"inedible" poems
I want crazy, I want cranky
Let me be that old woman who gets mad easily
Let this misogynistic society grow so great it will never be over oh no
Crush me, objectify me
Romanticize the way I dehumanize myself
Discriminate me
I am the stigmas, don't free them from me
I will drink your *** and be happy
Break me, let me crumble
I am a lump of inedible meat
Make a bet on my rushing blood
Don't lose, don't lose oh you will win for sure
Just say it and ***** on my mouth
Don't let me have worth without you
I am lesser than a slave, don't let me stare at your eyes
Play with my broken bones, cut my veins as you please
Make me beg, step on me
I am watermarked and it says your name
And yes this heart beats for you to stop
It can start again if you say so
You are the God, just do everything you want, just do everything you want
I can't not take it
I am inanimate
I am inanimate
I am inanimate
Jul 30, 2014
Jul 30, 2014 at 5:04 AM UTC
They come on to my clean
sheet of paper and leave a Rorschach blot.
They do not do this to be mean,
they do it to give me a sign
they want me, as Aubrey Beardsley once said,
to shove it around till something comes.
Clumsy as I am,
I do it.
For I am like them -
both saved and lost,
tumbling downward like Humpty Dumpty
off the alphabet.
Each morning I push them off my bed
and when they get in the salad
rolling in it like a dog,
I pick each one out
just the way my daughter
picks out the anchoives.
In May they dance on the jonquils,
wearing out their toes,
laughing like fish.
In November, the dread month,
they **** the childhood out of the berries
and turn them sour and inedible.
Yet they keep me company.
They wiggle up life.
They pass out their magic
like Assorted Lifesavers.
They go with me to the dentist
and protect me form the drill.
At the same time,
they go to class with me
and lie to my students.
O fallen angel,
the companion within me,
whisper something holy
before you pinch me
into the grave.
3.9k
I wish the world
banana seats and ***** bars
chariots of childhood
transports to imaginary kingdoms
erasers of boundaries
freedom makers
brother bonders
vehicles of the delegates of peace
a better way.
Bolted to a heavy metal frame of
metallic green with
ape hanger handlebars
the playing cards clothes-pinned in spokes
making siren noises with our mouths
rope-lashed weapons aboard
discovering creeks
woods
forbidden backyards and
never-before-known games with
barn side lumber and pop cans
double-dog daring inedible things
teasing girls
riding to secret clubhouse meetings and
the playground.
I wish the world
our playground
summers of innocence
bottomless wells of laughter
center of the universe
June to September
ages 8 to 18
bean bags and ringers
tether ball - hand and paddle
basketball and baseball and
box hockey
(where it was encouraged
to give children axe handles and
a softball
to beat through holes
in a 2 x 6 board
defending a goal
with their life and
busted knuckles).
We liked it that way.
We lived as legends.
I wish the world
a bike ride with friends
ending at the playground.
For there has never been a bad day
on a banana seat.
Jan 5, 2014
Jan 5, 2014 at 2:51 PM UTC
sister sinister
mister sinister
sinning through the day
no work and all play
living today, leaving behind
a trail of breadcrumbs too close to mine
the birds pick and choose and I am left a loser
thanks to sinister games and pleasure
the crumbs are gluten-free, but the bread devours me
I am baked, no candied apple tree, not if no one waters it
retracing my crumbs is impossible when birds are pick-and-choosers
better to use inedible yarn perhaps
then getting lost in a labyrinth of hopes that trap me
would be fine if I could find a fine line to walk
but I would only trip as the bull feasts and talks with it’s mouth full
if only I did my research, I could teach a preacher
to ****** a bull and bind him, burn his trail of crumbs behind him
Even then my crumbs would turn to ember
My next loaf won’t finish baking until September.
Feb 22, 2013
Feb 22, 2013 at 10:06 PM UTC
Helen sends me scraps of poems for repair. "Shreds of lettuce," she calls them. I fool around with them in my role as Poetry Doctor (see my banner photo). In her extended absence, I will post our convolutions. While the final product is mine, the vision, the imagery, the notion of the poem is all hers and therein lies the true authorship.
From Helen, Dec 2
Here is the last of the salad,
dressing not required...
savoir-faire [?sævw???f??
Upon a plate
of deliciousness
the lettuce
is usually
pushed to the side
to wilt
and be scrapped
into an
Industrial bin
were we all begin
as fodder for worms
turning garbage
into words
Nourishing
nothing
but our own pride
bon appétit
Helen
---------------
The Human Word Salad
Now it is dressed....
all poems, no exception,
the bad, the exceptional,
all begin
in an
industrial bin.
wormwood,
wormword
the ancestors,
feast on the scraps,
garbage letters discarded,
the wilts of alpha lettuce,
the word waste of the
every day beta jabber,
plate pushed-aside decorations,
all but none, bystanders
and they
turn them into words,
though inedible, incapable,
of nourishing life individually,
yet their recycled deliciousness,
unquestioned.
when
each sole word,
re-birthed in the compost
of the delivery room of that bin,
meet in the maternity ward
of our minds
words wed,
poems form,
and all the true nourishment
the world needs
begins anew.
Dec 10, 2013
Dec 10, 2013 at 6:14 PM UTC
Rushing River
The water rolls past the chain of rocks
Studded steps stand single file
Principles holding against the flood a mighty fortress
Evil thoughts swirling down through the mind
At the river’s edge the reeds bow
Marshes tangled with shoots and flattened weeds
Rich grasses carpet all in all bounty abounds
The earth benefits water given free course this guarantees its purity
Be quick to walk into the swirling spiritual waters your purity the sacred word is the water
The natural shore a poisoning quagmire
Work on the shore a duty but for life come to the spirit to barter
The world’s biggest beggars have false wealth it keeps them from true riches
Fruit is delicate with excess ripeness the result inedible
Riches of the spirit or any endeavor needs proper care and management
Without wisdom you become filled with hollowness
The river contains the richest soil and never will spoil your life
So come to the head waters of the heavenly tributaries
Drink your fill over the land you will flow and spill
Drought scorched hearts you can fill
Their destiny a heavenly ocean fulfilling every emotion of being excepted and loved
Nov 17, 2011
Nov 17, 2011 at 5:10 AM UTC
Drowns your happiness
Brings your energy level down to zero
With one hit
They got you in their cave
Won't unleash you as long as they get their way
You struggle to be free
But are to blind to see
That your love is the one who holds you captive
Such a shame
Filled with sorrow and grief
Your love got you lost in a losing game
Impossible to win, the sole purpose is defeat
You still hold on cause you're brainwashed to the core
In desperate need of a revelation,
You search in the wrong places,
Mingling with the wrong faces
You end up alone when there are people around
And the one that was supposed to have your back
Turn their back on you
It's the inedible truth of sociopathic love
Sep 15, 2016
Sep 15, 2016 at 8:04 AM UTC
Hold hands and dance together.
Open your mouths and sing in unison.
Blink and allow your tears to hit the soil.
Watch the sunset resemble a softer shade of crimson.
Shape shift and make funny faces.
Wide spread and cover any spaces between.
Draw streaks and form inedible cotton candy.
Make the ever changing weather patterns your creed.
Partner with the drum player.
Hire the trumpets as well as the whistles.
Throw in a bit of lights, some lasers too.
Gather a silent choir of particles, should I call it bristle.
Welcome the darkening sky.
Make way for the approaching moon.
Take long naps or read each other books.
All the while waiting again for the return of noon.
May 24, 2019
May 24, 2019 at 1:41 PM UTC
what is a telescope
-a tyrannosaurus skeleton
-a reluctant birthright
what are *****
-a state line
-an obsolete receipt
what is a wave
-grandmother says: she will never forget as long as she lives
-a forest trail in thick fog
what is sea sick
-he ran over a dog
-wettest March of the century
what is an hour
-no smoking allowed
-the fuming face of a buffalo
what is sunburn
-inedible black toast
-I think she slanders me
what is wine
-overnight contact lens solution
-a humble canal
what is a mirror
(child | beluga)
~(ham):o + ¥ineapple
what is travel
-a last minute thing
-warmth within a windshield
what is revision
-a slow explode
-milk in coffee
what is antacid/calcium supplement
-a bottle cap
-handy clutter
what is a fist
-something to try eating when in circles
-flour, 1-to-20 eggs, some ennui, expiration dates
what is a sigh
-a fresh seismograph sheet
-sound mechanical in early morning
what is skin
-a shoelace
-child labor
what is a workshop
-scalpels, piñata bats
-a lunar module
what is that shiny dead thing in the green eyed river
-New Year’s Eve ball drop
-otherworldly return to beginning
Dec 13, 2012
Dec 13, 2012 at 8:33 PM UTC
My Father, who means well, makes me lunch
A man who’s sandwiches could never be
trusted, who used the mossy breadends cause
thats how they did it on the farm but
I am the cry baby who rejects the
deadened bread, dark wilted lettuce spines
lettuce rinds, inedible, unclean
Perspiring, lovingly wrapped in cellophane
And now I’m old enough I must
so carefully control what’s
between my full, whole, mid-loaf slices,
Fret about gluten.
Jesus help me I’m so afraid of
invisible moulds and the taste of iron
in those glossy cylinders of upended campbells
tomato: quivering naked, vermillion in the pan,
like chilled organs they appeared hepatic
I’m sure the milk he adds is soured he
cannot be trusted, my father, but
forgive him he knows not what he does, I
know they didn't have much on the farm I
am spoiled like the milk, too sensitive, I
wilt, because I have become too hard to feed,
we didn't know what to do with this kind of love.
Mar 22, 2015
Mar 22, 2015 at 4:15 PM UTC
My fridge keeps turning off
My food becomes
Warm
Like the suns ever present glare
Inedible
It’s rotten
******* rotten
Like that money used to buy it
Like my attitude
I’m scared of their shopping carts
They push them like their arms are loose from their sockets
They flail their plastic beasts
In front of my feet
The wheels only graze me
But it’s enough to make the hair on the back of my neck stand up
I just need to replace my soy milk, man
Their faces are globes in the dark
Shiny and round
Stupid
Hollow
Spinning
There’s always something to set their sites on
Gimme dat
And the cart roars forward
My body is just an obstacle between them and another pair of
Shoes
They’ll shove into their closets
Where a thousand other things exist to fill their souls
Nervous ticks
Husband stays out too late
Nervous ticks
Wedding ring drifts closer to the tip of her finger
Nervous ticks
It isn’t just the salty sweat that pushes it forward
Nervous ticks
A new pair of underwear
Another shirt or two
His eyes might glisten
Like like like
Like they used too
Nervous ticks
I just need some soy milk, man
Sep 11, 2012
Sep 11, 2012 at 12:45 PM UTC
How strange
That this inedible feast
Should be arranged with such care:
Place one greenandorange gourd here,
No here! And –- oh!
But there are so many
miniature vegetables to be sorted.
**** The pumpkin could not hold its position.
Well, we’ll have to see to that, presently.
This ceremony lingers for hours
Beneath the well-placed coffee poster instructing
“Éviter les Contrefaçons”
Avoid the Counterfeits.
And all the while Mother arranges a
cornucopia of assorted indigestables.
Aug 10, 2010
Aug 10, 2010 at 1:11 PM UTC
She is beautiful, with her hair in disarray. She sets man against man, woman against woman, and both against each other
She whispers into the ear of sleeping children, who awake as adults in her service.
All fear her, for she cannot be known.
She masquerades as order, enticing humanity; the fire that huddled neanderthals gaped at in thanks become the flames that consume.
To fight against her is futile, but it is in our nature.
She has never left us; she will continue without us when we are dead and gone.
All the monuments in the world bow to her in worship or are crushed in submission to time and war.
She played gods and men alike.
She is both the catalyst and the conclusion.
Some marvel as the fires of her destruction dance reflected in their eyes; others weep.
To say that she is coming would imply that she has ever left.
How could we impermanent things ever hope to banish something so primordial.
She breeds hate, mistrust, and strife in those that capitulate; those that resist her only magnify her power.
She bore Hardship and Ruin, Quarrels and Disputes, Lies and Oaths, Anarchy and Starvation, Forgetfulness and Pain. Manslaughter and ****** were her giggling toddlers. War and Battle took after her brother, their uncle's favorites.
She brings inedible food that is coveted by all who encounter it.
She has bathed in the blood of civil wars, her most decadent vice.
She renders man's efforts futile, to fight or submit is destruction.
She will reduce the universe to an ever expanding hellscape of fire.
She is the secret joy of many.
Nothing will escape her.
She is everywhere.
Oct 13, 2018
Oct 13, 2018 at 1:24 PM UTC
Disgusted now that America is busted
For voting in sewer rats and gone to bat
For making this into an autocracy,
Working to gut democracy and replace it,
Deface and deforest all of the best
Then sell off the rest of the planet
From the water to the granite
Leaving only inedible gold
Shoved into the the wallets
Of the national pickpockets
And liars while they set fires
And burn down the country
With their hatred and bigotry
Unchecked by the lazy populace
Too stupid to know what danger is
While it is marching into their homes
Making every state a danger zone.
The traitors who own the industries
Hold a gun to journalist monopolies
So that artificial realities are sold
As socialized necessities
To people who prefer tabloids
To history books and crave bromides
For this time it is the Christians
That fiddle while Rome turns to ruins
And ashes surrounded by those who fought
While a complacent half of America did not.
I am sickened at the laziness,
The political father of craziness
Has let this horror happen to this,
The country of which I was always proud,
And sick of how loud the rats are
That they have taken destruction so far
That we may never recover again
And start to elect countrymen
Instead of men to own the country
Without a scintilla of modesty
And treat fine people shoddily
Merely because they can.
Who needs that kind of man?
Dec 2, 2016
Dec 2, 2016 at 6:30 PM UTC
Prometheus, the joker, he
offered Zeus a choice of tributes:
An egg, a chocolate covered
With foil, the delicious covered
With the inedible or
Chicken wings; perhaps they were ribs,
The unpalatable concealed
Within the gratifying and
Delectable.
And, when given the same choice, I
Choose the charming, the beguiling,
The delightful exterior,
With unappealing core, rather
Than attempt to find that nugget,
Hidden within its thin veneer
And certainly worth the effort.
I find lusciousness is much more
Pleasurable.
Mar 17, 2013
Mar 17, 2013 at 11:38 PM UTC
A full moon tonight,
light pink like a peach, perfect --
and inedible.
Oct 2, 2024
Oct 2, 2024 at 4:26 AM UTC
Blah Blah Blah!
In a blaze of anger I exploded.
His personal torment,
He created for himself.
I told the world a pack of truth.
About the sheep in lupine garb.
Dressed not in a sauce of mint.
Inedible,
Toxic to the end.
Darling, your good friends left.
Go curl up and die.
My friendship expelled at last.
My heart is fixed.
Go have a blast,
Poetic fantasist.
Straight from the heart of ex romantic.
For I am not to be destroyed.
Annoyed once by his drunken rants.
His narcissism.
The fairy tale he decried.
The one so truly self absorbed.
Stuck in syndrome,
Peter Pan.
Expelled his faeces.
Only way that I know how.
Wrote my heart out.
Demon exorcised.
Care not,
should I be cursed.
Now i'm gone.
Guess what,
I'm fine!
By ladylivvi1
© 2013 ladylivvi1 (All rights reserved)
Nov 7, 2013
Nov 7, 2013 at 5:02 AM UTC
Young magpies,
still grey of feather,
attack random sticks
thinking them food,
cry out despondently
when discovering
their prey is inedible wood.
Mother magpie overseas
Scavenging expedition with
beady eyed patience...
Jan 3, 2025
Jan 3, 2025 at 4:24 PM UTC
I don't want this
To be understood
Just for a while
Can we think of that time?
Where the leaders don't need to
Trial the trust
Every time
I don't understand how they digest
Inedible ****
I don't understand how smartly we are misguided.
I don't understand their blind supporters.
I don't understand whom they stand for.
I don't understand the basis needs.
I don't understand their priorities.
I don't understand
Anything
Camouflage
And I don't want this
To be understood
Either
Being outsider
Jay Nepal
Apr 2, 2020
Apr 2, 2020 at 10:18 AM UTC
Rushing River
The water rolls past the chain of rocks
Studded steps stand single file
Principles holding against the flood a mighty fortress
Evil thoughts swirling down through the mind
At the river’s edge the reeds bow
Marshes tangled with shoots and flattened weeds
Rich grasses carpet all in all bounty abounds
The earth benefits water given free course this guarantees its purity
Be quick to walk into the swirling spiritual waters your purity the sacred word is the water
The natural shore a poisoning quagmire
Work on the shore a duty but for life come to the spirit to barter
The world’s biggest beggars have false wealth it keeps them from true riches
Fruit is delicate with excess ripeness the result inedible
Riches of the spirit or any endeavor needs proper care and management
Without wisdom you become filled with hollowness
The river contains the richest soil and never will spoil your life
So come to the head waters of the heavenly tributaries
Drink your fill over the land you will flow and spill
Drought scorched hearts you can fill
Their destiny a heavenly ocean fulfilling every emotion of being excepted and loved
Jan 7, 2012
Jan 7, 2012 at 2:35 PM UTC
My brain is a bowl of spaghetti
I can be turned with a greedy hand
And a rusty fork
Eating my thoughts
From an unwashed container
Please stop eating.
I don’t think I can afford
To lose another fork-full
another strand of memory
Let alone
Be mixed up
With the other ingredients
Poured into my skull
It seems I’m getting sloppy.
Refills are impossible
Because the more I try to stuff inside
The more the contents overflow
And the threads of words
Come spilling out
When I beg them not to
Well.
I hate contradicting myself
But without anyone eating
And without room for refills
The nutrients inside
Will begin to rot
And disintegrate
Into nothing but molded mulch
So everything I try to retain
Will be useless
and inedible
The filth accumulates.
Insanity will be the smell of my mind
It will control my every action
A single whiff
Strong enough
To lower the IQ of a genius
I’m losing myself.
I’d try to explain it
In understandable terms
But it seems the correct words
Were lost
when I was bitten into
And scattered
when I overflowed
This is what I tried to describe before:
My head is a box of noodles
I can be dented with a pinky finger
And a dull knife
Tasting my dreams
From a…
Hm.
Sorry.
What were we talking about?
Jan 13, 2018
Jan 13, 2018 at 12:27 PM UTC
A warped neck on a Fender Strat , a broken bottle of Johnnie Walker Black . Torn felt on a mahogany billiard table , catfish fillets scorched on the fire , rendered inedible ..
A marvelous , precision tractor engine seized from loss of oil , a bumper crop of peaches killed by frost ..
An empty bottle of malt vinegar , wind blown lovely cherry pipe tobacco lost forever ..
Red ripe homegrown tomatoes shredded by hail , soft shelled pecans dropped in the well ..
First snowflakes of Winter melted on warm city streets , green grass left to die beneath a cloth sheet ..
Concord grapes dried on the vine , watermelon picked before it's time ..
Homemade biscuits burnt in the oven , true love within reach left undiscovered ..
Nov 30, 2015
Nov 30, 2015 at 1:36 PM UTC
Of all the stories we tell ourselves
late at night
before bed, before sleep
speaking solemnly into the dark
*There were gales
the night you were born*
the family folklore
unpacked, gently handled
exclaimed over again and again
every retelling a buff to bring out the shine-
Yes there are some stories we tell
and others we keep
the deep
hints and murmurs of
What Really Happened.
The indelicate hows and whys
of your sixteen year old self giving birth
on the bathroom floor.
There are more
than two sides to this tale.
More corners, more edges: a prism
reflecting light at any angle.
But all of this was your own making.
Those years were carefully picked over,
censored, books with whole chapters
black struck through.
No, these are not
the halcyon echoes of your childhood-
no gold topped milk, no
reading by the light in the hall.
No cast iron, no Christmas mornings.
No hedgerows, no collecting the hens at dusk.
These are the bitter pips,
the hanging nails and paper cuts.
The inedible core of the matter:
What was said to you was said.
What was done to you was done.
And you
you were always too clever by half
for the skimmed, six-of-one versions
of events,
played out like lazy Sunday morning television.
The truth
is always smaller
and greyer than we imagine. We think
of memories as ribbons tying the past together,
but for you
they are stones filling up your pockets
and every year
the river runs a little higher.
Jan 1, 2015
Jan 1, 2015 at 12:34 PM UTC
Crocheted into a chain stitch to capture the unruly;
I believe the French
translated this to make it more suitable
for movement.
Pins and knitting needles roll up inedible buns;
one, serious and severe
from its top perch—a force worthy of Lucas flicks
in oppositional pairs.
Heated cylinders of ceramic or metal
mold a shock of springs;
bringing bounce where limp boredom
once ruled. Make it permanent
with foul activation.
Science’s compound approach: application,
timing, rinse. Every hue known to Eve,
but beware brass;
fading and sprouting needy roots, common downfalls.
Too much of any of these renders
7-10 splits in the end—no
hope to be spared. Maybe start entirely
over: the bowling ball might be “in” for summer, at best.
At worst, a way to break a six-to-eight week chemical habit—
Habit: nuns have it easy.
Sep 8, 2010
Sep 8, 2010 at 2:28 AM UTC
Will there be words enough to express the gratitude I feel for the physical embodiment of comfort?
I think if I try to layer each sheet of thank you and letters, I would make one hell of a tower I’m sure I would be proud of
So thank you for the years of awkwardness and tears and embraces that I have kept looping at a space at the back of my head
But worry not, for this space is remarkable, and is not a singular box nor a definition of solitude
For I have you
We are the youth that grew yet we are still tiptoeing and hoping that we will reach the gap between the doorstep above our heads
Our expressions and terms evolved and shaped the corners of our lips in between the giggles and aches and words we wish we had not misplaced
And I will fall into apology for that one time I blamed you and him for the distance that constructed between us
Yet you built a bridge and crossed it for me
And I despised how I built walls that arose high up that vultures mistook me for a corpse
But the only bridge I would ever want to cross, is the aisle between pews
To meet the man who is to wed my best friend and whom he is willing to fight for
So I thank you
For accepting each fragment of thought
And for gently opening the envelope even though you have no clue what was in store
I was a letter of disarrayed vocals yet you took me into your home
And spent a sufficient amount of time to decipher the paragraphs of each fold
You proved your worth when you did not think I was another piece of crumpled paper
And you found similarities and comfort in my torn up corners
For that I am thankful
I know I will spend the rest of my life with you
This is not a confession of love and romance (god no) but something much more genuine
I will be your children’s jokes and the books that they read
I will greet your husband with a fist bump and I will be your company of trips to the sea
I will drag you to my first tattoo and I will be your most annoying plead
I will be the anchor to keep you steady when far from the shore,
I will be the old woman with gray hair and so will you
And this is what I hope for
A friendship that will not expire and turn into inedible satisfaction
That our hands will always find each other’s comfort
And be the other person’s exception
To finally reach the gap above our heads, with stretched fingers
To create countless views of looping embraces
And to be far from the crumpled paper of envelopes
For no matter what reason it may be, I will make amends
And to these layers and sheets of towering thank you’s and letters
No matter if this world is turned upside down,
I will always love you, and you will always be my best friend
n.j.
Jul 13, 2015
Jul 13, 2015 at 8:03 AM UTC