"jellied" poems
The mushroom
The unfolding
instant of creation (fertilisation)
not an instant separate from breakfast
It all flows down & out, flowing
but that instant:
not fire & fusion (fission) but a moment
of jellied ice, crystal, vegetative mating
merging in cool slime splendour
a crushing of steel & glass & ice
(instant in a bar; glasses clash, clink, collide)
far-out splendour
heat & fire are outwards signs of a
Small dry mating
~~~
event in a room
event in space
a circle
Magic rite
To call up the godhead
spirits, demons
The shaman calls:
“When radio dark night…”
We are eating each other.
~~~
The Voice of the Serpent
dry hiss of age & steam
& leaves of gold
old books in ruined
Temples
The pages break like ash
I will not disturb
I will not go
Come, he says softly
an old man appears &
moves in tired dance
amid the scattered dead
gently they stir
~~~
I received an Aztec wall
of vision
& dissolved my room in
sweet derision
Closed my eyes, prepared to go
A gentle wind inform’d me so
And bathed my skin in ether glow
~~~
Drugs are a bet w/ your mind
~~~
The cigarette burn’d
my fingertips
& dropp’d like a log
to the rug below
My eyes took a trip
to dig the chick
Crouch’d like a cat
at the next window
My ears assembled music
out of swarming streets
but my mind rebelled
at the idiot’s laughter
The rising frightful idiot laughter
Cheering an army of
vacuum cleaners
~~~
Mouth fills w/taste of copper.
Chinese paper. Foreign money. Old posters.
Gyro on a string, a table.
A coin spins. The faces.
There is an audience to our drama.
Magic shade mask.
Like the hero of a dream, he works for us,
in our behalf.
How close is this to a final cut?
I fall. Sweet blackness.
Strange world that waits & watches.
Ancient dread of non-existence.
If it’s no problem, why mention it.
Everything spoken means that,
it’s opposite, & everything else.
I’m alive. I’m dying.
~~~
1st wild thrush of fear
-A phone rings
There is a knock on the door.
It’s time to go.
No.
17.7k
These oceans are named Between.
Yes, I know them all.
They've separated me before
By water's solid wall.
*But I imagine when I
Jump and make a splash
At my local Brighton beach
That ripple travels
To your shore so
You're never out of reach!*
And at these rugged shores
That ripple reaches land.
As good as any letter penned,
A wave; an outstretched hand.
*Like a message in a bottle
I hope it reaches you
Every nuance of my love and care
Dripped in oceans blue*
Much more comfort in that
Bottle, than the one before
Me now. Its insides shared
With me; still I am emptier
...somehow.
*Well you can't run on empty
So let me fill your cup
With seashells whispers
Wisdom pearls
And jellied joy to
Fill you up*
A whispered wish
An uttered prayer.
That space that pushes
Here from there to
Disappear; give room for
Place to share as lair,
There's places everywhere...
Jul 27, 2014
Jul 27, 2014 at 3:48 PM UTC
All year the flax-dam festered in the heart
Of the townland; green and heavy headed
Flax had rotted there, weighted down by huge sods.
Daily it sweltered in the punishing sun.
Bubbles gargled delicately, bluebottles
Wove a strong gauze of sound around the smell.
There were dragon-flies, spotted butterflies,
But best of all was the warm thick slobber
Of frogspawn that grew like clotted water
In the shade of the banks. Here, every spring
I would fill jampotfuls of the jellied
Specks to range on window-sills at home,
On shelves at school, and wait and watch until
The fattening dots burst into nimble-
Swimming tadpoles. Miss Walls would tell us how
The daddy frog was called a bullfrog
And how he croaked and how the mammy frog
Laid hundreds of little eggs and this was
Frogspawn. You could tell the weather by frogs too
For they were yellow in the sun and brown
In rain.
Then one hot day when fields were rank
With cowdung in the grass the angry frogs
Invaded the flax-dam; I ducked through hedges
To a coarse croaking that I had not heard
Before. The air was thick with a bass chorus.
Right down the dam gross-bellied frogs were cocked
On sods; their loose necks pulsed like sails. Some hopped:
The slap and plop were obscene threats. Some sat
Poised like mud grenades, their blunt heads farting.
I sickened, turned, and ran. The great slime kings
Were gathered there for vengeance and I knew
That if I dipped my hand the spawn would clutch it.
7.3k
I was invited over with my best friend Ken
To play some pool , do downers , and drink some gin
Susan and Lea were live-in Lesbians
All of us real good friends
from a long time ago ,
you know , from a way back when
We had a blast playing pool
I was hot hot that night
I was wiping up the table
Made every shot in sight
By one a.m. my head began to spin
I lay down upon the couch
Then said goodbye to Ken
Then all turned quite except
for the scampering of mice
Then something else I felt as
Lea stark naked was sliding in
She started stripping off my clothes
Soon all was skin to skin
She licked and ******
scratched and pinned
She ravaged me like a beast
I could not satisfy her whims
No not in the least of them
She made me toast
Jellied up my behind
Buttered up my navel
I thought I had died
or surely lost my mind
After hours of lustful bliss
We fell asleep until when
she woke me up and said
"My car , can you fix it again ?"
Feb 1, 2015
Feb 1, 2015 at 12:24 PM UTC
skin
a sheen of sweat
cries ring out
sheets
all tangled agony
***** foetid air
contract
cryout
subside
a birthing
no pink and downy babe is this
a mucus clot
a jellied mass
a river of blood and tears
a termination
of what wasn't quite
a tractor passes feeding out
calves for the slaughter
the sun shines
birds sing
all oblivious of anything
a death and life goes on
Feb 4, 2013
Feb 4, 2013 at 1:22 AM UTC
Here God,
Everything is for you:
Here are my
Testicles, looking like smashed purple grapes,
Bruised, mashed, and crushed along with what
Is left of my once proud, now exploded, tattered *****
I have laid before you my
Disemboweled, bloodied and tangled intestines;
Blown into bits and pieces, here lays my torso along with
Shattered ribs, ruptured lungs, exposed internal organs:
Erupted heart; battered, split, spleen; torn, mangled liver;
Next to them, my legs, minus a few toes;
Arms with hands missing thumbs, fingers;
My head,
Less pieces of skull, cheek bones, nose, tongue, and teeth,
Is nearby;
Those puffy messes of glutinous, jellied, deflated ****** orbs are my eyes;
Over here, piles of chunks of obliterated pieces of flesh floating
On a thick soup of congealed blood, mixed and meshed with
Splintered, fractured, cracked bones; everything
Convoluted, disfigured, impossible to identify.
All of this is for you,
I am your martyr,
Your soldier,
Your obedient servant;
I blew myself up,
Along with many infidels including
Men and women,
Unborn babies and children,
Young boys and girls,
I tore their bodies to shreds,
Mangled and mutilated, they
Suffered deaths no nightmare could imagine.
I sacrificed myself for you,
Exemplifying piety and righteousness,
I await my reward,
Wait for you to put my pieces together again;
Been here for what seems an eternity and
You have not come near;
Not made me whole.
Where are you?
Are you not great?
Where are the young, innocent, ****** girls or
The boys with silky, pearl smooth skins;
Will I ever have an ******** again?
Uncomfortable, anxious, concerned I
Lay here on this sacred, hallowed ground,
Like a fleshy puzzle, scattered in jagged pieces,
Waiting to be solved;
Praying to be completed and recomposed.
Where are you God?
A virtuous, faithful, prostrated one waits;
I have much to show you.
Oct 21, 2010
Oct 21, 2010 at 7:50 AM UTC
Have you tasted jealously ?
its like a misshapen stomach
that swallowed jellied biros .
Are you lacking in choreography,
where your own walk
should be the more significant dance
rather than the musings of a foolscap fanatic.
Oct 30, 2012
Oct 30, 2012 at 5:11 PM UTC
Our brains are jellied by the surreal.
Wires disconnected, rearranged,
our circuit boards frazzled.
The reflections of human faces and bodies
scrambled signals.
Eyes not looking past the crooked fingers
or freckles.
All you see is the dirt, the rust,
you can hear only the creaking joints,
and the groans of your muscles.
But your audience, your lovers and families,
they don't know about those awful sounds
they only see the flowers, hear the music,
a melody of glowing bare shoulders
and a chest filled with life,
a hundred systems,
working in unison to hold up your head.
I never liked the way my hips stuck out,
my ribs, flesh pulled taught against the bones.
Or my pale skin,
I glow in the sunshine.
Baking soda, salt,
awful tasting elements alone,
but they both get mixed into the batter,
overpowered by golden eggs,
sinful sugars,
and the cake itself,
baking soda and all,
well,
it's ******* delicious.
Dec 7, 2013
Dec 7, 2013 at 4:34 PM UTC
Mechanical reactions
slither through the cortex,
Binding our beliefs into
a solid jellied mass.
The peons go without a care,
wisdom is not their share,
only to be appeased
in the short term
is their game.
Yet the one who dances freely,
Gracefully fluttering down the walk,
gets stared at and gawked at,
Ridiculed and mocked.
The program
does not recognize the patterns
that are involved,
and the programmers are just too vain
to change the program's
stiff and rigid brain.
So while the programs interact,
the dancer keeps on dancing,
sensibilities in tact.
She notices the patterns,
the snide remarks behind her back,
the stares, the whispers, wonders,
of the program's capacity cap.
How she wishes just one
free person could truly understand
what it's like not to be a robot,
but a compassionate human.
Seas of judgement, seas of motion,
Seas of jealously and hate,
motivated by confusion,
in this altered AI state.
One day there is a person
walking out of sync,
the rest of the people shrink away
from the lone independent freak.
Free thought and new ideas
Are poison to their wires,
new data it can handle,
but independence acts like fire:
Burning through the program
like an arrow with a purpose,
piercing through its hardened heart
rendering the program worthless.
The boy who parted the sea of monotony
found this dancing girl,
and together created a barrier
shattering programs with a twirl.
By the power vested in me,
I command you to think,
Think twice about your actions
or you will find that you will sink
Into a sticky, jellied mass
where your thoughts will cease to think.
Oct 19, 2011
Oct 19, 2011 at 12:18 PM UTC
By Petal Pie and Sverre G. Holter.
These oceans are named Between.
Yes, I know them all.
They've separated me before
By water's solid wall.
*But I imagine when I
Jump and make a splash
At my local Brighton beach
That ripple travels
To your shore so
You're never out of reach!*
And at these rugged shores
That ripple reaches land.
As good as any letter penned,
A wave; an outstretched hand.
*Like a message in a bottle
I hope it reaches you
Every nuance of my love and care
Dripped in oceans blue*
Much more comfort in that
Bottle, than the one before
Me now. Its insides shared
With me; still I am emptier
...somehow.
*Well you can't run on empty
So let me fill your cup
With seashells whispers
Wisdom pearls
And jellied joy to
Fill you up*
A whispered wish
An uttered prayer.
That space that pushes
Here from there to
Disappear; give room for
Place to share as lair,
There's places everywhere...
Jul 26, 2014
Jul 26, 2014 at 7:29 PM UTC
I have long sought quiet.
And please, let me be clear: quiet.
Not the quietus Hamlet desired,
No “consummation devoutly to be wished” for me.
No, with or without a bare bayonet,
UNBEINGNESS is hardly what I seek.
It is not the predicament of death,
But the quiet spectacle of the grave I envy.
Originally a city mouse,
I am familiar with the urban soundscape.
I know city noise, amped up in decibels.
Noise-induced stress, shrill and enervating,
Add to the mix a working-class neighborhood,
Where someone is always hammering,
Using a power tool of some kind,
Repairing, improving an older, somewhat decrepit home;
But a steal as the realtors say.
Or vehicles, like Old Havana relics,
Held together by secular prayer,
And thriving underground Cuban capitalism.
Then just for fun: *"Let’s send the son of a ***** to war."*
Tympanic membranes be wary and be ******
Stretched and perforated,
Compressed and torn,
Shredded like wheat.
Pummeled by shock wave.
I was Lear wandering the heath,
Your ass-cheeks cracked:
*“Cataracts and hurricanes . . .
Oak-cleaving thunderbolts . . .
Sulphurour and thought-executing fires . . .
Singe my white head!”*
Cue Cabaret music (Cabaret (1972) - IMDb www.imdb.com/title/tt0068327): “Willkommen, bienvenue, welcome . . . to Indochine,”
First a Weimar-Saigon suckee-fuckee,
Then out to *The ****
Mind-numbing concussion,
Reek of jellied gasoline,
Charred meat,
Assorted red entrails,
Obliteration of thought complete.
Jun 27, 2015
Jun 27, 2015 at 8:48 PM UTC
The boils grew like cherries;
small, shiny, clustered,
fiery-red and hard as rage.
Stuffed to screaming
with their own venom,
they vomited torrents
of poisoned blood and
three green-white cores of pus,
little jellied lumps of disgust.
Exorcised, the boils shut their mouths
and healed, leaving prim lips of scar.
Those boils hurt worst
just before they drained,
I recall
as I write the last line of a poem.
Jan 9, 2011
Jan 9, 2011 at 7:20 AM UTC
A cabin den
paneled in knotty pine
slick with thick varnish
jellied in mid-ooze
& running down the grooves.
A festive group gathers
around an electric fireplace
talking up old work stories
in mid-December.
My dad sits dead center
for the camera
wearing the face he wore
when in the company of adults
his long sleeves rumpled
and his collar askew
one arm straight up,
a bottle of Blatz in hand
commending
the buzz.
Sep 22, 2012
Sep 22, 2012 at 2:44 PM UTC
Oh, my cherished-
If I could give you him
I'd wrap him in picnic plaid
Like the gift he should be
(I know you'd like that)
And I'd tie him to you by
his tweed and sheepish smiles,
so tight that you'd turn into
a Great Ancient Tree.
Darling, if I could
shake the demons out of your forest,
I'd holler at them in a pentatonic fury
and bend them from your nation.
(With air. Not fire)
My Siamese twin,
connected at the heart,
If I could give you the world
I'd carry it to you
like Atlas
though I'd have to work on my long distance running.
I'd do it for you.
I'd do it a hundred,
and bring you all the jam ever jellied.
Mar 9, 2013
Mar 9, 2013 at 9:27 PM UTC
(I.)
Only a fool would try, in line by line
Of fair assessment honestly expressed,
To paint with words the finest of the fine
Beauties of which you solely are possessed.
No elegance would not seem spread too thin;
And he who'd try would never be believed,
For none would see as truth the truth therein,
But think it all a lover's eyes deceived.
So candid pics and videos must record
What speech could never adequately limn,
And would be doubted elsewise word for word,—
The evidence being hearsay and far too slim.
Yet, all of these leave much too much to doubt:—
All flaws would seem, no doubt, photoshopped out.
(II.)
Like two caves spun with dusty cobweb-snares
Guarding a cache of emeralds is your nose.
Your globby eyes find shade 'neath oxen hairs.
Like two thin frowning mustaches are your brows.
With microscopic mites your shiny skin
Glints, like a hanging fruit's with aphid flies
Flitting around about and out and in,
Or a hot, oil-glistened frenchèd fry's.
Like hard, mini marshmallows are your teeth.
Your lips, like jellied dextromethorphan.
Oh! oh! to be that rubber soul beneath
Those knobby tubers made for kicking a can!
But here again the painting is askew:
It lacks that certain something that's in you.
Yes, rubber soul.
*
Mar 16, 2015
Mar 16, 2015 at 12:59 PM UTC
Helen and you
walked home from school
the long way
you wanted to show her
the man
in the pie and mash shop
cutting up eels
for jellied eels
or for the pies
how he would stand there
with his knife
and take up an eel
and holding it
firmly on a board
would cut off its head
and then proceed
to slice it up
into small pieces
and into a bucket
on the floor
and when you showed her
standing outside the shop
peering through
the window
she said
O my God
and put a hand
to her mouth
and spoke
through her hand
and added
poor eels
to end up
in someone's stomach
and the way
he cuts them up
and the pieces
still moving afterwards
and she moved away
and walked up the road
still holding a hand
over her mouth
you don't fancy
pie and mash then?
you said
not with eels in it no
she replied
through her fingers
you smiled
not funny
she said
poor little eel creatures
yes I guess it is
a bit brutal
you said
but fascinating
to watch
I don't think so
she said
taking her hand
from her mouth
you both went under
the subway of the junction
she slightly
in front of you
her two plaits of hair
bouncing
as she walked
her green raincoat
tied tight about her
you whistled
so that it echoed
along the subway
bouncing off the walls
all along
the artificial lights
giving off
a surreal sensation
how can people eat eels?
she asked
just the sight
puts me off
don't know
guess they don't think
of it being eels as such
just as something to eat
you said
you both came out
of the subway
on the other side
and walked along
the New Kent Road
by the cinema
she looking
at the billboards
through her thick lens glasses
are you sure your mum
doesn't mind
having me for tea?
she said
well we're not actually
having you for tea
we usually have
beans on toast
or jam sandwiches
she slapped your hand
you know what I mean
she said smiling
no Mum don't mind
you said
she invited you after all
I pleaded against it
but she wouldn't listen
you said smiling
Helen's face frowned
and she stood still
really?
she said
no I'm joking
you said
and she nodded her head
uncertainly
looking at you
through her glasses
I'm just kidding
you said
you touched her hand
she smiled
and you both walked on
and across the bomb site
the uneven ground
the puddles of rainwater
you your mother's son
and Helen
a lucky woman's
daughter.
Nov 11, 2013
Nov 11, 2013 at 2:27 AM UTC
A Marital Sonnet
‘Why don’t we go to the Isle of Wight?’
she said, one morning over breakfast.
‘Just travel down and stay the night.’
she said and I looked down, embarrassed.
‘But it’s full of ****** Cockneys’ I said,
‘All selling whelks, jellied eels and mash.’
She crossed the kitchen and kissed my head
and said ‘At times you talk such trash.’
‘But if it rains it’ll be a waste of time.
I doubt there is very much to do.’
She smiled and put her hand in mine
‘It’ll be a weekend just for two.’
Later, we went to the Isle of Wight
and surprisingly, it was actually all right.
Nov 27, 2013
Nov 27, 2013 at 11:13 AM UTC
For her eighteenth birthday,
a gift from the fates;
she knows how she will die.
Before, there was a vague notion—
A shadow cast by a hungry dragon
who roosts on the branches of the family tree,
devouring her ancestors, waiting and unslayable.
Now, the diviners speak to her in pedigrees
and punnett squares, leafing through a deck
of tarot cards, checking vials of her blood
for patterns in the tea leaves at the bottom,
hardening the shadows at their edges and
twisting peripheral horror into prophecy,
a promise, and she sees it all,
she sees everything, laid in front of her
and stretching out like a golden string
towards the vanishing horizon:
The sharp burn of dread at every twitch
and missing memory, jellied elegies oozing
from the center of others’ puffed pleasantries,
years spent watching her soul
get thinner and thinner, trapped
within a broken heap of matter and flesh,
cursed bone, misfiring electricity,
eroding endlessly, self destructing,
never ending, ending soon,
and, at last, alone, gazing back on a youth
spent gazing forward, ****** and dying
and derelict, and decades in the making—
she asks herself, what would she not give
for the chance to unknow,
to trade the dragon for the slow, soft lull
of the indifferent stars,
and to die whole and confused,
like the rest of us.
Jun 20, 2016
Jun 20, 2016 at 1:24 AM UTC
I could unwrap your mummified heart,
But I'm too much of a coward to know where to start,
Working myself into a replicated gentlemen,
And this time,
Ask her out without winged middlemen,
Sometimes I think I'm truly wasting my time,
I'm just an expired grandfather clock passed it prime,
So if I ever squared off with your elegance,
I'd just back off and drown in regrets and negligence,
Am I waste to you?
A *** with burnt flowers,
A darker shade of blue?
Am I just too radioactive to touch?
Am I just too closed casket faced to love?
Too jellied knuckled to trust?
I honestly think I'm just ******
When I skip rocks,
They sink,
Down with the trash,
And so it seems,
I have nothing else to do,
But wish I could spend my life with you,
Mar 29, 2015
Mar 29, 2015 at 8:32 PM UTC
They told me in all honesty,
"you're a flying carpet"
and still they walked all over me.
I'd do the job for nothing if respect was what it gave,
but it seems to me Aladdin wants nothing
more
than for me to be a slave.
It feels like jellied eels out there
cold and wet and slippery
I think I'll put my slippers on
and watch catch up
on the TV.
But I've got to go out in the snow
fodder for the cannon
going on and on to a thousand
variations of at least four different
seasons in a day.
I know it's summer somewhere where
the Winter's left behind and its up to me
to find it, but at times this man's so blind.
If 'open sesame' won't do
and the bell don't seem to ring
I'll use a stick of dynamite
and blow the door right in.
It's a Sunday,
they say
let us kneel and pray
to some greater God
who's left the World in such a mess
I think that rather odd
anyway,
I get down on my knees
ask for forgiveness
pretty
please.
A chess game and they congregate
make their moves
until they reach
a stalemate
sixty seconds on the clock
the gun is cocked
the casbah's rocked
the door's still locked
I light the fuse.
Jan 15, 2017
Jan 15, 2017 at 5:23 AM UTC
One Sunday Morning,
Josh & Nicole woke up
to find they had metamorphosized
into Jellyfishes.
As rosy fingered Dawn met
their night breaths and stirred the Sea,
an intense Grace sighed,
dreaming effortlessly on misty
shores still wrapped in silky
emerald sheets of caught
infatuation, hooked
on tasty morsel
twisted in loves net.
Their waking sinfulness
forgets the vast Ocean
even as their jellied skin glides
and melts together
under gentle undulating waves
and watchful Sun eye.
For the rest of their days
together, Josh forgets
to stare at lonely lands
and Nicole imagines
the next day together.
May 5, 2015
May 5, 2015 at 12:14 PM UTC
Sands sparkling
Green bubbly seaweed draped over a rock
Salt lines marking
A washed up gentleman’s flip flop.
Sweet wrappers, remains of tea leaves in plastic cups
Half eaten jam sandwiches for the sea gulls to peck
Deck chairs stacked neatly in rows and stripes
Boats desperately in need of a repair check.
The same old flag a flying over an outgoing tide
Cockle hunters and winkle pickers knee deep in slush
Jellied eels, don’t know how that came about
Children with “kiss me quick” hats in a mad rush.
Trays of stewed tea once again frog marched by dads
Buckets and spades sold in the thousands to
Cute frilly bathed girls and” got to dig deeper” lads!
Grandparents with knotted hankies on their heads
Stockings rolled down to reveal white shiny knees
“just sit there Grandma, don’t say a word”
I’ll bring you lollies and trays of sandy, luke warm teas.
At the end of the day, the beach was an art form
Displaying hundred of castles and stylish shapes of sand
It brought prosects of a healthy red skinned glow
To return home thinking you were tanned.
You’d had a good day at the beach, and now you’re done in
Just relax now with your pint of beer, bingo to look forward to
A handful of fish and chips and screaming kids to quieten
Dreaming of tomorrow, another day on the beach to get through.
Mar 21, 2014
Mar 21, 2014 at 1:43 AM UTC
what about food for thought and food for your belly, how about some raspberry jelly, or jelly fish that come from tropical seas, captured by the Japanese and are ten feet in diameter, not the Japanese but the gloopy seas creature .
That are kinda pink or red but taste really good and go with vanilla ice cream but be careful with these gloopy jellied things , they stings, I mean, they sting , so don't bite or chomp or chew but slice them up with a blade made outta a reinforced steel , but they feel pain and memories and all sorts of things, so they are not just things that are dragged from the depths, for us to poke or **** or ridicule on facebook or youtube
how'd you feel if tomorrow we was invaded by raspberry flavoured jellied creatures that came from the fifth and fourth dimension, did I mention that they're here to abduct us, to **** and poke us with weird instruments, but not musical ones but frightful ones, long ones , ones we've never heard of , but they have heard of us the raspberried creatures that is
from the fourth and fifth and possibly sixth dimension but I forgot to mention it's our own fault , our own frugal fault, that they've come in huge ,hovering , harbingered things, that hover above us without any wings, yes without wings and to these gelatinous, gluttonous things we are just things to be dispatched, devoured and digested within one working week, with one ******* gulp we'd go down their sleek gullets or whatever they have
Feb 6, 2013
Feb 6, 2013 at 5:36 PM UTC
Is this like art? No, sister. This is self-centeredness, a soap opera.
*
Time, the incongruous snail. How quickly it moves.
I need new folklore, a new change purse to hold the eyeballs I ****** out of thinness.
Nod to panicked thickness. Nod to talk radio. Box fan in my window ******* in the same air
the dinosaurs breathed, the air jimmy hoffa breathed, the air the rosenbergs breathed.
It feels wet.
*
This mineral spring smells like jellied summer. All of my hanging plants are dying without fear.
The air above my head is cancerous. I live in a birdhouse, powered by phantom glories.
May 25, 2016
May 25, 2016 at 1:07 PM UTC