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

Twiddled knifes upon glass eyes, cry the insight of reprise, amongst a galvanized pride, in flight from spotlit skeletons, denied of sunlight, without a fight of adrenaline and puking on the side of missed roads.

An abode, of foreboding wealth within a duffel bag, drags the corroding moral codes of trolls controlled by ignorant over lords over the coals, before another log is tossed in the fire.

Before the fog of the fading embers, dislodge the common splendor, from the lives of nine to fivers, tending to the totals of the dead versus survivors, in vocal onslaught of the names of the slaughtered daughters of liberty that faltered in the after glow of nevermore.

Anymore,  i only wish to dream.
dream of better things that sing in the blood, and shrug the smugness from drug-less fiends, in consumption of peeling seams, and paint-chips.
Cancerous fractions entrap us.
Just ask the plaintiff.

Sustain it ...

In stillness.

Mastery over illnesses.

Embrace the contaminants of my inanimate imagination, swallowed in the shallows of a nation lost to bacon and broken beautiful.

Tokened suitable with corporate suitors to the masses. Blinded in the flashes of dismal diobolitry ,upon uprooting the touting in the jealous shouting of the shenanigry of driven villains, knowing of the chronology of the buried devilry, toiling in the ecology of a dying star.

My gods aren't too far from yours.

My stars aren't too bogged for more.

My more, your cut off point.

Disjoint the facts, let the words womb themselves and slither in the delivery, of malicious adhering to the tongue, in the atrocious abominations of falsified accumulations of the letters manifestations of fruitful creations abiding to immaculate consummation of lost thoughts that prevailed in one long exhale of a run on sentence.

No penmanship in breathlessness, as i faint in my confessions of restless lessons learned in burned futures overturned in grief.
Burned in the disbelief of fractured animals, cannibalising the chastised cultures of the mechanical signals planted in our cores.

Arms forward and moaning for more.

Always more.

I claim victory in my plastic citizenry of pity and tragedy, where i too can proclaim my self godliness and engage in bliss with the rich.

Im an emo ***** with blood on his knife and a list of names read aloud from the braille niche upon glass eyes, where to see is to realise, the severed root of the bloodline, in slow chromatic decline over time, until the with, is without, and the made mark is gone and the new birth is spawn to embark upon, brawn over brain the simple rule shall remain, conned in the game of numbers, slumbering from under the wonder of man vs machine. Again ranting in my rhyming declining into boredom.
Seldom to abandon the foreboding doom i cant shake.
Stephen king meets Dr seuss for a lovely kick of the chair and a hug of the noose.
Never to lose when smiling.

You and I are going to settle this score
Now that you've abandoned your special snowflake campaign
And overcome your Stockholm Syndrome

A dynasty has been created
The snowball's chance begins to take effect

The short order cook has taken a tall order
A citrus feast for a ship of marauders
To prevent scurvy

The  maitre d' disarmed them at the door
And allowed them to infiltrate the dining hall

The captain sat and twiddled his thumbs while his crew cut loose

The first mate drank fire water and shot it out of his nose

The quarter master ordered some fiddlesticks served on door glass

The boatswain ordered the insemination of a cow so he could eat the cow and all of its offspring
It was his first day eating meat again
He remembered his vegan salad days

The carpenter and ****** constructed a shrine of after dinner mints
And conducted a seance to talk to their old crew mate, Black eyed Ollie

He squandered his life searching the sea for a doctor to restore his sight
They planned to revive him and allow his spirit to possess one of them

And sure enough Black eyed Ollie entered the ******'s body and they took turns controlling the fleshy vessel
Black eyed Ollie got every day of the week that ended in "Y" and the  ****** got the rest

The filching crew of blighters finished their meal and went on their way
They left quite a tip
"Actions speak louder than words and money talks too
Yet talk is cheap
But time is money
So every burning second counts
Then let's freeze time
Take action and buy all the talk at whole sale price
And sell it at retail price"

So pay up man, I told you working here would be interesting

i was raised
by the greatest
generation.
at least,
that's what we
were told.

we were raised
at your knee,
told stories
of the American
Dream. "work hard,"
you told us, "obey,
consume, and god
will provide
for your every need."

you neglected
to mention
you'd borrowed
our only home,
a loan
you've since
squandered.

like the parable
of old,
you buried
your talent
in the sand—
along with your head.
dormant, you twiddled
your thumbs,
ignored the warning
signs of sky-rocketing
carbon emissions.

when you die
alone
you'll leave
behind a footprint
larger than your
tiny mind
could fathom.
it will echo
in the hallways
of your vacant,
dilapidated mansions.

you stood upon
the shoulders
of gods and giants,
but you gave us
a globe
unbalanced,
off-axis.

now, like Atlas,
we're left to carry
your burdens.
this yoke is heavy
and we are slight.

there's
no future
now, thanks
to you.
only prophecies
of nuclear holocaust,
economic collapse,
and the inevitable
heat-death
of the universe.

Love wears a dress,
It's flowing,
with a pattern of flowers.
It's made of thin linen.
Feels beautiful stroking the skin.
Love has pure *******,
Capable of nurturing,
Keeping interest alive.
Sometimes love wears lingeree,
Of ebony black lace,
with scarlet ribbons attached.
Sometimes love has tassles attached,
they could be twiddled to occupy a lover who may be becoming bored.
Sometimes,
love is concealed beneath the protective cloak of the very caring nurse.
However;
Love can be stubborn,
Never admitting defeat,
Sometimes a total ***.
Who loves being in love,
Even when she's dressed in all of her disguises?
(c) Livvi

I grew up fed on Disney and love
Building expectations
Telling me the thing I hoped for most

For years I kept my eyes open
Enjoying everything
But expectant for the impending more

Then smiles passed and hands let go
Leaving all my
Hopes splattered across the pavement

Time and time and time slipped by
While I sat
And twiddled my thumbs

This summer I spent in watching
Lost in waiting
Impatiently patient in one million breaths

So my hand fell to keys
And you
Reached right on through

A meeting, then two, then many again,
A spark flared up
And I was scorched to the soul

Would you be the one to look?
Could you?
Would you really be the first to see?

I found myself on your fingertips
Wrapped up
Finally warming in your arms

Now a whisper and a smile are all that I need
I lean in to find
That your breath tastes like hope

my grandfather Edward
left home when he was a boy
and changed his last name
in his teens he was arrested for stealing a cow

then he joined the Air Force and became a photographer
smoked ***** with fishermen
photographed bombs being dropped

then he married my grandmother Evelyn
and they had 3 girls
one of them died as an infant
and one was my mom

i remember him as a quiet man
i was very little
he smoked a pipe and carried a pocket knife
he twiddled his thumbs which had no thumbnails

and in 1994 when i was 7
he shot my grandmother in her sleep
then himself

and i will never forget him.

Julie followed Benedict
from bookshop to bookshop
then they went in a cafe
on Charing Cross Road

and sat down
by the window
and ordered two coffees
and lit up cigarettes

how's it going
at the hospital?
he asked
gutty

she said
boring my ******* off    
I shouldn't be there
she inhaled deeply

on her cigarette
once you're off the drugs
you won't be
he said

I am off the drugs
she looked at him
well most of the time
she said

what do they say
at the hospital?
they said my parents
want me to stay there

until I'm cleaned off  
she said
but you're out today
he said

yes on good behaviour
she said
any sign
I've taken anything

then I'm locked in
and Daddy said
they'll have me sectioned
if need be

he has doctor friends
who will oblige
and him and Mother
being doctors themselves

it won't be difficult
she said
Benedict watched
as the waitress

brought the coffees
and put them on the table
and swayed off
in a Monroe fashion

we could take in a film
if you like
he said
no I don't want

to be stuck
in some smokey cinema
she said
I want to be out

in the fresh air
and see London
ok
he said

what about having a stroll
along the Thames Embankment?
then after take in
a look around an art gallery

you are full of fun
she said moodily
ok where then?
he said

some room someplace
and a good ****
she said
the word hung in the air

like a dark cloud
in the cafe
people gaped at her
I think they've got

Lichtenstein at the gallery
this month
he said
Pop Art stuff

he added
she pulled a face
then drew on her cigarette
you're in a mood

he said
maybe you should
have stayed at the hospital
and twiddled your thumbs

on the ward
she stared at him
releasing smoke
from her mouth slowly

ok the gallery
isn't too bad an idea
she said
but I'm gagging

for a fix
my body's screaming for it
she went quiet
and sipped her coffee

he looked at her
sitting there
dark brown hair
tied by a ribbon

her eyes staring
at the table
her fingers holding
the cup and cigarette

he recalled the time
at the hospital
when they'd managed
to be alone

in the small broom cupboard
and the quick ***
in the dark
between brooms

and dusters
and buckets
he smiled
what you smiling at?

she said
cupboard love
he said
she laughed

yes that was good
she said
unexpected too
and any moment

some poor cleaner
coming for a bucket
and seeing us at it
she stubbed out

her cigarette
in an ashtray
on the table
and they went out the cafe

and back along
towards Trafalgar Square
to the art gallery
to see what was there.

The grange had got it's new tenants at last
Swiftly approaching it's great gates
They were a beef eating bunch of a bloodline
horse and carriage and all
Driven by a shirtless whip in sunburnt skin and an ivy cap
The sun above a dreadful shade of burning peach and sky of sickest sea blue

The master twiddled his thumbs as he leaned out the window
Watching the gate part
The letter open on his desk
Not as much as an telephone call
Just a stack of notes and a newspaper clipping
Smartly closed in red sealing wax
Did they not know what had happened here just a year before?

_________

At lunchtime in five weeks
All was not well
Not one bit
The garden swing hung off it's hinge
Creaking in a minor key
Drops of blood the same shade as sealing wax disrupted the floral wallpaper which lay abandoned on the garden path
lumps of earth were roughly dispersed
Four lumps
For that one bloodline  
One year, five weeks and a few lonely hours

Trembling storm door
thwacks destruction and
love of warm blankets
keeps us cuddly cozy

Pardon my saying
violation inglorious heralds
at our stoop
Now being time for our
recoiling

Observing current circumstance
shall we dress ourselves?
In church clothes
or bathrobes do we streak
to chapel of the day

My likeness in you says,  "Yes!"
We've twiddled toes enough
We shan't wait much longer
Tyrant floods come
Poised indication tells us
our love is rakish
and rallies are arising

Who knows where  this storm goes?

All I  know is,  I want you now

whisper weeping tiger all your fears inside my ear
while I sit here and just wonder if the clouds eventually clear
hush now mighty giant all you do is flood the seas,  your tears the size of titans and your sobs the summer breeze
they shall listen to no reason, hearts as cold as mother ice
be there flooding in the mountains then they all shall turn to christ
heave the call of dying lepers that they fall upon deaf ears
still her heart is gently thumping through the tyranny and fear
on her back she rests the earth and though her legs as old as time such a strength her ancient wisdom
twiddled down to such sublime
a mere mistake of good intentions  beware the cross to your salvation
the path that's far less chosen, rightfully so for damnation
all that's good shall perish slowly,  leaving nothing more then is
perhaps you've thought this place of devils, I shall say we are what is

We died many times when we first met.
They’d say electric. You provided the shock.
I was in need of repairs,
a faulty motor with a clogged-up engine,
stumbling through life
like a Slinky
yawning its bones
down the stairs.

You played me well at first,
fingers on my body,
twiddled me back into tune.
We’d die again.
When we kissed
I tasted Malboro and Merlot.
I fell right into it,
you like a glossy new balloon,
a chaos of colour on my lips
left me spellbound.
We’d die again.
Then the moment would pop.
You’d be standing with a pin.

Met your parents.
They noddingly-approved between
gulps of Heineken,
but I knew we wouldn’t last.
It fell apart, of course.
Somebody ruined the jigsaw.
Started hurling snowballs
at each other, words like razors
shredding through the air.
We’d die again.

A slammed door, gone
to the corner-shop for milk
in a huff.
An eff-you blurting
out from the phone.
The shock had gone.
I think I’m dying again.

daytime rhythms
of coming and
going


a-swish
a-yawn
a-slam
a-trudge


out the door
in the car
to the place


there


twiddled thumbs
swivelled chairs
barked-up trees
and morning teas
and banter

​
hands
on knees
and eyes to
clock
​

and this meeting
here
and that duty
there
tick tock


a-flow through
time and space
and light
as the
sun turns over
in its sky
and rests its
head down on
the other side
​

then
out the door
in the car
to the place
​

for something quick
to have for dinner
​

then
​

home
​



© 2017 Adelaide Heathfield

Shamira had just left work
she was going to Florence
for the week with friends
and Baruch after seeing her go

opened up her locker door
and took out
her light blue
nursing overall

and held it to his cheek
then smelt it
tried to sense her perfume
feel her presence still there

the warmth of her body lingering
he found light brown hair
on the collar
and carefully detached it

and twiddled it around
between fingers
and held it up
to the light

then placed it
in a white tissue
and put it in his pocket
and put the nursing overall

away in the locker
and leaned
against the wall
thinking of her just gone

and not to see her again
for a week
not to hear her voice
or see her eyes

or feel her nearness
that evening he went
to the public bar
she frequented

and sat drinking alone
conjuring up
where she used to sit
and imagined

seeing her near by
or at the table
across the room
listening to the piped music

feeling the loneliness
creep in
so went home
and wrapped

the strand of hair
and put it in a small box
and let it lay there  
a small part of her

near by
a tiny particle
of what she was there
light brown hair

the following week
he wrote her
a letter every day
and posted it

to her home address
even though he knew
she was away in Florence
telling her how much

he loved her
and missed her
and when she returned
how they could go out

and where
and each day the letter
told more
and released more feelings

and when he rang her
the day she returned home
she said
I never expected

so many letters
or such feelings
and she talked of Florence
and where she'd been

and what she saw
and with whom
and what they did
and o

she said
I've got you
this postcard
and you'll love it

and so she went on
and he listening
on the phone
just wanted her

to be there
and have her all alone.

Her hair reminded me of electric trees
Vibrating in waves of soundless lightning

Her teeth were suns that blinded the moon

Each word she twiddled on her tongue
Reminded me of the day she whispered to the forest

That she would trudge along alone

I find myself a fool for wasting light
Living in the shadow

Of her purple flame

When the dust of her old hums finally fade
And the music she brought spins scratches into stone

I’ll ask to where she twirled her head

To find herself in those smoldering orange eyes
She spun away on a silent gray morning

To lug her fire back home

I reached out to the twiddled vines, clawing my way to the boarder, sighing in relief from exhaustion. My knees dropped to the ground. I shook my head-trying not to let the excruciating pain of his absence overwhelm my need to hear his voice once more. Devastated, I just couldn’t accept his last words as it dragged my mind through the depths of despair.  The whole situation was desperate. My legs couldn’t keep intact with normality, shaking and tensing. My chest, I could feel it tighten under the weight of my emptiness. Feeling smothered, I gasped for even just a short breath and I couldn’t make out any words, I just couldn’t.

You told me you loved me

As you looked me in the eyes
Us perched on the hood of a car,
Night sky all around and
A shining moon up above
Like some sort of choreographed movie scene,
But we were the stars

You told me I was beautiful,
That I deserved so much more than the love I received from another.
You wanted to hold me in your arms,
And loved the way my scent lingered on your shirt when you left

Your fingers brushed over mine and twiddled my fingers, as your mind escaped to a far away place
I remember the hugs, that held me so tight I could barely take in a breath
Of course, I didn’t care if I could breathe or not
I didn’t care when you stepped on my feet as we slow danced too fast to a song neither of us knew the title to
Or when you laughed so hard you spit a piece of food at me
Nope, I didn’t care
because I couldn’t possibly fathom any part of you as wrong

I still have the poems you wrote for me, you know,
The one where you fell for me first
And wrote about what it was like to be on the ground, while I was still standing up
You waited...so long

Eventually I started to trip myself,
Until I lost my balance
and fell
Expecting to fall in your arms,
But hit the hard ground instead
Because that was when you realized,
It wasn’t worth it anymore

You stood up that day
And finally walked away

But I never told you,
I love you too.

I ask him:
Nothing to fix?

When I saw you last
you walked away
without a word to say.

But I never said
I wanted you to go.

I twiddled my thumbs
while you made the decision
that split me up in two.

I gave you my body parts
in the vain hope
that you would love me the same
as I did you.  

And so I say to me:
You don't need him
to hear from you
that you've found somebody new.

a rare early day at relieiving stress
a shot at one fifteen of scotch
no less
took a care not less attitude
right then
turned off all six of my cellphones
put my feet up
twiddled my thumbs for
the first time in a decade
bills to pay **** them
my credit rating
sheeesh
when am I gonna go out and buy a Porsche
without cash
gotta  be kidding me
so I sit and languidly soak into a myst fall
from the cliff of civility
brave my wife to not make a salad how
'bouts we have just raw meat tonight
I see her blush
behind her apron strings
and today is god ****** good
for me

He kissed with his eyes,
And I acted surprised,
As if my world hadn't crumbled
Half an hour ago.

I kissed with my smile,
And we stood for a while,
As butterflies bumbled
In the crystal snow.

Your touch still lingered,
And you twiddled your fingers,
As birds mumbled,
you love him so.

The chirps slowly died
with our lips and eyes,
As we stumbled
slowly home.

He pictures her chestnut hair falling delicately onto her petite frame,
her small nose twitching when she laughed.
He imagines her creamy smooth skin and perfectly rosy cheeks.
He envisions her breathtaking eyes, that glimmered in the morning sun,
that were sheen, freshly fallen dew.
He closes his eyes and reminisces about her gleeful laugh that reminded him of gardenias blooming
and the way she twiddled her thumbs when she was nervous.
He misses her kisses that brushed across his cheeks like a butterfly flapping its wings.
Tears swell in his dark eyelashes, and his blue eyes turn a milky grey with despair.
Thinking back to the day she told him she was ill,
the agony he felt in his chest arises yet again.
He remembers the day her gorgeous hair started to scatter onto the floor,
the floor he would lay crumpled on for a week after
that collected his pearly tears
and cooled his splotchy cheeks
he thinks back to the days that she said she was fine
but wished to die.
Her emerald eyes started to fade in the last couple days of her life,
a sweater that had been washed too many times.