"kettles" poems
Mumbai is rich, Mumbai is poor.
Mumbai is fast, Mumbai is slower.
Little bit sweet, and little bit sour,
Sometimes it’s hot but not too more….
Mornings are energetic and evenings are electric.
Noons are lazy but Nights are crazy
And any one you ask he always say “M busy”
Dude, life in Mumbai is not so easy
There is lot of Masti with little bit of Maska
Welcome to the city that can’t live, without Bollywood Chaska
From cooker whistles to the traffic jam horns,
From steaming tea kettles to breaking nut-betels
From telephone rings and doorbell brings.
There are people connecting through Blackberry pings
Where there’s little time to spare for kids
People here spend their lives on bids
Here you actually pay your travel fare by meter
But milkman mixing water is not a cheater!
Sev puri and bhel puri are all Mumbai chaat
Relishing it with spicy chutney is no easy art
From pop-corn to ice-cream, all sold on cart
Mumbai o Mumbai, you’re always close to my heart
Where local trains usually run on time
And violently rushing for a seat is not a crime
Here 3 PM for lunch and 12 AM to dine
People face hardships, but still say “it’s fine”
From Mt Mary in Bandra to Mumba Devi in Town
And ISKCON in Juhu to Haji Ali in Mumbai’s Crown
Faith runs deep as the Arabian Sea
But people don’t hesitate to pay early darshan fee.
Marathi, Punjabi, Gujarati and Bengali
Everyone forgather celebrate Id and Diwali
Holi is colourful and Christmas is cheerful
Spend some time here and your life will be un-forgetful
Billionaire to baggers, all found in this city
Be careful dude, this place is a bit witty.
Overall this dream-world is huge but pretty
Mumbai o Mumbai you’re wonderful city.
Feb 3, 2016
Feb 3, 2016 at 1:15 AM UTC
Leafy ferns and little frogs
Toads live in the garden
Weeds and grass and daffodils
And poop...I beg your pardon
Yes **** is in there from the cat
That roams around the houses
Just pick it out or grind it in
It should be full of mouses (meeces or mice)
There's ceramic figurines in there
Little deers and little dogs
To go along with little stones
And plastic little logs
But, beware the garden gnome
A treacherous beast is he
With evil eyes and long white beard
He is plotting after thee
The garden gnome looks daffy
In his jacket and his hat
But, look deep in the gnomey eyes
And you'll see just where he's at
There's ******* blown from up the road
Candy wrappers and old tins
The neighbor kids are lazy so,
They never throw it in the bins
The cat lies sunning lazily
Beneath a summer sun of gold
With it's job of chasing meeces down
For a while, put on hold
There's ivy, climbing everywhere
And things you can not tell
They got there from the squirrels
But you keep them for the smell
But, beware the garden gnome
A treacherous beast is he
With evil eyes and long white beard
He is plotting after thee
The garden gnome looks daffy
In his jacket and his hat
But, look deep in the gnomey eyes
And you'll see just where he's at
You tend the garden lovingly
Moving figures in and out
You never move the gnomes too much
Too much trouble, I won't doubt
You transplant flowers, move some trees
Cut the weeds back, till the soil
You head inside, the whistle blows
The kettles on the boil
While you are gone, something goes on
The gnomes attack the cat
You come back out, and wonder why
The gnome has lost his hat
yes, beware the garden gnome
A treacherous beast is he
With evil eyes and long white beard
He is plotting after thee
The garden gnome looks daffy
In his jacket and his hat
But, look deep in the gnomey eyes
And you'll see he's looking at the cat!!
Apr 7, 2013
Apr 7, 2013 at 5:09 PM UTC
This is the core of industries
It's crazy oh you see assemblies before ores fall in the streets but
It's all for you and me
A steampunk nation
Baby pollution rises up then the loving comes arraigning 'cause
Our art's official and only partially artificial
And our heart's in the middle of sharp hardened shards of metal but
There's not where it settles
Because it's beating to the steaming of God's hottest *** or kettle
And now we face it, this creation we made to
To save our craving for a synthetic rebelnation it's
Our safeway they make into a pathetic revelation
In our steampunk nation
Our steampunk nation
It's places having creation
But with black metal makings
And wordsmith's an occupation like phrase on paper's the way we say she's
Making our hearts start raving and baby maybe even raging for
For beaming metals and
Yeah steaming kettles, Meccas of our cyberstation Hades
And now we face it, this creation we made to
To save our craving for a synthetic rebelnation it's
Our safeway they make into a pathetic revelation
In our steampunk nation
Our steampunk nation
Oh how do we face it, this creation we made to
To save our craving for a synthetic rebelnation it's
Our safeway they make into a pathetic revelation
In a steampunk nation
A steampunk nation
May 12, 2014
May 12, 2014 at 8:16 PM UTC
Amazing it was what Grandad would do
with a drop of oil or a bit of glue
Stopped watches, sticking locks
Faulty switches, zips on breeches
Kettles that wouldn't sing
Bells that wouldn't ring
He'd say let me have a look my dear
Touch the pencil behind his ear
Adjust his specs, stick out his tongue
And in a jiff it was mended and done
But now he's not here to save us from sin
Anything broken goes straight in the bin
Jan 15, 2016
Jan 15, 2016 at 10:52 AM UTC
the doom puke treacle of our dim sum sundays, asunderous.
the bluff of our taurus. the trim thumb, green on the terrace
of our epiphanies; wondrous.
the crease in the pleat of our borealis. the allusive chalice
of our majesty. the dead kingdoms we relinquish to the roiling unjoy.
the thunder of our feet to the heel of a shadow. our peter pan in the fire.
our kettles black.
the opposable lovelies. the lovelies that preen jewels. the extreme youth of our gods
now at the hour of our foolishness. our funny bone. and the fracture.
the actual damage to our heaven. and the near after.
the gross bloom of our anguish
and parade.
and the bells. and the comma. and the laughter.
Jan 4, 2013
Jan 4, 2013 at 10:24 PM UTC
The many martyrs of boredom
make haste to their next death,
They nestle in their noodles
Over bowls of ramen
Ramming their frontal lobes in their palms,
In hazy rooms, staring in the hearts of tinted corridors
Dim lit lamps stand courageous,
Smoking kettles,
alarms the listener to lunge merrily
to,
his lazy lagoon
Aug 30, 2018
Aug 30, 2018 at 1:06 PM UTC
magnetic kettles brew anhydrous storms
at four in the morning.
May 13, 2014
May 13, 2014 at 11:22 PM UTC
Are you constipated ?
Irish butter is softer you know
Tena Lady will stop the drips
Do you need a new sofa ?
Disneyland for holidays
Buy cadburys creme eggs
Kettles boiled and time for tea
Has to be PG tips
Mar 21, 2013
Mar 21, 2013 at 8:37 PM UTC
I.
A louse in a house
or a mouse on a blouse.
A bell that goes ****
or a gong that goes ****
A gap on a map
or a cap on your lap.
A drink in the sink
or an ink that stinks.
A spleen on a screen
or a queen who is green.
A bow in the snow
or a crow that glows.
II.
A wash or a whip,
a lip or a lop,
a top or a tip,
a car or afar,
a bar or a war,
a door or a snore,
a bore or a nail,
a flail or a whale,
a run or a bun,
a sun or a moon,
a spoon or a bus,
a fuss or a sigh,
a cry or a cheer,
a fear or a smile,
a while or a pen,
a den or a cat,
a mat or a hat,
a bat or a glass,
a vase or a weight,
a mate or a fork,
a cork or a mop,
a cop or a stop.
III.
Apples and artichokes, ants and antelopes,
bees and beers, books and brains,
cucumbers and chimneys, ***** and coats,
dogs and drains, dots and dominoes,
ears and eejits, elephants and exams,
flies and flutes, files and friends,
grasses and guts, giants and gyms,
horrors and hiccups, horses and hills,
igloos and irons, irises and idiots,
jumpers and jackets, jodhpurs and jellies,
kings and kettles, kites and kittens,
lions and lamps, lemons and lunches,
mums and monsters, mosses and moths,
noses and notes, nightmares and needles,
oblongs and orang-utans, organs and oranges,
paintings and pennies, ponds and pants,
quiches and quizzes, questions and queues,
rainbows and rings, rascals and rabbits,
snakes and sprouts, sweets and salts,
trumpets and trains, tables and toasters,
umpires and ukuleles, umbrellas and uniforms,
violets and vests, violins and vials,
wheels and wings, windows and weeds,
xylems and x-rays, xylophones and xysters,
yachts and yoghurts, yards and yaks,
zigzags and zephyrs, ziggurats and zombies.
Oct 29, 2013
Oct 29, 2013 at 5:03 PM UTC
Clings of metal, pots and kettles.
Trumpets of laughter, drumming of tables,
planting of cables.
Sounds of games, clashing of swords, narrator's voice saying "game on!"
Quiet dim lights. Sounds in sound played in rooms, as people bring dishes out at noon.
Walls of cold separated speakers, waves of warmth shook the walls.
Crying in Midnight's, cats at 3, pens clicking at half past two.
Computers locked open.
Music of this neighborhood rang in my ears, as I stand by the door, paper wrapped in hand. Looking to the lights of another home...
Jul 27, 2018
Jul 27, 2018 at 7:25 AM UTC
last night the world slipped in
quietly through my window;
police sirens, car alarms,
church bells, rainstorms
collecting in a pool
on my bedroom floor,
coffee cups clinked and
kettles boiled,
babies were born and
ashes were thrown
and though I was tired
I stayed up all night listening;
the collective madness
of the world
lulled me back to sleep
and i woke with its bitter
sweet taste on my tongue;
craving more.
Feb 6, 2016
Feb 6, 2016 at 1:04 PM UTC
Seed my mantra with your stare
Im stuck on the roof
No God in sight
and my neck hurts from staring at stars
Awaiting a cool breeze to guide me home
Still I keep that *** of gold in my mind’s eye
The return to a long forgotten homeland
Something to strike me like deja vu
Awakening my eternal slumber
A thousand whistling kettles
So seed my laugh with your stare
Im stuck on the roof
No God in sight
and my neck hurts from staring at you
Awaiting a cool breeze to guide me home
Dec 10, 2013
Dec 10, 2013 at 7:57 PM UTC
because a burnt tongue can evoke the same kind of emotions
as watching your fears go up in smoke
its not a coincidence that fireworks sounds like kettles
and that you live for matchbooks and destruction
because you love burning fingers just as much as bridges
your mouth waters at the sweet smell of gunpowder
and craves the taste of chaos
hot liquid drenches your throat
and you cringe and you breathe
and you wait for the bang
and you wait for release
because it hurts in the most peaceful way you can imagine
you don't call yourself a *********
but you admire the way
you can find beauty in pain so easily
your skin is tinted red and angsty
from the snap of rubber bands against your skin
but you crave that sting like ******
lifting you higher into the atmosphere
until you crash among the cosmos
and fall into the earth like flaming debris
and you drink in the disaster
but never choke on the smoke
you admire the way rain falls like atom bombs
and the sun boils like nuclear warfare
you've got the world in your hands
and you're clutching it for dear life
trying to hold on to your sanity
but everything you touch crumbles
into ashes at your feet
I'm sorry
I'm so sorry that the only way for you to feel
is to burn your arms with lighters
and scratch away your skin
to scar your body until its hanging by its corners
and you look in the mirror and all you see is shame
but to me, its a canvas
because from destruction
comes creation
i won't let that very disaster that you indulge in
be your demise
i promise
if you want me to,
ill help you brew new blood
ill pick out herbs and leaves
and combine them with heat
so this cold world
will never leave you feeling heartless again
so even when you watch those fireworks
and watch your life go up in smoke
you'll have something waiting for you
to savor, to release
to drench your throat and bring you peace
Feb 25, 2013
Feb 25, 2013 at 10:34 PM UTC
You are,
Living on the top floor,
On a,
Bunk-bed,
In Finland,
In a cultured,
High-rise habitat,
With cool, kitchen kettles,
Where,
You are not visited except by cameras,
Or people taking your children away.
Jul 25, 2012
Jul 25, 2012 at 4:24 PM UTC
Look who's found who
Look who stole you from your rest ...
And in believing, we cheated death
September's fall is warm and crisp,
on the road and on the path
I could make you an empath.
Introducing empathy.
What do you owe me and I owe you,
Or do we own it all collectively?
I'm not a healer
Let's forget about the stealers
I thus am nearing apogee.
Have to write this poem for you.
And me ...
Introducing all that blooms into our home.
While the tribal does a dance of revival
And we're harvesting (what's sown).
When I see you
through the windows open wide,
A watched *** never boils.
But 7 kettles resonates.
We all go away some times,
But your picture's in my mind
so when I'm many metres away
Even then, I cannot stray
I go and climb the tallest tree.
I sit and wait for you and me.
Introducing empathy
Introducing empathy
Introducing ... you and me
Sep 27, 2014
Sep 27, 2014 at 11:27 AM UTC
You look best in my lamp light. Your belly scar
rough underneath my fingertips as I jump the scratch
and attach myself to your hips, kiss your pelvic bone
until even my teeth can taste your sweetness. I can feel
black kettles and the burn from the ironing board crash of 1999.
When we’re wrestling in my duvet covers, the shadows
cast your memories up like a sanctuary projection. I see red race cars,
your brother jumping on the couch, fishing bait kept
in your back pocket. Your lips taste like liquor but I hear nursery rhymes
from when you were little, wobbly, an over-all dream
in the yard seen through the kitchen window. I know,
that you’ve dressed yourself in bad dreams
and broke yourself over footballs and houses of green paper,
but you look best in my lamp light when my hands
cram your face into my palms, your blush dripping
from you cheeks. Because I see the way
you burrow yourself into my chest when you think
I’ve gone to sleep, and I’ve seen the way your foot catches
on the edge of the woodwork right before you fall.
Dec 28, 2014
Dec 28, 2014 at 11:30 PM UTC
There are four giant kerosene kettles
Tied to the wings
Of the machine
In which I sit.
Voices speak in the air
Confident and bland.
The owner of one of the voices
Sets fire to the kettles
And the whole machine leaps
Into the air
Me with it.
We all pretend it’s OK
And sit quietly
Until the voices speak again
And tell us
The fire is out
And we can leave
Into a strange city
Or home.
Jul 23, 2014
Jul 23, 2014 at 2:11 PM UTC
Blurry city streets seem to call your name
I forgot how to exist when I no longer love you
strain
As years weigh tightly on my spine
I creep through the monotonous state
no longer hungry
slurring speech
Towards the impending luxury
Where he keeps my arms pinned down
On the dying grass
People watching
The adrenaline never seems to last
Their eyes gaze in our direction
As I bite into his shoulder
As I squirm
Friday night’s celebrations
wrap tightly
I can taste the whiskey
But it doesn’t bubble inside me
It lures him towards the smoky bars
Where I cower above him
I ache
My anger bubbles in moments where
I’m screaming as the
Car window opens
As I drive away from the emergency room
Soap still slipping through my wet hair
Could I find meaning in this existence
Where you don’t reside alongside me
Whispering in my ear
I used to count on my subconscious
your voice of reason
Outgrowing the state of being
My veins exacerbate the tight
Need to fight
To stand up straighter
Hold it all together
I let him wrap his fingers where
He wants
I let them gasp
wake the neighborhood up
To sounds of me howling
Begging for
An escape where
They no longer ask from me
Where the pain no longer pools
Like the storm clouds
Above the dry valley
One strike of lightning
Suddenly it’s a fight for our lives
Hit me so I can take my mental state
Throw it into a definition
Look through the stars
the colors blend together in gaseous realities
I can find the one strand where I used
moments of joy
the orange duvet, window open
Boiling tea kettles,
I used to just stand in the grass and not think about the
Ticks
The crawling underworld
Soil seeping through,
Induce me
I’ll sink past the dirt, the sand
And let go of your hand.
Aug 14, 2017
Aug 14, 2017 at 5:24 PM UTC
I SOUGHT a theme and sought for it in vain,
I sought it daily for six weeks or so.
Maybe at last, being but a broken man,
I must be satisfied with my heart, although
Winter and summer till old age began
My circus animals were all on show,
Those stilted boys, that burnished chariot,
Lion and woman and the Lord knows what.
II
What can I but enumerate old themes?
First that sea-rider Oisin led by the nose
Through three enchanted islands, allegorical dreams,
Vain gaiety, vain battle, vain repose,
Themes of the embittered heart, or so it seems,
That might adorn old songs or courtly shows;
But what cared I that set him on to ride,
I, starved for the ***** of his faery bride?
And then a counter-truth filled out its play,
The Countess Cathleen was the name I gave it;
She, pity-crazed, had given her soul away,
But masterful Heaven had intetvened to save it.
I thought my dear must her own soul destroy,
So did fanaticism and hate enslave it,
And this brought forth a dream and soon enough
This dream itself had all my thought and love.
And when the Fool and Blind Man stole the bread
Cuchulain fought the ungovernable sea;
Heart-mysteries there, and yet when all is said
It was the dream itself enchanted me:
Character isolated by a deed
To engross the present and dominate memory.
players and painted stage took all my love,
And not those things that they were emblems of.
III
Those masterful images because complete
Grew in pure mind, but out of what began?
A mound of refuse or the sweepings of a street,
Old kettles, old bottles, and a broken can,
Old iron, old bones, old rags, that raving ****
Who keeps the till. Now that my ladder's gone,
I must lie down where all the ladders start
In the foul rag-and-bone shop of the heart.
1.6k
I
I sought a theme and sought for it in vain,
I sought it daily for six weeks or so.
Maybe at last, being but a broken man,
I must be satisfied with my heart, although
Winter and summer till old age began
My circus animals were all on show,
Those stilted boys, that burnished chariot,
Lion and woman and the Lord knows what.
II
What can I but enumerate old themes?
First that sea-rider Oisin led by the nose
Through three enchanted islands, allegorical dreams,
Vain gaiety, vain battle, vain repose,
Themes of the embittered heart, or so it seems,
That might adorn old songs or courtly shows;
But what cared I that set him on to ride,
I, starved for the ***** of his faery bride?
And then a counter-truth filled out its play,
'The Countess Cathleen' was the name I gave it;
She, pity-crazed, had given her soul away,
But masterful Heaven had intetvened to save it.
I thought my dear must her own soul destroy,
So did fanaticism and hate enslave it,
And this brought forth a dream and soon enough
This dream itself had all my thought and love.
And when the Fool and Blind Man stole the bread
Cuchulain fought the ungovernable sea;
Heart-mysteries there, and yet when all is said
It was the dream itself enchanted me:
Character isolated by a deed
To engross the present and dominate memory.
players and painted stage took all my love,
And not those things that they were emblems of.
III
Those masterful images because complete
Grew in pure mind, but out of what began?
A mound of refuse or the sweepings of a street,
Old kettles, old bottles, and a broken can,
Old iron, old bones, old rags, that raving ****
Who keeps the till. Now that my ladder's gone,
I must lie down where all the ladders start
In the foul rag-and-bone shop of the heart.
1.5k
They swoon on behalf of the exalted one
Brandishing the sword of the spirit
Deliberately making a racket
Tremolo picking
******* on the man’s marrow
Sitting on a pick nick blanket
Kicking up new ground
You sure have a knack
This is the taste of terror
Remember what you have learned
For now, for when? Forever
Leave no stone unturned
Just wait your turn
A blind recommended private eye
Take into deep consideration
Deliver me from the life of a lemming
Diving off a cliff into a cesspool
Daunted, left helpless in the courtyard
Belated birthday gifts given so thoughtlessly
Nonchalant sarcasm afterward
They shall not speak henceforth
These are the days of madness
The sanity you’ll lose
The colorblind in glasses
Receiving Rubix Cubes
Tell me what’s the use?
Running across the T-ball field
Frightening a legion of geese
A teenage thrill only to realize
My shoes were covered in stool
The banshee so aerodynamic
Its yawp makes my head split
Calling collect just to say
Your virility is too impressionable
We were the living theater
From which your inspiration derived
The kettles of fish and cans of worms we opened
That we cannot deny
We will not lie
We are dead
From the neck up
From the neck up
From the neck up
Mar 20, 2014
Mar 20, 2014 at 12:24 PM UTC
My door frame is easy to break
it bends in half,
if you blow on it
and there’s left over gum
in the cracks
from all of the ***** mouths
of people who tried
to blow my house in
(it’s probably because so many have gone
that allows for so many to come)
If the walls have any color,
please let me know
When you get inside you’ll see the floor
covered in thumbtacks
that have fallen
from the memories that were once pinned
to my walls
but have since blown away
by the same breaths that had blown in my door
(I wish I had the heart
to pin them
back up)
If the walls have any color,
please let me know
If you manage your way into my kitchen
you’ll find
tea bags
and charred kettles
that I used to burn my words
when my mouth got too hot
(I always mess things up when I speak)
If the walls have any color,
please let me know
Please excuse the honey
smeared to my furniture
it was used to make guests stick
who were anxious to leave
from the moment they arrived
(I think the scent of insecurity
wrapped in lavender oil
sickened them)
When fuming,
after the guests turn away
I gag myself
into my pink toilet bowel
to allow the memories,
that have rotted in my gut,
to roll out on to
my
tea stained tongue
So please use the bathroom upstairs
If the walls have any color,
please let me know
I do not live there anymore
I had to run away again,
to get away from these rooms
that once cradled my innocence
(the frame has grown weak from carrying such burdens)
If the walls have any color,
please let me know
you’ll find me underneath the floor boards
Nov 17, 2012
Nov 17, 2012 at 9:50 PM UTC
You can ride on my oldie bike for free
Yesterday I called in the double price
For the spark in her eyes that I see
Mellow on inside but tinted sharp eyes
Like a ripple in the water in calm night
Moony thoughts, paper like thin ****** cuts
Her careless thoughts meet her eyes
She created words that I seldom felt
She sways her thready hair as I knelt
As this lady gently cleans the kettles
I listened to her rush, the whistle, and her lips
Like the leaves flutters over a gentle wind
On the shadow of a butterfly over the lilies
A sun inside a drizzly morning and evening glory
Like a cuckoo singing from an early winter tree
A dream passed me by unknown to her
A desirable woman, a lover, a passionate peer
A moment of clarity, a blink, a wish to be there
Feb 11, 2013
Feb 11, 2013 at 12:22 AM UTC