"grinder" poems
lady craighead played the blues
on a stand-up samick
in the ***** room
along side the parsons project
and squabbling dogs
and night moves
stairs creek
up the mezzanine trek
wool sheets slide
on finished floors
little angels
play late into the seventh
(a closing match nearing
the midnight hour)
croaking toads and cicada
sing in the blue moon
musty smells and mothballs
settle deep in the vault
the kettle boils
and cat coils
as the pump house rolls
its heavy drawl
the red phone rings
and bird clock sings
(behind the ruddy stall)
a sleeman variation of the ruy lopez
employed heartily
by the incomparable master jack
marble toast burning
wringer wash churning
chris craft running
near the old carp canoe
rooster calls
and west wind squalls
rustle through the porch screen door
chicken *** pies
and rogue flies linger
a rocker chair placed
near the sepia face
(softened by the intricate frame)
donkey in tow
(with a fastened ***
maggie in her dreams
of green tambourines
the nocturnes
reflections
and whispering gospel bells
tractors pull on
the grinder stone
horses lay still
in the mid-day sun
a trump card is fingered
at the furnace click
(crosswords and puzzles are next!)
while the sparrow
*and that **** rabid fox*
are drowning
deep in castles well
Mar 14, 2017
Mar 14, 2017 at 10:20 PM UTC
Katie Price
Had a collection
Of last season's
Brassieres
Which she indexed
With the help
Of a sincere
Bilingual reindeer
Dressed in spandex
Who for some reason
Was single.
Taxonomy
Is so important to me
Said Katie.
So they were labelled
And kept in taxis
At disused angle grinder factories
Near the Tower of Babel
So posterity
Would be able
To analyse
The finer points
Of her physiognomy.
Quite an unusual praxis
And something of an anomaly
For someone like me
Wouldn't you agree?
Cross my heart
And hope to die
I agree.
May 9, 2014
May 9, 2014 at 2:42 PM UTC
Take it out the bag
Pick the seeds out
Put it in the grinder
Gring it up
Sprinkl it on the paper
Roll it up
Lick it
Light it
Puff
Puff
Pass it to the next guy
Body goes numb
Head starts spinning
Giggle
Giggle
Then you eat
And eat
And eat
And eat
Then you pass out
Most fun you can have
Only thing that makes it better
Is ***
But I'm done with all that
I gave it all up
I'm clean
Got to admit
It's fun though
Dec 24, 2013
Dec 24, 2013 at 7:25 PM UTC
As I was laying in my bed, I noticed my eyes straining.
I wasn't blinking, so they were pretty dry at this point.
I reached into my night stand drawer,
pushed aside my grinder and grabbed the cure.
Eye drops.
I ******* off the cap, grabbed my left eye and up with the bottle.
As the pressure was building from my light squeeze, a glistening ball appeared at the tip.
The cure.
And then, it
dropped.
Causing a refreshing blur.
I looked up and moved my eye around…
and around before placing my eyes to the
floor.
Disregarding,
the floating woman at my door.
Jan 4, 2015
Jan 4, 2015 at 2:04 PM UTC
Dazed.
The stars never seemed so far away
Lying with hopelessness sleeping next to my pillow
In the arms of seclusion, still I lay
After a long night we formed a *********
No strength to pray
Withing my carapace
I inquire a reason
Of why I'm so numb
Where is my lighter?
Concealing my pain
Where is my grinder?
When life is like a sudden rush of fresh air to
A raging set of flames
Savagely searching for an euphoria
But it's the impossible to maintain
Longing for an escape
Only in sweet serenity
But when 5 fingers deadly hugs your heart
& wrings out your
Innocence, happiness, and tranquility
You are forced to watch them leak
Decrepit
Reaching for a lighter to blaze the leaf
Because in the sober mind
You Are Weak
No that is me.
So I begin to pollute my temple
Taking it all into my bloodstream
With the exhale of a breath
In the mist of a cloud
I release my exhaustion
My emotion and my temper
Enhancing my inner being suddenly,
I know with facts that I am steel
Making it through another dreadful night
My wounds are temporarily healed
But
When there was no soul to console
No arms to hold
No pen to make art
No illumination from the dark
Only the flame that I flick
Which forms so beautifully &
Dances in front of my eyes
Offended that beauty could destroy so ruthlessly
A killer in disguise
Or ruthlessly be destroyed
In this life full of void
Consumed by the misery of all the screams
All the noise
When the Sun's job is done, it hides from the World
Full of hatred and pity
Another night comes
Captive in these four walls
No where to run
Now I'm forced to look at how far I've come
I could have died in insanity
Arson my soul
Plead guilty of ******
A Killer Upfront
If I had not match all those nights with all those blunts
Copy Right 2013
©Patty Ann
Oct 21, 2013
Oct 21, 2013 at 5:08 PM UTC
Curtains, veils of virtual vice
So, gaze through the ****** intermix
of positional latency,
nano-notions lost in frantic phantasm,
requisites of an idle, unhealed mind.
Draw the virtual screen curtains open,
bring forth the lustful images to
feed the circuitous appetite, lurking
front-row-presence, at the keys.
Unknown, undertones
of desirability, poses in patient wait,
online implication of fallen ways,
predication of unveiling moments.
As any-time-porn pours its spill
of sickest gratification behind
the curtain tab selective viewing.
It is someone’s child the glides on rails
of drawn conclusions, through windows
where drapes of cyber mindlessness
hang on dank walls of seedy buildings.
The ***** grinder always plays the tune
to which monkeys happily dance,
in a world where Neanderthals hang out,
unperturbed with new technology.
May 22, 2012
May 22, 2012 at 9:44 AM UTC
I sat behind the barricade between the street, the bar, and the park overlooking that glistening pause-asteric of the water... my phone was clamped closed at zero battery life so I was alone with the city and the city was alone with me. as subtly as I could, I pulled my pipe from the bottom of my over-encumbered backpack satiated with 6 books (and they tell me knowledge is power, but they'll probably just drive me insane with question after question after question because the study of the world is one in which the brain falls victim to exponential growth 2, 4, 8, 16, 32, 64, 128, 256)
MY SKULL ISN'T BIG ENOUGH
I couldn't find my grinder, so I tore the bud by hand. More than half a nug was spent, pushed solid in place like a **** mound about to reach apocalyptic ****** thanks to the soft clitoral bonfire of a red Bic lighter.
blaze, set, and fade til you rise again
little stoner boy.
Jun 7, 2017
Jun 7, 2017 at 2:45 PM UTC
I sometimes I get this feeing as though I was being forced into a meat grinder.
Urged to remove my fat only to spit out chunks of blood and bone instead.
The cracking, clicking snaps of marrow that exudes from it like wastage.
The fat engorging through the tiny weeping holes.
All I can see is the repetitive nature of damage leaking from this abstraction and I feel it in my flesh.
Crawling like tiny bugs, entrapping themselves and eroding their bodies into the hair on my skin.
Uncultivated; I have fallen into the funnel hooked up to the grinder and I feel its body churn me.
It thrusts its cold metal exterior against my lean limbs; ticking.
I try to form a response when all the while this loud heavy machine is echoing against the walls, making my voice utterly meaningless.
Like ground beef I am belched out only to be covered in a plastic film that pushes all the oxygen from it.
I am stuck in this silhouette, shaped as a slab of meat.
Nov 1, 2014
Nov 1, 2014 at 6:53 PM UTC
Turn the wheel into the sun. Forget the stars. Forget the wind. Forget the way the waves are weeping. I am not coming home.
We are never again what we once were. And I am not sorry for it.
Some of them end before the music can even start. And we are left somehow, like monks, pinching book spines like vertebrae. Seeing if we can find our ability to
Stand.
Up.
In words.
Most days.
I am only words.
But some days, I am more.
Some days, the thought of those ivory temples run me up masts..
I am stretched out. Arms wide. Accepting the storm. Ragged.
(Stronger for it. Unafraid to unravel more.)
Inventing time. Investing it back.
Some days. I am yards of cloth, fighting history.
And when my sea is calm:
Puff your cheeks and blow on my spine.
For motion.
I am still.
I am calm.
I am still calm.
I am still calmly waiting.
It's worth mentioning that we never made love.
Now. Everything is different.
I am listening to an ***** grinder, playing my heart on his sleeve. Taking light from my future and shedding it on my past. Saying, "What happened? Where did you go?"
And I try to answer back but find my throat dry and only able to mutter, "I can't feel you, Lord. I can't feel you."
Some days I am lost.
Is it fair, when asked what happened, to say, "She did. Calliope happened to me."?
Start the music. Let the carousel turn. I am not coming home.
Is it fair to say that I am better now. But not always better for it.
I am walking a tightrope of strength and..
Something else. Something else entirely.
Now, I am tired. I am at a loss for words. I am sinking into the oldest crimes in the oldest ways and creating my own wooden chest. You are on it. Carved. Etched. Playing in my mind like laughter on the really cold days. Your fingerprints matching the grain. A petal for each flower I picked trying to fix it.
And this is how it will end. It was this way before it even began. When we found our faults on the back of each others lips with our tongues.
Thank you for teaching me the opposite side of love.
And this is how I will end it.
I will be words. And action. And learn to touch with passion. Learn to make love, like sounds strung together. Masterful. Seamless. As to seem less important. like lyrics. Like an aria. Rising and falling like tides to my mast. Lips pressed and cheeks puffed. And arms outstretched like a horizon to sail into.
And all wonderful happy lies.
I will be more. In hopes of forgetting that briefly.. I once more allowed myself to be less.
And found my self wondering, If it was me who slipped through your fingers... or you who slipped through mine...
I once allowed myself to seem less.
I guess...
I just needed to get you off my chest.
Dec 31, 2013
Dec 31, 2013 at 12:44 PM UTC
at what point in your life do you realize the futility of chasing the elusive
acknowledging all your past love stories are tragedies
stillborns, held briefly, remembered daily, for the rest of your life
to meet the paragon that matches your impossible list of requirements
the odds are against you, possible, just highly improbable
to find the unicorn on a merry-go-round of painted, wooden horses
mindlessly, repeating the cycle, searching for the one, in a universe of stars
how many times must you be pulverized in the online emotional meat grinder
craving the unconditional love, acknowledgment, validation of prince charming
to be kissed, caressed, cherished by the bad boy on the harley
romantic love is a dangerous illusion, a mirage in the desert, la fata morgana in your heart
Mar 11, 2019
Mar 11, 2019 at 5:58 PM UTC
Two inches was the measure, of young Stevies blunder,
Digging out concrete, not knowing whats under.
He felt a nugget, that wouldn't yield to the Pick,
So he used the Jack-Hammer, until he got that "kick".
Caught fire on the spot, looked at me, shocked,
Died in flames, got a days pay docked.
Cut the main cable, Fifty millimetres, metric,
I know you hate to ask, but Friends aren't Electric.
Dennis stepped back, pleased with his graft,
Fell two hundred foot, down an unguarded shaft.
Been on the Grinder, cutting out steels,
So the Elevator boys could fix , their cogs and their wheels.
Never said a word, no shout or no fuss,
Dennis died like he lived, just one of us.
Me and Baz on a roof, we knew was asbestos,
Brittle like toffee, temperamental as Kate Moss,
Had no crawling boards, so we tip-toed like burglars,
Clinging on tightly, think Ivy on Pergola's.
I heard the crack, leapt to the hip-tile,
Baz clawed and scraped, resistance was futile.
They spread out the sand, where Baz hit the deck,
To mop up the blood, from a broken neck.
Health and safety, if's and but's,
Shoddy workmanship, taking short-cuts.
We have no say, we try our best,
Hard hats, harder boots and high-visibility vests,
Are all that we leave, not Time-Shares or Merc's,
Just daughters in tears, Dads not home from work.
Jan 31, 2016
Jan 31, 2016 at 11:03 AM UTC
A continent's scout
That once touched Pacific sands,
Has on the Natchez Trace
Taken his life at Grinder's Stand.
Such the news the Chickasaw
Agent bore
Telling President Jefferson
The great scout Meriwether Lewis
Is no more.
Five years prior, you were commissioned
To a quest,
Mr. Jefferson sending you forth
To explore the core of a new nation's
Enigmatic west.
The Mandan's song still warbles
In your ears,
While the mighty Missouri's current
Still rushes through your tears.
And now, on a porch of a tavern
In west Tennessee,
You look back in that direction
That has ever seduced thee--
You cannot seem to shake him--
That black dog of lassitude--
That murderous hell-hound what has
Shadowed you across majestic
American longitudes.
His image is there, in the polish
Of your piece
With every throb of your head
His moan ebbs at your peace.
During the journey, Clark was always
There to help stay the hound...
Knew how to handle him,
Knew how to keep him bound.
Perhaps that is why you are looking west
This time around.
Not for something new,
That, you have found.
No, you are simply looking yonder for
Someone to **** this **** hound.
May 23, 2017
May 23, 2017 at 11:28 PM UTC
I have vowed to no more eat that which harms,
And to the best of my abilities,
I do so.
I see no difference between the cat you pet
And the lamb you slaughter.
I see no difference between the dog you play with
And the calf you tear from its mother.
I see no difference between the pet birds in cages
And the male chicks thrown in the grinder at birth;
They will produce no eggs, we have no use for their lives.
I believe it is not the role of man
To deem whom should retain their lives
And whom should die for a moments self-gratification.
Vegetarianism is wonderful,
Every little bit helps; less humans eating meat,
means reduced CO2 emmissions
and less world wide poverty,
The grain that could feed a hundred hungry mouths
Is not used to produce single burger patty,
For a single peckish man.
But drinking the milk of a cow,
Eating cheese and eggs
All contributes directly to the meat industry.
Dairy industry is veal industry;
Dairy industry; milk, eggs, cheese all supports and prolongs the practice
Of killing and eating children.
You ask that we respect your choices;
but you do not understand that your "choices",
Your learned eating habits,
Your probing questions of "what do you eat then?!"
And your arguments of "But meat just tastes so good"
Are directly offensive to all we stand for,
And all we fight against.
To me, arguing that the taste of meat,
Makes the living conditions of these animals ok,
Is a kin to the argument that slavery is fine,
Because the work gets done quicker if you can use a whip.
It is a kin to the idea that **** isn't that bad,
Because it at least feels good for the ******
It is a kin to the comment that women are inferior,
Because men could beat them in a fist fight.
You will instantly think I am radical in my views,
You will try to brush them off as the rantings of a crazed vegan
Or you will stop reading
Because you really do not want to see what I have to say.
But I give you only the truth as i plainly see it.
If you must eat meat,
Hunt for it and **** it yourself,
Let it live a real life first,
And respect that for you to eat,
It has died.
Dec 5, 2013
Dec 5, 2013 at 5:34 PM UTC
mwanamke
mwanamke
birth my dreams
turn my shadow
into firing flash
anoint me in gold
mwanamke
say my name
warm my wings
in the shell
of your hands
emakumea
emakumea
patient grinder
time carer
you grow silence
in the lit wood
in the cradling lull
emakumea
i forget
unaware
i walk ahead
emakumea
you accept to linger
emegtei
emegtei
i am no more
the scout the hunter
i dream of my gold
you throw into the fire
what's left
from your feathers
nārī
nārī
mirror for me
the story of then
be my water flow
nārī
this tide
in your eyes
nārī
is it
the intangible you
Dec 20, 2014
Dec 20, 2014 at 7:02 PM UTC
if these ties of cupid
however with hearsay were stupid
that she'd complicate her nature
where her ensemble was audacious
but round a hearth with her nomad
as beast were her shillings
there was her but again wore attire
so attractive but as frozen
and heartily felt as her gait was thrilling
left her gander with grinder eaten.
Jul 22, 2017
Jul 22, 2017 at 6:50 AM UTC
Prompt: Persona describes the place he or she fell out of love with another.
You wouldn’t stop chewing with your mouth open.
All I could focus on were the bits of damp burger and bun,
rolling around in your mouth.
It reminded me of the way meat looked at a butcher’s shop
after it had been run through a grinder, so deformed from
its original shape, you’d never know what it used to be.
You also wouldn’t stop talking with food in your mouth.
Sometimes I was afraid that if you said a ‘p’ word too forcefully,
the soggy remains of your food would find their way to my face.
But perhaps the thing that annoyed me most,
was the way you made a gulping sound with every sip you took,
slurping away at your refreshment like a child.
It was at that very moment, between our meal of Whoppers and fries,
that I couldn’t take it anymore. Disgusted I shot up, announcing we were through.
I walked away so I wouldn’t have to let you have the chance to defend yourself.
May 15, 2011
May 15, 2011 at 7:46 PM UTC
**** the solution that doesn't solve you, a systematic break down of years gone by
this troublesome dialect between ******** branches of human consiousness rotting you from the inside
bred to believe in the maginificance of your race, attach a cross and spit in the face of any religious intervention that takes place
Killing in the name of your own blind-sided distrust, you seek familiariity and are robustly unjust
no matter however, because they are all like you, blind, unkind and groping just like a pedaphile at the zoo.
So let the darkness take your health, as you chase its dreams of promises and wealth
you will die alone and unfullfilled unless you stop and wonder
why oh why is this place ******* me in the *** and taking my spirit through the preverbial meat grinder
Jan 2, 2013
Jan 2, 2013 at 3:03 PM UTC
Gunmetal Christmas socks pulled
past the calf like go-getter high school
girls "rocking" rainbow ******** below
the belt loops. I never went a day
without seeing short shorts and socks
replacing pant legs with a gap at the knee
to breathe. Downplay X-mas with black
jeans thinning 'bove the knees. I guess
it's payback for all the surly Santas
paid per nervous child lapdance
that got ******* out of $1.50
because I walked away.
For all the St. Nicks breathing pressurized
bourbon on little kids' wishlists.
Thread through a burgundy belt frayed
by the buckle teeth. And I'm sure this is really
burgundy, probably the only burgundy I never
questioned much, unless the manufacturer's
lying to me. Unless it's really a flexible case
for wild circuits and tiny open mics in bars
going on 'round the clock. Not just Tuesdays.
Fiber optics around my waist transmitting
telephone transmissions and cybernetic ****
monitoring my hips and what my **** does.
And my thoughts; they're ******* taking
my thoughts. Precious poetry lines lost
to the scarcity of pens in my car, when I'll
shave next, whether or not I want a burr grinder,
if I'll break glasses at work and have to drink
the glitters like iced tea from the hardwood floor.
Maybe I'll cut my gums. Maybe my tongue'll
become a chandelier butterfly and carry
me to Coudersport or Elmira or Nowhere
to watch pregnant teenagers push flat-tire
shopping carts heroin-shaking in the newborn
section. Their babies are spitting up Gerber plans
Mom has never considered. Baby's just a rock rolling
down the birth canal that may someday end up
a boulder in a state park.
Dec 31, 2014
Dec 31, 2014 at 4:18 PM UTC
~Bio-recycling biography
about nothing, really
Green Bin outside
the front door
yawning occasionally,
patiently waiting
for Friday;
big
Bio-recycling day.
City
of
Toronto,
metropolitan bio-by-law.
Green Boxes
of the neighbourhood
standing
like soldiers
on the sidewalks
of the metropolis
expecting professionals
to empty their insides.
Bones
cooked for hours
to make the best
chicken noodle soup,
the remedy for every ill.
Rotting remnants
of family banquettes,
over the whole week,
potato peels for the best
potato salad,
secret grandmother's recipe.
Egg-shell colour
colours the interior decorator;
last tomato of the season.
Pity,
spaghettini,
spaghetti
sauce
dreams.
Coffee grinds.
Stainless steel
espresso machine
sighs
******** fireworks
remembering
the coffee grinder.
Tangerine, orange peel
freshly peeled
still pines for Florida.
Stop yawning, Green Bin,
tomorrow
is Friday.
Oct 14, 2010
Oct 14, 2010 at 2:08 PM UTC
**** head
Sedilia smile
move inches
Talk for a mile
Wontcha walk for a while,
Wontcha walk for a while
I’m dead
silly I smile
bedhead
sun gimme a dial
wontcha recognize the time
I looked at you to long now I’m blind
oh but parliamentary wontcha drop a seed on me
I’m just dying to grow n you taught me to know I’m to smart to move for you
Oh and the time keeps passing me by n I slaughter seconds with questions asking why can’t I realize why this time keeps passing me by
Unfed lead
leading helmeted heads
of plague ridden pockets with their skin overfed
to the great meat grinder
will we topple the walls
or let our words get cleaned off of those bathroom stalls?
Sunset
You’re gonna go far
stars live in the dark
get stuck in the tar
I can’t see your face on a cloudy day
the clear nights tell me it’s all ok
oh but parliamentary wontcha drop a seed on me
I’m just dying to grow n you taught me to know I’m to smart to move for you
Oh and the time keeps passing me by n I slaughter seconds with questions asking why can’t I realize why this time keeps passing me by
Jul 8, 2014
Jul 8, 2014 at 4:27 PM UTC
This Morning:
A Indigo cloud sank. Washing away my murky memories of yesterday
-Thank you Mister Indigo Cloud
A radiant sun followed. Illuminating this mornings mellow forlay
-Much obliged Mister Sunshine
Nostalgic tunes oozed from my stereo. Reciting only the most recitable fanfare
-Appreciate the timing Mister Music
Then to amplify the presence of my gratuitous present.
My grinder presents me with the wondrous odor of the high life
- You shouldn't have Mary-Jane
They say your attitude determines your latitude.
But your gratitude will determine your current attitude.
The troubles of this life are but temporary.
To receive happiness remember
There is much to be grateful for.
Believe. That it will be given from your heart to mind
Jan 31, 2014
Jan 31, 2014 at 11:04 AM UTC
is very handy, so now
i have another egg cutter,
coffee grinder, he brings
old things for me, mends
old things for me, generally
repairs and sweeps, the
lower terrace.
ask him anything, he will
discuss, pleasantly. resourceful
is a word i can spell, i tell
you there are a few things i cannot,
do. so i have the handyman come.
also have a windowcleaner. he
did not come, yesterday
sbm.
Feb 5, 2014
Feb 5, 2014 at 1:23 AM UTC
I wake up wet and cold at 4AM
So I look in my ashtray for the biggest joint end.
I smoke what's left and lay back for two secs...
Next I check the grinder for any remaining specks.
I bang out all that I can and roll a splith with trembling hands.
As smoke enters my lungs, a tear fills my eye.
Exhaling all hope I begin cry.
I do this to myself with no happiness in life.
I can't control myself this has become my life.
I often ask myself what I want from life.
And find myself wishing that I wasn't alive.
Apr 4, 2022
Apr 4, 2022 at 8:31 AM UTC
I RISE out of my depths with my language.
You rise out of your depths with your language.
Two tongues from the depths,
Alike only as a yellow cat and a green parrot are alike,
Fling their staccato tantalizations
Into a wildcat jabber
Over a gossamer web of unanswerables.
The second and the third silence,
Even the hundredth silence,
Is better than no silence at all
(Maybe this is a jabber too-are we at it again, you and I?)
I rise out of my depths with my language.
You rise out of your depths with your language.
One thing there is much of; the name men call it by is time; into this gulf our syllabic pronunciamentos empty by the way rockets of fire curve and are gone on the night sky; into this gulf the jabberings go as the shower at a scissors grinder's wheel...
1.4k
I gave you my soul
Wasn't that a costly toll?
You trace my scars
or are you drawing prison bars?
I tell you what i hate
Your friends i try to tolerate
I dont like this new nitch
Your not usually a *****
I love you
But it can be hard
You blame yourself for my crash
But then turn to conform with those I Bash
What does it take?
Just drive in the stake
Since Im such a life sucker
Atleast i could get away with my ******
Since im soulless
Since I hold you back
Since Im just a punk
Since I died to you
Rip my guts out and hang them like streamers
Run my skin in a grinder and have your confetti
Spike my blood with all your *****
Fry my fingers in the greaser
Throw my brain and heart in the trash
Burn my eyes and ears and lips and tongue
Use my bones to build a bed
Boil my nerves so i wont feel pain
But leave my feet
They are what i didnt use
I should walk, no run, away
But i already cut them off so it would be easier to end me
The perfect ******
My own death
Ill naught be caught
Ill finally get what i deserve
The ultimate gift of life?
Can i just skip it to hell?
I wish i had died that day
Why couldnt I have gone faster?
Let the white turn red
With what i have bled
Here is your christmas cheer
Feed my ashes to your ******* reindeer
Happy Holidays
Merry Christmas
Let me do this perfect ******
Then you can say your happy and merry a little cheerier
Dec 10, 2013
Dec 10, 2013 at 6:55 PM UTC