"styrofoam" poems
And just like coffee.
Let your aroma tingle and stimulate the smiles of those around.
The best source of touch
Without cream or sugar.
Stir the organic presentation that brings the next minute that much closer.
Whether the preference is a mug or a styrofoam cup.
Remember,
At the end of the day.
Coffee fits into any size container
And brings to life any size smile.
With one quick sip
The senses awake to a new day.
Swirled in unspoken travel sized rule.
It follows,
The beautiful ovation that rushes once poured.
Beautifully represented by your smile.
The tone of your skin.
Your hair naturally at ease.
Stirred by a finger.
Specialism by the majority nodding away,
Yet awaken by your essence.
Soon extracted and brought to life.
Swirling beyond content.
And just like coffee,
I look forward to a cup of you
Jul 23, 2018
Jul 23, 2018 at 10:32 AM UTC
Misconceptions
Fasley smiles
Psychoanalyzed
Could it be my OCDish
Would they agree or disagree
Respectfully - with no referee
Whatever matter - It doesn’t
Let it be
I’m carefree
It’s the best defense
Not a draftee
A perfectionist I am
It stems from many forces
My moral sense
At any expense
Not remorses
Their sweet jabs
From the start
Yes
From day one
Like Mr. Shukar - they see
I'm the new prospect
My disposition in scrutiny
As I take in with fluency
No unity
Let it be
I’ll take it in my dome
Its my best cover
Not styrofoam
I'll take it whichever way it's thrown
Please...
Pass the twisted news along
I continue staying strong
Detail-oriented is my syndrome
Jan 29, 2016
Jan 29, 2016 at 2:55 PM UTC
On a hot hot day
nothing better than
sweet sticky rice coconut
milk a big ripe mango
That, I felt, was what the fly thought
he touched down onto my mango,
it was so sweet, pouring
saccharine sweat
ripe slabs of yellow smorgasborg
endless pleasure of sugar mango flesh
it seemed good to the fly
Across the water,
pressing over the mountains,
opaque threads of rain, like
slim tornadoes twisting ash into the clouds
moved this way
things never looked good for the fly
He ate nonstop, boozed up on mango
an unlimited supply of yellow stuff
he gained weight by the second
there was no point in stopping
the more juice the mango sweat
the stickier its meat
the more mango the drunk fly ate,
the further he sank into its flesh
he was stuck, flailed his stupid legs
in the air as if more flies coming
would rather help him than eat
juicy golden mango feast
he died there, I think
the monsoon would make sure of it
I tossed the mango, sticky rice
the styrofoam plate
thinking it spoiled, fearing the rain
May 3, 2011
May 3, 2011 at 3:58 AM UTC
muddy ice
white as
styrofoam
empty heart
soul darkened
with thoughts
chilled deep
to the bone
so hard
very cold
never warm
enough to thaw
this frigid yet
frozen fire alone
May 12, 2016
May 12, 2016 at 8:51 PM UTC
My eyes bleed with exhaustion.
My thoughts are fuzzy like my brain is stuffed with styrofoam.
My body sinks into the ugly carpet floor of my basement.
My mouth tastes sour with the flavor of an unslept soul.
I lie here writing instead of sleeping because it feels like the only thing I can do well, consciously.
My back aches with an elders pain at late seventeen.
I crave the warm embrace of my bed but am too stuck like sap to move.
I'm rambling here in my brain instead of resting my frigid existence.
My thoughts are slow and choppy now with the hesitation of drifty words.
My rusted, chipping ears hear nothing but silence and a distant coo-coo clock.
The chirps of a bird only found in my dark, dusty insanity.
The world weighs upon children such as these in a universe such as this.
I'm just, tired. Tired...
~S.C. Kelley
Oct 5, 2018
Oct 5, 2018 at 2:01 AM UTC
wrapped up in aluminum foil
head resting on cracked concrete
surrounded by winking lights
and blinking eyes
warmth from the glow of humility
basking in the rays of a two dollar toaster
cardboard dwelling and trashbag scenery
paper towel t-shirt, styrofoam socks
salt and pepper lunchtime
pedastal reconstruction
hot coffee burnt tongue
peanut allergy and poisoned water
locked cabinet, rotting condiments inside an unplugged refrigerator
dying romance read only in magazines
purple heart scrawled on my arm
syringe full of bourbon plunged directly in my eye.
Nov 27, 2011
Nov 27, 2011 at 9:03 AM UTC
Why should I care you're there,
Or anywhere.
It was you who interrupted the night;
I watched you stare down the fire,
Scrape your initials in the ashes.
If it weren't for family,
The confusion and strained dialogue,
Like appearances,
I wouldn't see you at all.
Stay you do, everywhere.
So I tell a joke or two, one line quips,
And you were smiling,
While you're there,
Where I should no longer care.
What would be the aftermath of such a collision?
One wreck towed off.
It doesn't bother me in the least,
Our complimentary pauses
At the four way stops,
Or roadside memorials,
With faded yellow ribbons and thirsty flowers
Pinned to a styrofoam cross.
There is no rest, and little peace.
Jul 20, 2018
Jul 20, 2018 at 9:07 AM UTC
The representative from Ohio
wipes his *** with Jose’s brown
palms after a bout of verbal defecation.
Luckily, Jose’s food truck houses
a small sink in the corner where
he can wash his hands in between
baskets of chorizo prepared
for rich politicians.
Sometimes Jose scrubs so hard dream flakes
rub off of his skin and he throws them
into the wastebasket to be picked
up by the sanitation workers who
eagerly jump like frogs in orange vests
into the waste of Americana. When
the Representative stops by for
a plate of carne asada, Jose’s
dream specks pepper the beef
and his salty sweat flavors
the inside of the burrito. He grills
the onions and green peppers with
a dash of minimum wage and
boils the rice in a mixture of blood
and pieces of his heritage.
He serves the meal in a white Styrofoam
tray and drizzles it with cheese flowing
from an open wound. The receipt is an unpaid
medical bill, the drink an icy reminder
of his future sipped through a straw.
The nightly news tells Jose
the Representative is bedridden
with a stomach infection. He
complains his insides feel like
a million ***** feet kicking the lining,
like unheard mouths with rows of
sharp teeth gnawing at the liver.
Jose to the tv: tonight we’re not starving.
Oct 9, 2013
Oct 9, 2013 at 11:42 PM UTC
I envy the stylish model
her styrofoam perfect *******
those legs that never need shaving
the sweet smile that needs no rest
the hair that’s always behaving
the pose that teasingly arrests
she’s a icon of current fashion
a flower neatly pressed
but no love will ever find her
no one cares if she’s undressed
she’ll never accomplish anything
never mind - I’m not impressed
Dec 3, 2021
Dec 3, 2021 at 6:17 AM UTC
I carry a white noodle bowl,
carefully up to my chin.
I smile as my nose catches,
the steam so grey and thin.
I set the bowl down gently,
Because it was too hot.
and take this time to ponder,
The noodles I have got.
A small carrot captain,
rides his vessel south.
But the spoony seas are violent,
and bring him to my mouth.
Legions of green sprouts,
are armed and at the ready.
But their base was built on broth,
and therefore is unsteady.
A scallion sergeant paces,
He’s timid and afraid.
And hopelessly fell in love with,
A mushroom mermaid.
The brothy land changes,
As beef enters the scene.
And to the broccoli scouts,
this meat is only mean.
Finally the egg,
who knows he’s the best.
Will wander around the edges,
till he decides to rest.
The dinner’s duty done
I tilt the ocean east
And drain the sea of veggies
into the belly of the beast
I take the styrofoam bowl.
And poke a hole in its side.
The bowl is now found empty
All my friends have died.
Nov 23, 2018
Nov 23, 2018 at 11:33 PM UTC
As
I dip a piece of broken bread
into grape juice
in a cheap styrofoam cup
My mind races
to
clips from movies,
scripture read so many times
Your body
hanging from
a bloodied cross
The King of Kings,
Pierced
by nail, thorn and spear
A phrase whispers through
my mind,
"This
changes everything"
Pierced
for our sins
Crushed
for our iniquities
The Lord of Lords,
Son of God,
battered, bruised and hanging
from a bloodied tree
Beaten and torn,
"This is My body"
Poured out,
"This is my blood"
Broken for me broken
for you
This,
this changes everything
And I dip a piece of broken bread
into grape juice
in a cheap styrofoam cup
May 7, 2014
May 7, 2014 at 12:44 AM UTC
I have never felt more alone, gripping this coffee mug,
sat up in the center of my queen sized bed.
And it never gets old, choosing the cutest coffee mug that no one will see me drink out of.
I could just sip from a plastic cup but I don't think I'm ready to give the act up.
I have never felt more alone, microwaving cool coffee in a cute mug.
Because, the truth is I could only drink from Styrofoam,
But the roses painted on the warm ceramic in my hand make me feel like the kind of girl you'd wanna lay in bed with all day,
So, for now, I won't have any,
I'll just keep it warm
until you call to say you're on your way.
Sep 22, 2014
Sep 22, 2014 at 11:46 PM UTC
I finish scooping a large serving of stir fry onto a styrofoam plate
with the two metal spatulas left on the counter for me.
I sidestep the forty something year old man who is our host
who has opened this house, his families house, to us
his extended family.
I jump over the dog and take a seat in a metal folding chair that has been set by the table
which is meant to seat 4, but is seating 9 tonight.
To my right is an old friend, the estranged stepsister of the sleeping hostess
to my left; the father of another friend who is, himself the best friend of the host
and a regular in this kitchen.
His son sits on the other side of the girl to my right
his girlfriend is across from him
and to his right is the three year old niece of the hostess.
Her Five year old sister sits across from her.
at the end is the 14 year old daughter of the hostess
and across from me is her sister, the reason I am here.
We eye each other across the table,
trying to say something to each other
trying to reveal the sound our heartbeats make,
but our words are frozen in our throats.
They would be pierced though by flying words
and noodles
and laughs
and forks.
they would be pierced through by the energy here
by the connectedness
by everything.
If we were to say anything
it would be rendered so completely useless so quickly
that we can't.
Or so we tell ourselves
as we sit at this table
with our large, crazy, extended, adopted family
knocking elbows as we try to eat
passing around the Parmesan cheese
listening to the dogs barking at us for accidentally kicking them
as they tried to forage for food scraps under our chairs
not telling us they were there.
There is a happiness here
a buzzing
an energy
this is a family
this is a family
and I belong
Jul 3, 2013
Jul 3, 2013 at 3:46 AM UTC
3:8:15 - Kosher pinot noir toasts the snowflakes that the eider brings, just as the Ash bows ache; naked and starving. Hurdling through old bedroom windows, giving those reasons why pennies are wished first into window wells. Smoggy gawkers, locked into an image shaped by organic lines and gestures. The two smoker- cure their hours reconnoitering in skyrise stairwells, discussing recipes for fixing wounded hearts without the peaceful frequencies she speaks into two styrofoam cups with strings pierced through their innards. Much like the story of how two people meet within the timespan of the living.
Even the Moon Men eat space cakes to loosen their chests, from the apathetic laws that began to govern their personalized truths. Not a mug with a name on it bought after an almost very cool free-art reenactment of Pirates of the Caribbean.
Love is not a sentence I can choose not to awaken.
It's the difference between having a one night stand rather
than keeping a toothbrush at each other's places.
Even on a Saturday night, we could fasten ourselves
to one another. Even if it's only you and I, who are you to
say it's not a party.
Mar 8, 2015
Mar 8, 2015 at 9:47 AM UTC
the world is a wild and weary place,
fully sunk in spiral ******
fully strummed in skin water waves.
bound by death from the very first verse:
first love.
first this.
go forth my machines, be fruitful and jettison.
color says hang at the edge of our lips.
smell the books.
remind us; books.
& before the big blue vast takes it all, that
sunstruck lomographia light,
transposed no-makeup california girl, she
walks before me along the boulders of the wharf.
real summer breathing.
our bodies, piled
and starbleached ripe. [like heap of buffalo skulls]
maybe then a futuristic dinner, where everyone gathers in floating space pods
singing hymns beneath,
above,
between
the lights and music.
reality is: blacktop shards against my knees,
something burning as it trickles to my chin, man of me
living the city glisten, city green
& pink.
city midnight and barely breathing.
destroyers, we are.
and what? what am i, father? man of industry?
man of workwelded science? secure as the armadillo,
armadillo picket fence.
am i of halfbreed phosphorus?
americana?
built on love and hate and television.
nat geo channel: [a gecko licks dew from its eyes
on the coastal sand dunes of namibia]
money. women. go west young man.
be a hand tightening ribs.
be a quaking echo of mammalian design.
a paradigm of seed my fire.
quest for fire.
for uncut diamond; like foggy strawberry rock in the africa-boy's fingers.
or cut steel; phallus of toyish death between a brazil-boy’s fingers.
pulled teeth; bits of wet fruit in the young afghani’s hand.
& icecream trolley; pedestal etched iron; denim and *** and
microwaves ::::::
white man: what I got ? what I got ?
manifest destiny: gold bricks and beer.
blood soaked socks.
cyprus burnt umbers.
tribes decomposing at the bottoms of styrofoam cups.
like coin-op wormies.
& eighteen inch circumference blades make round rolling high pitched songs deep in the skin of old mother earth.
old baby cakes.
old life in slow motion, all motion, all
of particle cannon treatise.
40 ounce bounce.
watery us
below.
Apr 16, 2014
Apr 16, 2014 at 2:17 AM UTC
Zen monks sit quietly on
stern pillows of effervescent soul.
I do not,
My patchwork pillow is filled with
styrofoam-- artificial.
Hasidic Rabbis rub their tired pious books
adding more wear marks from years worrying
which appear like a foreign tongue on the cover.
My book is full of yellowed, empty pages
sitting, dust-ridden on a abandoned shelf.
The head of the Shiite rests against solid stone
The penitent countenance like a mirror of Mecca.
My forehead bears only the reddened mark of my forearm
from the vibrant narcolepsy of life.
The Atheist sits in the coffee house
lecturing the disinterested Baristas
about the tomfoolery of religion.
I sit alone,
nodding sagely,
sipping wine that tastes
flat against my tongue.
What does a depth of spiritual belief offer?
There is an unwritten, unquantifiable,
essence that belief gives the human.
A depth of meaning, like
a shot of penicillin to a case of chlamydia.
Apr 28, 2014
Apr 28, 2014 at 2:29 PM UTC
my program is a lost signal
overweight styrofoam rubbing
muddled in hangover hair
choke back the over spill
language will clog the drain
bulky, fatigued under the awning
cruised to isle tempi passati
surfed a certain drift,
definite
your flexing dedication was
heat exhaled into a humbled room wearing a sweatshirt/sweat pant combo with the comforter pulled all the way up at 3 p.m. on a humid summer afternoon
sweltering
wandering mirage day trips
publicly a deaf runaway gnawing on a cactus wing
robbed of north and south
scouting for rocks half in moss
anxious I won't be home in time to see
my favorite show. doesn't need a
button to play, just some bad
luck and thunder drool
May 25, 2012
May 25, 2012 at 1:42 AM UTC
Mary, plain name. Mary, mother of God
Mary, Queen of the Strip Mall
Mary, daughter of a King and a *****
Divinity in her blood, conqueror of lands,
Monarch of her body, kingdom of junkies.
Nails inlaid with pearls, mink lashes and onyx eyes
Indigo polyester wraps her 36, 30, 41,
saltwater taffy legs, **** and ***
Mary wasn’t a tall boy, Mary is a funnel cloud queen
Obsidian brazilian in velcro, soda can curls.
Mary has no titles, Mary is a ******* Mary is an exile.
Queen of cream stucco and neon and parking lots.
Mary has disciples, all named Judas.
She has Roy Cohn, the judge’s son, and Louis XIV on their knees in prayer.
She has **** Cheney, Little Richard, and Freud their knees in the bathroom behind the Tesco.
Mary doesn’t confess, doesn’t beg, doesn’t buy.
Mary the conqueror, Alexander reincarnate, she survives.
Body bathed in ultraviolet, cocoa butter, vaseline, and newport menthols.
Mary talks to God in the mirrors at the salvation army.
Mary is scared of dying, she knows she is no ones martyr.
Mary never kneels, left the Bible in the motel nightstand.
A graceful end, a unceremonious departure.
Trade rose petals for needles and styrofoam slurpee cups.
Mary’s mistresses, lovers, and wives, gave her a few lead rounds,
Left her in the strip mall mausoleum.
Mary, queen of the carnal, saint of suburban perversions.
Mary never asked God for forgiveness or a fix.
Jan 28, 2019
Jan 28, 2019 at 3:47 PM UTC
her makeup
made a tiny mocha stain
on the inside lip
of my yellowed sink
as I drove home
and listened to the oldies
a man stumbled through crosswalks
under the old railroad
his shadow looked
noosed through the beams
the next day
I watched a squirrel eating
styrofoam like cotton candy
I wonder if we feel
how everything moves
around our heads
*molasses and lightning
the surf and the coast*
I don’t always feel drowned
I don’t always feel whole
Apr 23, 2013
Apr 23, 2013 at 7:52 PM UTC
"All I really need to know about how to live and what to do and how to be I learned in kindergarten. Wisdom was not at the top of the graduate-school mountain, but there in the sandpile at Sunday School. These are the things I learned. Share everything. Play fair. Don't hit people. Put things back where you found them. Clean up your own mess. Don't take things that aren't yours. Say you're sorry when you hurt somebody. Wash your hands before you eat. Flush. Warm cookies and cold milk are good for you. Live a balanced life-- learn some and think some and draw and paint and sing and dance and play and work every day some. Take a nap every afternoon. When you go out into the world, watch out for traffic, hold hands, and stick together. Be aware of wonder. Remember the little seed in the Styrofoam cup. The roots go down and the plant goes up and nobody really knows how or why, but we are all like that. Goldfish and hamsters and white mice, and even the little seed in the cup-- they all die. So do we. And then remember the Dick-And-Jane books and the first word you learned-- the biggest word of all-- LOOK. Everything you need to know is in there somewhere. The Golden Rule and love and basic sanitation. Ecology and politics and equality and sane living. Take any one of those items and extrapolate it into sophisticated adult terms and apply it to your family life or your work or your government or your world and it holds true and clear and firm. Think what a better world it would be if we all--the whole world-- had cookies and milk about three o' clock every afternoon and then lay down with our blankies for a nap. Or if all governments had as a basic policy to always put things back where they found them and to clean up their own mess. And it's still true, no matter how old you are-- where you go out into the world, it's best to hold hands and stick together.
Mar 5, 2012
Mar 5, 2012 at 7:14 PM UTC
Being real is hard
as opposed to being fake
as opposed to being bubbling plastic, mask this
look past my plausibility
soft body
teeth mouth throat
eyelashes,
heart
fake
styrofoam
empty
deserted
these eyes are what I have to offer now, these ears
If you had reached me earlier, I would've had more
to put at your disposal:
my devotion
my hands
my feet
my sanity
my presence in this day, for this conversation
my heart, soul, and chapstick
but I've said too much.
If you had reached me earlier
I swear I would've given you the rib-cage straight out of my chest
before your lips were halfway open and asking--
I know I would've been in your veins before fall
But I can't worry about your veins now,
I've opened too many of mine
and what I'm trying to say is honey,
My heart isn't full enough for me to pour it out to you every night.
You know I wish I could
Nov 21, 2016
Nov 21, 2016 at 7:13 PM UTC
On the end table by the bed
A tiny Styrofoam cup
Full of unwrapped candy
In child’s writing
All caps and struggle
HAPPY HALLOWEEN
I AM SORRY
MOM
It is hard to stay angry
When you have an imagination
I picture her at a round table
********* a hospital bracelet
There are other people with her
Some have construction paper
Some have glue
There is glitter
And painted fingertips
I still get homesick
For places I have never been to
Sometimes miss people
I never even knew
There is a city inside my chest
It bustles
Pre pollution
But ***** is still legal
I have made homes there
You have a home here
In a city with
No hospitals
No graveyards
Just a cul-de-sac that starts at my throat
And double loops along my lungs
So many streets
My chest x-rays look like upside-down trees without the leaves
And when you leave
There is a house
Inside the city inside my chest
That stays empty forever
So much left behind
There is no room for anger to stay long
It exits like forgiveness
When you’ve given up all hope
When you can only reimagine so much
Some of these homes are condemned
Though it is hard to stay angry
Nov 2, 2012
Nov 2, 2012 at 2:38 AM UTC
When archaeologists pull
something out of the dirt,
they call it a discovery.
I imagine them years from
now, "discovering"
skyscrapers and microwaves
and styrofoam cups. I can see
them with my broken body.
*There's something different
about these bones,* they say,
something heavy.
There is a message in here
somewhere. There is a riddle
that still twists my hands up.
They said there was a place
inside me where the music
had gone wrong.
I said, *There is no such thing
as wrong music.*
I've been at myself with a pick
axe for a long time, trying to
discover something new and
groundbreaking underneath.
just sediment
May 10, 2017
May 10, 2017 at 4:43 PM UTC
Taxi driver
You're my shrink for the hour
Leave the meter running
It's rush hour
So take the streets if you wanna
Just outrun the demons, could you?
He said allahu Akbar, I told him don't curse me
But boy you need prayer, I guess it couldn't hurt me
If it brings me to my knees
It's a bad religion
This unrequited love
To me it's nothing but
A one-man cult
And cyanide in my Styrofoam cup
I could never make him love me
Never make him love me
Love me
Love me
Taxi driver
I swear I've got three lives
Balanced on my head like steak knives
I can't tell you the truth about my disguise
I can't trust no one
And you say allahu Akbar, I told him don't curse me
But boy you need prayer, I guess it couldn't hurt me
If it brings me to my knees
It's a bad religion
This unrequited love
To me it's nothing but
A one-man cult
And cyanide in my Styrofoam cup
I could never make him love me
Never make him love me
It's a bad religion
To be in love with someone
Who could never love you
Only bad, only bad religion
Could have me feeling the way I do
Nov 18, 2013
Nov 18, 2013 at 12:19 PM UTC
Hairline cracks are breaking through
the slough I'm about to shed.
Dry and dysfunctional
as the neuron sac in my skull.
I'll change my hat and change my ammo
honeysuckle artillery polished,
waiting in my drawer.
Sliding an empty coffee mug
back and forth along a counter
like a puck preparing for a slapshot.
Paper matches in colourful books
pressed between the pages
found leaves for child arsonists.
Takeout boxes filled with poems
are sold as artefacts
Don't be silly, poetry comes in plastic bags,
not styrofoam.
To keep ideas hot, wrap them in tinfoil.
But don't forget to leave a hole at the top for steam
or your fresh concepts will get soggy.
Equipped with tennis *****
spandex suits picket office blocks
standing on chairs and voicing nearly racist remarks
making health and safety inspectors nervous.
Out of control students
launch dictionaries out of third story windows,
donning 21st century masks.
I left my patience beside my keys, on the kitchen table.
Waiting in line for obsolete phone booths
as movie stars soundlessly mouth slang into a receiver.
Nearly responsible
nearly nine
nearly time for bed
I resolve again
that I’ll resolve more
but this time write it down.
Folding kamikaze paper planes
to hide behind park benches, fly into trees.
Let the sun fade the pencil crayon.
I can't run from this blasé gangrene that’s taken my toes.
May 12, 2013
May 12, 2013 at 2:02 AM UTC