"sachets" poems
Every time I pull it off
it goes off in my face.
It's in my eye and
on my lips,
I look a right disgrace.
My ***** though
she loves it so
I do it all the time
and if I feed her
from a tin
I'd feel it was a crime
because she just loves
those sachets
that I can't pull open
without getting
covered in
gravy
flavoured
splashes.
Poetry by Kaydee
Dec 5, 2018
Dec 5, 2018 at 10:18 PM UTC
the glitterball in space
wrapped in wormholes
caressed by distant quasars
peak at optimum speed
before floating falling
toward the muted aromas
of space age earth
the bile of industry
smears the planet in neon
one giant shinning marble
city lights stretch
in the haze from pole to pole
whatever hemisphere
whatever timezone
whatever continent
aqua is the precious mineral
few places exist where
hope springs life eternal
rivers were rerouted years ago
run by power corporations
who package it in sachets
with dehydrated memory
a planet of consumption
tectonic plates stitched
stapled, bridged and woven
the fabric of the world
we unzip to consume
revel in the electronic tune
that breeds our contempt
for the the lost seasons
our reason dilluted, polluted
by the tune that remains the same;
beautiful stranger
dream a dream for me
because now all we have
between us
is acid rain.
May 13, 2013
May 13, 2013 at 8:29 AM UTC
You offered me your body,
I offered in return:
A tuna fish sandwich,
A nice piece of carnelian,
Maybe a book or two about odd things
like death by electrocution or Leonardo da Vinci
or the history of the upright bass,
Endless records,
Enough jazz to paint the world blue,
My mouth forming the shapes of notes,
A breath from my own lungs,
The scarf which was lovingly knit for me
by my one remaining friend,
Lipstick, bright red and smooth,
Feathers from a hawk that I found by the road,
Dried pink roses from a corsage,
Two baby teeth in a container that once held film,
Hair shorn with a dull kitchen knife,
A collar of cracked burgundy leather,
Sachets smelling faintly of lavender,
A mirror which was cracked on my thirteenth birthday,
One lace glove.
Why did you leave?
Feb 1, 2016
Feb 1, 2016 at 9:19 AM UTC
outside, my
professor lights a pipe beside the daffodils,
and we make small talk about the cigarette butts in the dirt
and the history of natural science.
He travelled south in a small blue wagon,
for no particular reason
except the summers are dry
and the air is silent,
….
inside mould grows on glass
windows, wood rotting damp
dissipates the rain through its splinters
cracked rooms containing muses, alight
with the glow of creation, reinvention
I am taught to eat with chopsticks at a fast food restaurant
each Friday night; I learn
to break them in two before I eat,
dissect myself in certain manners of precision
indulge in cakes with sprinkles
spires
lining streets
the lamps in the evening
dull for flashes of traffic
souls in sachets about to be added
in a hot drink, or instant frappe
we dissolve
into particles
about
the place in
certain manners of precision
break in two before
we indulge
impart
chromosomes collaborate
in the rooms,
in the mage’s quarters
dollar bills are sniffed and sorted
LSD and Ecstasy crossed, contorted
butterflies have patterns in conversations
on their wings, in teacups, sipping Spanish ***
drag my son up a hill to **** him,
in the ash tree foliage, faces in the sky
and ask of grace
deliver me to the divine class of men
what am I if only captive to contagion?
After all, I spread across windows
like mould each hour multiplying
to become sporadic, spatial,
discovering the heart’s variation
insofar as we are variable
asking Sophie, my daughter, to empty
the dishwasher, I pray she wonders
why we have cups
of coins in our pockets
why we ache
atoms
about
the place in
certain manners of precision
break in two before
we indulge
impart
chromosomes collaborate
Sep 25, 2013
Sep 25, 2013 at 8:36 AM UTC
On a Friday afternoon, in the Burger joint for my weekly treat
Celebrating another week in, that I'd survived another week in the job
I ordered my usual, a Veggie burger meal
They have this lovely Veggie burger, it's a burger made of potato with a lot of other vegetables through it
Is very tasty, this and some nice big chunky chips/ fries along with it, with some sachets of tomato sauce
All rounded off with a nice Black coffee... very nice...
The restaurant was quite busy that day for some reason, my usual seat was taken
So I had to find somewhere else to sit
As I sat there feeling happy with myself
I was reminded of something I'd once read about the great Irish poet W.B.Yeats
He was sitting in a teashop once looking out the window at the passing crowds
And he suddenly realised that life was good, that he could bless and be blessed
I thought to myself "I knew what he meant"
Then suddenly out of the corner of my eye I notice someone looking over at me... looking directly at me
Indeed they seem to be staring at me
I thought to myself "Better not make eye contact, might be some kind of ******
Then I noticed someone else was looking over at me too
"What the **** are you looking at!" I thought to myself
And then there was another person and then another
"What the **** are you all looking at??!" I thought getting a little flustered at this stage
Every few moments a head would pop up and start looking straight over at me
I was beginning to feel very uncomfortable
Suddenly it seemed like they were all looking over at me... the whole feckin' room
"What the hell are you all looking at, you bunch of feckers", I thought
"Had I turned into the elephant man or something !!"
Finally I said I'm getting the hell out of here
Their all looking at me
So I stuffed my bag of chips in my pocket
Drained my cup of coffee and wrapped what was left of my burger in a napkin to take away
As I stood up to put on my coat I turned around
And noticed for the first time there was a big TV screen up on the wall right behind me
So that's what the feckers were all looking over at
It wasn't me at all!!!
**** !" I thought, "spoiled my whole feckin' lunch
W.B. Yeats my ****
Mar 18, 2024
Mar 18, 2024 at 9:19 PM UTC
Evaporation:
I keep
my best thoughts
in air tight
sachets.
Mar 13, 2014
Mar 13, 2014 at 11:21 AM UTC
autumn evenings
falling leaves
& warm sunshine
here we sit
by the window
sipping tea
with me in your arms
and books on my lap
four and a half sachets of sugar
poured into my tea
with a disgusted face
you hold you breath
and drink it all down
*oh if i didn't love you
I'd pour it all away*
and we kissed
till night
and till dawn
and time was frozen
Nov 25, 2013
Nov 25, 2013 at 7:10 AM UTC
I have been living on a diet
of cigarettes and digestive biscuits.
My bowels empty into the System
and my hunger concedes
to the supermarket glow;
bigger names
under surgical lights.
The operation was not successful.
You can see it in the grey faces,
upturned collars;
that manic headphone stare.
The lone smoker skulks a bus-stop
like angry eczema
on a bride's upper lip.
I see it for myself now.
How crowds congregate by light,
stamens of fat and sachets of salt,
then separate as sadness
cuts through the delusion;
working poverty and panic attacks
on the hard kitchen floor.
The ache of anxiety
caught up with you again.
Self-imposed catastrophes pile up
as you find yourself walking against
the grain of lunatics passing your way.
The pupae gather and slaver
at their freedom;
you broke through The Promise.
I followed the path of your recovery.
Feb 24, 2015
Feb 24, 2015 at 6:27 PM UTC
I watch as my Father
Makes tea for my Grandfather
(His Father-In-Law)
He removes the lid off the mug,
The hot water, inside it, once sealed,
He dabs the tea bag, it bounces, splashing,
He tears open the two sachets of sugar
Pours and mixes it all in (with no milk)
My Father has stubby, tradie fingers,
Watching them do such delicate work is odd
Then the tea sits in its plastic, blue mug
No one says a word.
Not I; not either of these men;
The tea is cooling, steaming,
We all watch, eyes intent and stern,
For a moment, the tea is sacred, holy,
A communion
Between a middle aged Catholic and an old atheist
Then, finally, this tea, horrid tasting, I imagine,
Is taken by the handle with a trembling hand
And it is sipped by trembling lips
Jul 26, 2020
Jul 26, 2020 at 4:19 AM UTC
A bed of
a lad in
A lad in a bed of creased sheets catching crumpling dreams as the night falls apart,
I'd better start something or better to be snoozing?
Okay
It's
Friday
Friday it's okay and two sachets of sugar with one spoon of instant,
it smells hot and tastes sweet
My eye's full of glue and my head's a marshmallow, the day ahead looks so deep and my breathing is shallow,
Nobody says,
poor fellow.
Jan 20, 2017
Jan 20, 2017 at 12:02 AM UTC
I remembered when we rode a plane
To a place I haven’t been before
And you had, so I thought that
You would give me the window seat,
But you didn’t.
I remembered when we had coffee.
Two sachets of cream were served to you.
I only got one, so I thought that
You would give me the other,
But you didn’t.
I remembered when we waited for 11:11.
We were quite weary, yet I held on
‘Til 11:11. You dozed off. I almost.
I thought you’d wait with me,
But you didn’t.
I kept asking myself
On why you weren’t the right one
And I remembered those little things.
What I thought you would,
But you didn’t.
How all of a sudden, I realized
That somehow, the little things
Are the ones that count.
And beyond those are ********
I should’ve known.
I didn’t have any idea
That you weren’t the right one
When we were together;
When we fell for each other
And I should’ve.
Oct 23, 2016
Oct 23, 2016 at 9:32 AM UTC
Rainy days mud
my garden, the golden root is rotting
my wishing well spills over
I am spent
flaccid roads to the city
get me nowhere, no one wants
to pay for that, the world stands still
my little son is sleepwalking around me
by touch, cow and calf look
at me and frown, sighing
vapours muffled by the fine droplets
of rainy tears on the globes of my eyes
the sachets of water in which the world
always is upside down
a violet hangs and thinks:
mud will become waterproof
slate, eventually
Dec 15, 2018
Dec 15, 2018 at 3:38 AM UTC
Running across a street to an unfamiliar café to meet a stranger is not ideal for a seashell-person, but still, there's something comforting about wearing a bright, floral skirt on a rainy day.
The sweet rattle of teacups; the crisp tear of our sachets of brown sugar and here we were, meeting for the first time. You smelled of a favorite quilt on winter's dawn and I was sleep deprived — Ideal. Slowly drawing circles with a spoon I wondered if I have met you before maybe somewhere, sometime in my head. You felt so familiar, as if we've laid on wet grass on a starry night before, or picked wildflowers on an orange evening in seventh grade. It's funny how much you have to say, about everything; how you look away then look at me. At times, in the dull of our voices, I watched the motion of your wrist as you poured tea from the *** — an imperceptible detail; it's sweet.
Sitting on a bench, at your favorite place of colourful, scribble-people was nice too. You thought I was indecisive because I was a Gemini; I couldn't decide how I felt about that. Do you remember if that little bookshop was decorated in string lights? In my imagination it was. Little, yellow lights and you. You were so vivid and happy, and so I don't understand why you were still painted in a shade of unspoken melancholy.
It's so strange how when we lay together; your arm under my neck, my legs across your hip — it fit. Sitting cross-legged, I wanted to remember you exactly in that afternoon light. The creases of your forehead; the crinkle on the side of your eyes when you smiled; just the way the light defined your ear ...like white pastel on a portrait.
When I sat alone in your room between a mango and a guava tree, I wrote about you. I wrote, about your breath on my neck when we made love, how in that moment my hands were your hands, your lips were my lips, my name was your name; it's beautiful to be that close to someone. I liked how your house smelled like an old bookstore — of unpolished wood. Stuck in a temporal limbo, I wrote about how you said you liked terraces; that your eyes were light brown. I scribbled something about a poet, a red tshirt and how close the trees are to the windows.
I then wrote about, when we were walking away from the little bookshop with the string lights and I said to you, "I am sad that this is coming to an end." And you asked, "who said this is the end?" I wrote about that, and other things.
Jul 6, 2017
Jul 6, 2017 at 1:19 PM UTC
Quote: Don't let the lilacs die without a touch of sweet perfume
send forth, from life to grave
She scented her wings with a powdery substance of lilac
then parachuted to earth tipping her scissions
with utmost precision;
Stardust fell across his cupid cheek but he did not rouse
talcum scent of baby powder mingled with sweet sachets
alighting gently like the moon when discerning the sky;
With whispering wings wrapped snuggly
she leaned over his tiny body then whispered,
" go ahead,... live "
January 14, 2022
Jan 15, 2022
Jan 15, 2022 at 6:20 PM UTC