"toasters" poems
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
I walked into the cocktail party
room and found three or four queers
talking together in queertalk.
I tried to be friendly but heard
myself talking to one in hiptalk.
"I'm glad to see you," he said, and
looked away. "Hmn," I mused. The room
was small and had a double-decker
bed in it, and cooking apparatus:
icebox, cabinet, toasters, stove;
the hosts seemed to live with room
enough only for cooking and sleeping.
My remark on this score was under-
stood but not appreciated. I was
offered refreshments, which I accepted.
I ate a sandwich of pure meat; an
enormous sandwich of human flesh,
I noticed, while I was chewing on it,
it also included a ***** *******
More company came, including a
fluffy female who looked like
a princess. She glared at me and
said immediately: "I don't like you,"
turned her head away, and refused
to be introduced. I said, "What!"
in outrage. "Why you ********* fool!"
This got everybody's attention.
"Why you narcissistic ***** How
can you decide when you don't even
know me," I continued in a violent
and messianic voice, inspired at
last, dominating the whole room.
4.9k
Customers have torn open the Christmas
chocolates. Shoving it in mouths,
shopping bags, children’s eyes.
Quiet. We are shopping. as. a. family.
Smoke accordions out of Santa’s mailbox. The sprinkler system
hisses stale air. Custodians ride by on their metal cart laughing,
sanitation chemicals flickering out of buckets.
The 80 year-old piano player is hammering out Schoenberg.
Customers shove lamps into their shopping bags, shove children
into them.
Turn on the light Jimmy.
The ninth floor is barricaded off by old woman. They
have turned the clearance divans on their sides
and are throwing toasters. Down in the basement,
the security staff have locked themselves into 2’ by 2’
cells. Fetally-positioned, their panting echoes off stone walls. Static
sizzles on the array of sixteen camera screens. Customers
have begin to bow in the reinforced door next to the two-way mirror.
A fat man is leaning against it. He has been dead
for over an hour. Restaurant staff are tearing
down the great tree. Ornaments funnel down pop-crashing
upwards from the floor. Three pound ceramic dinnerware crashes
into the walnut bar The customers are putting mattresses in their bags,
they are putting the offices in their bags. Human resources
are backed into the employee orientation computer lab. Customers
have poured Starbucks on the circuit-breakers. The lights are dimming,
Escalators are jamming. Children scream
I want to see Santa.
Santa is dead. Employees calmly walk over his protruding
belly. The velvet and fat feels good on tired
feet. An inhuman voice garbles
The store will be closing.
Families grab onto shelves, racks, other
families. Employees pick up the registers and slam
them on granite counters. Coins explode out like bells. The rotating
doors are not spinning. They are stuck, crunching on limbs.
Dec 27, 2010
Dec 27, 2010 at 5:16 PM UTC
By: David W. Clare
When it comes to shopping here's your key!
Don't bother walking Targets
aisle number three...
There is no competition anywhere!
Whether you need a loaf of bread, tools or underwear...
Walmart is around every corner just for you!
24 hours and a dozen smiles easy to see...
Prices so low; it's all almost free!
Toasters, fans, beds, loafers, bikes... Clean bathrooms open up for you all day and night...
Walmart offers parking under a big spot light!
Friendly attendants will treat you right...
The best security anywhere around!
Why bother shopping at any other place in town?
Crock Pots over on aisle 17!
...the best way to save money I've ever seen!
Walmart, Walmart!
Now you're shopping smart!
Your right at Home at Walmart !
(C) In perpetuity all rights reserved
(P) FilmNoirWorks
Dec 30, 2016
Dec 30, 2016 at 8:56 PM UTC
I.
A louse in a house
or a mouse on a blouse.
A bell that goes ****
or a gong that goes ****
A gap on a map
or a cap on your lap.
A drink in the sink
or an ink that stinks.
A spleen on a screen
or a queen who is green.
A bow in the snow
or a crow that glows.
II.
A wash or a whip,
a lip or a lop,
a top or a tip,
a car or afar,
a bar or a war,
a door or a snore,
a bore or a nail,
a flail or a whale,
a run or a bun,
a sun or a moon,
a spoon or a bus,
a fuss or a sigh,
a cry or a cheer,
a fear or a smile,
a while or a pen,
a den or a cat,
a mat or a hat,
a bat or a glass,
a vase or a weight,
a mate or a fork,
a cork or a mop,
a cop or a stop.
III.
Apples and artichokes, ants and antelopes,
bees and beers, books and brains,
cucumbers and chimneys, ***** and coats,
dogs and drains, dots and dominoes,
ears and eejits, elephants and exams,
flies and flutes, files and friends,
grasses and guts, giants and gyms,
horrors and hiccups, horses and hills,
igloos and irons, irises and idiots,
jumpers and jackets, jodhpurs and jellies,
kings and kettles, kites and kittens,
lions and lamps, lemons and lunches,
mums and monsters, mosses and moths,
noses and notes, nightmares and needles,
oblongs and orang-utans, organs and oranges,
paintings and pennies, ponds and pants,
quiches and quizzes, questions and queues,
rainbows and rings, rascals and rabbits,
snakes and sprouts, sweets and salts,
trumpets and trains, tables and toasters,
umpires and ukuleles, umbrellas and uniforms,
violets and vests, violins and vials,
wheels and wings, windows and weeds,
xylems and x-rays, xylophones and xysters,
yachts and yoghurts, yards and yaks,
zigzags and zephyrs, ziggurats and zombies.
Oct 29, 2013
Oct 29, 2013 at 5:03 PM UTC
East-coasters, roller coasters
Churning up my innards
I am going home again!
Over mountains
Diving straight into the ocean
Fifteen hours
Driving
But (home is where the heart is)
(home is anywhere but here)
Home drowns hate in cool water
Swelling waves pull sadness down
Salt and sand scrub the scared off my skin
I will break the surface
Sacred
Free and clean again
East-coasters, brave little toasters
Cinnamon and sugar in the mornings
In my mind pictures are forming
Of pawprints in wet sand
And your hand in my hand
My seashell bra is coming off
The surf breaks over smooth rocks
Time swims on and on
Apr 25, 2013
Apr 25, 2013 at 6:31 PM UTC
give us this day our daily
emotional breakdown
and forgive us our
blackout binges
as we forgive those who
starve themselves for perfection
and lead us not into
inherited obesity
deliver us from
the mental ward
**FOR THERE IS SO
MUCH ******
BREAD IN THIS
HOUSE I CAN'T
TAKE IT ANYMORE**
on mlk day i shut my eyes
and see scenes of
squishy white rolls and
pats of margarine
bread
leaden
deadened
feeling in my stomach
*i can't eat any
more bread*
but here it is
in baskets and
coolers in
toasters and
cupboards
my daily bread
made to sustain me
but turned into
the enemy
deliver me
from risen
yeast in
third degrees
a flour coated
tyranny
mind control
through sesame
*swallowing
emotions
down
down
down*
quietly settles
until spring
somewhere between
my hope and skin
you can see me
smile and stand
straight and tall
but what you can't see
is this shouldn't be
my body at all
*give us this day
our daily bread
and give us the strength
to chew meat instead*
Jan 11, 2018
Jan 11, 2018 at 11:22 PM UTC
The toasters on the blink.
I don't care, i'm leaving you.
I know you like your toast in the morning, but that's a bit extreme.
I've met someone new.
You never mentioned that last night when you were screaming more, more.
That was goodbye ***
I think i'll get a brown toaster.
You would put a brown toaster against a red background.
Hardly your concern now.
I designed this kitchen, you are not getting a brown toaster.
Think i'll change the whole decor when you leave.
That is just typical of you. You just can't wait to forget me.
I think it's for the best cuddles. Maybe make it my man cave.
That's it, i'm dumping the other guy. I am not having you undo all my good work.
Won't he be devastated.
Who cares. Right we're going shopping today.
Oops turned out to be the fuse.
Right, i'm going.
Going where cuddles.
Back to bed, do not disturb me.
Aw, i was thinking some sympathy *** maybe get back together ***
Do not disturb me.
Okay cuddles, i'll pop down to the tailors, get fitted out for your sisters wedding. I'm thinking bright orange,
Oh my god, stay there, i'm going with you.
Dec 21, 2016
Dec 21, 2016 at 2:25 PM UTC
It started out a day like any other.
Down at Billy Bobs Nuclear Power Plant and toaster repair.
Where I sit in front of the monitor
with my dumb blank look and stare.
Until my friend Jim came in,
with coffee, doughnuts, and a magazine, he had grabbed from the john.
Wouldn't you know it the centerfold was gone.
So, I stood up to stretch and yawn.
As I sat back down I knocked over the coffee,
And the jelly doughnut rolled out the door into the hall.
The array of toasters went up in flames,
as did the magazine and the wall.
Jim started talking like Captain Kirk,
as he went into his Star Trek mode.
I slapped him hard across the face,
and informed him this Enterprise was set to blow.
That's when we both turned and saw the florescent green ooze,
seeping under the door.
At that point it was every man for himself,
as I pushed the elevator for the 13th floor.
Leaving the babbling Jim behind,
with the elevator on its way,
pipping in a soft musical version
of Jimi Hendrix's Purple Haze.
(which seemed to me rather odd)
Once the doors slid open,
thinking there's never been a 13th floor before,
I was surrounded by flesh eating zombified rodents,
About to become their lunch de jour.
As the zombie rodents zeroed in,
my friend Jim showed up...What luck.
With communicator in hand, and in his best Kirk voice,
He said, "Scotty beam us up".
As we were high in the sky,
I saw half of the south implode.
As boring as this day started,
you never would have know'd.
I hated to leave the world behind,
In such a mess, after my coffee spill.
One thing I did leave, believe you me,
Was Duncan Doughnuts the entire bill.
Apr 27, 2013
Apr 27, 2013 at 6:30 PM UTC
My books are piled in the Hallway,
The Girlfriend wants me out,
She can keep all the household cargo
the insecurities and doubt.
I don't care much for chrome Toasters
Just give me my Damon Runyon,
Brendan Behan, James Joyce, Ernest Hemmingway,
Jack Kerouac and Jack London.
Albert Camus, Seamus Heaney, Patrick Kavanagh
Mayakovsky and Roger McGough,
the Steamer, bread -maker, Asparagus- spearer
Are all yours, I'm ******* off.
Just give me a dozen or so boxes,
Not those ***** looks,
Your welcome to the giant fridge-freezer,
All I want, are my books
Jan 24, 2016
Jan 24, 2016 at 3:52 PM UTC
The Future to me is Walking Toasters and Cars that glide and go faster than roller coaster
No more big screens nothing but virtual TVs & invisible gun holsters Art Displays still magnificence in portable posters.
Images and pictures are no longer created by hand
they are simply imagined then transferred to an electrical canvas through the movement of sand.
Homes are bought with credits in the digital lands all types of music played together with the mystical hands Medley's majestically moving the fans
No more war or hate just peace by command it’s amazing to see the future in conceptual hands, emotional bangs and physical hangs dominated by the extraterrestrial man.
The future is no place for a regular man a scholar must know mathematics and formulas to simply understand love as a feeling and how it stands.
Vagabond walkers on the side of the technological wastelands
everything that's trash is thrown in biological waste cans then mutated among each other to create bands.
Oct 19, 2016
Oct 19, 2016 at 11:32 AM UTC
.Hand me your hand, my child;please don't be wary.You will feel right at homein our suicidal sanctuary.Here bleeds ****** Bobbywho chose the northern bridge.Over there is Moldy Maggie, locked herself inside a fridge.The birds and bonessing for those drowning in the sea,this sector is preservedfor the carotid artery.Bathtubs and toasters,oh, what a joke!Can't stand the singed hair,can't handle the smoke.Yes, we have a pool.I won't swear that it's true.We keep it filled upwith idiots...like you..
Feb 16, 2010
Feb 16, 2010 at 3:10 PM UTC
but she'll crack a joke and it'll fry in the pan
yoke running suntans like we're not burnt
plan like we weren't drowning in tick marks
learnt that those sparks don't set us alight
snarks sizzle and kite our cheap cameras up
fight or flight, cock-ups stroll us over to both
makeup's made of oaths and expired lippies
and
growth was just memories we'd left behind
cities were left unsigned and roosters hum
spellbinds bit off crumbs of our holidays
sums done sideways with scrambled minds
haze of upturned blinds flip us sunny-side
rinds of orange chide us but our hats are gone
stride down, we egg on, sandals beg mercy
but
crayons colour sprees in glasses-off views
degrees weren't those corkscrew rollercoasters
drive-thru karaoke, poster bed fairy lights dim
toasters retorted, skim reading as shoes kick dust
limbs stiff, favour a cuss but don't do big talk
buses see less than walks, distance is a job
toolbox couldn't fix this throb.
so
maybe if we hadn't lit the fuse twice
it might not have fireworked so quick
but i'm glad we rolled that dice
getting summered was a cement
to those heat-blown bricks.
Sep 10, 2025
Sep 10, 2025 at 10:48 AM UTC
He cannot hear
I just now realized
He's deaf to it, it's all disguised
Everything, all of it, is crystal unclear
What's up is down and what's far is near
The radio boils
The microwave sings
The telephone listens, while his ear rings
But he hasn't noticed, his ignorance is loyal
To his strange world of backwards turmoil
His eyes tear up
At the toasters dull ding
Oblivious though, to orchestral strings
Crescendoing, divinus, in joyous buildup
An Ode only heard as a course hiccup
Puts books to his ear
But hears no voice
Thumbs through jibberish, but his hands hold Joyce
The steak tastes like spam and the wine of beer
He's deaf to it, all of it, everything I fear
He runs in squares
And lounges in circles
Tears down hopes, and builds up hurdles
Will flail in shallow water and fall up stairs
Then write love letters to hate-affairs
Has two left feet
And no right moves
His rhythm and soul have lost their groove
It's tragic, greek, a heart that offbeat
Might mistake victory and chance for fate and defeat.
He's wrong. What's more?
He's oxymoronic
His light-hearted prose are mostly sardonic
Wouldn't know an apple from an adonic core
Or discordant beats from euphonic score.
He's deaf to it,
Yes ears and all.
Despite what words I might here scrawl.
It will never get through to that dumb misfit
He's deaf and blind and full of ****
Apr 6, 2021
Apr 6, 2021 at 1:06 AM UTC
thick crispy outer shell
processed corn laying crustily
across one side
crystals in a random array
offering a Rorschach
to those in love with toasters –
steaming rectangle
poisonous and tantalizing
filled ever so carefully
with fruit flavored nectar
cleverly altered
from a natural state of wonder
and health
into a spreadable gelatinous snot
squirted into the afore mentioned crust –
screeching children
wild eyed and salivating
only have 22 seconds before
the commercial ends
and Spongebob
starts another zany adventure…
a silent prayer escapes into the ether
as another pop **** prepares
to be pooped out –
Dec 10, 2015
Dec 10, 2015 at 3:28 PM UTC
In the laptop of the gods.where canaries sing.
..then you leave me no option,
some will get hurt.
Look in on this and make as you will,
I still need peace,
but
not at any price.
ding ding,
seconds out.
Exit your hiding place.
(Kent Walton laughs in the background)
Jul 23, 2015
Jul 23, 2015 at 5:04 AM UTC
****** is so subtle in english society
that you almost seem to enjoy it
as if a comeback, but instead
what you should be expecting
is finding Las Vegas in a can of sardines;
those G.I.s were really thirsty on **** juice,
at war they used to drink the preservative oils
keeping the sardines hardly handy, thinking
of their girlfriends... mm meow moo oo.
spoke the tongue for 22 years and they still
think i have a Romanian accent...
lucky ************* i too thought i was sending
the Brits back to the concentration camps
of construction sites... no wait... there's
an office argument: we need new toasters among
other digital applications to push the button...
send in the chemical brothers... and a few Jamaican monkeys
should you have forgotten your riff of:
oom sah la la... sa la la see'h mambo'h;
hey, keep the bald eagle handy on your shoulder,
you never know when it might become a skin eagle.
May 27, 2016
May 27, 2016 at 9:39 PM UTC
He cannot hear
I just now realized
He's deaf to it, it's all disguised
Everything, all of it, is crystal unclear
What's up is down and what's far is near
The radio boils
The microwave sings
The telephone listens, while his ear rings
But he hasn't noticed, his ignorance is loyal
To his strange world of backwards turmoil
His eyes tear up
At the toasters dull ding
Oblivious though, to orchestral strings
Crescendoing, divinus, in joyous buildup
An ode only heard as a course hiccup
Puts books to his ear
But hears no voice
Thumbs through jibberish, but his hands hold Joyce
The steak tastes like spam and the wine of beer
He's deaf to it, all of it, everything I fear
He runs in circles
And sits in squares
Drowns in shallow waters and falls upstairs
Nothings left of romance when passion dulls
But crippled hopes and shattered hulls
He cannot hear
He just now realized
He's deaf to it, it's all disguised
Everything, all of it, is crystal clear
What's up is down and what's far is near
Apr 2, 2021
Apr 2, 2021 at 2:36 PM UTC
Sometimes, Words are Just Words
April 28, 2011
Have you ever had that feeling
when words become boring?
You get that idea
that you really want to express yourself today.
Too bad that everything seems so plain.
You post a provocative status on Facebook,
but you already do that all the time...
You get that idea
that maybe you should try something different.
You could scream at the top of your lungs,
jammin' out to your favorite song.
But those words aren't fun either,
they're not yours after all.
Even writing a poem seems dull today.
You get that idea
that you can just shake it off
but the magic of your words doesn't come back.
I wonder what good words are when you lose the will to use them.
You could build castles, toasters, pudding, people, anything you imagine.
You get that idea
that your words just don't excite you today.
Thinking, speaking, writing,
have never ****** so much.
You get that idea
that if words are just words today,
then maybe today,
you are just you.
Dec 24, 2013
Dec 24, 2013 at 7:20 PM UTC
choo choo trains
and little toasters
have more strength
and determination
than my entire 19
years on this
planet
have.
Jul 14, 2014
Jul 14, 2014 at 4:43 PM UTC
When I got home this morning
My wife was tearing hair from her head
I said what's the problem darling
She said the ****** toasters dead
She said I've tried everything to
Get that thing to cook
I said just take it easy
I'll go and take a look
Tool bag in hand I entered
That electrically haunted space
I surveyed the situation
The answer was clear to see
I unplugged the multi cooker
AND PLUGGED THE TOASTER IN
Jan 13, 2015
Jan 13, 2015 at 7:12 AM UTC
Last night
I held out my palm
to catch hailstones
to store under floorboards
where all bad things are kept
like spoiled apples,
letters paralysed by tears,
junk I bought
then jammed into toasters
so at least I could say
I put them somewhere.
It feels chillier
when nobody's about,
and the roads
and alleyways
are clogged
with silence,
the inescapable
winter blackness.
I find your name
on my window
drooling away,
a skeletal row
of faded transparent roots
and when I woke
I desperately wished
you had put it there.
Aug 18, 2014
Aug 18, 2014 at 2:51 PM UTC
The new education
building was beautiful
because it was reminiscent
of friends’ houses past.
Fond, albeit naive, memories
of stone suburbs and finished basements and iPod stereo systems playing easy listenin’
trite popular rock n’ roll music to the smell of toaster muffins,
some Pillsbury brand I can’t remember the name of and didn’t bother to then
because my mom or dad (for different reasons) couldn’t be persuaded to buy boxed, branded
items (usually, and until an Aldi came to town), and don’t bother to know now because
it’s probably better and cooler to not know.
We fear what we think we know about what we actually don’t know.
I learned that recently and it is popping up everywhere.
Popping up like processed delicious memories out of new clean toasters.
Where are all the crumbs? Where is the crumb life?
I’ll ask that if I ever return.
There once was a statue of a short Italian chef with a mustache and a tray attached to his stone hand, for letters, I assumed, and if I ever go back I’ll also ask: is that for letters?
See the truth is that there was depth.
There was depth but what bothered me I mean really made me uncomfortable
was that it was hidden and wiped off the counter and swept up so to speak
with perhaps, someone else’s hands.
The depth wasn’t measured in wood chips and smelly black beautiful old independent dogs
or falling apart antique chairs or comprehensive but dusty cd collections, k.d. lang, Stevie Wonder, Jesus Christ Superstar soundtrack, or posters of hot chile peppers or piles of unsold rocks and bricks in the backyard that were also high standing posts for kids who were imaginary queens and kings and warriors, or tacky red spray painted bicycles.
Our depth was visible and pure and it seemed like everyone else’s was cleaned up and stored away.
It felt that way when I was young.
Now I value my family’s visible depth
and consciously remind myself that no matter how
fresh the paint smells or how not present a quirky old photograph is
it is somewhere, it is somewhere
**** it is somewhere
it is beautiful
to remind myself that.
Oct 5, 2015
Oct 5, 2015 at 5:54 PM UTC
Opening my eyes,
I try to shake the cobwebs from my brain
the week has almost gone and Friday rears its head again.
So,
here I am waking,shaking like some madman and its all that I can do,there's no coffee in the jar and the shop seems far to far away,I've got some tea and that's okay but I forget to get milk yesterday.
and
the toasters up the spout,I should have got that sorted out but there's always a delay,thank god the week has almost gone and tomorrow's Saturday.
but,
these things are sent to try my patience which by now is wearing thin and the only thing that I have learnt is,
this too shall pass,I shall rise,paint on a smile go outside and walk the mile to the store,buy some coffee,milk and bore the shirt off Malik's back when I attack the price I see at Malik's supermarket,I know that nothing comes for free,but jeez I'm only buying things for me and not for all of humanity,
thank god it's Friday.
Feb 21, 2014
Feb 21, 2014 at 2:57 AM UTC
Big fluffy dressing gowns keep misbehaving and stuffing themselves into un-rounded empty spaces and the spaces are shrinking so excuse me BUT I’M A LITTLE STUCK OVER HERE like the nightmare about losing teeth, about being too small and driving a big van, a massive van down a long hill, it gets steeper and THERE’S NO BRAKES. MAYBE IT’S THE MARRIAGE OF TWO PERFECT ENTITIES, ME AND THE DRESSING GOWNS, that is. But I’d expected it to pan out a little differently than end in the middle of a Bridget Jones film or some other badly frequented metaphor glued together with lollipop sticks. Who are these people who don’t find themselves biting into deep pure, gross, clogged nothing when they have an empty wall in front of them? I bet THEY DANCE FABULOUSLY with toasters.
Jun 11, 2020
Jun 11, 2020 at 1:44 PM UTC