"marinated" poems
How can my eyes hunger for tormentors bodies
where in my soul can I find desires for sadists
Eves threw on fitted coats of Marquis de Sade
borrowed his manuals and added even more pages
pierced the heart of a Dove defending his nest with lethal pins
And in joyous indignities with devilment aplomp
they reclined and crackled in wanton doltishness
He thinks of and desires us and wants to make amor with us
How can a heart marinated in love truely sincere
a soul ready to die rather than any harm to Eves
Be mother or sister or perchance even a stranger
alas in utter ********** and grotesque situation dire
Come undone with healthy pristine heart ripped to pieces
hung drawn and quartered and sliced in tiny morsels
Like fish baits for mice and minnows or hens clucking
All at the hands of Sirens who worshipped in Satan's cravens
How can a soul with only the spark of Salvation aglow
where it once housed his heart and enduring humanity
With brimful joy and devotions in fitting measures true
as all Eves where to him nowt but sisters and earth angels
Now his burning blood runs cold like rivelets in the Arctic
their words ring hollow and smiles shows rapiers of snakes
Nothing stirs desires for all Eves now seem and look like wicked corpses
Delilahs' wrecking vengeance on Samsons in wickedness supreme
[email protected] rights reserved
Aug 23, 2018
Aug 23, 2018 at 4:31 AM UTC
My fingers bleed
as I scratch the inside of my skull.
Like cleaning out a pumpkin to carve,
removing pulp and fingernails,
and scattering seeds to be planted.
Vacant minded, a candle
placed and centered in my head,
illuminating my eyes
and putting color to my cheeks.
Tape measure stretched,
razor sharp snap back.
Graphite on pine.
Rusted teeth cut deep.
Being boxed in, yet waiting,
anticipating the metal nails to sing
as wood meets wood.
Plumes of smoke escape
the pine structure.
My candlelight depletes along
with oxygen. This containment
only serves to obfuscate while
holding a crowbar.
And the seeds planted above
linger in soil
marinated by wood chips.
All the while the vegetable
shrivels up and cries.
May 13, 2017
May 13, 2017 at 6:51 PM UTC
she lay next to him at night
dreaming of a ghostly icon, gold
little-headed monkey god on an island nigh the cape of bone marrow.
& now
she bounds into humble years, house cat, domesticated
little smiles, little daughters, little
flowers at the supermarket.
good morning.
pull her hair, as if to tree
& family. seed shoved down her throat
& diamonds.
she remembers the jewel runners, their chunks of wet rock.
& birds
slipstreaming away their days above africa.
slug to the chest &
she awakens in a hyundai
under the beaming heat of a vacant strip-mall sun.
gravity feels soft
in this lesser pungent life.
dreamt only, of choking temp and humid archipelago nights,
the gibbons & the thieves.
the treasure chest lairs of chieftains and tribal nobodies.
war profiteers.
men of fang island fantasy.
fake it.
p.t.a. and butter spread it, to toast and/or corn.
the sun is rising
& falling
& truly just travelling ‘round.
marinated artichoke hearts.
[baby dreams] of waves
on shore and handshake, of altered mother moons, she
is hidden in reflection
& time.
happy with the furniture.
plentiful on extra lunch meat.
Aug 22, 2015
Aug 22, 2015 at 8:03 AM UTC
Nobody ever talks about how the rain turns soil into mud;
how precaution tangoes
on the soles of your rain boots and
one misstep could lead to a concussion;
damage,
or a little scrape on the knee.
Nobody ever talks about
how caged birds sometimes forget
how to fly.
Mundane gestures marinated
as “special”
instead of something one ought to do.
He’s forgotten how to make her laugh.
When he says “baby”,
she could almost hear the anchor
pulling down the sincerity
in his voice box
along with the word “sorry”
and “sweetie, im never gonna hurt you again”
where his voice begin to crack
like tectonic plates that supported his
ego—
when he says “i love you”
nobody ever talks about the barriers
on beds and ******* and fetishes
to which the extent
of the phrase lies—
His i love yous were starting
to sound like a beg for ***
and his i love yous fade out
when he gets what he wants.
He gets what he wants.
Jun 20, 2018
Jun 20, 2018 at 2:31 PM UTC
A full moon morning
not yet awake
the fully fledged stars
were down to pay homage
seated on the vines
marinated in white robes
without the usual yellow makeup.
Only the breeze was allowed to touch them
to carry away the scent on their tongues
licking the moisture from the white skins
blowing gentle puffs
into the wide mouth of the gaping wind.
The wind circled around me whispering to be gentle
as I lifted each flower one to my small tray
and laid them around and around like a milky way
not breaking their prayer with the looming moon ahead.
Too late the white disc pinned me with its glare
continued to look down gently
from a balcony of cloud sprays
I heard every word that had gone on between them
and my eyes misted
with what they said.
©Malintha Perera 2014
Dec 7, 2014
Dec 7, 2014 at 3:45 AM UTC
TABLE D'HôTE
Appetizer
Wrong Tons With Me Soup
cooked worry
seared in a teary onion broth
Hors D'oeuvres
Slow Roasted Fear
fresh over-analyzing
crushed with loneliness
Main Course
Stress Salad
tossed with insomnia
marinated in a vertigo dressing
General Trouble Chicken
battered uncertainty
gloomed to perfection
sitting on steamed danger
stir fried in an overwhelm sour sauce
Dessert
Choked Volcanic Eruption
mountain of OCD
topped with whipped depression
glazed with self-loathing
Expresso
prepared with frothy guilt
(C) Jl 2016
Mar 5, 2016
Mar 5, 2016 at 9:24 AM UTC
*And suddenly he finds this--
the season of strange happenings
befall upon him.In Bangkok rains lashed
for three consecutive days without stop.
Huge pythons with strange markings
undulated over waves, that were roads
three days before.A stranger to the town
he feared the fury of river Chao Phraya
but this girl took care of him well,
and when rain paused slightly
she suggested they should eat out.
He left it to her choice, though never knew
much about her, say he was careless.
In that dim-lit restaurant, she said
most unexpected things happen certain days,
and what she said was really true.
She ate his past wholly, so quick
when no one noticed, it was truly smart an operation.
It tastes exactly like Thai cuisine she told him, as if pleased,
full of aromatic leaves of herbs.
He just sat like a zombie, would he understand
the meaning of that sabotage, ever?
As she whispered her words in his ears,
he wanted to contradict, tell her about
coconut milk, pepper and condiments
in which his memories of past were marinated,
like his mom's incredible curries
of fish from Kerala coast.
She pretended she didn't hear
all his memories of spice coast,
she had tactically usurped.
Then a doubt creeped in to his mind
"Is she a banshee, after me?"
She persuaded him to take a stroll
along the bank of Chao Phraya in spate
None would believe him later
his eye witness account of the girl
who ate all his spice land past
jumped in to Chao Phraya turning in to a big fish
and disappeared, never to reappear.*
Oct 28, 2013
Oct 28, 2013 at 1:49 PM UTC
Watch those blue shoes, being carried on the tide,
They're rolling from the water's edge,
propelled by sunlight,
lost in pain.
Once stepped over stones,
with you,
once weighed down.
See the lose broken twigs,
cruising with the tide beside them.
The shoes remember you intrinsically,
For all eternity,
Never will you be forgot,
Floating shoes,
have been released,
nearly free.
They're missing your lost kisses,
Riding ever onward,
Flowing toward home.
Being soothed and washed,
Cleansed and washed away.
They're dancing as seahorses do,
as they roam,
towards relief,
being bathed in marinated foam.
(C) Livvi
Oct 5, 2014
Oct 5, 2014 at 8:22 AM UTC
Your teeth in my skin, my
shoulder in your mouth.
I wonder- am I sleek and
fragrant from all the poetry
I've marinated in? Does
the metaphor soften the
flesh, make it easier
to eat?
Dec 12, 2013
Dec 12, 2013 at 9:15 PM UTC
Your bones broke. I heard them, all of them. I let you carry far too much. You already held your heavy love for me throughout every blood vessel and chasm in your body. Just not to my knowledge, until I professed my love to you. The weight you could carry had reached full capacity. My love was too much. It marinated in your brain for less than a second. An overloaded mental breakdown transpired before the rest of your body could register it. Before your bones broke.
Jun 22, 2016
Jun 22, 2016 at 9:59 PM UTC
I am an empty jar
of artichoke
hearts.
Halved, sliced,
salted and eaten whole
with mouths open,
hearts
upon sleeves, she
gingerly caresses
parted lips. See,
marinated
hearts
beat tenderly
beneath linen made
of artichoke
hearts.
That is, until
I am left. Emptiness
consumes me, her
hearts
in the right place
but my hearts never there.
Empty, Broken.
Hearts
are delicious
until they expire.
Oct 28, 2013
Oct 28, 2013 at 4:41 PM UTC
Today I write an ode to Joe’s
Procurator, seller, and trader
For my better half it is your coffees
For me, your store entire, for
Your bounty fills my refrigerator
Treasures spicy from India, Japan
Brought to us by your Trader San
From south of the border
Travel goodies galore-a
Compliments of Trader Jose
Then there’s Trader Giotto from Italy
Without a doubt, his yummies call me
There are Jo-Jo’s, curries, oh cho-co-late sweet
And did I mention lotions for feet
There is Pilgrim Joe’s and Trader Ming’s
Who bring to us the finer things
The wines, the drinks, the healthy oils
I dream at night of all your spoils
By way of mention, I cannot forget
Baker Josef who serves to us
Tasty bagels, delicious baguettes
Arabian Joe’s and Joseph Brau
Bring us falafels and rings in our beer
Oh, Trader Johann's and Trader Jacques'
For bodies clean and lips that are fresh
Your Joe's Kids keep mummy's happy
Trader Darwin's help us all stay healthy
Did I, could I, miss anyone?
Don’t want to leave out even one
Your marinated meats, your frozen treats
From Diner Joe’s there are lunches quick
For us working stiffs, his heat-n-eats
Oh, pumpkin scones and cereal O’s
I should not forget your sample bar
Where tastys await to test for my plate
And did I say how amazing you are?
While others sell just fluff and stuff
Of your yummy goodness
I cannot get enough
So if one day soon the Joe’s disappear
I’ll not fret, no i’ll not fear
On me for sure you can count the cause
Right down to your last breadcrumb
For shelves will be bursting in my garage
Where I'll be holding them all, without ransom
Oct 27, 2013
Oct 27, 2013 at 4:10 PM UTC
I'll have a hard time forgiving
The Art Students who were
marinated in cynicism
And left to bake in the hot sun
With brown sugar
sliding down their throats
Who speak only the language
of French
And the language
of Artistic *** and Textiles
And
of course
The boys with the floppy hair
Who **** vinegar into scratched up sinks
And snorted ******* off of the eyelashes
of diet-coke-head-high-school girls
Who grew up
Grew their hair
And let their cheeks sink like ships
Into the cluttered caverns of their mouths
These girls are always wide-awake
and fast-asleep
And they never get drunk off of
incandescent light
And never remember to turn off
the tap before they go to sleep
But not in their beds
'Cus their heads
told their necks
They didn't need the support
Jul 19, 2011
Jul 19, 2011 at 8:42 PM UTC
There is no doubt about it:
You have always loved me.
A leonine love.
A love that swells in the womb and the heart
From the very first twinkle in the eye.
Hit play.
Your eyes are swampish,
Mistrustful and marinated in cheap wine,
Shot through with blood, preserved in your own saltwater.
Those alligator eyes
That watch your girls,
Watch your girls board a train and draw away
Into the rest of their lives.
Leaving you stewing in twelve years’ worth of regret.
Years ago,
I used to pinch your forearms -
Watch the skin crepe up
Between my four year old fingers.
Thin blood. Tired skin.
Silently you eat your breakfast of pills and toast at the kitchen counter.
Throw in a horrid hacking cough to remind us you’re still here.
You always write everything down.
As if to tattoo it into your memory.
If you’ve locked the door behind you, it’ll be alright.
If you’ve got half a bottle left.
If you’ve left no trace on the bathroom carpet.
If you’ve woken up in the morning.
You can feel my eyes watching you.
You spend your days watching
Daytime TV, eating salad cream sandwiches and
Hit the bottle at a safe distance from noon.
Safe enough.
Your lipsticks have gone stale,
Now it’s porous skin, sweat stains, grey hair.
I find you poring over bank statements and local newspapers.
Scouring for a job, you say,
And clippings of your daughters
At school functions, clasping exam results.
You keep them in a cereal box that we covered in paint
Age five. We’re in double figures now.
I get drunk on weeknights.
Rewind.
Hold me.
Ball of flesh and screams
And you’ve got your whole life ahead of you.
Sep 23, 2012
Sep 23, 2012 at 4:50 PM UTC
I was sitting in the middle of crooked roads
and singing to the passersby about us
and our love
a lie
the bridges were slowly thinning in to
nothing
but old DVDs we used to watch when our minds were marinated with
empty vow books
and
your memory was seeping away with every note
dissected
in to atom-sized pieces of photo paper that was
impossible
to mend
I saw the sand particles of hourglasses run out
and almost forgot you
but then
whispers of your voice reverberated
swinging recorded words like tongue twisters
I covered my ears before your wavelengths could clash with
mine
and we would be
whole
once again
We are out of time.
Oct 30, 2013
Oct 30, 2013 at 2:53 PM UTC
I loved the way the
lies
Slithered off of her
tongue
Making me feel like a
grown man
Even though my
actions were young
Yeah I was dumb
And at the time
Dumb was fun
That’s until I was overcome
With her venom
Leaving my body numb
Only feeling the
after affects
Of this meticulous attack
Not realizing I was
trapped
I had become an easy
snack
Her voice was so seductive
Telling me I must eat
the fruit
Even though I was
reluctant
I hungered for the
truth
The knowledge of good
and evil
Marinated in its
juice
Lost in the
wilderness
Because I chose to
break this truce
Blindly loyal
Constricted by her
coil
Her cold blood warmed
As my cool blood
boiled
Crushing everything
that was in me
Consuming everything
that was left
Keeping me alive-Only
so I can be
Cognizant of this
cruel
And painful death
Oct 1, 2012
Oct 1, 2012 at 1:19 AM UTC
For starters, evil eye staring contest and immaturity
For mains veggies, breast of chicken marinated in malice and verbal abuse with a side dish of silent treatment
For dessert, munching on the sliced up agony lingering in the air with a knife made from resentment
After that we'll sip on some pinot noir then argue viciously for the rest of the night.
Dec 6, 2013
Dec 6, 2013 at 1:29 PM UTC
*grilled stamina spiced with arrogance
marinated egos in bitter gall source
a touch of pickled common pride
a suggestion of mashed personality
served generously with indifference
on a platter of wonderful ignominy
going like hot cakes in these sad days
of lies emblazoned against night skies
hurry my man while stocks last
and before the merchants of doom
begin their desperate auctions of ethics
done with cynical glee and callousness
held together by a spread of mediocrity*
Apr 1, 2016
Apr 1, 2016 at 1:31 AM UTC
A misplaced angel dreams of lush facades,
Marinated in an amber-honey glaze that
pools into the streets, homes and
hearts of its radiant inhabitants
I wish to rip that page
from Dorothy Gale's book,
heel clicking until I am back
in that primal womb of sunshine
where I am able to soak in
the richness of natal nutrients
conceived for my angeleño heart
Mar 4, 2021
Mar 4, 2021 at 10:42 PM UTC
The moment
my fingers
curled away
from your heartbeat,
you held me up
to the sun, tried to find
the missing pieces
glowing in my eyes
From the moment
you first held me,
there was an understanding
passed between us (Mother,
you sheltered me) gently, I knew
a shifting ache in your bones
that grew on my lips
as surely as my own name
I grew up
on palm fronds
and astroturf,
tennis courts and
public pools pushing
the wanderlust
through my veins
like a sickness,
Mother,
you fostered
the dreaming
that marinated
in my head, pushed
child's sunglasses
over my face, and
you smiled thinking
of the brightness
my future must hold
You never knew
the agony of oceans,
the tear of the tide
ripping at my stomach,
you were disappointed
when I told you that
white-hot flames were
licking at my fingers,
threatening to escape --
You were disappointed
as your dreams fell
into the cradle of insomnia,
disappearing into a black hole
of doubt, my thoughts were leaves
dropping from my mouth
until they landed in your conscience,
floating in puddles made
from the liquid melting of your tears
Mother,
I never knew
the ocean's
stinging bite
would lap
against you
as it carried me
out to sea
Apr 16, 2012
Apr 16, 2012 at 2:52 PM UTC
Where marinated in our murky past
have we found justification for the travesties we do,
build prisons where our prejudice lasts,
and allow its prisoners to fester as they stew
I have felt this heat.
The flame which boils in the toils of others,
whose oils lick embers into wildfire.
And we fall back into the Dark Ages.
where minds who place burden on those with different skin
slink flicking flint to fire, raising from the earth
the walls we have spent decades taking apart one brick at a time.
one brick at a time,
comment by comment,
each passing moment
condone it.
ignore it.
passivity pays the builders of this monument.
who see no wrecking ***** to stop them.
passivity, fills the pockets of the petty
coin by coin collecting courage to speak
outwardly outrageous
slurred hate speech contagious
barbary amounts its fortress from our silence,
one brick at a time.
I have seen the origins of intolerance,
holding together the cinder blocks of utterance
all the moments we should have said something and didn't.
In my selfish silence I see senselessness slip past my snares.
In my hush I hear hate harrow the ventricles of hearts much weaker
than the speaker.
Loathing left untended like
loose mountain snow
will like an avalanche gain strength
in movement.
To you,
the architects of abhorrence
the creators of execration
I plead: lay down your urban dictionaries.
Know that you lay a foundation
whose structure will build up,
but whose existence will tear down.
To you,
those who watch the construction
and stare in silence sufferance,
know that although no sweat has fallen,
and no aid has been laid by your hand,
That this malicious monument is as much yours
as it is theirs, through your willingness to watch it go up
one brick at a time.
Apr 5, 2015
Apr 5, 2015 at 11:46 AM UTC
it's called the Mt. Everest of cuisine
without food critics...
- so i gather the chinese are not
too keen on deserts, esp. chocolate?
that fake aphrodisiac of feminism's
excuses of eager beavers in early
age trying to find a dumb schmuck
later on in life and making him
docile, effectively curbing his
****** appetite, translated as
domestic violence after they went to *** parties
with rich boy sons of billionaires?
- well the chinese do like sweet & sour
and sweet & salty cuisine.
- indeed... quiet the deviation.
- and if it ain't sweet & sour or sweet & salty...
- compared with indian cuisine, it's quiet bland.
yes, today got cooking orange chicken,
what a playful, but a mysterious glutton dish...
the marinate was not like the marinate
i'm used to, it was so diluted...
orange juice, caster sugar, soya sauce,
malt vinegar, orange zest,
ginger and garlic paste,
finely grated onion - a bit of chicken,
half the marinate content soaking up
the chicken refrigerated for 1/2 an hour,
the rest heated to a boil, cornflour added
to thicken in...
then the marinated chicken taken
out of the marinate, dipped in egg
then cornflour and fried (mini schnitzels
of the east), in three batches...
then coated in the remaining marinate
of prior heated with cornflower,
a custard too thick that orange juice had to be
added, then evaporated so the essence
got soaked up... mm... a playful, but a mysterious
glutton dish... yummy.
Apr 1, 2016
Apr 1, 2016 at 9:44 PM UTC
I apologize,
but the liquid ran clear,
as it lacked the taste of beer.
I turned the bottle's end into the air,
and held it until I couldn't bare.
My mouth was marinated in liquor, my dear.
My tongue was saturated in Fireball.
Ever since, that unfaithful night,
my tongue must feel like a flame of dishonesty
against your flowering rosebud;
since, it drunkenly 'ate' up
it's own spoken promise in faithfulness.
For now, it lays in a bath full of salvia coded guilt with
forgiveness standing at the tip;
in it's want to lovingly still explore you.
Jan 14, 2014
Jan 14, 2014 at 12:29 AM UTC
Visual interest –
he is twiddling his thumbs,
has marinated his split ends
with a brew of saliva, tears,
and sweat from his temples;
I see, then watch in ****** concern,
I must recognize the person who
could act with such gawkiness,
while appearing so poised:
he is like a performer on stage,
and I am his captivated audience.
Between two index fingers a
mug is situated, vapor fabricating
from its contents – presumably
coffee, with its caffeinated veins
pulsing as a phased mine of energy.
I wish I could be the pin on his vest
or the leather strap bearing his luggage;
his home must be calloused and draped,
its wealth in a single fireplace where
my poetries burn quick, quick, quick.
Aug 23, 2012
Aug 23, 2012 at 7:13 PM UTC
The road towards my house is getting more shaky.
My action becomes like in a slow motive room.
Get me out from this place, efface everything out from this mind.
I know in my heart that You can do everything that is grand and awesome.
At first im so enjoy with this, i let her eat whatever she likes
Many times, i marinated her to become more sweeter than before.
And everything was pleasant in my sight like driving in a smooth highway.
Now, i tell you that i cant draw my own face as i stared the mirror.
The sound of happiness seems walking away from my ears.
The light of every houses is now dimming towards darkness.
I dont know what to do and what am i suppose to say.
Im tired of saying sorry, I need a heart of repentant.
Here i am gazing up the sky claiming that there will be restoration.
In this open air, feelings will be entitled as a legend or a myth.
My intention was to make it clear in my side that this is wrong.
And nothing was ever good will be perform in a vast of man.
Memories were made to see what is the best for the future.
O Morning Star, train my feet to stand in every adversity
Made by whether myself or by the enemy, let it strike die down.
And its move bring forth strong knees and brand new level of faith.
May 15, 2010
May 15, 2010 at 1:17 AM UTC