"knead" poems
it is funny, you will be dead some day.
By you the mouth hair eyes,and i mean
the unique and nervously obscene
need;it’s funny. They will all be dead
knead of lustfulhunched deeplytoplay
lips and stare the gross fuzzy-pash
—dead—and the dark gold delicately smash….
grass,and the stars,of my shoulder in stead.
It is a funny,thing. And you will be
and i and all the days and nights that matter
knocked by sun moon jabbed ****** with ecstasy
….tremble (not knowing how much better
than me will you like the rain’s face and
the rich improbable hands of the Wind)
69.5k
824
[first version]
The Wind begun to knead the Grass—
As Women do a Dough—
He flung a Hand full at the Plain—
A Hand full at the Sky—
The Leaves unhooked themselves from Trees—
And started all abroad—
The Dust did scoop itself like Hands—
And throw away the Road—
The Wagons—quickened on the Street—
The Thunders gossiped low—
The Lightning showed a Yellow Head—
And then a livid Toe—
The Birds put up the Bars to Nests—
The Cattle flung to Barns—
Then came one drop of Giant Rain—
And then, as if the Hands
That held the Dams—had parted hold—
The Waters Wrecked the Sky—
But overlooked my Father’s House—
Just Quartering a Tree—
[second version]
The Wind begun to rock the Grass
With threatening Tunes and low—
He threw a Menace at the Earth—
A Menace at the Sky.
The Leaves unhooked themselves from Trees—
And started all abroad
The Dust did scoop itself like Hands
And threw away the Road.
The Wagons quickened on the Streets
The Thunder hurried slow—
The Lightning showed a Yellow Beak
And then a livid Claw.
The Birds put up the Bars to Nests—
The Cattle fled to Barns—
There came one drop of Giant Rain
And then as if the Hands
That held the Dams had parted hold
The Waters Wrecked the Sky,
But overlooked my Father’s House—
Just quartering a Tree—
19.1k
This is how it goes
your hands will be proxy for mine
my hands will be proxy for yours
your fingers my fingers
and my fingers yours
what I describe, you enact
told in detail so exact
Just to begin
I squeeze your *******
knead and pinch
tweak a ******
give it a tug
Stroke your tummy
work over your thighs
move up the inner
where skin is smooth
circle around, moving in
till soft contours are caressed
through pants that burn
to be removed
that pain you to wear
and I see in my mind
as you describe
the spreading, darkening patch
that fills the gusset
Now they're pulled down
removed quickly, completely
and you are revealed
spread, opened, shameless
Gentle fingertips tease
dance in circles, barely touching
yet the fire within grows
back and forth, round and round
dance the fingertips
as both reciprocate
with growing pace
and firmer touch
I hear you gasp down the line
and your breathing quickens
as you hear mine
as your excitement fuels mine
as mine fuels yours
in our feedback loop of lust
And I tell you how
my fingertip would give way
to tonguetip if I could
that I can taste you
in my imagination
fragrant, salty sweetness
with musky undertones
the tip of my tongue now circling
then flicking back and forth
beating out the rhythm
that you best harmonise with
bringing forth your moans
Then darting down, back
between wet, glistening folds
exploring each ridge and valley
working remorselessly
Breathing faster now
with animal grunts and moans
directions of pleasure gasped
breathless down the phone
As fingers again
take the lead
find the opening
slip readily within
probe, explore, ****
find that place
on your front wall
yes, just that spot
that's a little rougher
and feels sooo goood
Add a second finger
working and *******
licking and rubbing
moaning and gasping
barely intelligible now
...yess...more...yess...ohhh
are all that have meaning
Finger three joins one and two
then the pressure builds
demanding release
and shaking and thrusting
grows to shuddering
and...yes...yesss...sooo clooose
******* faster furiously
till we both explode
hearing each other's
voicing of our ecstasy
in language intelligible
only in this one context
Brains and voices return
as we bask in the afterglow
and what passes between us then
in those moments
is the deepest intimacy of all
Cynthia Pauline Jones 01/02/2014
Apr 13, 2014
Apr 13, 2014 at 7:31 AM UTC
I went to bake some cupcakes
I was in such a merry mood
I miss the sweet creamy taste
I miss the smell of food
Human food, Monster food
Oh, its just the same
What matters is how to make it good
I call this a cooking game
A cup of flesh, and mix it well
Those smelly rotten eggs
Light the fire, the flames of hell
Let's chop these human legs
Ahh, fresh flour - I stole from the store
A little bit of sugar, a little bit of salt
Let's knead the dough, let's fetch the coal
Surely, this is not my fault
For a sudden twist, I suddenly thought
Why not stir-in some blood
The jar of of red, I quickly sought
Where's that stirring rod?
So I baked it in the ancient oven
And waited for some time
Ping! It sprung open!
Now let's give it a try!
Nothing like a meal
For a hungry half-breed
Wasn't such a deal
It was just what I need
Nothing like a Sunday
When you're not feeling mad
Nothing like cupcakes
Nothing like fresh blood
Oh, human bones!
Ack! Ugghh!!
May 7, 2014
May 7, 2014 at 1:41 PM UTC
Your colors are so heavy, how dare I, I cannot sleep. Years inundated under, through skin coils, marigold fields. Yellow crocuses, orange California poppies. Moors of cattle ranchers, yokes of oxen. Plasticine uber-confidence, silky white-skinned testubular thrice people harmonies. Blisses of contagion, contagious bliss. Wrists and incisors, tying down in a bedroom, waking up to live harps and choruses. You dance like you're so alive, but I'm so alive I can't dance. Or breathe. Or knead my fists of earthen wears, or sell my soul completely. I drove off a cliff last night, but the four foot fall ended neatly. The plateau authors my chance to sew my bright, beyond- my fortunes. But the hour before I fall asleep, seems to be the greatest torture.
Apr 26, 2014
Apr 26, 2014 at 4:54 AM UTC
Fatima Latima
I had wished I had no gift of sight
That the worst I could endure is hear you speak
And not snapshot the footfall of your gradation
You may not be a thief
Nor **** daughter of the dayspring
But definitely my heart you stole
I speak of the daughter of Arabia
Aesthetically, she rocks
The queen of the pilgrim sands
And aeonian desert stones
Beyond the hijab
Artistically knead with consummate craft
Like the relics of Mecca
Blest by the prophet’s bones
The blessed
I see torches
Beaming with intelligence
Within those mascaras
Exquisitely trimmed and vibrant
A lulu class botany
She fixes a searching gaze
As she saunters close
And the stride and tread
Beats a drum entrancing
Soothed in her solacing spell
I give in, to her lullaby
She halts her perambulation
Stands magniloquent and stupefy
Like some pop diva magazine pose
Or Victorian secret shot
A tactical derangement of her gluteals
As she rests her palm in its cleft
I feel contractions, my dartos muscles
The blew of summertime
Gently beats her exceptional form
Her belt submerge her thigh crevice
Cleft by the sundered rift of fleshy fat
Built by the dainties and delicacies
Seasoned by the finest Arabian chef
As her silken dress slithers and gowns
Under the breeze bulging and blooming
Like a rose blossom or sunflower fore
As she bends down
To assuage the burlesque
The sun specula lilts her sensational
Her smile apologetic bids me stillness
I am caught staring
Guzzling down her scent and
Feasting on empty imaginations
Of What If that accentuate the mind and
Speed a hormone
And I pray I sin no more
Next time we meet and I see her again
For I am but a writer
Learning to use my pen and paper
And hope you but forgive
My linguistic impotence
When I make my confession
Employing too plain a language
When I say thus;
Her smile is classical
Her walk magical
Her beauty celestial
Her stride sensational
Her religion ethical
Her character spotless
And that leaves me breathless
And forgive if I step on broken toe
And try speak of the unspoken
Her ****** is sacred
Her being a type that dresses up
In the milliards of brutes dressing down
And shamelessly style it fashion
I must see a priest
One confession I ought to utter
And even vociferate abroad
For once I had fallen in love
With an Arabian Beautie
A ****** of Mecca.
Jun 18, 2012
Jun 18, 2012 at 9:12 AM UTC
The dough in the pizza pan
Becomes my heart.
And with my hand, my fist,
I strike it and flatten it.
I force it to change,
Plaster it into limp pancake.
With my palm I knead it,
But the pain which should ebb out,
Will not separate and flow away.
It stays inside the dough,
The flattened,
Moulded,
Hand-mangled dough!
Dec 11, 2014
Dec 11, 2014 at 5:40 PM UTC
These berries are bruises
Fading birthmarks I have still
Fresh from that morning you opened my curtains
Rolled down your window
Promised me honey and a candy-colored life.
These berries are bruises
You made me breakfast in bed.
Too early you lifted my tent,
brought a full spread:
Fruit, toast and black coffee--
But when I tilted my lips
You drunk first of my womanly cup.
Pouring out hot, bitter slick
My lips swelled blue blister
I stiffened under your dead weight,
I killed my tongue.
I tried to keep dreaming of
Hands to knead me
And butter the softness of these
Blueberry scone hips,
But instead you picked all the berries out
Your greed a mouthful,
The growing woman inside me leavened--
Watching you stain my girlhood,
Popping one fruit bead after another
******* the seeds from my teeth.
Jan 31, 2012
Jan 31, 2012 at 2:25 AM UTC
dear . . . sweetie,
the projections of your essence is the type
to cook up a future of you;
of the home you call your heart,
or how you let it spill across the metal table,
just to knead it back together to construct wholesome smiles.
yours is the form of communication i've never known,
a presence that haunts me -
as the scent of your perfume lingers at the back of my tongue
as i taste a sweet fruit,
or how your stories speak to me
as my eyes trickle such mundane appliances around me.
you have taken not my heart, nor my soul.
you have extracted from me fragments of my time;
where i find myself caught in the air, mystically
hearing the songs that were stuck in my head when i first met you.
you are the soundtrack to my little death.
you are always right in the corner of my mind, just as i want to see you:
half-baked, smirking, and vulnerable.
May 17, 2016
May 17, 2016 at 3:50 PM UTC
Knit that sweater for me, please,
That sweet humming with its peaceful catch
Your hands and their darkening crease,
A mere cloth of your hardwork
To stay with me.
When it wraps around me
On a chilly day
I'll feel your love
Your warm embrace.
Under the sunlight
I'll dream of the rows,
Silly reasons to fight,
But even if for a day, I was your foe,
Your love would cook for me,
Knead the chapati dough
Make me that beautiful sweater
On my 90th Christmas when you're above
I'll wear your colours, my dear mother,
Which will remind me.of your undying love.
Jun 7, 2016
Jun 7, 2016 at 12:09 PM UTC
This day, my Julia, thou must make
For Mistress Bride the wedding-cake:
Knead but the dough, and it will be
To paste of almonds turn’d by thee:
Or kiss it thou but once or twice,
And for the bride-cake there’ll be spice.
3.6k
Typing furiously
The websites you administrated
The cool stuff you created
Dancing graciously
The pictures you enhanced
The movies you edited
Plucking gentle
The guitar strings
The songs you sing
Moving delicately
The way you put your chopstick
The way you stroke your joystick
Approach hungrily
Touching the sacred spots
Knead, caress, massage, pinch, rub, enter.
May 16, 2015
May 16, 2015 at 7:34 AM UTC
The baby is born to the death walls
that line the cellar. The cellar is dark
and musty like the inside of a mouth
that has seen every forest in the world
that needs to be seen. There is animal
screaming and cheeks wailing and blood
smashed. There is the floor: cold as bath
water or lungs or teeth or healing. She
wanted a midwife. The midwife looks
ashes of change, her hands shake
like a pale fire. Her hands shouldn’t
be shaking, I want to say please, leave
the shaking hands to us, we are only
a professional family, but you are really
a professional, your brain is snowed with
palms that knead proper parturition. But
my mouth is tight with breath and ash.
Jan 11, 2014
Jan 11, 2014 at 11:48 PM UTC
2 cups of atta flour
mix it with a cup of lukewarm water
add a pinch of salt
Ready to knead the dough
Knead it soft, knead it hard
Throw it on the air
Roll it on the table
Rest it for sometime
While you check on your curry
Perfect TENGGIRI fish curry
Put it in microwave, Nuke it
the aroma fills the air...
Smells good... salive drops oppss...
Heat the pan now dear
8 chapati all together fresh in a bowl
one by one roll it well
make it really round
a little bit of ghee, hmm... smells like heaven
my daughter waits with a plate in her hand
one chapati ready,
two chapati ready,
three chapati ready,
Mummy I leave the plate on the table now
I want to switch on the tv
My daughter comes back
all three chapati are stolen...
She screams out loud
WHO STOLE MY CHAPATI?????
And the chapati war begins.....
May 17, 2013
May 17, 2013 at 8:33 AM UTC
-for Zukiswa Mvunguse~
and for
~ Jul,
who once again,
loved each line best~
having already deduced that:
“the unplanned is his plan,
it’s his faceted flaws
that refract his coloratura”^
the titled alliteration teases him into thinking
there, is more to be said,
more to be prayed,
the unplanned lesser lesson is as-of-the-yet unlearned,
and the sunburst of a full fledged
lying-in-bed born from a static spark of kinetic energy,
awaking in an unfamiliar bed
or a too familiar state of mind,
begs for birth and vainglorious death-by-anon/amity
of another poem
I have written poems commissioned,
“write about suicide,” asked a friend,
“take this word and artfully knead it,” once, was once an oft request,
twisty manipulate your scheming resources into
finely assaying a field rock raw,
laboratory mind-mine it into an essay that delve dives
where you fear to treacherous tread,
resultant, an awkward prayer, now, a valued mineral
no poem is truly planned and no prayer ever truly answered,
but as you compose, pushing the last, next word
ever farther to the right,
you self-confess, expecting no absolution, that the poem,
this one as well,
and the next, and the next, and the next
has always been planned since your inception,
always a prayer asked, and in creation conception,
answered even if not directly answered,
for
in the bare minimum asking,
is the answering,
is the planning,
is the poem and the prayer,
is his owned
alliteration
Mar 24, 2019
Mar 24, 2019 at 8:16 AM UTC
use your kiss
as an elixir.
Let its sweetness
counter
the sour taste
my words leave.
Let its softness
knead my neck
and shoulders.
Let its calmness
soothe
my rapid thoughts
and breathing.
Let it remind me
I am loved,
and it is you
who loves me.
Dec 25, 2013
Dec 25, 2013 at 3:11 AM UTC
*On the top of rationality
Remains an abyss to insanity
That I persist to climb
Until I reach my prime
Until I grasp all the rains in my veins
Until I rein the reins
As I contemplate all the plains
Of grayish fate, thru trees of clocks
Leaves of wish and apples of Eve
Thru rocks weightless as chants
And thru ants and doves verging chess
Hazy mortals with gloves of hate
Lazy and crazy mortals,
In such rare lands of bliss,
Obliterating the glow...
**So, I knead the canvas with my bare hands
And threw myself into the abyss.***
Nov 2, 2013
Nov 2, 2013 at 7:17 PM UTC
Sweet architect!
I hope you are listening to the clamors in my head
I hope you see the pain I feel in my chest
I hope you see that I really am trying my best
Sweet architect!
I hope you’re seeing the tears my eyes harbor
I hope you realize that my heart sobs
I hope you see me in my origin as someone with naught
Sweet architect!
I hope you see my soul is a mess
I hope you see me try again and fall back on earth
I hope you see my laid back at night trying to reach the heavens for help
Sweet architect!
I hope you see me wishing I could change
Become a better person in this age
I hope you see that I have been damaged
Sweet architect!
I hope you see the need I need
I hope you see as I fall on my knees
That I need a whole new knead
Sweet architect!
I hope you know that I know that you’re the only one who can
Help me with all of earth’s troubling time
And let me live the life I deserve
Sweet architect!
This is not my cry to you but a plea
Like a poor child to a rich King
I reach out to you for a meal!
Sweet architect!
We both know these chains are not mine
But I got them while I was trying to make it in life
Please help me break loose and survive
Sweet architect!
I know that you are all where
At days when you are needed
You’re always near
Sweet architect!
I now plead with you to come; save me and my mates
From this trouble we have to eat on our dining plates
And move us from where we are to our original place!
From a friend that cares,
©Emmiasky Ojex
Oct 15, 2018
Oct 15, 2018 at 10:27 AM UTC
I roll out my mind
I knead to concentrate
I pound and pound and pound
Trying to smooth it straight
And once it’s even
I roll up my sleeves
And cut shapes with the cutters
Of reason and release
Now holes are left
In interesting shapes
And I roll up what’s left
To start over again
I’m on a roll
I knead to concentrate
May 9, 2013
May 9, 2013 at 7:32 AM UTC
*I think about ***
I think
about ***
It's that kind of thing you're not supposed to think about
but everyone already expects that you do
It's the thing you hear in whispers
and shouts
which people mask with humor.
It's touch magnified
amplified
yet lately
cheapened.
I think about ***
not the *** of two hot bodies
mixing their sweat
but the *** of exploration
knowing everything about the other person
hands moving slowly
in pitter patters
sifting carefully through limbs and bedsheets.
Incidentally,
there are melanin filled marks all over my body
something I inherited from my mother
on bored quiet days
I wonder
if anybody
someday
somewhere
will knead through all my folds
and count
each
one.
I think about ***
..how another's arms
and fingers feel
tracing lines and curves
hands following the rise and fall
chests beating to the quiet rhythms of exhaled breaths
..how a kiss feels with lips closed
because tongues are disgusting alien creatures
I don't want to think about
(which is kind of funny I guess because *** has that other stranger 'alien')
Incidentally,
my sketch pad smells of oil pastels
my journal's almost filled
I have a math exam next week
a biology quiz tomorrow
I'd sure love some chocolate
ice cream maybe?
I think about ***
but not
too much.
Aug 25, 2011
Aug 25, 2011 at 6:27 AM UTC
I want to be inside every girl you ****** before me,
show you the birthmarks you never noticed
shaped like canoes and rocketships.
I will get her chest to rise, then fall,
steal the very source of her breath and curl my fingers
around it –
into dough, how you never could knead.
I have my hand on her throat
because you hated when she would talk.
We could work together, tie her hair into a knot.
I just want to be inside the girls who have intestines
like cotton candy and ******* like watermelon
explain why you should
have loved her as a woman sometimes.
You say you prefer my skin, and the way I whimper
but maybe you just did not
**** her hard enough.
Jun 24, 2013
Jun 24, 2013 at 5:36 PM UTC
Magickal black light
**** star probe
cylinders bright
Fish of 12
make bread in abundance
for 5000
knead the axle
the sphere that sits
adhere regret
when Jesus wept
for one dead
death the **********
the ******* let loose
Not the original
sleep for all
But the horrible macabre
That us befalls
Aug 18, 2016
Aug 18, 2016 at 10:49 AM UTC
You mix all the ingredients together
And then you knead
And the more you knead the
Easier it becomes and
The better the bread.
But sometimes I miss the
Hard work that is
The beginning when we
Would both work so hard
To impress, when our
Conversations were witty
And sarcastic if
Somewhat forced, when
The dough was still
Stiff beneath our fingers
And so the product
Felt even more satisfying
Than now when the kneading
Is supposedly easy
So that you don't pay as much
Attention to it.
Although I love
The taste of bread
I kinda like
Stealing the dough.
Mar 30, 2014
Mar 30, 2014 at 3:47 PM UTC
Knead your problems into dough
none of them can survive
at 375 degrees Fahrenheit
When you wake up late
add one chocolate chip
for every minute of morning you missed
take out one chocolate chip
for every time you are unkind
A teaspoon of sugar
for every crumb
that he left on your eggshell heart
a tablespoon of salt
for each time you’ve missed the way
his callused hands felt on your voice box
Drift away on clouds of flour
float down rivers of vanilla extract
a dozen cookies for every time you’ve flinched
at the sound of your own breath
On your knees
burn your throat
watch the cookies resurrect
flush to decompose.
Jan 19, 2015
Jan 19, 2015 at 10:47 PM UTC
I am but a lump of clay
Within the Potter's Hands
Help me to be such today
Help me understand
I am plastic. Malleable.
From the roots of stumps
For the Master's Hands available
Although I have my lumps!
He has to pound and knead me
Sprinkle me to moist refine
Mould me in my body
Mould me in my mind
Mould me in my heart
Mould me in my soul
So I won't break apart
So I can be bold!
I can use my art
To have my story told...
Sculpt me then Lord Jesus!
Do whatever it will take
Throw me on your wheel
With Force enough to break
My own thoughts and wishes
For vanity they are
My love for fame and riches
Which can only twist and scar
My love for things of "beauty"
Of worldly surmise
Give me a sense of Duty
To be useful in your eyes
You rose me from the muck and mire
You scooped me from the slime
How can I so then aspire?
Be in myself sublime?
Death, he has his clutches
This assuredly I know.
And I am but ashes
Dust to dust I go.
SoulSurvivor
(C) 7/30/2016
Jul 30, 2016
Jul 30, 2016 at 3:29 PM UTC