"refrigerated" poems
You are going to die
before me.
I already know this.
You are going to get fat
and go completely blind
and probably,
eventually, they will
cut some parts off.
You are going to fall apart
in front of me.
I know this.
I still choose to stay.
I will be there
through all the appointments,
the stickings and pokings and cuttings and bleedings.
I have only wiped
a few *****
in my life.
Mine,
my son's,
a few babies
of friends.
I already plan on wiping yours
when you cannot.
I will draw
little sugar skulls
on your prosthetic feet.
I will make sure you always have enough medicine and it is always refrigerated.
I will help you
in and out
of the bathtub.
I will massage your legs
and arms
and back
and head
and neck,
every day.
I will make our boys breakfast
and walk the dogs
and make sure everything
goes back in the
same exact spot
and keep a file with all the pertinent medical information
so I can fill out all the paperwork.
I will take you to
all those folk rock shows you love so much
and describe the singers to you.
We will still garden together.
I can see you in a chair,
barking out questions
about our harvest and me,
going back and forth,
bringing you the biggest squash
to hold.
You see, I have given up thinking
I am ever going to
give myself to anyone else.
It is you and you alone.
So, when you start to fall apart,
and you will fall apart,
don't worry baby.
I am going to be there to wipe your ***
May 28, 2012
May 28, 2012 at 6:13 PM UTC
i'm searching for something that i can't reach
she sleeps irregularly. she cries and breathes all at the same time
but does not make a sound. her face falls apart every morning when
she realizes she is still alive. the anger coursing through the blood
vessels in her body is not caused by anything, it comes rapidly and
mockingly. she counts to ten and holds the air inside her lungs and
hopes to any being listening that her nose stops working so that the
air inside her can expand and then eventually diminsh so that she
can tear herself apart all over again. she eats unhealthy. stuffing salty
fries and refrigerated microwaved chicken down her throat and forcing
the urge to throw it all out down to her skeleton so that the food
remains in her body, making bumps in her stomach and sticking
out of her ribs like unwanted monsters. she likes being ugly. she likes
that no one ever notices her and when they do they don't say a
word she likes that her own body betrays her and punishes her eyes
when she wakes up in the morning and realizes she is still alive.
she is a phantom. she is a ghost. she is a whisper. knowing her will not
be an adventure it will be a maze filled with poisoned leaves and razor
sharp rocks. her smothering brown eyes will captivate you and
undo every single knot in your body and make you feel like gravity
does not exist. but she will not be pretty. she will never be beautiful.
touching her will be like trying to collect shards of glass off of the floor
from a bottle of wine that you accidentally dropped. she will not
love you. she will not love herself. she will only convince you that she is
happy being a mess, a disaster and you will have no
choice but to believe her because your love is short lived and
only exists when she feels worthless and lonely enough to want
your company. you know this. she knows this. neither of you will
say it. the truth is an ancient phonebook neither of you have
ever heard of. she is not a hurricane, there is no eye in her
(h.l.)
Dec 16, 2015
Dec 16, 2015 at 7:24 PM UTC
under the slanting rays
of the December sun,
silhouettes of this sin city
eke loneliness,
eating the timid
and spitting out carcasses.
its skies, ash gray
the refrigerated air moody
reminding wayfarers
that here is no place
to come seeking solace.
as apathy rains
sirens howl
and crime soars
the need to look over the shoulder
more pronounced than ever before.
the bottom line is
everyone’s looking to make money,
fast, furious and frenzied
in this,
my hometown- New York.
Dec 31, 2021
Dec 31, 2021 at 7:29 PM UTC
*one reason why you're not read with a volume you
expected, jedi-know-how, you'll be easily plagiarised.*
**when i first came to england i fell in love
with manchester united...
the 4 - 4 - 2 line-up**
peter schmeichel (dane goalkeeper),
then ooh aah cantona (eric cantona baseball cap),
original wembley white towers...
(white towers, charity shield
newcastle united)
so meh for the arch....
irwin... steve bruce... lee sharpe...
gary pallister... (7) eric cantona.... george best....
mcclair, ryan giggs,
cotton tomilisom, then roy keane...
then davies cole ****
the neville brothers...
scholes and david beckham...
**** stuck to azkazam fudge, it's still perfectly refrigerated
in kazakhstan:
steve mcmanaman will tell you;
it's a random barricade question worth a shot
in the rubric of a sudden challenge.
Dec 12, 2015
Dec 12, 2015 at 7:41 PM UTC
You are going to die
before me.
I already know this.
You are going to get fat
and go completely blind
and probably,
eventually, they will
cut some parts off.
You are going to fall apart
in front of me.
I know this.
I still choose to stay.
I will be there
through all the appointments,
the stickings and pokings and cuttings and bleedings.
I have only wiped
a few *****
in my life.
Mine,
my son's,
a few babies
of friends.
I already plan on wiping yours
when you cannot.
I will draw
little sugar skulls
on your prosthetic feet.
I will make sure you always have enough medicine and it is always refrigerated.
I will help you
in and out
of the bathtub.
I will massage your legs
and arms
and back
and head
and neck,
every day.
I will make our boys breakfast
and walk the dogs
and make sure everything
goes back in the
same exact spot
and keep a file with all the pertinent medical information
so I can fill out all the paperwork.
I will take you to
all those folk rock shows you love so much
and describe the singers to you.
We will still garden together.
I can see you in a chair,
barking out questions
about our harvest and me,
going back and forth,
bringing you the biggest squash
to hold.
You see, I have given up thinking
I am ever going to
give myself to anyone else.
It is you and you alone.
So, when you start to fall apart,
and you will fall apart,
don't worry baby.
I am going to be there to wipe your ***
Mar 25, 2013
Mar 25, 2013 at 11:48 AM UTC
His silence screams like a searching wind
a death-hungry spirit painted in
pallette-knived smears of
grey and fear and crimson
streaking across the night sky of his heart,
lightning-bolt ricochets striking, incinerating
the solitary oak tree of his soul,
scattering his acorns down the hill where they
are lost among the weeds,
shocked into infertility,
But he is a seascape pine,
weather-worn but razor-straight,
Gargantua in wood and steel
establishes his personal space
like a rabid porcupine,
And he is a tower,
hiding his soap bubble dream
while she brushes her hair
one hundred times
one thousand times
one million times
until the dream is
lifeless, breathless, armless
and tucked neatly in a refrigerated drawer,
As his silence screams like a searching wind.
Jun 13, 2011
Jun 13, 2011 at 2:17 PM UTC
1:12:25 9:20am nyc
Exactly, how far is it to you?
this is more than mere question,
or a rhetorical poem title discard,
consider it an interrogatory of
the first order, a debate raging
with every word successfully
affixed from brain to fingertips,
from my breathing to your heart,
how far is it exactly, pray tell me,
how these cords of words find you,
are your lips bending up in a smile,
need me a weather report, air quality,
wind gusts vitals vital to yo! estimate
how fast & conditions they’ll require survive/arrive in your eyesight well
and be friended
feed me the data, Heart Rate, Blood Pressure,
SpO2, so I’ll know what condition your
condition is in, adjust my words accordingly,
send to this distance back to me awaiting,
the necessary facts & figures to provide the finger stroke directional, do you need whispers or emboldened bold face to arouse the a spirit flagging, a shoulder shaking, a dozen red lipped chords of
kisses and sweet everthings, that do not
dissolve, dissipate or disappear instantly,
but can be stored in a Ziploc bag, refrigerated,
ready for gorging and disgorging, repeatedly,
as needed, synchronized slow or hard, fast
or soft, wet or dry. sweet or salty, savory
or a blended mixture, an adjustable concoction depending
on distance, time of day,
tell me,
the stuff that you accept
with open willingness,
or just begrudgingly
all adjustable
all shaped to
your individuality
elastic flexible
but the schedule
filling up fast
so we can mutual
squeeze into each others
empire of empty
so,
***Exactly, how far is it to you,
to where you are being***?
Jan 12, 2025
Jan 12, 2025 at 2:48 PM UTC
Melting pots are for racists.
The USA is a salad bowl.
The student lounge features
the veggies at their ripest,
collecting oxygen amongst themselves,
for the corn cannot exist
with the broccoli,
and so on
and so forth.
Don't even mention
fruits
to the potatoes.
And the tomatoes,
they're just weird, man,
don't even know
what they are.
We are all at our most
savory and nutritious,
our youthful wisdom
emanating through our
concrete set of hues.
The chili peppers emanate a color
as red as the blood
of their ancestral martyrdom,
no other color,
just red.
Same for the cucumbers
with hearts so coolly refrigerated,
taking forest green,
taking pastel green
with just a few drops
of ivory-scented beige
tucked neatly behind
walls of bamboo-level peels.
The voices of the onions
thud onto the floor
as if being catapulted
from cumulonimbus peaks,
causing the Iceberg lettuce
to almost drown in its own
dressing.
Lady Liberty,
a series of
produce section fragments
sitting much too sternly
with no regard for sprawling.
In the same bowl, though!
Apr 29, 2010
Apr 29, 2010 at 10:52 AM UTC
do you know when you've had a really long day, and you stop at the grocery store to buy dinner, and you don't really want to cook so you go to the deli section and you think, I could go for some cheese tonight, so you head to the fridge carousel and you pick up some cheddar and it says it's been aged for two years and it looks pretty tender and you think, This is some nice cheese, but as you put it in your basket you see another cheese and it's gouda and it's smoked and you think, Gouda? I hadn't even thought about gouda, so then you think about gouda and you start to notice all these other kinds of cheeses and you see that the gouda is lactose free and even though you're not lactose intolerant that somehow intrigues you, and you don't know a lot about cheese so you think maybe it's because gouda comes from goats not cows and then you think How come people aren't intolerant to goat's milk? so then you look back at the cheddar and now it doesn't seem so nice even though it's been aged for two years and it's pretty tender and you thought it was nice before, so then you put the cheddar back but as soon as you let it go you think What if I don't like gouda? and so you put the gouda down and now you're standing there by that refrigerated cheese carousel without a ******* thing in your hands and you get sort of sad all of a sudden and you wonder if you're ever going to pick a cheese and even if you do will it ever be the right cheese and suddenly you start to tear up but you think, No, I'm better than crying in a grocery store, so you pick up the cheddar again because trust your first gut right? and you pay for your cheese and you walk back to your car but as you sit there in the parking lot getting ready leave you realize that maybe it's not about the ******* cheese and it's never about the ******* cheese and maybe you don't even like the ******* cheese that much anyway and so you kind of scrub your fingers into your scalp and pull your hair and hit the steering wheel once or maybe twice and your cheeks are hot and wet and it's hard to see so you rub your eyes dry and when you look up there's an elderly asian man watching you freak out a little bit in your car by yourself, and so you slowly start your car and pull out of the parking lot and as you drive away you wonder if the elderly asian man ever cries and if he ever can't decide on a cheese and if he ever thinks that he doesn't even like cheese at all either.
Sep 12, 2014
Sep 12, 2014 at 6:19 PM UTC
She had shown to me,
Aurora
Aurora sweet alighted
the excited verdant ions
a scar of atmosphere
the mantle undivided
to give as sacrifice
to give life to snow
Ye not tempt me with it
Burden of beauty
of foggy things in my dreams
at fancy ballroom mirages
Indifference,
to be found in the refrigerated drink section
outside the air is cold and cools oil on gravel
while across town the burning embers of a home
melt the snow into rivers
The fog of dew on the leaves
drunk, speak the lips of the slain
to look up into the blue
and find solace in the rains.
Nov 27, 2018
Nov 27, 2018 at 1:15 PM 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 started dreaming in black and white.
you never seemed to
belong in this
technicolour drenched era,
an age of blood
carnations and sapphire Bomb Pops.
***** yellow cardboard boxes in
fluorescent refrigerated cases:
there are goosebumps on my arms and you
hated grocery shopping; I made the lists
and I made the buys; you made the
money, you made love.
we bought a Cezanne print for the
great room; it hangs above the frozen
hearth, grey sunlight filtered through
the cellulose blinds. there is a too tall
glass of scotch on the coffee table beside
a too empty scotch bottle and a too full
bottle of benzodiapenes: I haven't been
self-preservative, and you've been
self-prescribing.
we weren't cut out for this era,
an age of cum-coated lips and
onyx Benzes; we would've been better
in black and white, where our
color-saturated demons couldn't come, where our gem-studded cancers couldn't
eat us alive.
Sep 16, 2014
Sep 16, 2014 at 6:53 PM UTC
you know that...
kramer vs. kramer
incident?
the fran...
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PR_fprintf(err, "\t-t <n> Dally time in milliseconds\n");
PR_fprintf(err, "\t-n <n> Number of bytes before <eof>\n");
PR_fprintf(err, "\t-f Follow the <eof>\n");
PR_fprintf(err, "\t-h This message and nothing else\n");
} /Help/
tail C....
waiter! waiter!
ah...
garçon!
ergo?
françaizes....
willy-nilly:
francis sayz...
or rather... said...
kinda picky, i must admid...
and i "thought"
the english were bad...
minding the huguenots...
oh look who's coming,
a steamroller...
steamroller who?
give it about an hour or
so... we'll get the crêpe in
the end...
it's like...
you really want to ask a question...
but ask it...
in the proliferate dimension?
you know what drunk munchies
looks like?
looks likes so:
oh ****
that croissant didn't do it...
think think think, man! think!
frying pan...
refrigerated butter...
two eggs, one slice of white
bread...
beat the eggs into a scrambled
egg goo...
then dip the slice of white bread
into it... soak it...
then fry it...
attempt to melt some
brie onto it...
add some apricot jam,
or honey into the composition...
**** me...
in synch.! ladies and gentlemen!
we have ourselves....
a ******* orchestra!
Jul 25, 2018
Jul 25, 2018 at 10:05 PM UTC
His wife had always been afraid
of death, disease, decay.
So she made her husband promise,
before she passed away,
That she would be cremated
not interred and hid away.
Their children were against it;
Cremation they abhorred.
They much preferred the customs
of those who’d gone before.
Her husband, old and feeble,.
her two sons proud and strong.
They took over the arrangements
and felt sure he’d go along.
Instead he brought a lawyer
to the Simmons Funeral Home
with an order to cease and desist
from the plans they’d made alone
Mom was refrigerated while the case
hung in the court
Her husband’s strength and wealth
were spent quicker than he thought.
It was decided in her favor
in the civil court of war
She was retrieved from
her cold storage and
at last the flames would roar
When the deed was finally done
and the urn placed on the shelf.
His love’s last labor finished
He drifted off himself
Nov 27, 2011
Nov 27, 2011 at 3:45 PM UTC
How I wish to nestle
In the flavor and smoke of your supper.
When I lived a homeless citizen,
Missing every ingredient of ancestry.
Whenever you string with dexterity,
The oregano, the soil and the wheat.
Filling in my cups a nostalgia worth to weep,
As the motherhood redeems my dying innocence.
The fruition of labors, withered dreams and secret treats.
When food and memories didn’t have to be refrigerated.
Every natural delicacy straight from the earth,
Covering the rooftop of my truth and your cuisine.
May 29, 2017
May 29, 2017 at 1:16 PM UTC
*part 3 of 5
Saturday Night*
The Hunters Moon
The late afternoon sun
draped its golden satin light
To the house-staff, Giles
(our man) seemed uptight
The butler Zamira dutifully
stirring his drink right
The sun dipped behind
the poplar trees standing straight
He orders "A Churchill martini"
trying not to sound irate
Giles watched her stirring
stirring as in a hypnotic state
Zamira presented a chilled
frosted riedel martini glass to him
brimming to the top with
Gilpins Westmorland extra dry gin
The sun slowly sank behind trees
as the drink loosened each limb
"You may both leave, till Tuesday"
He said to Zamira and her twin
Liliana (the cook) and the butler
were often dismissed at his whim
They sped off in their green MG
off to the Slaughtered lamb inn
Giles raised his glass
to the bobbing full hunters moon
Waiting was now over
the others would be here soon
First a pinch of Peruvian
sniffed from a little silver spoon
This night had been planned
in detail for almost a year
One final act of courage
and tenacity he must engineer
All hushed...but for the sound
of large cars drawing near
Four black Jaguars and a white refrigerated van
Crunched over the gravel drive towards (our man)
Giles Bradshaw-Behram stood still.
It had began.
Aug 12, 2014
Aug 12, 2014 at 5:56 PM UTC
When it rains, I can be found outside, in the mist of Nature’s free-flowing tears. With each clear, and magnifying droplet that travels across my chilled skin, I let go of a guilt. I take a deep refrigerated inhale, then, I shut my eyelids, and let out a much needed exhale. An exhale that releases the toxins that the World shoves into my body, through my pores. With each gust of wind that knocks my body against an invisible force field, I become new again. I become enlightened. With each crack of thunder that bellows within my eardrums, I let go of all the negative things, all the things anyone has ever done, or said to me. With each flash of blinding lightening, I let go of a horrible image. One that once suppressed my thoughts. The rain washes away the cocoon of dirt I am forced to roll around in, which then allows me to spin another, gleaming web of hope and happiness.
If only it took one shower to become clean, and rinse away all the dirt.
Feb 2, 2011
Feb 2, 2011 at 7:53 AM UTC
By Arcassin Burnham
Everglade, Everglade,
Positivity won't prosper as long as the negative comes first,
Put your lives on the line for some cheddar to know in the end that it will hurt,
People place many scars all on their back after learning what their friends just went through,
Nobody knows your true feelings but you, bitch you aint see through,
You'll be you foreverglade,
Refrigerated your heart for giving reason,
Cry about the same **** everyday and every season,
Let the little things you love just fly you away to a place where the demons can't
Catch or call on your name,
You shouldn't give up on the faith for no reason, Everglade,
Let me put it in words you understand,
I'm not in a competition with no man,
The overly passive aggressive teams fails,
And just all hail to the righteous man,
The men that fight for families and knows to take a stand,
Not a bully that hangs you up from by your pants,
Lifes too complicated, I just can not brand,
Everglade, Everglade.
Oct 26, 2017
Oct 26, 2017 at 12:41 PM UTC
I view the future with much equanimity
And try not to rely on consanguinity.
My loss of blood to NHS phlebotomists
Whose hides are thicker than hippopotomists
Or, if you prefer it, hippopotami
Exacerbates a lot of my
Concerns with the diminution of supply,
Reminiscent of Hancock and his cry:
A pint of blood! You must be mad!
That’s almost an armful. It’s really bad
If I do not have enough
Left to fill the smallest coffee cup.
But do not grieve excessively,
I’ve left a glorious legacy.
A double pocketful of books
Into which no one ever looks;
As well as countless music scores
That it seems everyone abhors,
Regarded by equal abhorrence
As evidenced by non-performance.
But one we greet with jubilation
Refrigerated Transportation
Beloved by transport chiefs galore,
Who hide it in their frozen store.
Aug 25, 2015
Aug 25, 2015 at 6:45 AM UTC
Every time I eat here,
I wonder if she’s still in the restroom.
I watch the cakes orbit
On refrigerated turntables—
a silent waltz for the ballerinas running omelets and coffee.
Back when she excused herself to the restroom,
the hostess was probably still in diapers.
Aug 17, 2024
Aug 17, 2024 at 1:29 PM UTC
I can be a person who can dominate social situations,
I am known to the public as sociable
but that is only because I know how to manipulate my confidence.
I find when I act like that
I can no longer think thoughts,
I can no longer be a person,
but just a powerful motor that people look up to.
I can make my highlight reel the best ever made,
And I can do anything with that confidence.
But that is not all of me.
I am the darkest thoughts I think at the end of each day and the rawness I feel when I know that I do not love anyone. I am the tiny blip of true comfort I feel when I thought of my mother for just a moment after I stretched today. I am the light that I forgot was so bright after I kept my eyes closed for so long. I feel very raw. I have built walls to keep me refrigerated, but I find myself breaking them every afternoon...I do not want to be an icebox, I want to be a person.
Oct 30, 2013
Oct 30, 2013 at 9:31 PM UTC
The lowdown is
the low down of the west
play their games the western way
clutching a fluffy toy says this is a teddy bear
Come down the Equator
where men were born men never were boys
and blazing sun seasons and bake you mahogany hard
in the palatial forestry you learn to look the wild beasts in the eyes
The refrigerated souls says nowt
when you bawl at lions its your turn at the watering hole
and can mimic the hiss of the serpents and pull hogs by the tail
you know red eye albinos only come out at night to pose by the fire
I, who have stood under the African sun at noon
and offered it more coal to kindle its hellish fire even more
I, owner of Sango excalibur that has slain twenty plus in bloodless bliss
can I be moved by ice cave dwellers who are forever children on knees
I own rays of sun and spake with ancestors unbowed
breathe the air of the Serengeti and ascended Olumo for homage
I will drink my own blood and hear the calls of my deities to arm
I will never be moved by the music of the unclean souls in howling
celebrating their shame and praising the jins of weakness and cowardice
I am my father's son, born under African sky
I am the land that made the man of the man of the living men
I know the star that led three to herald the King of Kings forever
I know who I am, grind me to dust I will rise and tell you yet again
I am my father's son...I know who and what I am......
I am my father's son...I know who and what I am......
I am my father's son...I know who and what I am......
Jul 12, 2019
Jul 12, 2019 at 8:20 PM UTC
taken to
thistle of syllables
sapphire streaked sky
and cherry blossom shiver
liquid pastels
lethargic car exhalations
machines with their seeds of light
spherical shimmers
church spire
poet-named sacred place
nickel slurry
flour-doused mountains
alone with myself
just funnels of breath
passing my refrigerated lips
reminder of time
Apr 18, 2019
Apr 18, 2019 at 7:25 PM UTC
Shake well
Before opening.
After opening,
Keep refrigerated.
Aug 10, 2014
Aug 10, 2014 at 11:14 PM UTC
Started ******* my coke dealer that night. What the **** did you expect me to do? A homecoming celebrated with paperwork and the task of identifying the ******** who shoved his hand down my pants on the train in a photo line-up. I swallowed the bullet. The next time I smiled at you the shrapnel was still caught in my teeth. Couldn't fish it out.
(unpublished draft circa 2015)
Oct 26, 2017
Oct 26, 2017 at 1:13 AM UTC