"toaster" poems
I'M MAKING nachos in your toaster oven. The chips fall in the pan without a problem. Beans, evenly distributed (if I do say so myself.) Salsa- good to go. Then the cheese. Generic brand shredded cheese blend. I dangle my (washed) fingers into the zip-lock bag, grab a generous pinch and rain mild cheddar down on my gourmet meal. And I feel the tears building. "No," my conscious scolds, "you will not cry over shredded cheese." I add another pinch for flavor, then another to assert dominance. I slide the pan into the tiny oven- triumphant! But the next task breaks me. I freeze when I try to adjust the heat setting. I hear your voice so clearly, like you're still calling from the next room: "you have to press the TOAST button, it cooks much faster." The tears start to roll. I think about how excited you were when cheese bubbled perfectly- "just a little brown, ever so slightly crispy." We would joke about your persnickety preferences, likely a product of your superior taste. Of course, you would have appreciated anything I made for you, but it was always better when the dish matched the idea in your head...when I made it like you would have made it (if you were only well enough to cook for yourself again.) In the present, I poke the TOAST button and flee the kitchen as to not cry in front of the smothered chips. I sit on the sofa and break down, gasping in childish sobs. "I miss her," I wail to an empty house. Warm tears coat my cheeks in the air-conditioned room. I feel so small. I feel so foolish for crying over stupid, little things. I feel so... so... A bell dings in the kitchen. I wipe my sleeve across my face and traipse back to the toaster. Hand into oven mitt, mitt onto pan, pan onto table. I grab the plastic tubs of sour cream and guacamole from the fridge and a spoon from the drawer that sticks a little when you try to open it. I pick the non-wilted bits off the head of lettuce and rinse them under the faucet. I finish the recipe. I pull out a chair. I sit down to nachos for one.
Jun 4, 2018
Jun 4, 2018 at 9:57 PM UTC
And then in just a click of a button,
I'm all alone. Nothin' but 2 Mutton.
For I have been stranded,
and perhaps abandoned
from my dear friends.
I see some stems
of an old tree, dying in despair.
I see a new land offshore,
but the distant island has no grass.
I went to the cave, nothin’ but bats.
So I went deeper forward,
toward the mighty horrors.
I found some iron and gold,
I make a tool to behold.
After some more iron,
I acquire some attire.
Then suddenly, out of the dark abyss
I found my true and only bliss!
After a few days more,
I have my tools galore.
A long time from then…
I built myself zen
All along the old island,
a long time after my first diamond,
I see something strange…
I know something’s a change
I see it coming closer,
I peek out like a toaster.
And there a person behold!
He was in a boat, looking bold,
I went out to the shore,
After all, I’m not gonna ignore.
Feb 23, 2015
Feb 23, 2015 at 11:19 PM UTC
I am making you toast.
White bread, thick and moist, crisps and darkens,
A smell of crumbs and comfort
wafts around the room.
The butter curls about the knife
Soft and oily, there is some on my finger
And I lick it off.
The toast is ready, it jumps from the toaster,
And I start to spread, butter sinking in with a satisfied sigh.
And here you are, with your arms around my waist,
Your warm breath in my ear, trying to steal a piece too early.
I catch your fingers in my oily own
And you put them to your mouth.
What do you want, hungry mister?
Me or the toast?
May 30, 2014
May 30, 2014 at 5:13 AM UTC
i hope you get into medical school
so all i have to do is eat an apple everyday
i hope you always have money to buy extra bread-sticks
but never the self control stop eating them
i hope your 15 seconds of fame falls on daylight savings
i hope you never avoid movie or tv spoilers
i hope your children are loved and cared for
but have their hearts broken by mine
i hope you always anticipate a surprise birthday party
i hope you always wake well rested
3 hours late for work
i hope you dance in the metaphoric rain
and catch metaphoric pneumonia
i hope your next thanksgiving is spent in an airport
i hope you are mildly inconvenienced every morning
i hope all your book pages stick together
i hope that you always will question if you left your oven on
i hope your future roommates always use all the hot water
i hope you always find the words to say
but never the right time to say them
i hope you never figure out how to pick a ripe avocado
i hope all your dinners are directly impacted
by the fickle nature of a toaster oven
i hope your curiosity gets the better of you
and you find out what cat food tastes like
i hope your favorite band breaks up
and you miss their kick *** reunion tour
i hope you watch an unhealthy amount of daytime tv
i hope you outlive me on the off chance that your paper boy will miraculously skip your house on the day my obituary is printed
because nothing would make my ghost happier to know
that you were forced to find out after literally everyone else that
i passed away in my sleep surrounded by people who loved me
while you sat in your house old grey never thinking of me until you
read some 50 words in a newspaper and even if its for a second i want you to wonder what kind of life i had because you will have had no part in it.
Mar 31, 2016
Mar 31, 2016 at 11:25 AM UTC
Nearly home.
The bed
And the slippers grow ever closer.
A memory of things that give comfort seem palatial,
Euphoric in the mind's eye,
Though I do seem to ponder of its romanticized reality
Memories always seem so warm.
In reality,
The things that hold others close are affirming.
Love,
Shared events
Symbiotic empathy,
But given the current state...
The boring,
The mundane,
The trivial and the tedious that makes the most of a lifetime
Are omitted from the mind.
But why not have a memory full of nothing but the nothingness of life?
The train rides?
Waiting for the toaster to splay its insides
So I can feast on its wonderful toasty goodness?
Talking to the tenant who does not understand
That a bouncing leg
And constant time updates are signposts to **** off?
Empty the files of my brain
And fill it with the moments of nothing.
These moments and these alone
Are your true self.
if you are a good person
Is not determined by
How many charities earn your pay
Or how many items stored,
What you are is chosen by the lonely,
The solitary,
The Tigress.
Only when you accept that person,
You are happy
And free.
But don't hold your breath.
Mar 15, 2013
Mar 15, 2013 at 11:29 AM UTC
I stand on the scale
I look at the number
I'm fat
I way over 140lbs
What am I doing wrong?
I barely eat anything
She steps off the scale
Walks over to the counter
And opens the cupboard
Peanut butter
She untwists the twisty ties
Grabs two pieces of white bread
Places them in the toaster slots
Pulls down the lever
For ten seconds
Pulls it up
Pulls it down
Waits ten more seconds
Pulls it up
Takes it out
Spreads the peanutty butter across the crisp edges
Starts eating it
Nom nom nom
Her dog moves close to the counter
And begs
She walks away
Drops a few crumbs
And the dog eats it up
And follows her into the living room
And looks up
Nom nom nom nom
She just looks at the dog
Puts her bare foot against his nose
Which is cold
And the dog doesn't even move
Sticks his tongue outside his mouth
And breathes quickly
Stupid
She puts her foot back down
And moves it against the rug a few times
Then walks into the kitchen
And opens a bag
Of salt and vinegar chips
Starts eating them
Nom nom nom nom
Dog catches the crumbs and slides against the kitchen floor
She walks back upstairs
And the dog follows her
To her room
She shuts the door
And the dog starts scratching through the bottom
And barks
She just lays in her bed
Eating
The dog barks again
She opens the door
And pushes him
With her right foot
Down the stairs
He tumbles down the stairs and hits the kitchen floor
He races back up
Gets pushed back down
Dog runs away
She walks towards the bathroom
And uses the other scale
And she sees that it says 141 lbs
I've only been eating for a few minutes
Errrr
She closes the bag of chips
And stomps downstairs
And places the bag on the counter
Dog waits in the living room
Right next to the kitchen
His food bowl is empty
No water
Dec 8, 2014
Dec 8, 2014 at 6:49 PM UTC
I was turned on by a Toaster, she tanned my bread to gold
In time she ejected me, it was her natural Toaster role...
I fell for her sister, a Deep Fryer in despair, my lust began to boil
I had to come up for some air...
I ran off with a Can Opener, she could even sharpen knives,
She opened up a can of *** whip, she could never be my wife!
I met a **** Freezer, but her heart was cold as ice, I was bitten by her frosty ways
Once bitten, never twice...
I made my way across the tile to an Oven quite unique
All her features were well displayed, on this EZ Baking Freak!
She cooked me on the surface, yet burnt me deep within
I guess my culinary skills were lacking in the end...
So now I date a Spatula safely from the heat
She flips a mean burger and french fries by the heap!
Truth is I'm a Poet
Who simply likes to eat!
Jun 20, 2013
Jun 20, 2013 at 3:43 PM UTC
You're perfection
In a way that
A toaster
Will always and without fail
Toast your bread.
In that way
You have one job,
To simply be mine
And you did it perfectly.
But you see
Sometimes toasters break
What they did so perfectly
They can not do at all
But you see
Even though you are broken
Even though you aren't mine
You still seem to be
Absolutely perfect
Jun 3, 2014
Jun 3, 2014 at 8:11 PM 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
One room away is a woman
who wants me to **** her.
She is beautiful, intelligent, and drunk.
I am ugly, intelligent, and sober.
Even though my highest and best
tells me to walk away with a smile,
my core screams for a ruining.
One room away is a drunk, *****
dripping work of art who is also
very, very lucky.
Charles tells me to listen to
my **** and Pablo whispers a reminder
to remember the smell
of early morning wheat
and your eyelashes
while Walt and I gaze at the stars
and think of death.
I smile to myself,
soaking in the after glow
of vanilla chai, good ****
and dead poets.
One room away is a woman
who's fate was in my sadistic hands.
Two rooms away is a twelve year old
who is dreaming of flag football
and Vans and getting to
level 37 of Skyrim
and one day,
after he wakes up
and after we have our
toaster strudel,
and somewhere in between
me stopping for coffee
and dropping him off,
I'll remind him
that good ***** is everywhere
so take your time and do it right
and when you just don't want to
look at their face,
make some tea,
catch a buzz,
and read some poetry.
Apr 24, 2013
Apr 24, 2013 at 1:09 AM UTC
Jane the economy toaster
Was cheap as appliances go
Her unpolished sides were all greasy
And as grey as suburbanite snow
The edge of her slot was all melted
And her tray was encrusted with crumbs
Her lever was missing a handle
And would nibble at fingers and thumbs
She lived at the back of a cupboard
With some rusty old pans and a spider
In the gloom she would dream that somebody
Would hammer a muffin inside her
That some special son-of-a-baker
Would fill up her dusty old holes
With croissants and baguettes and bagels
With waffles and tea cakes and rolls
But alas with her family broken
The whisk and second-rate kettle
Her owners replaced the whole set
With something more classy in metal
And so in her murky wee crevice
She wept and she twiddled her ****
She twitched her lever with envy
Of the toaster that lives by the hob
Jane faded away and she vanished
But in silicone heaven she boasts
That she's Jane the economy toaster
The maker of muffins for ghosts
Feb 9, 2013
Feb 9, 2013 at 6:14 PM UTC
Lightning strikes and we're at it again.
fingers tracing faces like fire.
Breath short and sweet like so many
whispered words and unwatched movies.
Finger in the socket and we keep
laughing those laughs that only
we can remember.
Smiling those smiles that we hide
now from everyone and each other.
Toaster in the bathtub and we're lost.
Separated by a sea of improbability
and spine
less
ness.
Feb 21, 2011
Feb 21, 2011 at 9:53 AM UTC
Love
Is like a rollercoaster
Spotlight shines hot like a toaster
Ups and Downs
Overs and Arounds
Heartbreaks and Heartaches
You always find a way through your mistakes
May 25, 2014
May 25, 2014 at 4:45 AM UTC
Woke up
With my eyes stuck together
and my lips dry
and my body stiff
I rubbed my face
and my eyelids almost closing again
i walked upstairs and walked into my room
and clothes laying eveywhere
grabbed a big sweater and brought it over my head
and slipped my arms through
messed up my messy hair
and walked in to the bathroom
and looked myself in the mirror
my mustache reaching the top of my grey lips
and my stubble growing in slowly
walked out of the bathroom
left the light on
and into the kitchen
i yawned,it left me feeling weake
opened up the cuboards took out the coffee
walked over a basket with bread and took a slice
made the coffe and let it to boil
put the bread in the toaster and let it to toast
looked out my window
and the blue sky moving slowly
with the clouds fluttering along
the trees turned yellow
and the streets wet,for it rained
the toast popped out
and coffe was made
sat on the table
rubbed my face
the coffee steam raveling my nose
and my teeth ready to taste the crunsh of white toast
i thought about the day
and
smiled...
Oct 13, 2013
Oct 13, 2013 at 12:42 AM UTC
The words splashed over her lips like a waterfall I have seen too many times.
This is what missing emptiness feels.
But I don't miss the empty.
I miss everything that we once had.
I want to drop a toaster in your pool of water.
Hoping that for one moment you would feel the electricity we use to possess.
Sep 14, 2014
Sep 14, 2014 at 8:06 AM UTC
*"Once upon a time there was"
"no"
"No"
"NO"
"Many moons ago"
"There was a dreamer"
Who wished with all her heart,
To find the gold at the rainbows end,
She would look for clouds
Bursting
Up
High,
Her mother smiled.
"Are you still searching for that rainbows end"
"Pamela your dreams are the clouds"
*"Mummy a *** of gold I will find"*
"For if you latch on to one"
"You will find yourself upon the other side""
Then one morning awoke to find a rainbow
Moving over her lawn,
Blouse,
Trousers,
Shoes
On too, she had packed a case
Encase this time did come true,
She slid down the banister
"Whoooooosh"
Through the front door,
Just as it was fading
Hands did grab hold,
She was surrounded by colours
Red,
Orange
Yellow
Green
Blue
Indigo
Violet
All were pure and bright, then with a
"Thump"
On her bottom she did land, surrounded
By beauty, plants the colours of the rainbow
"Blue leaves"
"Grass was orange"
Sky was all shades of the rainbow too,
A *** seen, gold did gleam,
Mouth wide open,
A violent fly flew in then out,
"Gross"
And she then quickly shut her mouth,
She was over the moon, the rainbow too,
She picked it up,
Lighter than she thought??
She picked one up
Put it too her mouth,
And bit,
It was squiggly in her mouth
"Gross"
Twice in two minutes,
She was
Sullen,
Grumpy,
Tears
Did cascade from little eyes,
They came out
Colours of the rainbow
Which lightened her mood,
She wiped her tears looked once, twice
Then hands upon the rainbow,
And whoosh, she landed with a
"Thump"
On next doors cow,
"MMmmmoooooo"
Went the cow,
"AAaahhhhhhh"
Went Pamela,
She ran with a
Scare
And
Fright,
As in the distance still hearing the angry
"MMMmmoooooooooooo"
She ran to her house, opened the door,
"MUM"
"MUM"
"MUM"
With a fright her mum ran out,
"Pamela"
"My baby are you all right"
"I found the rainbow"
**"I found the ***
"I found a land of colour,"
"But the treasure wasn't right"
All said with in one breathe,
Now breath my angel,
As mother did take a coin
Opened it carefully and with the tip
Of here finger tasted it,
"MMmmmm"
So creamy, so light,
As she took her in the kitchen,
And the toaster minutes later
POPPED out,
Spreading it evenly, and eaten was
The toast crust and all,
"Mummy may I try one"
Pamela said
"Magic words my honey bear"
"Please may I try one"
And with that the toast again
POPPED out,
"MMmmmmmmm"
"My gosh mummy this tastes divine"
"You found a golden treasure that's for sure"
As they had toast each morning,
Opening a coin spreading it evenly,
"It was a taste to behold"
The treasure at the end of the rainbow,
Wasn't money, but I was something better
A taste that put a smile on faces
Every morning at breakfast time.
Nov 20, 2014
Nov 20, 2014 at 10:45 AM UTC
Ever since my early days of youth
I've been questioning
All the hidden secrets of life
And exactly what it means
So imagine my excitement
When I climbed the mountain top
And asked the man of wisdom
Just what it is he thought
Where he said...
Life is like a toaster
With people dropping in and popping out
Some may stay in the heat of life for too long
And find themselves burned out
Life is like a toaster
If you're kept down long enough
The heat that's applied to your outsides
Only strengthens your inner crust
Life is like a toaster
Some people are shiny on the outside
But lift them up and what you see
Are the crumbs they leave behind
After all these years of searching
I climbed high enough to learn the truth
With the meaning of life now by my side
I knew just what I had to do
I went straight back home to my people
The ones that I could help the most
I started at the local breakfast diner
Where I ordered up some toast
Nov 23, 2013
Nov 23, 2013 at 9:22 PM UTC
When I dusted off the counter today
I found something that was lost before
Jesus was there by the sink,
sitting down right next to the toaster
he looked at me and asked for a coaster
he and the cherubs were drinking diet soda,
and watching the ants eat my sugar
I asked him three questions
and hear what they are
why are you sitting by the toaster?
why in the hell would you want my coaster?
and
didn't I ask you to leave last summer?
Jesus said he wanted to live in my heart
first the counter
then my heart
what's next Jehova, my first born child?
yes actually he said, before he snorted and growled
I really do want your first born child
would you like a brochure for heaven?
its pretty wild there, and the bread's all unleavened
No thanks
No thanks
Dec 10, 2015
Dec 10, 2015 at 4:59 AM UTC
Why does my heart still race when I see you?
I saw you walking today, with your friend, and all I could think was "Wow. Is this what a heart attack feels like?"
Because I can't believe it, I was done. I was OVER you.
And instead my heart goes "Beep... Beep... Beep. Beep. Beep. BEEP. BEEP. BEEPBEEEPBEEEPBEEEPBEEEP," every single time you come around, like a freakin radar.
I am not a submarine.
I do not NEED for every single cell in my body to alert me when you're within 20 feet of me because, like I said before, I WAS DONE.
No! Don't you dare smile at me with your crooked mouth and shining eyes.
Because then I feel gross.
I DON'T LIKE THE THOUGHT OF BUTTERFLIES FLYING AROUND IN MY STOMACH.
That is disturbing and physically impossible.
My stomach acids would've killed them on contact. Don't try to make this crush cute.
So please, for the love of a Jesus Christ Super Toaster, don't do THAT anymore.
And by "THAT" I mean, don't make me love you anymore.
I can't stand it and I won't for any longer.
In church I was taught that having idols was bad, but that's exactly what you are to me.
A forbidden fruit
So I am praying to God that you are a mango because I hate mangos.
Their insides are too thick and outsides way too thin.
Which is exactly like you because you are a haywire of emotions, but I can easily peel you away to see who you really are.
Maybe I do like mangos...
May 23, 2013
May 23, 2013 at 11:52 PM UTC
through an open window
when a bulb burns out
a sliver of moonlight turns
tiny eyes red
and on little feet
the dimmest of dreams
from a corner
comes crawling.
when the night comes
through eyes closed
the room turns inside out.
the heart pounds away the seconds.
the edge moves closer
and the clock smiles.
when the night comes...
on the corner below my window
shadows whispering gather.
broken clouds
rolling dice that will never fall...
and on my knees
praying into the void
the toilet don't flush,
the toaster won't pop...
i grab the smoking toaster
and throw it out the window
the corner boys look up
the corner boys
are rushing up the stairs
me and the rat
waiting for the cops to come,
me and the rat
when the night won't leave
at 3 a.m.
eating donuts.
i'm falling into walls that appear to be rising above me
Mar 14, 2016
Mar 14, 2016 at 1:38 PM UTC
i am the frostbite
spreading through the frozen fingers of your new lover's
hands, transferred body heat
burning the skin.
i am 3 am drinks in the
pouring rain, swerving onto
oncoming traffic.
i am the ship lost at sea of our love.
i am a broken bathroom mirror.
i am an unidentified purple bruise
on the neck of your ex-lover.
i am the fork in the toaster.
i am an untuned guitar in
a filthy venue.
calloused hands against soft skin.
slam the whiskey shot down on your neck. wash the blood off in the kitchen sink.
broken blinds forcing unwanted sunlight into your nightmares.
i am the definition of breakup *** i am the
aftermath of self-hatred and one more go around.
**** just for the fun of it, just to ****
pretend you are making love. pretend this matters.
i am late night emergency room
visits for rope-burned necks.
i am the car alarm blocking out your
one night stand's profound moans.
organize your bookshelf to spell out my name in the titles.
every song on the radio
will sound like goodbye.
i am the perfect time for a first kiss. swollen lips. swollen throats. inevitably calling your name on my deathbed.
i am under-the-bed-shoeboxes filled
with ripped photos that
still smell of his cologne.
i am one more dose of ambien
to get you through the night.
overdose on love, starve your lover.
stop.
rewind.
i am the first glance in a coffee shop.
play.
Sep 9, 2015
Sep 9, 2015 at 8:20 PM UTC
Pandas are fluffy. Labradoodles are…
Bake the road, crush the world.
Richard Feynman, Freddie Mercury?
Can you be unique?
We are defined not by ourselves
but by the Television set
by the media
by our leaders
What the hell is this Orwellian nightmare?
Do we exist independently?
Individuality is discouraged
unless you have money
This postmodern splash
The drones of nighthawks, flapping by the shores
The shores of Calavera, of San Luis Obispo
If the mountains drifted out to sea
Let the toaster rule you.
Let the media.
Not like you can stop them.
Wheee! Ride, piggy, ride!
Feb 3, 2015
Feb 3, 2015 at 6:58 PM UTC
I am in my beach house by the sea
Sat in the chair with a cup of weak tea.
The cup was cracked some years ago
Maybe I should replace it, I don’t know.
I might give the place a lick of paint I think
Perhaps a nice bright blue or shocking pink.
Oh, and I have to make a trip into the town
The dinghy needs looking at, I will get it down
The place smells fusty when I open up at start of year
And I expect everywhere to be slightly damp when I get here!
To be economical I save my old tea bags for next time
I have a cup of tea, look at that washing line.
The knife is a bit rusty and the milk tends to turn
Toaster’s a bit rusty and the bread’ll burn.
The other day a kid stood outside making fun with his mates
Pointing at me, laughing and swinging on my gates.
But I smiled because I’m proud of what I’ve got set up for me
This is all mine, my beach house by the sea.
I make sandwiches, cheese and pickle on white
Wrapped in newspaper, made previous night.
That’ll do me till it is time for my tea
Which I will enjoy in the beach house by the sea.
Oct 1, 2014
Oct 1, 2014 at 11:12 PM UTC
i've got me a ***** black cadillac,
stretched out—front windows rolled right down—on the curb.
with a French girl waiting inside, legs long as sin, sitting against the wide dark window
legs extended 'cross the backseat.
hiding her eyes behind big round sunglasses, smoking oily moroccan cigarettes
—writing about the way i talk.
there's a whole lotta crisp, cold money in the trunk,
waitin' to be spent on the furs she wants;
old books for me. and why not??
old books on art,
and i can't even paint!
just sit around not talking—read about Brughel or som'thin,
wishing my over-large, complacent hands knew to render the face
a fifth so well.
a fifth of whisky's 's close 's i get,
i get drunk and further away,
out now in that devil of a car, parked presently out
by the shed where i go most nights to sit in musty chairs 'n scratch ink lazily
on pages nobody ever reads..
—but it feels ******
g o o d .
my frenchwoman would like to know what i think of old Proust...
REPLY: he took too ****** long! // (a sigh can be a story)
—one could write a novel in the time it takes to
toss your load on a pair of trembling ******* held up in offering—oh i can't help but be uncouth!!
—i mean just the other day fr christ's sake i moved a friend in Waterloo
to her new apartment and when carrying up the stairs two bags of clothes and a toaster
saw wonderful little second year heading up as well so i
let her go first (at first glance you may think me chivalrous) and while climbing up behind her
composed in my head the following pome, which i dashed off later on a post-it
and dedicated to her exquisite ***
“all legs blonde climbin' the stairs, lamp in hand, yoga pants
hot & clinging like wee-ooo / hot enough in this cramped old stairwell as is,
carrying all these bags & boxes & couches up for a friend.
—hey when you're all moved in / you could come sit that thing on my lap.
share a cigarette while i carve slices of apple & offer them to you,
impaled on the end of the knife.”
Sep 29, 2012
Sep 29, 2012 at 6:38 PM UTC