"grater" poems
How to cook carrot salad
carrot wash and clean. Grate the carrots on a coarse grater. Apple wash and grate.
apple, honey and the juice of red currants. Also add the chopped parsley and crushed nuts. All well and carefully
mix. Sitemap salad.
sprinkle with citric acid and mix. Vegetables lay heaped sprinkle with grated cheese and chopped herbs
parsley. Sitemap salad.
Heck, Cook the fish and carrots. Fish and carrots on toast to cut pieces. Cleaned fish and carrots to put in
salad bowl. In a salad bowl add the peas. In add grated horseradish mayonnaise and season with the Sitemap sauce salad.
Oct 19, 2013
Oct 19, 2013 at 6:08 PM UTC
Come rest your weary
But lazy
Heads and hands
For just about a minute thirty
Under my shadow
That comes past noon.
Come sit on a stool,
Come sit on a bench,
Come lie down
On the cheese grater
And stare at the ridiculously clear blue skies
Of October.
I shall cause your mouths to overflow with words
As green as my leaves,
As tall as everything of me,
As harmful as my falling rotten fruits,
As deep as my root's embrace of the land,
And as cool and comforting as my shade.
For I am worthless
I only bear edible fruit
In the summer
When no one is around, and
My limbs tend to overflow to the halls and walls
So they severe it occasionally
And just dispose.
Ants create trails on my body
Traversing my height in spirals
So be careful not to come too close.
I am worthless
But for the times you spend with me.
Oct 13, 2013
Oct 13, 2013 at 11:59 AM UTC
My mother used to hate me. Shortly after she found out she was pregnant with me she started to hate me. She tried to get an abortion, but I wouldn't die. She tried to vacuum me out but I just wouldn't let go... She was late 5 days on her due day , 'cause i just wouldn't leave. She hated me all the way out of her ****** through the ****** and finally out. She hated breastfeeding me, she hated putting me to sleep and changing my diapers. She hated the day i said my first word, "mama", she cursed the day i started to walk. She hated going to my kindergarten recitals, she hated all the contests I won in grade school. As I finished the 8th grade, I left and I moved to a big city with my sister, for grater education and a better life. She didn't say a word before I left, nor the following weeks. Papa was crushed, she lived happily... Until one day, three months later. I was on my way to school, when, in front of the building I saw papa and her. She looked awful. As she saw me she started crying and ran to me. She hugged me and kissed me for minutes, as she kept saying "I love you so much...I'm so sorry...I missed you so much...". Papa said she didn't eat, she couldn't sleep for weeks and she was devastated. I went upstairs with them, I laid her on my bed and she fell asleep in my arms, shivering and whispering, with big tears running down her pale chin...She never woke up... I love you, mama...
DCimpean
2014
Dec 7, 2014
Dec 7, 2014 at 4:39 AM UTC
All the poems have wolves in it -- Jim Morrison
Man in bathtub with stony eyes
Water getting stiller in the cold, dead night
Hair long and soft as outstretched raven claws
Wilted fingers grip the lip with lifelike vigor
And then slip away
Naked wooden marionettes writhe
In dunes of ****** sawdust
Shedding skin like so much baggage
And baggage like so much skin
Cheese-grater screams on blank faces
Soon the forms are dust and then
The dust is gone
Inked fingers dipped in oft-repeated wisdoms
Picking little crippled words
And someone else's Lego bricks
Shine a light on the beautiful
Laugh at it
Sing to it
Grasp at it
Quit
Aug 2, 2013
Aug 2, 2013 at 9:45 AM UTC
It really gets under my skin the way I don't hear from you in a couple of days and I become this sullen, anxiety ridden mouse that burrows her nose in the pages of books, filling her mind with the troubles of made up characters so she doesn't have to deal with her own feelings and problems and life.
Is it possible to feel like a mouse and an elephant at the same time?
You make me feel so small while I fumble around and destroy anything with the smallest of movements.
I hate missing you.
It's like my heart is fighting a cheese grater.
Yes. A cheese grater.
I try so hard not to even think about you sometimes I'm sure everyone can just see it on my face.
But I try.
I write. I talk to other guys, even though I find them so dull I want to throw personalities at them and pray it hurts.
I have so many more actual life problems that are right here, screaming in my face.
I need to focus on school.
But I'm missing you.
I need to lose these extra 10 pounds.
But I'm wallowing and missing you.
I need to finish that scarf I started knitting ages ago.
Stop.
I don't have time to miss you.
There are books I haven't read yet
and recipes I haven't tried and people I haven't met and places I haven't seen.
But I'm wanting your arms around me.
And I know this doesn't even make sense.
But I'm missing you.
Jan 4, 2014
Jan 4, 2014 at 3:42 AM UTC
I believe in Garri
The holy son of Africa
Who was conceived by our toils
Born of the ****** Cassava
Suffered under the grater
Was suffocated in bags, died and buried
He descended into hell
On the third day he arose
And is now seated on the Centre of the frying ***
I belive in Garri
The savior of the lives
The defender of the weak
And the universal mother of all
Apr 14, 2016
Apr 14, 2016 at 3:57 PM UTC
saying **** off* seems so much more
easier when you're petting cats....
they just say it for you...
there he is, Quarus,
the operatic singer nearing sunset,
200 variations of a mulling of meow,
i end up calling him Orbison Rufus,
the ginger Roy of Peckham -
he basically meows lazily like Roy
singing... as said / i.d. (id est): the umbras
or umbrellas - counting the shadows'
version of Apache's yawn: ah-woo ah-woo
ah-woo nagging the reflex...
gave them the yawn and gave them 1950s
America... Billy the Kid talking to the king of
Specs... hank marvin.... cheese grater
with those teeth... dozen cows buckling with
the herding in while the dog carved a feel
for religion in the translation of the Vatican
from coliseum into football requirements...
the movies were great in the 1950s, just after
the technicolour... petting cats was never such a thrill...
the operatic meow, onomatopoeia from echo
in a cave to knock-on-wood...
200 variations of the knock
and 12 whiskey shots downed
while playing poker... 12 cowboys
1 Milwaukee and 30 Turks... classic Tarantino...
i said the Apache yawn... i never said giving
out smoke signals...
Quarus my ginger is demanded as having laughed...
he's Roy Orbison with the meow,
pretty much lazy...
looks like a murmur when he tries singing,
pretty woman, trolling down the street,
Gucci, Chanel, and everything in the scrapheap of lobotomy,
as is Paris necessarily mentioned: chiselled
white collars... Roy knew before Elvis...
the trick came with sunglasses,
and the gluttonous slur of the half-opened mouthing
for subsequent mouthing it off...
no amount of cheese in French could ever
charter the success of the cheeses added to cheeseburgers
with the milkshakes, which were plainly Dutch
laughing cows named Novices....
quick-melts and some said:
dreadlocks of string-yellow Gouda pulled
for a hippies' worth of Chinese chugging down
a pint or two, for worth of gag and the slim mascot;
the Chinese never taught Cannes arithmetic
of the thumb through to pinky...
i don't know how they taught counting
with their complex ideograms, they never taught
arithmetic give their encoding...
they taught pure math.. they never taught the simplest
of assurances... meaning so few of them became bankers.
Aug 15, 2016
Aug 15, 2016 at 11:21 PM UTC
where you are a soft hum
in my chest he was a riptide,
a cheese grater swallowed
whole, the fifth sunburn
of the summer. you are
the breeze on a rainy
morning but i can't
love your hands the way
i did his why can't i love
your hands the way i did his
May 6, 2015
May 6, 2015 at 4:30 AM UTC
The black little letters
Fall off the black block of a word grater
Inbetween the holes
Are the slices of the ink splattered
They pile on a plates platter
And a story forms the matter
Food for a face fatter
A paragraph buffet scattered
Have a seat and flll with laughter
It's a recipe for actors
Each scene a new chapter
Stirring in the plots factors
Little black letters
Walk across a books chedder
And you'll remember not to forget her
All her words rendered
Cooking in warmths splendor
Each page read was a new ember
Igniting the next pages paper
Fire in an authors blender
A purree of black letters
Drinks a tall glass of readers
Mouth breathers fill theaters
And spend millions to see her
Little black letters
Falling of the scripts
And entering gutters
They drain into alphabet ocean
And wait for a new arranged stoich
He dont know it but these
Words will find their way into the poet
And on this page I show it
Oct 15, 2018
Oct 15, 2018 at 11:58 PM UTC
He just broke
right
down
Lips pushed up against the speaker
leaning up against my heart
I tried to crawl into the phone
but the holes were too small
and here we are now
feeling like we both went through a cheese grater
and no body said 'when'
when the waiter came.
It spreads, it pops,
and the blister hangs dry
stinging like a *****
so you can't quite put your foot down
Well, neither can I
so let's tie our ankles together
and we'll wander on like kid foot races
lean on me
lean on you
lean on me
lean on you
see, we'll make it forward
that shining city is just three years away
we'll be together
just remember
the first aid kit
Jun 22, 2013
Jun 22, 2013 at 10:18 AM UTC
I've never met Andy Rooney. So I can't truthfully say I know Mr. Rooney. But you can't help forming an opinion after watching him on 60 Minutes for more years than I care to admit.
First, Andy's opinionated. Well, who wouldn't be if they were paid, presumably well, given an entire week to collect and share their thoughts with millions of viewers, and on any matter that rankled you that week!
Second, Andy has Svengali eye brows that you just can't take your eyes off. I'm sure CBS provides Andy free barbering, as sure as I am that he tells the barber, "Nothing off the brows."
Third, how many times has Andy told his audience not to send him things. After which he dips into a cardboard box and pulls out a cheese grater, a bible printed on playing cards, or a logo baseball cap?
Andy, don't worry; I got the message.
Is my minute up yet?
Fourth, Andy's hand shakes. Not unusual for a man his age. It's not likely to happen, but I wouldn't mind shaking that hand just once.
Jan 5, 2011
Jan 5, 2011 at 9:23 PM UTC
I saw you. I fell in love.
A bit of a cliche,
but such is life.
Only I didn't really fall in love
when I saw you, it was gradual.
In terms of absence, that is, one day
I suddenly noticed you were not there
(I was able to distinguish how empty
the world was without you in it).
This arrow flew a long time,
which only means that it hit
with grater strength.
You see, this is not love on a whim.
When I see you I don't think "I fell",
rather I flap my arms, taste the fear,
and think "Why the hell I don't stop falling?".
Dec 27, 2017
Dec 27, 2017 at 9:57 PM UTC
The frumpy ragamuffin is discombobulated
And throws together an out fit
She dawns a fur coat in the middle of July
And begins to eat Alpo
She exfoliates her feet with a cheese grater
The top notch tuba player with a hook for a hand suffers from bed sores and an over active pituitary gland
I ask him what the difference is between reasons and excuses
He seems to be dancing around the question
But answers in a round about way
Implying that one is organic and natural while the other is genetically modified and man made
It's zero hour
As I look at the broken coo coo clocks
And the rainbow colored rocks
The ragamuffin presumptuously tells me that no one benefits from doubt
Then calls my friend a bed wetter
And tells us she must go to feed her Venus flytraps
She storms back towards her laboratory
I wonder what she could possibly do in there
I'm dying to know
I'm on the edge of my seat
With one foot in the grave
The tuba player returns wrapped in an electric blanket
He tells us he's just suffered from sleep paralysis
"It's a dead zone, can't get a signal"
He goes on to say that blind faith is is a stepping stone to the truth
A game of William Tell, a stab in the dark
A round of Blind man's bluff with Marco Polo
Testing the waters is a building block of wisdom
And a clean bill of health is corner stone of a happy life
That you have to pay for out of pocket when playing the field
And we are the choices we've made incarnate
Now, the ragamuffin and the tuba player come once more
To tell us the mind is as incorruptible as the soul
But the body will bow to time and wither away
They then walk backwards, back to where ever they came
Jun 8, 2014
Jun 8, 2014 at 8:52 PM UTC
February 8th, 2018 - 11:06pm. In. An. The. How much deeper will this go? This desert. This baron land and escape from the moonlit evenings’ effervescent engineering of short-lived Neanderthals. These voices are enough to split our hides through and through like an cheese grater, that pants-boots combo chases us into the early morning forecast. I need to get out with her. We need to get out from here. We need to go out from this place. There are hexes and hieroglyphs places matte with ill-defined Finnish designs. There is the yolk and that which copies it. There is the phone and the web of tangling eyes whose corpus is mimicry. I am the notes and the music is taking me down, down, down. Whether it’s our dreams or the sweats that keep us ratcheting our bodies beaten eyes hooked to the cadavers we once chose. Now it’s up to you to choose. This is the fuse that we’ve let loose, maybe your furnace can curtsy and observe these sad blackened buffoons while they make us shrivel up and go hide back in our bed cocoons. This is a zoo I tell you and you tell me. This is a zoo of mayhem, hedonists, and 400° degrees. These are the tiny beds we hide in until they melt us down, into the heirs of our highness, our luxuries quick to abscond.
Feb 9, 2018
Feb 9, 2018 at 6:55 AM UTC
Sitting here, waiting
Which is basically the equivalent
Of grating
My forehead
Against a cheese grater.
For seconds minutes hours.
Soon, there'll be nothing left,
I'll be an empty shell of myself.
My bored tired pieces scattered all across the floors
As I wait
and wait
and wait
For something that I really should've ignored.
Aug 26, 2023
Aug 26, 2023 at 2:02 AM UTC
I am not pink lace and bony knees
I am not please and thank you
I am now and because I said so
I am ripped jeans and skinned knees
I am not a thin wafer
I am a loud tongue
my body has never once been a temple
I am a volcano erupting at random intervals
I burn everything I touch
some are born with a silver spoon in their mouth
I was born with a hunger
for something I have yet to taste
I have never been meek
A proper lady
A lamb
I am harsh worded
I speak like a grater
I leave bruises and burns
I am a sinkhole
And if you're not careful
I will swallow you up
Mar 16, 2014
Mar 16, 2014 at 5:47 PM UTC
I have no cheese grater
to grate my Salzburg cheese
so I shall not be having grated cheese
for I have no grater to grate my Salzburg cheese
if I had a grater to grate my cheese
then I could have grated Salzburg cheese
Jul 28, 2013
Jul 28, 2013 at 5:42 AM UTC
Emotion
It's taking me over
Ripping me apart
Piecing me together
But it isn't the same
The glue doesn't fill in the
Cracks and the tiniest
Of fragments can't be
Replaced
Like a broken glass
That you once loved
That you once would have
Given anything to
Restore
But it's gone,
Just like me
Poetry
I ******* hate it
I don't know why,
I couldn't ever really tell you
Why exactly
But there's a part of me that
Wishes I never
Rode this train
Never danced with words
Or documented these thoughts
I don't want
To look back on these
Stanzas, or whatever they are
And cry
I know I will
Years from now,
I will
Change
I need it so desperately
And yet I'm so afraid
So bottled up on the inside
Caged heart, caged mind
Wall after wall
In life? I'm a *****
Cold hard, rock solid
Ice for words
I'm relentless
I don't care about
Anything
Because I can't
If I did, I would simply
Die
Of heartache
Honesty
It breaks me
A cheese grater to
My skin
Muscle to bone
No one sees
No one notices
What I've turned into
After your death
Yeah, I said it
I ******* said it
You're gone and I think that
I left with you
Why didn't you just
Take me with you?
Death
I don't want it
At all
I don't want to experience
It and I don't want to
Watch it happen
And I don't want to
Feel the seconds escape
And I don't want to admit
That everything
Beautiful
Is impermanent.
Music
Flows through me
And I've never written
Anything without
My good friend
Mozart
Because I don't think
I could do anything
Without him
Don't be fooled by my
Tough exterior
I don't listen to metal
Because inside?
I'm mush
Loneliness
Is the only real
Company I've ever had
I don't exactly see
Eye to eye with the world
It's more like
Eye to fist
Or eye to throat
I'm not sure which
I don't think it matters
Either way
At the end of
The day
It's still
Just me
Dec 6, 2010
Dec 6, 2010 at 7:09 PM UTC
It is important to add just enough
of the lemon skin:
Too little and the cake is crushingly sugary sweet;
without the sharp texture that tickles the back of my throat
and brings on the threat of a sneeze.
Too much and the tiny yellow pieces-
like gold, like garnets, like tiny crystallized pieces of the sun,
like summer -my youth-
can overwhelm all else with the sharpness of tears, sour and bitter.
Smell is the sense
Most closely related to our memories
It should be sight -
I can teach my eyes to see anything.
I grind the lemon carefully against the grater
releasing summer in a rush of yellow
too heady for me.
and stare out the window through the pane.
If I focus hard enough, I can pretend I see
your suitcase was only a briefcase
as you hurried down the path,
and the giant lemon tree in the front yard
was budding soft white stars of scent.
But the smell of golden pith springing from the grater
prompts the memory of pendulous fruit dropping to the ground instead –
the wanton tree already ********** for spring’s touch.
The grater grinds against my knuckles
a drop of blood falls into the batter.
I am reminded again that
only the best fruit will hang too close to the thorns,
only the theft that is given makes us bleed.
Nov 29, 2014
Nov 29, 2014 at 9:31 PM UTC
The first time I saw
Betty Grater swoon
and heard Ms Arnault sigh
in expectation
I knew I had found the answer
that all young men seek
Instead of good looks
and the scent of money
I realized that the tippled sound of Thomas,
the piston drive of Cummings,
or shroud and mystery of Rimbaud
could accomplish what fumbling
postures never could
They could make a button come
undone and stay that way
part a leg and have it
remain languid
see an arm brushed
and not pulled back
Ah, but women are not
so easily wooed
You see, poetry is but a beginning
once is never sufficient
and Cyrano found
he was forced to return
and return
to keep those fires burning
Soon you discover it is not enough
to merely sing another’s tune
and you must learn the art
whose muse is not so
easily tamed
So the new poems to Emily or Mary Lou
are steeped in ignorance, stumbling tongue
and emotion that knows only extreme
a Dickinson hodgepodge of flowers,
spring-rain and metaphor trampled
by testosterone expectation
And as these women grow
you discover the magic is fading
that they have learned these lures
and their virtue will not part quite so easy
Ah, but art is ever inventive
and for those hard to dissemble
there are the more obscure songs
of Baudelaire, Jefferson and Yeats
these will free even the firmest
of corset-strung objections
But to truly reach the promised land
there is need to create one’s own
to wrestle the evening with nature’s muse
and tease a line between the sheets
Then, if you've still a mind
you can glance to see
if her clothes have been shed
But the sad and beautiful truth
is that poetry’s muse will suffer no others
rarely will that graceful form stay the course
she will leave to find yet another
that can keep them
coming
May 17, 2013
May 17, 2013 at 12:28 PM UTC
The wind blows through my stale hair.
My breaths are tight as I adjust to the new weight.
When did I last eat?
who knows...
I feel my stomach,
I don't even have to **** in
to feel my ribs
and other inner things.
These pants used to be tight
but look they're baggy,
a sign of accomplishment.
Look at me
I'm looking frail
I feel so skinny
I feel so beautiful.
The hungrier I am
the happier I am,
the more I feel one day
I will be okay to look at.
My body tells me to eat,
eat everything in sight
keep eating
and once you're full
eat some more
and more
even when you're burst
and your innards trail the floor,
it's best to keep eating,
even when you hate the taste.
It's always on my mind,
the hunger never stops,
so as long as I feel hungry,
I'll sew my mouth shut so
maybe one day it will end.
The hungrier I am,
the happier I am.
No one will ever call me fat again
they'll never say I'm ugly,
I'll never cry again
so long as I don't look in that mirror.
Because today,
I feel so skinny,
I'm starving and ill
but it's okay because I'm getting pretty.
I threw up that
and I threw up this
but it's okay because I'm getting pretty.
I either eat everything
or eat nothing at all,
all or nothing
my brain won't accept anything else.
But it's okay because
I can't remember when I last ate,
and I feel my ribs
and I'm skinny and-
I look in the mirror
and I'm still so fat.
So I'll sit down and cry
and workout some more.
Tempted to take a grater
and peel the fat off layer by layer.
Because fat isn't pretty,
and skinny is.
Apr 21, 2014
Apr 21, 2014 at 3:18 AM UTC
We're humans being humans,
together.
Inspiration from your kiss,
it's leaking from your lips.
Distant eye contact with a woman ******* on a lollipop,
staring at identical twins sharing an umbrella,
punch your legs until you fall asleep.
This life is losing its charm:
dying is the best idea you've ever had.
Ignoring your silence as I scream
you fade into nothing, you're my adolescent dream.
Burying a body to it's neck
you paint the face and
sprinkle dirt on the remains of the rotting life.
Darkness,
or something more?
fifty bricks to the head
cheese grater to the teeth
****** gums and cheeks
crossed arms and a pile of dried out pens
scalp scratched into nothing
a dry desire and an empty mouth full of empty words.
A suicide note scribbled in a composition book
it used to be your journal
but the pain of writing got old
and you needed the time to sleep.
Names dissolve from importance to nothing.
Reflecting from the shadows and burnt out veins
I still believe in those painted remains.
Jan 18, 2011
Jan 18, 2011 at 11:41 AM UTC
Looking out unto the sunset as you slowly graze my thighs is like a hypnosis you are performing , You are holding my heart and don't even know the power you have obtained. The lust that I am forced to hold back because of the romance you have shown me with your eyes is grater then the fires of heaven and I'm Longing for the moment I can burn your soul into submission of my love. An unspoken meant to be..
(LEFT IN NEWORLEANS)
Dec 29, 2015
Dec 29, 2015 at 12:48 PM UTC
I knew of a girl
in a little green sweater
her eyes were bright
just like the weather
she came from a sunny place but
I slowly learned her insides were more of the rainy type
she said she had the emotional health of a cheese grater
I never really knew what to make of that-
it could be taken so many ways
but what I did know was
she was strong, soft, bold, and outspoken
she might've felt flimsy like aluminum and full of holes,
glass with little cracks to seep through,
but to me she was solid titanium that could shred through anything,
diamond with dangerous piercing points
Jun 13, 2018
Jun 13, 2018 at 1:42 AM UTC