"uncooked" poems
No sprouted wheat and soya shoots
And Brussels in a cake,
Carrot straw and spinach raw,
(Today, I need a steak).
Not thick brown rice and rice pilaw
Or mushrooms creamed on toast,
Turnips mashed and parsnips hashed,
(I'm dreaming of a roast).
Health-food folks around the world
Are thinned by anxious zeal,
They look for help in seafood kelp
(I count on breaded veal).
No smoking signs, raw mustard greens,
Zucchini by the ton,
Uncooked kale and bodies frail
Are sure to make me run
to
***** of pork and chicken thighs
And standing rib, so prime,
Pork chops brown and fresh ground round
(I crave them all the time).
Irish stews and boiled corned beef
and hot dogs by the scores,
or any place that saves a space
For smoking carnivores.
21.8k
sitting here but not
my insides
in a twist
my organs blooming,
their flower landscapes
rising in my solar plexus
like poetry expanding
its cellular shapes
into
light frequencies
I need way more.
I need the pulling off
and stripping down
of souls
I need to meet in
a depth of falling
I need to be pushed off
the silent gates of madness
into endless sea
no looking back
senses piqued
from slightest brush
of oral butter pouring
on hot cream
my mouth, a searing
crimson wound
oscillates in
contraction radar pulses
ripe for intense
tongue exploration
aching to be filled up with
your distinct flavor
My essence molecular is
overflowing with fluid
giving me life
in throbbing, raw
electric vibes
whipped organic, in
rolling tides
Somewhere, out there
our volcanic impulses
meet in steamy ebbs
and send energyflow
to a new and ancient universe,
magnetic
and I am
a raging heaven's child
wrapped in
a tight little
tourniquet
blood pumping
through these veins
my longing for
dark stretches
of intimate caresses
to soothe
the spikes
of snaking pain
Give me
those airwaves that
let me breathe freedom
into the fields of our skin
Let me run like wild herds
of the animal within
and as I find myself
hanging off
my
own
edges
my many-braided loops
in zigzag split,
a-fray
my skin rips open,
parting fibers
that expose my
very
DNA
helix swivel
undulation
hips grinding into
soul
reaching in to
pull out
fresh rebirth
from between my folds
O help me to allay
this tender affliction
undo me, already
so I lose control
one little shove
and I am over the cliff
deep into ocean
**** over spliff
I am beyond ready
so grind it to the hilt
Give me your
tender-ripped heart,
spill your honeycomb milk
I am here, ravenous
in the pan
uncooked yet ripe
saliva and breath
steaming my own innards
flushing out strife
I am piquant hot pepper
ready to be broiled
my blood is already
boiling
my tender meat oiled
mull me over
in your oral cavity
like sacred wine
until I drip
through your bones
and down your spine
Just meld with me
and flow
into that light tunnel
of dark time and space
so I can stake out
my rhythms
and claim
my
new
sacred
place
Aug 15, 2017
Aug 15, 2017 at 12:20 AM UTC
I dropped by my favorite place today, released another exhausted breath. My pants were bulging out and the fat kept me stretched out. I hate that feeling. My stomach turned into billowy waves of expectant marks, pinning through my outer skin. I hate that feeling. When I sit, my thigh provokes every nerve in my body. If she has thoughts, she'll be a demon whispering through the wind. My unkempt hair is spinning around like gravity does not exist. Somehow, I failed to sigh out the black smoke forming all over my body. My skin, when pinched, is like soft straps that cannot be withdrawn from their owner. My skin is like the skin of my ancestor—it keeps stretching widely, tirelessly, and unprovoked. My heart is tightening its grasp on me. God, please help me! My eyes! I swallowed all my tears away, but my reflection still reflects the dark hue of the moon. When it is sad, the moon exposes his true nature, just like rolled down skins on my neck. My hands go from gently holding my heart out of my chest to weighing the weight of my body. If I let out my thick heart, my body would be lighter and my skin would be a plethora of scars and clay. If I abandon thee and such a calloused body, art will find me beautiful, and that is one of the moon's other sides. It's thick and uncooked. The heavens may not forsake an insecure moon, but a woman hates her reflection when the moonlight lights on her flesh. "Mirror, mirror on the wall..." I called and they did not answer. I froze in my seat and waited until the sun bloomed and dried my tears. Yet I still could not breathe. I went into the sea and swam with the lonely whales. The sun reflected on the waters. I reached letter fourteen, but it was written by someone else. The ambience of the calm ocean washed over me. I released a breathy sigh, and the light went to take me.
Feb 1, 2022
Feb 1, 2022 at 1:28 PM UTC
I like slandering your makeshift forceps.
I hammer you down with watery *** and then spill
the remainder on the couch. Yarg! A diamond’s
worth at least a small intestine, and you
are worth whatever’s left over after night
has upended itself, poured sideways out of its
shellacked crawlspace, and turned the basement sour.
There are remnants of you in the park,
some red stain by the baseball field where,
if you’ll remember, you watched little leaguers
build teamwork, and faint splotches on tree bark
from your lactations which, if you’ll remember, happened
every morning. I whisper your godforsaken name
and am slapped in the head. The children cry
when I smile. I cry when the children smile. Good
heavens. I forbid you from not entering my corridor,
even as I set up a barricade. I like my water scalding,
my passion chilled, and I like you in easy-to-
swallow doses. I like you in my eggs.
Ditto the faucet, keyboard, the occasional lily,
but do not mess with my pearls. I mumble of apodictic
meadows while I sleep. What can I say?
I do not mumble of unclogging your bathtub,
which has a certain foul repute, and has grown
heavy and ugly with your hair, which is everywhere,
just as you are everywhere, and wherever, and so
********* hidden it’s not funny anymore, we stopped
looking some millennia ago, after scouring the drainpipes,
kicking down your doors, dissecting your mattress,
speculating about your burial site, etcetera, and even so
we have not been really looking all this time, have we,
just blaring your name through the speakers,
putting wrong numbers on our calling cards, leaving
uncooked meat out on the back porch as if you were
a raccoon, oh, or a lion, which you are not, or not
quite, though, as the books say, you have honey
in your stomach, and if you could but be
ripped open we would taste and see.
May 25, 2010
May 25, 2010 at 8:21 PM UTC
.*i'm still an advocate of caesarean section... i believe in animal rights... it's just plain cruel exposing a European ****** to a pan-African phallus of a fetus head **** isn't it **** "technically"? **** me... forget the ******** **** the latex... the ****** ******* one pregnant women ************ and talking Freudian implosion will do.*
personally? i hardly think
******** **** is what men turn
to when excavating
***********
ever watched
pregnant
women
************
while filming themselves?!
ever watch pregnant women
film
themselves ************
ever?
in the beginning there
was the word,
and the word was god...
you hear the talking
of pregnant woman ************
**** me...
who the hell needs ******** ***
when you can **** off
to a pregnant woman...
jerking off, talking *****
paradoxes of Freud
about her yet to be born
son
watching her **********
who the hell needs
******** ****
just watch a pregnant woman **********
oath of god...
hand on my heart...
it doesn't actually encompass a
desire for intricacies of latex...
just a pregnant woman
************
*** mad... *** mad...
*** mad...
******* *** mad as hell...
Freud? pale as an uncooked
pancake dough...
the **** that comes out
from the mouth of a pregnant
woman ************
believe me...
i ****** off to one of them doing it
helpless.
nice try... thinking
a man would turn to ********
***********
can't turn to more ********
****
than a pregnant woman,
************
while talking, Oedipal,
*****
try... try, ******
try to bash that fact out
of existence!
Sep 5, 2018
Sep 5, 2018 at 10:49 PM UTC
Only the eyes remain as they were.
The rest of her face is ravaged
by acid. Acid thrown by two
boys on a cycle. Just
another dare.
She combs her long hair carefully. Plaits it
neatly away from her face. No curtain of hair
to hide behind. Puts a bindi in the battleground
of keloids, scars and uncooked skin. She wears
them well.
The boys genuflect in a temple, mothers kissing
saffron kerchief covered heads
before they gel their hair
and go on another prowl. This is what
men do, you see.
Lakshmi puts another layer
of cream on her burns and then stands
behind a beauty counter selling bindis
and lipsticks to girls with unblemished faces,
like their eyes. Like her eyes.
Mar 8, 2016
Mar 8, 2016 at 4:32 AM UTC
It's been a long time since I've been to church
My horns are starting to grow back again
I'm back, *******
Well, well...
Missed me?
Relax. There's plenty of me to go around
Enough to keep you coming back for seconds
That's all I ever do.
The thing about a Jezebel is that she's been through stuff
So she's more streetwise and seasoned
With fault and reasoning
To make you keep coming back for more
Ruths are plain and bland
Uncooked meat
Raw and salmonella-inducing
Makes you puke on the spot and swear off meat forever
Turning vegan
Swearing off the word
Turning heathen
Jul 1, 2020
Jul 1, 2020 at 5:41 AM UTC
Dusk’s last breath puff up the curtains
in a flash of the post traumatic kind.
A crocheted-cliché, peach-purple duvet
drape the mountains in war paint;
redwood generals’ shadows on attention,
disorderly pine infantrymen struggle
against the wind,
some broken,
most wounded,
shattered limbs on display.
The war hero sighs into the bowels
of an instant noodles cup; dumplings shiver
((uncooked liver)) when he whistle-whispers
untold stories of courage,
guts served on blood-soaked battlegrounds;
no-one listens,
save spiders
with hairy legs
that hang on his every word.
Feb 15, 2011
Feb 15, 2011 at 9:47 PM UTC
I was hungry.
So I ate my dog.
Uncooked.
It's flesh got stuck between my teeth.
Which is good.
I can still taste it now,
when I am hungry.
Jan 22, 2012
Jan 22, 2012 at 10:12 AM UTC
Walls were pressed and hammered
Therapy for workers, curing pangs of comforts
They sat between fleshy webs of knuckles
On lunch break they would pluck pouts of moldy fruit
If only she could hear summer of 98’
Glimmering puddles and sinkable reasons
She could test her strength with Goldfish and a drippy, chocolate cupcake
Matching deserts of skin covering joints young enough to bend
They spat against another, sweating. Tapping
Smoother than honeymooners in a convention center
Frigid or uncontrollable, no one could tell
The breezeway connected teeth, the left chipped in the corner from
A muddy softball game. Their team won 7-2.
Wide enough to squeeze uncooked macaroni shells between
Became the dusky neighborhood game.
Transitioning humans, males most likely, whispered fears between that gap.
He was different. He waited in outside the doors, near the trash bins
With grumpy janitors, muttering, “fuggin’ kids” and things like that.
She loved how ugly they were then.
Her thoughts trailed him, what was left of him, as he paced
Searching for the mug he left there, no
There, holding wet tissue, no
Soggy cupcake liner
Cupcake, shortcake, cake, cake liner
Rainbow or musty brown from 346 degrees Fahrenheit
Baking Therapy Class held in her kitchen
Maybe because she could pound at the dough and it would never fight back
She neglects the finale of rumbling coffee exhale since she knows
He’d never come back. Not here or any party she threw.
But on another hard drive she saved photos of September 20th.
She’ll flip mindlessly through a Cosmopolitan, until she can forget his name
Feb 15, 2015
Feb 15, 2015 at 2:01 PM UTC
i wish i could be a bird
and accidentally eat uncooked rice
at someone's wedding
that i only attended
because there were so many interesting people
that wanted to
thoughtlessly **** me
just so i could die
and blame someone
other than myself
for it
Jul 3, 2013
Jul 3, 2013 at 3:42 AM UTC
Sometimes, if I try, I hum between the tumbling
Hills of the world bracing domesticated beasts.
They graze and grunt all over again,
Entering slumbers following the daily sweep
Of lactic creeks, thin enough to guide tree roots.
Dusk is explained by the party of two, embracing the dividing sun.
Look left to see coral reef skies swim attempting to grasp what is to the right of the Sun:
Silhouettes outlining prayers flattening dimensions of rugged Mosques
Still dusty from wheat flour and patterned by uncooked lentils, that
Slipped through missing seams of Burlap, blackened from the hearth
Malleable as a result of dependency.
Though only half of my sight functions, I reason that
Earth shifts without you. Watching centuries and some odd
Years of changes, I yearn to know where you have gone.
I peer from the peacock’s tail, feeling the pulse of the
World tick away as the fearless pray to someone new.
Your countenance, I interlaced with feathered fingers
Depicts movements, curves. A shame to be without
Language to fill the contours of a nebulaic expression
Or swindling modifications.
You put me here. My eyes anyway.
Expecting me to retire along with buildings for your worship
Powdery paint has spilled and faded along with
Others who have modified your appearance, their someone new.
Even as the shadows swells
A million replicates of Io, moo and sway home, tired from the
Beating sun, to which eyes remain fixed.
One momentary memory visits.
Vision simulate traces of wonder, travelling on
Pathways believed to be conquerable. The people have learned
What I have not. They pause, breathe.
Feb 15, 2015
Feb 15, 2015 at 1:32 PM UTC
the Vee Tee hipsters delight
in this ferment, Heady Topper
an unfiltered, uncooked, double hopped whopper
with a can in their hand, they’re a real show stopper
but after the bistro night
your intestinal tract
full of brie and this brew, comes under attack
with gas that must pass, like a well that is fracked
and I know this as fact
Wednesday, November 13, 2013
Nov 13, 2013
Nov 13, 2013 at 5:49 PM UTC
Sometimes I sit, 18 and overheated
in the front room of the men's heritage house, where I
play someone else's guitar and twist my hair in my
palms like
yellow bundles of uncooked pasta I might
break or
bend or
eat out of restlessness.
Tonight my sandal worked idly, pressing
its shadow into my leg when your electric
warm gaze flipped on
my lightswitch
and clicked. Out of my beige office boredom
came you - toothy.
But in high school you hit on my
best mate's sister, so, perched next to me on the
only plastic chair at the loudest bar in town, I crouched
down in a puddle of beer onto
raised toes and mentioned your name and he,
being British and emotionally constipated, muttered
something about you between football shrieks and cigarette drags,
sipped his Guiness and saw.
Oct 16, 2011
Oct 16, 2011 at 5:22 AM UTC
Worn green measuring spoons, half-full cast down to poke and **** the uncooked bits
This uneven terrain (I'm) swathed in pulls and pinches the page upon which (I've) scrawled my venn-diagram
Years younger and less used, smooth and shiny and brand new
Would that this small ladle had only knew,
You,
As (I) do.
Sep 15, 2015
Sep 15, 2015 at 8:35 PM UTC
Please accept the attached the original, as yet not published work written by G. David Schwartz - the former president of Seedhouse, the online interfaith committee. Schwartz is the author of A Jewish
Appraisal of Dialogue and Midrash and Working Out Of The Book
Currently a volunteer at the Cincinnati J Meals on Wheels, Schwartz continues to write.
His latest book is Shards And Verse (2011, Publish America).
Names are not real people
G David Schwartz
[email protected]
Four For Glory
The Night Was Cut Off From Smiling
G David Schwartz
Oh, I will not die
The night was cut off from smiling
I sat there crying
Broken Wings Fly Upside Down
G David Schwartz
Whether red or brown
broken wings fly upside down
Do not touch the clown
I Hear The Firer Frying
G David Schwartz
I hear the frier frying
I hear the burgers burning
I also here the wind
Early out this morning
I Am Not Ashamed
G David Schwartz
I am not ashamed
I will do anything with you that you wish
except of course
eat some uncooked fish
Aug 6, 2013
Aug 6, 2013 at 10:42 AM UTC
It's been so long, but I still remember how it feels
To sit in a stuffy classroom, clicking my heels
Because there's no place like home and I want out of my confinement
To sit endlessly and pretend to care about another mind numbing assignment
With the tap of fingernails vigorously typing out a text
Shifty eyed, watching some amateur get caught and secretly hoping you're not next
The murmur of whispered plans for the weekend
And how desperately your body craves to sleep in
Elaborate excuses planned out to explain why you forgot your essay was due
The lies are getting crazier because the teacher has heard everything that's not new
Lunch is served but the food is cold, unidentifiable, and uncooked
There's no way through the sea of gossiping teens around your locker to get your books
Your next class is the one teacher with a voice that's a little too monotone
And then the next is the one that always thinks she hears a phone
You worth is measured by a letter
And how many times you promise to do better
It's a system that's designed to break you
But you never let anyone see how much it shakes you
And at the end of the day it's gone by hideously slow
And you dread how you have to repeat it all tomorrow.
Aug 19, 2014
Aug 19, 2014 at 3:14 AM UTC
Women who think like men
Men who act like children
Children who act like they're forty and think they're adults
I opened the box to find a crudely written IOU on the back of an expired Domino's coupon
We tried to assimilate the whole thing
My co-worker made a long distance phone call
It was to the peanut gallery
They told her she should have put another quarter in the parking meter so she could have avoided the fine
"Fredrick Brown"
Said my boss
That was the name he gave us when he made the reservation
Sounded like pseudonym the chiseler made up on the spot
But all he ate was side dishes
And a bag of corn nuts he brought in
Now the investigation was in full swing
The cops came
Asking questions
A description
A name
And what he ordered
"Burnt french fries, uncooked calamari, re fried beans, a salad with only brown lettuce, a can of cranberry sauce, a porterhouse steak medium rare with mushrooms and onions and a hot fudge sundae without any ice cream"
The officers perused the table and found that sundae and the steak were untouched
And the can of cranberry sauce was only half eaten
Days later a man was found screaming in the industrial park
Yelling obscenities and wearing a bald cap
While trying to listen to scratched skipping Cd's on his Walkman that had no batteries
It goes without saying the man was deranged
It was the very same man I waited on in the restaurant
Police only released one statement on the matter
They said when asked why he was in there in the first place
He told them he was looking for work to pay a bill the he owed to a local restaurant who had top notch service
His real name was Ercy ******
That name is now branded into my memory
Jun 26, 2014
Jun 26, 2014 at 8:10 PM UTC
My grandpa who eats steamed sweet potatoes on foothills textured in green rice patties
dreamt up a tall brick house with a black iron gate
barbwires sprung around the tips of the entrance to keep out thieves
right now he wonders how long he can keep fibbing to my mother—
their rotten hut at the end of the massive foothill, not fleeting
monsoons come early, swells the ground till it gave
a landslide takes four people and a child
that day, red stars hung above Tiananmen square gates
grounded bones came in sacks, white cement hauled by green skin trucks
My grandpa who loves sweet potatoes constructs an ivory wall.
after the revolution, the sun peeks out in montages
peering through the smoke
gunpowder stuck to the tank tire roads
black heads roll off yellow tar dirt into a pit
My grandpa gives his best friend one thousand yuan—
visas for my mother and grandma,
His best friend disappears,
writes my grandpa
an apology and, leaves him a large white sack of uncooked sweet potatoes
light tan, severs in half and plops down on the lumpy cutting board,
dusty orange inners, grandpa tosses them in the boiling water
and later, while gnawing down,
he pretends they are oranges for once
Grandpa, who’s kneeling on our dried front yard with a worn out copper pail
waters the salty earth slowly until it sprouts sugar canes
chops one down, breaks it in half, the sun beats
peering through palm leaves
a viridescent river of silk and pale honey
my small three year arms grab a hand full
sliced by grandpa into pieces neatly placed
in a blue flowered ceramic bowl
years later, I chop a stalk down and chew until
English becomes a second language again
and in my twenties, I grab a hand full
sliced my mom into pieces, places them in a weaved basket
made of reinforced bamboo
I put it in front of my grandpa’s grave
in Fujian on the foggy mountainside of a small retirement town.
The edge of the South China coast covered in a thick plastic smog,
I sit on a stone eating sweet cold potatoes with my grandpa facing outland,
a red kneeing sun, barely visible past the trees
Apr 25, 2017
Apr 25, 2017 at 12:41 AM UTC
When I was very young, I started to develop an eating disorder.
I was a toddler. My parent's first child and I went mental when they tried to serve me vegetables.
I would discard them in the radiator and sooner than later a technician was called.
And my parent's were appalled when they realized the reason was that their child refused to eat what she was served.
This continued into early childhood.
I lived with my grandmother who I've called Grandy forever.
She made the same three dishes every week. Macaroni Pie, Rice, or Potatoes.
On the odd occasion, I would get pizza or pasta.
Macaroni and Cheese, or something else that pleased my taste buds.
I quickly tired of this pattern and a disgust for these meals arose.
I could no longer eat them without wanting to *****
When I was no older that four years old, my parents tried to feed me a few days or a week old alphageti. That was the first time I ever gaged on a meal.
But those moments came more often than I would like as I grew.
I filled up on chocolates and candy, slices of pepperoni so I wouldn't have to eat the **** I din't like.
This distaste of my Grandy's food turned into a fear of food itself.
I couldn't be experimental, I hated having to eat.
I wished I could just take a pill and defeat the hunger that haunted me.
For years I became anorexic. And not because I wanted too, but because for all that time food was my enemy.
When I was in daycare, I hated sweets of any kind and had never had a sip of soda. But once night when my parents were late to pick me up.
All Dee had was marshmellows and seven up.
I hated the sweet treats that would burn my teeth and the soda that would burn my tongue.
But I was young and no one cared.
I didn't allow myself to eat for several years until I ended up falling in love with a girl who cares.
But some nights when I am drunk and to lazy too cook,
I find myself in the kitchen eating an uncooked hot dog,
and I remember where it all came from.
I still hate sweets and soda to this day.
But at least now,
I eat.
Mar 5, 2019
Mar 5, 2019 at 11:14 PM UTC
How dare you?
How dare you presume
that you can still reap
the rewards and the virtues
of those who have chosen to
keep
their offspring,
their livestock,
their produce,
their children.
I am your child
when you deem it plentiful
to prove it.
My temperament, unmild as
it currently is,
was rocked into existence
by your hand
on my cradle.
Your tears,
so heavy, on my head,
and your mind, so
allegedly stable
made me my bed full of straw
and needles.
You left me
uncooked and, as yet, wholly raw.
You who bore me, left me.
You left another to tend to my sores,
one who's age is sure not to eclipse my own.
You threw me, out to pasture
to roam, alone,
feeling useless and inconvenient to you.
This may not seem true,
but who are you to deem it untrue?
There was no leniency in your
innocently though out cruelty.
For, after all, you must always be innocent.
Always must be abused and misused
by another.
You never perceived that you might be the
other?
Unaware of the pain your apparent
lack of care caused me.
My platonic fellow left to cure me.
Now she's the only one I feel I can
truly trust.
For, emotionally, I only shall do
if I must.
After you.
Sep 30, 2013
Sep 30, 2013 at 12:47 PM UTC
Gas tank never completely full
Dishes unwashed
Time and its manifestations
Is the affliction that plagues any millennial
She is present, and waiting
Ready to peel her skin at a moments notice
Rhythmic finger tapping on a diner table
Sipping iced tea and always looking out the window
Neither down nor forward, just up
While uncooked ham
In the form of a human sat opposite her
“I wish others cared” she sighed apathetically
“I wish other scared?” he inquired. He knew that he heard wrong.
“No, I can make that happen already.”
A pause swallowed them both
“I’m leaving”
“Why?”
She answered, her countenance
An opened Venus fly trap
“I’m hungry”
Jul 26, 2015
Jul 26, 2015 at 7:04 PM UTC
It's about who you know in a room
full of strangers. Often times it's
fashioning a blindfold while
squinting to hear whispers.
Some may even consider the use
of a napkin to blot lipstick so a
collar presented at a later time
can be given a delicate touch.
And the manipulative know that
it's easier to **** someone with a kiss
than to completely rely on ***********
And lest we forget the crude that
claim ignorance when referring to
spit slowly sliding down someone's
skull as proper lubrication.
This all proves that ****** fluids
that contribute to a body of work
is priceless, especially Crimson.
To manage this all requires an
everlasting recipe. This is cake
made with blood, sweat, and tears
compared to the uncooked cake
left dormant in a box.
Preheat the oven.
Lower the libido.
More sugar..
A Country Crock...
Serve cold.
Jun 14, 2015
Jun 14, 2015 at 2:18 AM UTC
Pain is not in waking up at sunrise,
Pain is in those exhausted eyes working till sunrise.
Pain is not in the cold water of shower,
Pain is in the dried body begging for water.
Pain is not in eating uncooked breakfast,
Pain is in the tears of children who have no breakfast.
Pain is not in throwing your leftovers,
Pain is in the mouth eating your leftovers.
Pain is not in walking to school,
Pain is not having means to afford school.
Pain is not in having no friends,
Pain is in the rejection with an attempt to make friends.
Pain in not in writing these lines,
Pain is in the heart of those living these lines.
Jul 26, 2015
Jul 26, 2015 at 1:09 PM UTC