"forkful" poems
In a dream I returned to the river of bees
Five orange trees by the bridge and
Beside two mills my house
Into whose courtyard a blindman followed
The goats and stood singing
Of what was older
Soon it will be fifteen years
He was old he will have fallen into his eyes
I took my eyes
A long way to the calendars
Room after room asking how shall I live
One man processions carry through it
Empty bottles their
Image of hope
It was offered to me by name
Once once and once
In the same city I was born
Asking what shall I say
He will have fallen into his mouth
Men think they are better than grass
I return to his voice rising like a forkful of hay
He was old he is not real nothing is real
Nor the noise of death drawing water
We are the echo of the future
On the door it says what to do to survive
But we were not born to survive
Only to live
2k
The invalids,
misanthropes-
Spell-check your ego at the dooooooooooooor
And though I fancy that fancy liqueur
I'm of sound mind and jaded-
Gore doesn't bother me and my eyes are all faded-
I'm a child of the devil
So let me level with you-
I don't know what I abhor more,
All this violence in the world, or the lack of haberdashery stores
So I'm of reasonable theory,
And awfully good at this-
So let me circumvent this infinite abyss-
Yeah, I'm ********
Send me your tired, your weary,
your weird and your eerie,
and I'll eat them with a spoonful of peacock ore-
So I'm better at this than you are-
And I'm from France-
That probably makes you leery,
But my pants are clean and I'm the God of War-
Inadequate!
Mundane!
The pedestrian,
Heretofore-
I crush you, I'm a crusher-
A garbage compacter pall bearer usher-
I'm of appropriate quality-
I spit at inequality with a certain measure of frivolity-
I'm the benefactor of a luster-
So let me rush you into a hasty decision-
"I don't know about that," I hear you utter,
"Stuff it, yo!" I tell you, this is intermission, not the gutter-
So I'm a trap-
As comforting as a spinal tap-
Happy as a lark but fashionable as a jester's cap-
and with a wire cutter mouth-
With which I eat things with a forkful of infidelities-
Though I find the rings hard to chew-
Apr 5, 2010
Apr 5, 2010 at 8:21 PM UTC
From atop mountains
Of debt
We tumble, like
The thrill of defeat
Dripping down
The quivering chin
Of blood-stained
America.
To quote a thunderstorm:
"All who question
The efficacy
Of God
Shall crumble
To an infinity
Of indecencies."
To quote a God:
"All who fall
Have not
Been pushed,
Those who rose
Were not all
Pulled.
**** the heathens.
Justified are those
Who avenge the treasons
Committed unto me."
Waves of
Iridescence
Cleanse our pallettes,
And we open wide
For the next forkful
Of fermented
Excrement.
Bloodied are our knees
As we receive
The sacrement,
Trapped like rats
Cast in cement.
To quote a slave:
"Bound by prior
Engagements,
Sacrificed to
Advertisement,
The seeds of men
Wither in the soil.
Blood weeps
From poisoned skies
While YES WE CAN
Opens eyes,
And seals fate
Within fine
Print."
Wolves in
Cheap disguises
Bate their breath
Behind red grins
And finalize
The list of
Who gets in,
While in the cold
Stand the masses,
Marinating
In their own
Molasses.
From atop Parnassus,
A silver-lined horse
Watches the madness,
And snarls and spits
In shamed defiance,
While Apollo
Holds court
To form the alliance
That will interrupt
The defiling of man.
To quote a soldier:
"Cold is the mud
That cradles
The valiant.
Swift is decay
In these
Transient days,
Where passive
Observers rot
In mass graves."
Designed by the rich,
Assembled by slaves,
Our system
Keeps churning,
Rejecting all
Who misbehave.
Reflected in
Concentric waves,
The faces of children
Contemplate age,
And what it means
To be forever
Enraged,
Engaged in endeavors
That are only dreams.
They can't be saved,
And neither can we.
So it seems,
And so it should be.
Jan 4, 2013
Jan 4, 2013 at 10:25 PM UTC
We dine off of hearts
goaded from the sea.
Hearts drawn to dead promise
and
cold hooks.
The gills
taste metallic
and the flesh is sweet
with mercury.
The haul is yanked overboard,
and the tuna fly
like angels of vengeance
to our dinner tables
where wine
condenses the poisoned bodies
into forkfulls
of pleasure.
The meat is sweeter
than anything we have ever tasted,
we hope that it puts us to sleep.
Not wanting to ****
or cherish
the bones of each other's bodies
has led us to gorge
on these fish,
these harbingers
of comas
that we are too awake
to realize
are the dreams of the stars
filtered through the
diamond-studded
rollers of the Pacific.
The blue and cold Pacific
it pumps out
the fuel for restaurants.
Restaurants
where we gnash our teeth silently
against oily meat.
Restaurants
where I have a drink
and you have a drink
and we have our fill
on vicarious oceans
that decay in the parties
of our bellies.
Tonight we will sleep
because we are drunk
with poisoned meat.
Robbed meat.
Catastrophic
is the grinder of your mouth.
A goaded heart
is an atomic bomb
and we have our fills on them.
Until we no longer want to ****
The mercury
courses.
The waiter
dashes back and forth.
The cook
slices and dices.
The fishers haul in a line
ten-ton lines of bycatch.
All for a single forkful
of the most sugary
thing
two people can share
when their bodies
are useless
and wheezing for the oxygen
of a purified love.
Jun 14, 2012
Jun 14, 2012 at 12:07 AM UTC
With a bang or a slice a life is taken in a matter of seconds and put on your plate
Seasoned with salt and pepper you disguise the taste of ****** with a sizzle
The taste of death is a forkful away and if you just slather a sauce on it,
it’s like it just vanishes
**** With a cut of the rare muscle of a cow
Be the change, child. You can save them.
The compassion for a life is gone even though you scream
“I love animals” for everyone to hear.
Lies
That’s all I hear.
Splash. Pus and bacteria is poured into the bowl on sugary cereal.
“It’s a great source of calcium” they say.
I say it’s a great source of breast cancer taking years off your life.
Don't do it for yourself. Do it for them. Do it for their lives.
Please child.
Be the change.
The thousands of animals murdered in seconds.
Fun fact 3,000 animals die every second in slaughterhouses around the world.
1,
2,
3.
9,000 gone.
Is this a world you want to live in?
A world where animals are pumped full of hormones and antibiotics for the benefit of a meal you're going to forget about in a week from now?
Be the change, child. I know you can do it.
The alternatives are out there.
Use them.
Save lives.
Please child be the change.
You're the hope they have in their eyes.
Fun fact for your taste buds animals are kept in such small spaces so they can't move.
It tastes better, right?
No.
Jan 4, 2018
Jan 4, 2018 at 8:57 AM UTC
He is spaghetti
A forkful through her fingers
Quick to eat in trains.
She's just hungry for pasta--
Come now, the Train's arriving!
Nov 13, 2017
Nov 13, 2017 at 8:25 PM UTC
At the bakery, they wink at me
How fast the little ones grow up, eh?
Almond Dacquoise
Shiny laughs.
I tip generously because I can't think of
anything to say.
We strain under the weight of
our smiles.
At home,
I climb into my closet
and eat the whole thing by
shivering forkful.
Jul 5, 2019
Jul 5, 2019 at 8:23 AM UTC
Dear immune system,
it seems you’ve got a vendetta against me,
which I’m forced to take personally.
Why did you offer free lodging to that vile germ?
I water you (more than our sorry, dying garden)
I give you antioxidants like it’s my job,
and at lunch? I treat you to fruit.
I wait on you, hand and foot, like a queen,
(I wash those too, don’t want to get sick)
Apparently, that’s to no avail.
All day, you’ve been lazy.
Your (evidently useless) white blood cells
cower and can’t figure out
how to get rid of the menacing virus
that slithers into crevices of my bloodstream
Now, I wouldn’t be angry,
if I coughed a few times, maybe a sneeze,
but you, arrogant imbecile, won’t retreat.
your antibodies fill my throat, scratching the walls.
Even swallowing becomes undesirable.
All of your minions pile up in my nose,
and spray debris everywhere
If that wasn’t enough, you don’t let me taste -
a steaming forkful of noodles,
a rich morsel of blueberry pancakes,
or a refreshing bite of cool watermelon.
My endless collections of t(issues),
are like soccer moms, screaming
at you to try harder to reach your goal,
which, apparently, is repurposing my nose
as a foghorn.
I’ve tried cups of tea to calm you,
glasses of water to soothe you,
and steaming tomato soup to appease you.
Instead of laying low,
you grow an extra head every time I cut one off.
In fact, you’ve got me writing poetry about you.
Don’t mistake this as an ode,
or a Shakespearean sonnet,
This, my lovely friend, is a hate poem.
Please, let me breathe.
May 26, 2015
May 26, 2015 at 7:31 AM UTC
When I made it to work,
I thought about you
getting through the day,
pushing time forward
until it was finally time to go.
I had no idea what I wanted to eat
until the thought of splitting you open,
watching you sit in the depth of my fork,
did it for me.
A scoop of fried rice,
mixed with gravy
there is something so satisfying
about that first bite,
about savoring the moment,
readying the next forkful.
There’s nothing wrong
with wanting something
that wants you back.
If I spill any part of you
on my clothes,
on my hand,
on the table
I still want you.
I will still have you.
There’s nothing wrong
with burgers, burritos,
or any of the other places I pass.
But in this very moment,
the way these eggs, bean sprouts,
and green onions wrap around my tongue
nothing else compares.
Pressing my fork into your crisp edges,
watching the steam rise
I, um,
should’ve ordered extra
Mar 11, 2025
Mar 11, 2025 at 8:28 PM UTC
Sometimes,
for a moment,
time escapes me.
When I am alone at night
With the tv on
A forkful of noodles in an empty hand
Where has all the time gone?
When did I become unable
To keep track of the ticking clock?
flashing in front of me
memories of a distant vibrancy
I once held in my palm
Now ,
[without hesitation]
the remote control
A loosely clasped fist.
An empty dish
And a burnt out awareness of time.
Oct 19, 2011
Oct 19, 2011 at 10:31 PM UTC
After the sudden blows
from her mother
(about seeing Benedict)
before dinner
Yochana spoke hardly at all
to her mother during
or after dinner
and sat in the lounge
staring the the TV
glowering inwardly
each time her mother spoke
her father had spoken
about his work to his wife
but knew something
was in the air by the tension
what's up?
he said
Yochana said nothing
but looked at her spoon
she was eating with
his wife said
she'd been lying to me
who?
he asked
Yochana
she replied
about what?
he said gazing
at his daughter uneasily
about seeing a boy
his wife said
I expect she can't be off
seeing a boy
at school as about
50% are boys
he said
a particular boy
his wife said pointedly
and what was the lie?
he asked
she spoke to him
when I said not to
his wife said
what's wrong
with the boy
got the plague?
he said
his wife stared at him
he's a boy whom
she has kissed
she said
her father ate
his forkful of food
and didn't she
want to kiss him?
he said
having eaten
the mouthful
I don't care
if she wanted
to kiss him or not
but she did
o I see
he said gazing at Yochana
so she wanted
to kiss him
her father said
and was it
a good kiss Yochana?
he said
his wife was about to speak
when he held up his hand
Yochana can speak
for herself
he said
his wife bit her tongue
and stared at them both
Yochana stared at her father
we liked it
she replied to her father softly
taking in his eyes
which were warm
well there you are then
no harm done
he said
but she lied to me
about seeing him
his wife said angrily
how old are you
Yochana?
he asked
14 years old
she replied
gosh how old
you've become
he said
wasn't you that age
when you kissed me
Alma?
he said to his wife
and didn't you
enjoy it?
Alma looked him
then at her daughter
that's different
she said
how different?
he said
Alma looked at Yochana
my mother never said
I couldn't I never lied
Alma said
clutching at straws
her husband said
she hit me
Yochana said
her father stared at Alma
you hit her?
he said
yes she made me
angry with her lies
Adam dear
Alma said
there was a pause
he said
never again
raise a hand to her
she's my daughter too
and I will not
have her harmed
in anyway
Alma looked at him
then at Yochana
but said nothing
she ate her meal
there was silence
for a few moments
then Adam spoke
about his work
and how far he'd travelled
and Alma sat
looking and eating
and Yochana thought
of Benedict and the kiss
and his hold
and pretended
he was there
to keep away the cold.
Oct 21, 2015
Oct 21, 2015 at 2:03 AM UTC
one moment ago
every thing was fine
the starter was fine
the main exceptional
the conversation whilst
not exceptional held nuggets
of interest and hints of wit.
dessert came, looked scrumptious
but before fork hit pastry
it happened
something was said,
umbrage was taken
and now we all sit,
in the middle of a ferociously cold war,
my husband caught with
forkful between bowl and mouth
gulps loudly and places fork back on plate
apart from the two combatants,
everyonehas become interested in
the state of their shoes,
mine are in need of a polish.
and still the fury roils around.
i ask for the bill, pay our share
leaving the cash on the plate..
we are too old, too tired
to take part in what has become
some one elses public domestic
we grab some pastries to go..
and in a blink of an eye
we depart the field...
leaving the two sides blinking
Mar 16, 2018
Mar 16, 2018 at 7:18 AM UTC