“- Bacon sammich -”

Ahhh, liddle green apple 'pon my plate,
****- you ain't ever gonna satiate
my hunger, lust, for something more,
bacon sammich,,you know the score,

Home made bread, cut nice n thick,
full fat butter, ooh yea, that's the trick !
streaky bacon, with chewy rind
just cut off, from a pig's behind,

Fry it up, with a liddle oil
but steady now, or it'll spoil,
not too crisp, n not too brown
coz it's a little rough, when going down,
n to top it off, it's best of course
to maybe add, a splash 'o sauce,

So alas liddle apple, 'pon my plate
I'm afraid for you, the bins your fate,
at the risk of a liddle wife's disquiet
it's a bacon sammich,,,,,**** the diet.

Alan nettleton.

Black Rook In Rainy Weather

On the stiff twig up there
Hunches a wet black rook
Arranging and rearranging its feathers in the rain.
I do not expect a miracle
Or an accident

To set the sight on fire
In my eye, nor seek
Any more in the desultory weather some design,
But let spotted leaves fall as they fall,
Without ceremony, or portent.

Although, I admit, I desire,
Occasionally, some backtalk
From the mute sky, I can't honestly complain:
A certain minor light may still
Lean incandescent

Out of kitchen table or chair
As if a celestial burning took
Possession of the most obtuse objects now and then --
Thus hallowing an interval
Otherwise inconsequent

By bestowing largesse, honor,
One might say love. At any rate, I now walk
Wary (for it could happen
Even in this dull, ruinous landscape); skeptical,
Yet politic; ignorant

Of whatever angel may choose to flare
Suddenly at my elbow. I only know that a rook
Ordering its black feathers can so shine
As to seize my senses, haul
My eyelids up, and grant

A brief respite from fear
Of total neutrality. With luck,
Trekking stubborn through this season
Of fatigue, I shall
Patch together a content

Of sorts. Miracles occur,
If you care to call those spasmodic
Tricks of radiance miracles. The wait's begun again,
The long wait for the angel,
For that rare, random descent.

The Response*

Even while flashbulbs go out, every now and then, we all must gather our arms and legs in a heap of human kindling, to rap tap tap on the downstairs neighbors door- for a set of candles, perhaps a chance to go completely insane for one terse moment when the hyperbole of vowels *just don't matter anymore.

And speaking of the sordid state of griseous gull-like creatures. Ravenous ravens gnawing outside the window of the kitchen table. How boring life can become, for at the moment, when we are not biting our nails, playing dress up, or playing doctor- all *******. Or maybe even burying our heads in the looks of rooks or with our noses brimming over with the tops of books.

The tea we have set in the study awaits us, as we all have to drink our tea some time.

Just don't leave the lights on baby. Who needs lamps at full lux at high noon any who? You, Mrs. Sylvia Plath Hughes? Maybe you ought to buy a book of stamps- at the nearest Hobby Lobby, pack a paper bag with an apple and a 'sammich', and list formally your complaints.

We can't all waste our time narrating other people's lives in the third person.

what do you do
when your sustenance
becomes your torture
when every mouthful
equals an hour of your future
feeling mortal
when every missed mouthful
is the slow cold unsleeping road
to the same destination
when every thought of it is tainted
by your need and your hate of it

Cold turkey is only good on a sandwich.
Not when you have to stop caring.
The only way I’d eat that sandwich is if you made it.
And you never made me a ‘sammich’.
I guess I’ll stay hungry.
Goodbye knucklehead.

An appetizer, essentially an
out of this world guacamole
quasi Neptune salad,
regarding self taught cook
earning prized counterpart
five Michelin stars,
when the missus artfully, carefully,
cannily, decorously, deftly,
and happily prepared
earlier today June 21st, 2024
for her favorite buzzfeeding nincompoop

otherwise known as yours truly
barley distilled friggin
human impractical joker,
(who just learned
how to walk ***** this morning)
gifted with absolute zero
sense and sensibility,
nevertheless whose modest
absinthe pride and prejudice
subsequently qualified him as Übermensch,

and admirable taste tester de jure
concerning culinary pop slop queen
cuisine of Schwenksville
of aforementioned dish
prepared courtesy unsung chef
at 2 Highland Manor Drive:
she made with the following ingredients:
vidalia onions, progresso tomato bisque,
pickles, gluten free pasta
cooked leftover coffee and filtered water
and crushed nature's promise tomatoes.

After above culinary creation completed,
she slaved away mostly all of yesterday
concocting pièce de résistance meatloaf entrée
fit for her kingly gourmand,
which complements included
butterball ground Turkey
peppered with green beans and corn
essentially the remaining bulk
made from everything
including the kitchen sink
plumbing the depths of innovation
remembering aromatic, emblematic, and idiomatic
savory eats of home and hearth
of Old Rotten Gotham
sliding into the behavioral sink.

When frequently motivated
me once upon a time little butterball
oven admirable spouse dons toque
(chef's hat that dates back to the 16th century.

Different heights may indicate rank
within a kitchen and the number of folds
can also signify a chef's expertise,
with each pleat representing
a technique that has been mastered.

As testimony to a successful endeavor
an array of cooking accouterments
(including scads of disparate utensils
plus various and sundry leftovers)
truthfully and essentially
Unrecognized Food Objects in refrigerator
constituted stock in trade scullery.

After successfully cooking,
expending and buzzfeeding me
a veritable Smörgåsbord
the industrial wife
(with just enough energy to spare)
readied herself to potschke
with assortment of ingredients,
she (the pleasingly plump wizard -
me ***** tonk woman),
whipped wonderfully wrought

provisions for the palate
one of a kind ruthless babe
(wrapped herself in homemade
swiftly tailored pigs in blanket)
aforesaid entrée fit for gourmet
capped first course
with snicky snack sammich hors d'œuvre
a combination of almond butter
(whole nuts crushed in blender),
unsweetened almond milk
topped with Welch's grape jelly.