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Sporks, the one item we can live without.
Not like knives, spoons or forks
You must be an orc to want to use a forking spork
They are too pointy to eat soup with
and far too round to eat pulled pork with.
Sporks are more wasteful than empty garbage bags killing storks.
Sporks are more useless than the homeless of New York
My point (which sporks do not have) is
sporks are for orcs who like to mildly inconvenience society.
I hate sporks
Amaya K Lilium Aug 2010
Not quite spoons
And not quite forks;
These tools are great for eating,
But they don’t have much torque.

That’s okay though,
I don’t hold it against them,
I just want to congratulate
The person who invented them.

For being made of plastic
They’re really quite resilient.
A spoon/fork combination?
Sporks are ****** brilliant!
Lacking inspiration, I asked a friend for a topic. She said sporks, so in less than five minutes, I came up with this. I'm actually pretty pleased with it, all things considered, haha.
Lawrence Hall Feb 23
Lawrence Hall, HSG
Mhall46184@aol.com

                                       Night of the Long Sporks

Republicans have their sporks out for each other
Slashing each member with unpassable bills
Impeaching each MAGA sister and brother -
The 118th Congress gives me the chills!
I remember with great fondness that this nation once had a stable government because it had a thoughtful and open-minded electorate.
Penne May 2021
What do you drink to get the purple out of my tongue? What do you take to forget? The picture
of white lady on the mirror chanting ****** mary. The video of being spanked. The layout of the patterns. It is all made into a trail. Wishing to cloak, I thought it worked but it was only a blanket. The blinking lights of the window.  It manages to ***** me and remind me of competition in traffic. The list. Lists. Numbered. Keep scrolling. Will it affect my life?

Needing to fit the box of a ten-year old, I sleep. Then, I post. That was not myself. How did this whole page about me belongs to someone else? I never drift before. Why, I wonder. Here comes the businesses. The banquets. Watching a flute get Tarzan'd by a piece of rope hanged across the room. Out of the blue, I found myself touring with a foreigner. What does he want from me? Is it wrong to think this way? He only asked me where I live and how I am. I stop. I feel the chills burning through my hands to fingers. The bones get cold, but do not when plugged by nerves.

I-I'm addicted? I need to sleep more. It's healthy, they say. It's fun.


When was the last time I had fun?


The more I see the light, the more I hate it. I bring the shutters down. Relaxing. Freeing. Pink flower keep falling. Peach flower keep shimmering. How come I never thought of it before? Now back to sleep. Wait, I can't sleep anymore. But everything's so festive. Are the photos not alive? But they frequently chatter. To me. And you---no me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Branded into these pixels of prizes and sporks full of dramatic dressings. What is meaning again? I kick the blanket out of the bed. I threw my pillows on the other side. It's hot. Everything's so hot. My air conditoner is on max---what's happening?? No, sleep!

It does not take long for me to gasp for air. I keep denying it but it is always in the back of my mind.

The only answer is to get out.

I try by slowly lifting my legs and down to the floor. Do I really? Now? This is the only answer. I repeat thrice. I'm getting old.

A wind caresses my cheek. I forgot I was even in a house.

Dream's over.
🏙🏙🌃🌃   This is what I felt in the early years of using social media. It is like a constant depersonalization and derealization.
Onoma Feb 15
clay boutonniere

in a kiln.

plague doctors in

beaked masks--

retrieving the semblage

of a carnation.

with golden sporks

the size of spatulas.

split three & a half ways.

prattling beaks.
Leay Aug 2016
Breakfast for the numb
Is a cocking of the gun
A moments pause
For all the loss
Or roulette
just for the fun

And strange of this
My thought's of bliss
My life to be undone

For Grains and lead
Will fill my bed

Or

kitchen full of red

For I the fool
To use such tools
When sporks will take there stead

For captain crunch
Can munch my junk

And you can **** an egg
Enjoy your breakfast *******
Brent Kincaid Dec 2017
I sat there, a callow youth
Shallow, unwieldy with the truth,
And fearing to be caught in a lie
My words never gave the by
To my attempt at insouciance.
I gave away the game with my name
And hoped that my meager fame
Would decry any need to explain,
But social curiosity laid its claim
And suddenly I was the luminary
With a silly, boring past to bury.
I knew I should have been more wary.

Why was  I here when it was clear
These people and I were disparate?
Was I so desperate that I needed
To risk an embarrassing removal
To seek these stranger’s approval?
Was I such a egotistical *****
I craved applause when there wasn’t any?
I knew coming here I didn’t know forks,
More accustomed to dinner with sporks,
My napkins had heretofore been disposable.
Socially my thumbs were unopposable
Yet here I sat feeling totally unacceptable.

Yet I was the intended near-inlaw,
Feeling much to be the social outlaw
Recognizing glances and non-glances
Of those who were game to taking chances
To see if I remained seated to brazen it out
Or had I, with an excuse, or better, a shout
Stood and wilted, or scuttled away theatrically
Empowering chatter for those women who natter
And seem of no matter at all to the men
So they can return again to their talk of money
And find nothing in my existence slightly funny;
Finding it necessary to ignore me all the more.

But, raised as a child of little parental concern
I could teach these paragons with so much to learn
That every individual is exactly and precisely that.
They would be wise to take their feet, tip their hat,
And effuse with gratitude, issue some platitudes
And beatitudes that I could so easily obliterate
Their tendencies to pontificate and exacerbate
Their images as characters in a humorous play.
I might receive them of that burden this day
By letting them listen to the tales I could say
Transporting them from this table to non-fables
About what it means to exist with little food.

But I spare them this education, my declarations,
Because I know they desire not any perorations
From a person of my painful lack of pedigree.
I knew I must be satisfied with the planned perigee
Of this cometary gathering, the blathering and chat,
The acceptance of the crucible of where I sat
Like the Cheshire cat, smiling as if this were fine
And my status here were not firmly on the line.
I watched my intended blanch when I said
Or did something she didn’t have in her head.
I counted, the times I was addressed unpleasantly.
I knew this romance was to terminate presently.
Ken Pepiton Jan 2023
Silvery, essentially base gray, with a light it's own…
reflectively, moon bounced sun light, becomes
the moon's own light, so,
with a light of it's own, akin to a gleam in an eye.

"Beans, ear beans, gitcher ear beans renewed,
booster ego. Umph your trial,
trade the beans you grow with these
for a grieving
Moo cow, and your future is secure."

{the beings who heard Sarai laugh,
those were fed the milchfed calf.}
Moo cow,
eyes, mournful, udders about to burst,
makes you wonder what in hell,
could cause so strange
a mind, cow conscience wise
holy private Brahma
meeting, minds in rumination,
shifting sacks of cellulose being processed
for a few with the guts to get passed through.

What would you think, my friend, if I were
to say I know
life, the whole, life, per se, life, itself, you know,
produced from
the standalone tree, that, as it hapt,
could not hold it's own standing,
so, it spread wide, clinging snotwise,
pre-mucus, ever ago, in the billions of years,

too long to imagine, so, take it by faith,
scientists built the James Webb, and
placed it,
right there, where the utterly invisible force
that holds the sun in place,
holds our distance compression device, right there

at a perrenial loop around the hoop
around the belly of the earth, so

we may see, how utterly cosmic life is,
with us,
here, between the extremes of infinity, just
in time.
--------- Paid for
by anonymous bulls opposed
to artificial insemination, in
Consideration for Carnation Cows contentedness,
which has waned after science convinced us,
the holy cow failed
to hurdle the moon, thus halting a travesty,
regarding the dish and spoon escape diversion,
it did not work,
thus the dish and spoon, did not spawn,
and sporks did not happen on this time line.
Say, free press, free to be ... what?
Charlie Fanning Apr 2020
The wanderer gets wheat to make bread
The living dead
Rest their heads
On hospital beds
Shrapnel and lead
A ******* crisis
For our wanderer

She blinks
And thinks
About the future of the streets
The teachers pet treats
The ones who like to cause havoc,
The ones who **** in bed sheets

A place not for the wanderer to follow
Not a shallow place of force fed **y
From people who buy sporks for cutlery
A toury filled society

The ones who want priority
Beg for authority
Over the minority
Where is the love
Push comes to shove

A wanderers short lived life
May seem
A memory,
A final breathe
A final dream
Lawrence Hall Oct 2020
Lawrence Hall
Mhall46184@aol.com
https://hellopoetry.com/lawrence-hall/
poeticdrivel.blogspot.com

      Robinson Crusoe Orders a Generator from Amazon.com

Another hurricane, warning or watch
One forgets which while clearing off the lawns
Of chairs and toys and all the summer dreams
And giving the generator its monthly run

In practiced unison we again recite
The liturgies of flashlight batteries
Bottled water, paper plates, and plastic sporks
And Meals-Ready-To-Eat, though they really aren’t

Another hurricane, warning or watch -
And maybe just an inch or two of Scotch
A poem is itself. So is a generator.

— The End —