meat?
One
Fell swoop
Of the blade
Lets my heart know
That some things cannot be.
Jan 1, 2017
Jan 1, 2017 at 8:54 AM UTC
TLACAELEL
Two hundred years have we known only strife,
Kept innocent of peace, to fortify
Huitzilopochtli, our grand god of conquest,
Who hoists aloft our death-denying sun
And handsomely escorts him through the east.
Such toil demands the selfless sustenance
Of that most precious sacrifice, our hearts;
Small, hot, red gems- we grant them gratefully.
Our god need not stand waiting for affronts
Or hissing disrespect to rattle arms.
No, rather let us seek convenient markets
Where our Blue Prince of war, when whimsy strikes,
Might carve downed captives to refresh his plate
And tie his bib with dead men’s winding-sheets,
As if he strolled through cheap tortilla stalls,
And clutched our legions for his currency.
To this emporium shall we caravan,
Procuring crocks of blood and priceless hearts
By bartering to swap our solvent lives.
Oh, let it be Tlaxcala, gentlemen!
For if we pitch this depot to the north,
The taxing hike to those unconquered tribes
Should prove an inconvenience to our troops.
Besides, the tough and stringy flesh of those
Bare-bottomed grunts, rock-knocking savages,
Must strike our god as stale as sandal-leather.
Then let Tlaxcalans be his board of fare:
Moist cutlets, fresh and steaming from the range,
Shall furnish forth his sanguinary feasts.
We must not waste these others totally,
But make a handy pantry of this foe,
For war- alone undying- must endure.
CUITLAHUAC
Bravo. I’ll side with you to storehouse them,
So that we hamstring their free trafficking,
And thus declaw our sole belligerent.
TLACAELEL
I’m pleased your verdicts are adaptable.
HUNGRY PRINCE
Either to weaken or to waste this threat,
You’ll have my armies at your hand.
TLACAELEL That's nice.
MOTECUHZOMA
Now, Hungry Prince, let’s brace for weighty words. . .
Oct 6, 2016
Oct 6, 2016 at 12:23 PM UTC
he doesn't text me
and I think
it's my arms
chicken cutlets
that need the fat trimmed off
maybe it's the way my belly rolls
when he's holding my legs up
even in his lust
he must see
my flaws
can he worship a woman
that's beautiful and round?
the figures on his screens
tall, tight, trimmed, and small
in the bedroom night
shadows purse together
like lips
mouthing no on his wall
but it's me
I'm the woman
bullying myself all along
I put my thoughts in his mind
and place my words in his mouth.
Jun 21, 2021
Jun 21, 2021 at 3:51 PM UTC