"waiters" poems
Little Birds are dining
Warily and well,
Hid in mossy cell:
Hid, I say, by waiters
Gorgeous in their gaiters -
I've a Tale to tell.
Little Birds are feeding
Justices with jam,
Rich in frizzled ham:
Rich, I say, in oysters
Haunting shady cloisters -
That is what I am.
Little Birds are teaching
Tigresses to smile,
Innocent of guile:
Smile, I say, not smirkle -
Mouth a semicircle,
That's the proper style!
Little Birds are sleeping
All among the pins,
Where the loser wins:
Where, I say, he sneezes
When and how he pleases -
So the Tale begins.
Little Birds are writing
Interesting books,
To be read by cooks:
Read, I say, not roasted -
Letterpress, when toasted,
Loses its good looks.
Little Birds are playing
Bagpipes on the shore,
Where the tourists snore:
"Thanks!" they cry. "'Tis thrilling!
Take, oh take this shilling!
Let us have no more!"
Little Birds are bathing
Crocodiles in cream,
Like a happy dream:
Like, but not so lasting -
Crocodiles, when fasting,
Are not all they seem!
Little Birds are choking
Baronets with bun,
Taught to fire a gun:
Taught, I say, to splinter
Salmon in the winter -
Merely for the fun.
Little Birds are hiding
Crimes in carpet-bags,
Blessed by happy stags:
Blessed, I say, though beaten -
Since our friends are eaten
When the memory flags.
Little Birds are tasting
Gratitude and gold,
Pale with sudden cold:
Pale, I say, and wrinkled -
When the bells have tinkled,
And the Tale is told.
14k
One fine morning
on my way to work
I met a real dinosaur
in big boots and a mischievous smirk
I’m kinda lonely he said
just visiting this town
I don’t have any friends
and thats bringing me kinda down
He looked kinda sad
with his tiny Dino eyes
I’d have to call in late
and explain it to the office guys
First we went out for ice cream
then we played a video game
He cracked a lot of dinosaur jokes
which were all kinda lame
When he would laugh
his mouth would open wide
Which sorta kinda scared me
and made me want to hide
His Dino tail would wiggle
and his laces would always come loose
It was funny trying to watch him
tie up his dinosaur shoes
Then we went to Iceland
and all the rides were cool
It was really spectacular seeing a dinosaur
floating in the swimming pool
Then we were really hungry
and we went out to dine
He scared all the waiters and waitresses
and drank up all the wine
I climbed up on his back
and he went for a run
Omigosh this day was perfect
I was having so much fun
Everywhere we walked
people screamed and ran
at the big stomping dinosaur
causing all the traffic jams
If only they would listen
If only they could see
Mr. Dinosaur is just a nice guy
just like you and me
Our perfect day was over
Dino had to go back home
probably back to Jurassic Park
and left me here alone
Next morning at work was a ******
such a tiresome bore
I just wanted to leave the office
and run out the office door
When the clock stuck five
I finally decided to leave
I left my dull office
and Lo & behold I just could not believe
Standing before me
in front of my very eyes
stood my dinosaur buddy
what a nice surprise!
We talked and talked for hours
even after dark
and when the day was over
I decided to move in to Jurassic Park
Now we’re never lonely
Dinosaur and me
Dinosaur has a friend
and I have family
Oct 28, 2014
Oct 28, 2014 at 4:17 AM UTC
Mary had a little lamb,
two lobsters and a Christmas ham,
a three-pound tub of chicken wings,
seven bratwurst tied with strings,
thirteen loaves of garlic bread,
a schnitzel bigger than her head,
four rare steaks, a dozen eggs,
caviar and turkey's legs,
strips of bacon, mushroom stew,
chunks of bread and cheese fondue,
and two whole jars of sauerkraut,
(to clean all of her insides out).
Finishing the pasta salad,
Mary soon looked drawn and pallid.
"I don't feel well," poor Mary said.
"I think I need to rest my head."
Then from her stomach came a moan,
a straining, churning, twisted groan.
Mary gasped; her eyes grew wide.
She'd only seconds to decide.
What could she do? Where could she go?
Her stomach was about to blow!
So, reaching for the nearest bucket,
she retched, and then began to chuck it.
All the courses that she'd swallowed,
and the apertifs they'd followed,
all the steaks and all the fish,
each and every single dish
came flying back from in her belly,
filling up the bucket smelly
with a foul and toxic brew,
and no one knew quite what to do,
so this went on for ten whole minutes
till Mary had expelled her innards.
When she was done, her eyes were red,
and sweat was pouring from her head.
"Are you alright, sweet Mary dear?"
her mother asked. She didn't hear.
For Mary was already off -
the waiters saw her try to scoff
the whole entire pudding bar.
Now, this had pushed her mum too far.
"Alright!" her mother cried, "I'm through!
I've done the best that I can do.
I'm sick and tired of all you eat.
I will not pay for all this meat.
I'm going home. Go get some help —"
Then Mary's mum let out a yelp!
She glanced down at her legs and saw
sweet Mary there begin to gnaw!
She struck the lass, but with great haste,
alas, the girl had reached her waist.
As Mary's ma was there devoured
by her offspring, overpowered,
she cried one thing ere final slaughter:
"It smells like lamb in here, my daughter."
Mary licked her lips and grinned.
She belched out loud and then broke wind.
She felt her tummy start to rumble -
and calmly ordered apple crumble.
Dec 18, 2017
Dec 18, 2017 at 4:52 AM UTC
So I turned 32 today.
Penniless birthday,
almost.
Howling rains
woke me up
and I fell back asleep.
And the cat respected my
birthday.
Did not claw my lips like
my usual feline alarm.
The birthday flowers
in the morning
were vivid.
My mother bought them,
deep red and
deep yellow.
I requested
for birthday lunch
my mother’s
home-cooked burgers
and fries sprinkled with
iodized salt.
And I filled myself up
with them hot and crispy
fries
and didn’t care if they
stayed inside my guts
until 2014.
I never really liked cake.
Opted for a dozen original glazed.
Heavenly donuts.
Two of them tumbled down
the escalators.
The first birthday flaw.
Like a bleep in the
grand scheme of
birthday things.
I brought them to a Greek
restaurant.
My mom and dad
and two sisters.
Not really hungry.
Just hungry
for a different taste.
The salad had candied
walnuts among the greens
and the reds.
Progressive Greece.
Then a classic lamb dish.
Classic Greece.
And the waiters
in stuffy white
bellowed a birthday
greeting, dropping the “h”
from my name.
Belted out a non-Grecian
birthday song.
No Grecian dance.
But they gave me
an ice cream treat.
Lighted a solitary
blue candle, which
balanced on the semi-liquid
hills of vanilla, caramel and
walnuts.
The small ice cream hills
illuminated by
the dancing
birthday light.
Oct 21, 2013
Oct 21, 2013 at 3:40 AM UTC
Diner
Hidden
In a cloud of
Blue nicotine
Sits near
Our home
Serving up grease
Burgers and fries
To men
Women
Gripped by
broken hearts
Bad luck
And rain
The cook, waiters,
Stare at the food
Mad eyes
Wishing
For some change that
Will never come
Through those
Yellow
Doors the newly
Dead men, women,
Walk in
Ready
To order fries
And burgers, shakes,
Diner
Opened
Forever so
Take your good time
Aug 14, 2013
Aug 14, 2013 at 12:06 AM UTC
THE BALLOONS hang on wires in the Marigold Gardens.
They spot their yellow and gold, they juggle their blue and red, they float their faces on the face of the sky.
Balloon face eaters sit by hundreds reading the eat cards, asking, "What shall we eat?"-and the waiters, "Have you ordered?" they are sixty ballon faces sifting white over the tuxedoes.
Poets, lawyers, ad men, mason contractors, smartalecks discussing "educated ********* here they put ***** into their balloon faces.
Here sit the heavy balloon face women lifting crimson lobsters into their crimson faces, lobsters out of Sargossa sea bottoms.
Here sits a man cross-examining a woman, "Where were you last night? What do you do with all your money? Who's buying your shoes now, anyhow?"
So they sit eating whitefish, two balloon faces swept on God's night wind.
And all the time the balloon spots on the wires, a little mile of festoons, they play their own silence play of film yellow and film gold, bubble blue and bubble red.
The wind crosses the town, the wind from the west side comes to the banks of marigolds boxed in the Marigold Gardens.
Night moths fly and fix their feet in the leaves and eat and are seen by the eaters.
The jazz outfit sweats and the drums and the saxophones reach for the ears of the eaters.
The chorus brought from Broadway works at the fun and the slouch of their shoulders, the kick of their ankles, reach for the eyes of the eaters.
These girls from Kokomo and Peoria, these hungry girls, since they are paid-for, let us look on and listen, let us get their number.
Why do I go again to the balloons on the wires, something for nothing, kin women of the half-moon, dream women?
And the half-moon swinging on the wind crossing the town-these two, the half-moon and the wind-this will be about all, this will be about all.
Eaters, go to it; your mazuma pays for it all; it's a knockout, a classy knockout-and payday always comes.
The moths in the marigolds will do for me, the half-moon, the wishing wind and the little mile of balloon spots on wires-this will be about all, this will be about all.
5.5k
Over staffed and under fed
Spanish waiters
rush around with
waistcoats of wisdom
wearing black shoes
of sordid shift-work soles.
They greet and speak to every new
tourist, and regular, as if a
brother, sister, mother, second-cousin-twice-removed
stepmother, yet really they are:
the ephemeral fodder of the
cheap, low-cost-airline,
the flash and it’s gone spine of most cities
on the map,
the ‘Sorry, I left it in a Barcelona Café, could I get it back on insurance?’
baseball cap, that most sightseer marionettes wear, back to front,
the standing in line, waiting to complain,
tourists that know nothing of decorum.
So the Spanish waiter served me my coffee
and whispered in my ear,
‘Disfrutar de su día senor’,
that was,
'Enjoy your day Sir’.
Feb 12, 2013
Feb 12, 2013 at 11:00 AM UTC
Table for one sir, a book my companion for a one-sided conversation
Restaurant conversations buzz around me with intimacies and angst
Pre-movie girlfriends split the bill for a bowl of gelato delightful chat
Spooning in the Italian atmosphere for the price of a McDonalds.
The repro man on my right boasts of dietary prowess to his fat date
On the rack for his gluttony assuaged by the second rack of lamb
Talking at each other I can feel the anguish of ugly gay loneliness
Italian waiters providing comfort in the form of tiramisu temptations.
Life the entertainment on Saturday night alone with ten pages read
A drink talking boy will sleep alone without his now cold girlfriend
Broadcasting life's loves and lies, everyone hears and nobody listens
The opera of living more tragic than Tosca and as brutal as Butterfly.
Rain soaked spirits sink on a trudge home to a lonely king-sized bed
Goodnight loved one Skyped intimacies a warming blanket of comfort
Sleep sweet dreams before the limousine blacked streets of tomorrow
Nearer to honey sweet kisses and close in my love’s warm bed “hello”.
Jan 21, 2012
Jan 21, 2012 at 11:26 AM UTC
We walk the smoke-thick winter street of sweet 'n' sour aromas
amongst a throng of oriental shaded faces (such gentle souls)
who crowd little pushcarts selling scallion pancakes.
Overhead, red talismanic paper lanterns bob, enticing us
to the tap of percussive chopsticks.
We sit in awe; snack on duck-tongue; roast pigs hang
glistening; fat-fresh, ready to fry.
Waiters wheel trolleys piled high with steaming shrimp noodles
past tables of golden oranges and watermelon seeds.
Our Chinese chef prepares shredded pork in garlic sauce.
He smiles and says:
"More guests means more happiness."
Mar 19, 2010
Mar 19, 2010 at 6:35 AM UTC
Prosecco cocktails, être pour la danse,
cassis pour moi avec limoncello,
madame, passion fruit, and blood oranges
très grownup, breakfast at Tiffany's,
she is all sunglasses and Audreyfied,
me and George P., struggling writers,
checking if i got enough cash
or have to exit smooth, just in case,
maybe we leave our
coats behind, as ransom?
lincoln center plaza cross-dressers,
past the opera,
the sun, a balmy thirty five degrees,
laughing at us teasingly,
cause tonight and tomorrow,
*********** all the day,
winter kisses
in case we forgot,
early March
first belongs to the Ides of Winter
Afternoon of a Faun,
another ballet, origin,
a Mallarmé poem.
(you begin to comprehend)
yes quite so,
a perfect synopsis of the day,
Acheron imported from Scarlett Liam
who lives in the U.K.,
but comes to choreograph here,
for gloria Americana
sundown, soul cold back,
"lest we forget,"
but the dancers bid us adieu
with a rousing waltz, frenchified,
La Valse, une poème chorégraphique,
by Ravel, bien sûr!
aroused and heart gladdened,
return home for
for veal chop love
two hours of *** banging,
kitchen banishment, (Yay!)
chanterelles steeped in red wine,
coverlet for a non-vegan tasting,
English peas, red and purple potatoes,
and for desert,
a diet dream of verbal exchanged of detailed
I love you's
He: I love you,
She (happy), replies: I love you more.
(this repartee ballet, has been rehearsal danced before)
He: Why?
She: Because you are kind and generous, to street beggars, my single friends, good and smart, love art,
and never let me down, and love my cooking, leave space for others when you park, go thru life making waiters and ticket takers smile and laugh, sleep for hours your head on my hip, write me crazy love poems about veal chops
He: What's for desert tonight?
She: A ****
Apr 29, 2014
Apr 29, 2014 at 8:41 PM UTC
Crisp white waiters serve you smiles in Haitian time
Going native on Saturday night with Lambi Creole
Ti Coca rhythm band beats the music of tonight
Running fast will be a heart attack in this old town
Red neck cops dine with plain Jane UN girls
Touch in weekend lust and hopeful smiling eyes
Local white eyes shine in contrast colourful love
Slow down chill out and move to the music now
Pétionville to Paris seems a million miles away
A tense post-carnival gloom sets into Cité Soleil
As naked kidnap victim runs free in desperation
Different worlds in this blinkered rain-soaked town
Nov 25, 2012
Nov 25, 2012 at 9:31 AM UTC
*this American crossroads
on a cold winter night..
parallel people observed
their laptops and smartphones
foci of isolated attention
connecting to elsewhere..
no central cheer
as might be conjured
in older places with
a warm central stove..
coffee art on the wall
seemed stagnant ignored..
youthful waiters serve up
Gold Coast Joe
Blonde Roast
to customers soon to
sit down and withdraw..
headlines in the NYT rack
reports political struggles
parallels of scale..
a barrenness..
these are parallel times...*
Feb 28, 2013
Feb 28, 2013 at 12:54 PM UTC
If you drive down route 235,
the lonely parallel line of route 5,
running through St. Mary's County, Maryland,
between the intersection of Old Three Notch road
and St. Andrew's Church road,
and the liquor store at the corner of Mattapany--
you must do so with a fat wallet,
and a growling stomach,
who barks at the flashing signs
of the sparkling chain restaurants--
wafting their familiar scents out the windows
and onto the busy street.
Utterly beleaguered every which way by these olfactory factories,
your mouth waters and your wallet lightens
as the tantalizing sensations
permeate your vehicle.
So you cave;
another lost soul vacates the street at Restaurant Alley,
under the prowling searchlights
and the intoxicating smells lingering like a dense fog;
You linger in your purgatory with glee.
You exit satisfied, patting your abdominous belly
and lifting your smiling face to the sky
in thanks to the gluttonous gods
who rain down these chain restaurants
from the heavens.
A satisfied sigh seeps out of loose lips,
barely hanging on to your fleshy face,
so ruddy and fat.
You act like your stop was something novel,
like it wasn't routine to acquiesce to these temptations;
you return to your car to continue your roamings
down restaurant alley.
Sadly, a full stomach won't stifle a querying nose,
and your senses are soon at it again;
just as the waiters and waitresses,
cooks and busboys--
are back at the window, leaning outside
with their clamorings and bustlings and cookings--
You pretend to entertain willpower as your copilot,
but even if that were so,
your senses would still be at the wheel,
with your mind bound and gagged in the trunk.
Restaurant Alley goes on for miles and miles and miles,
seemingly endless in the permeating fog of
burgers and pancakes and pasta and chicken and fries and burgers and soda and ice cream and beer and pasta and wine and America and pancakes and steak and appetizers and desserts and entrees and specials and kids menus and burgers and chicken and pasta and fries and burgers and ice cream and salad and burgers and soda and eat and eat and eat and eat and eat!
There's nothing to eat;
there's nothing to do but eat in Restaurant Alley,
on route 235 in St. Mary's County, Maryland.
So fasten your seat belt,
and loosen your waist belt,
and take a doomed trip down the endless roadway--
where you are dragged, shackled to food chains
that haul you from the perdition that is the lobby's waiting room
to be seated with loved ones at the mercy seat of Ambrosia.
Mar 5, 2016
Mar 5, 2016 at 5:02 PM UTC
Roar of the rushing train fearfully rocking,
Impatient people jammed in line for food,
The rasping noise of cars together knocking,
And worried waiters, some in ugly mood,
Crowding into the choking pantry hole
To call out dishes for each angry glutton
Exasperated grown beyond control,
From waiting for his soup or fish or mutton.
At last the station's reached, the engine stops;
For bags and wraps the red-caps circle round;
From off the step the passenger lightly hops,
And seeks his cab or tram-car homeward bound;
The waiters pass out weary, listless, glum,
To spend their tips on harlots, cards and ***
2.3k
It's so stupid to feel lonely in a room
full of laughing people, enjoying their company with family.
I myself am with family, but I feel so
secluded, put aside, a thought floating
after a quick glance at the girl who's been quiet
for far too long, who usually
sparks the conversation before others.
Tonight, it is too loud.
Dancing waiters and a conga line,
trays of cheap champagne passed around,
Andrew discussing a promising proposal,
kept me so removed from table 351
and the restaurant itself. I cannot control
anything.
The conversation carries on without me.
Jul 25, 2016
Jul 25, 2016 at 11:41 PM UTC
Oh the mutedly loud
The warmness and romance of the space;
Red velvet,
Dimmed lights,
Set tables,
Candlelight,
Waiters in tuxedos.
A mingling party.
Wine and cheese,
Contrast with compliment.
I feel as if to walk out the double doors to a sweet scented garden under the stars, with a stone path, sides outlined by glimmering candles.
A night to remember,
For I'm with loved ones
At a unique event.
Feb 26, 2011
Feb 26, 2011 at 1:55 PM UTC
The fat lady came out first,
tearing our roots and moistening drumskins.
The fat lady
who turns dying octopuses inside out.
The fat lady, the moon's antagonist,
was running through the streets and deserted buildings
and leaving tiny skulls of pigeons in the corners
and stirring up the furies of the last centuries' feasts
and summinging the demon of bread through the sky's clean-swept hills
and filtering a longing for light into subterranean tunnels.
The graveyards, yes the graveyards
and the sorrow of the kitchens buried in sand,
and dead, pheasants and apples of another era,
pushing it into our throat.
There were murmurings from the jungle of *****
with the empty women, with hot wax children,
with fermtented trees and tireless waiters
who serve platters of salt beneath harps of saliva.
There's no other way, my son, ***** There's no other way.
It's not the ***** of hussars on the ******* of their ******
nor the ***** of cats that inadvertently swallowed frogs,
but the dead who scratch with clay hands
on flint gates where clouds and desserts decay.
The fat lady came first
with the crowds from the ships,s taverns, and parks.
***** was delicately shaking its drums
among a few little girls of blood
who were begging the moon for protection.
Who could imagine my sadness?
The look on my face was mine, but now isn't me,
the naked look on my face, trembling for alcohol
and launching incredible ships
through the anemones of the piers.
I protect myself with this look
that flows from waves where no dawn would go.
I, poet without arms, lost
in the vomiting multitude,
with no effusive horse to shear
the thick moss from my temples.
The fat lady went first
and the crowds kept looking for pharmacies
where the bitter tropics could be found.
Only when a flag went up and the first dogs arrived
did the entire city rush to the railings of the boardwalk.
2.1k
We awake to morning sounds
Of pavements washing down
Everyone's a trader
In this terracotta town
Wander through the winding streets
Drink in sights and sounds
A trader or an artist
In this terracotta town
Time to find a slice of shade
Siesta hour has come around
All is quiet, all is still
In this little tourist town
The waiters they are waiting
No-one wears a frown
Everybody holds a stake
In this their terracotta town
The fishermen are coming in
The sun is going down
We hold onto a painted pebble
To remind us of the peace we found
Jul 20, 2012
Jul 20, 2012 at 3:16 PM UTC
Tonight a candle consumed itself in vain.
For in this plush, lush atmosphere
Of soft lights and music sweet,
It’s just to eat
I sit and wait.
And; a half empty plate
Is my sad view.
Instead of you,
I must make do
With waiters who,
Though willing,
Perform to an audience of one,
Instead of two.
And where are you?
You; who
Are required to lend significance
To this occasion where,
A bare place
And empty chair,
Prepare me for the loneliness to come.
I’d like to know,
That even though
We are apart,
That for you too,
There is a space unfulfilled.
Tonight a candle consumed itself in vain,
And reflected in its flame was but the pain
Of separation.
© James Rainsford 2010
Nov 17, 2010
Nov 17, 2010 at 9:07 AM UTC
To the wicked widow that ***** the life out of her mate
To the tiny little fellow that crawls through my window and greets me with a goodnight kiss
To the brown girl with long legs that's sitting in my driveway
To the acrobats and the practical jokers
To the boy I saw at midnight looking for food in my kitchen
To the beautiful yellow girl who I used to see hovering over my swing set when I was a child
To the fast runners, the trappers, and the waiters
To the dangerous, and the harmless
To all the tricksters in the world
*I ******* hate you.*
Jun 1, 2015
Jun 1, 2015 at 3:53 PM UTC
My dreams are compact
and filled with bored accountants waiters leaving second hand shops
in fashionable post codes,
dressed like bit part actors
carrying spare hands,
gripped at the wrist,
dangling.
Their voices are a magical shrill,
a goats bleat
a synthesizesr whoop,
mesmerizing pigeons
and paper sellers
alike.
And you know how it is,
when you find you share a name
with a famous person
you look for frames of references,
points of similarities
but you find none,
only that you share the same name.
Jan 9, 2013
Jan 9, 2013 at 5:15 PM UTC
In a small bistro, on Bleeker Street.
They serve you a proper cup of cappuccino.
Made from an espresso maker
brought over from Milan in 1929,
and served in an ivory colored china cup.
In the foam on top is the signature swirl of the Barista.
There is a handsome young waiter,
with a serving towel hung over his left arm,
and a crumber, in his back pocket.
He leans over, scrapes the remnants
of the previous customer's biscotti into his hand,
and says to you in a thick, dark curly haired,
Italian accent, sounding like a young
Giancarlo Giannini,
And what will you be having today Signorina?
You think to yourself,
I have worked all day at my mundane job
and here is a man who truly loves what he does for a living.
He most likely was born into a family of waiters,
and he loves serving me.
I would like a cappuccino please.
As he walks away, you take out your pen and paper
and begin your daily addiction of writing poetry.
He notices you, noticing him.
You can almost read his mind as he watches you write.
He watches your pen and paper and wonders....
Is this mysterious poetess
who has been sitting in the corner
writing about me?.
Waiting for the proper time to interrupt your fervent writing,
he brings your order and you take it to your lips.
He watches from a distance,
anxiously awaiting the look on your face.
You have never had anything so wonderful.
The coffee flavor bursts on your tongue
and you are born again.
The gentle foam with its signature swirl is now on your upper lip,
and you give the young waiter a satisfied smile.
He rushes to your table
and takes the serving towel from his arm
to gently pat the foam from your lips.
You look into his dark eyes and see the new you,
the you who will no longer order just a cup of coffee.
The you who will seek out the signature foams of life,
and wear them on your lips forever more.
The handsome waiter smiles a smile of contentment,
his hard work has pleased you.
He brings you a fresh slice of torte Caprese and says,
Try this Signorina, it is my favorite.
You are now in heaven.
All of life dissolves in one single bite.
*Scusa Signorina,
but I could not help noticing how beautiful you are and that you are writing a poem,
may I ask what it is about?*
He looks deep into your impossibly blue eyes,
and you say to him.
You!
Jun 1, 2013
Jun 1, 2013 at 2:14 AM UTC
I imagined we’d grow gray together
and take winter sun holidays
somewhere we could warm our bones
cut out coupons from newspapers
stacking up in a jam jar
next to the fruit bowl
you’d rent guidebooks out of the library
and I’d take evening classes
so that I could understand
black tied waiters
you’d find it cute and impressive
and you would hold my hand tightly
during take off
the plan was that we’d walk around
foreign supermarkets and guess
the contents of the cans
they’d be faded beach towels
and the sticky scent of tanning lotion
our antiquated skin would burn easily
if we didn't smother it
but I’m not sure it matters
anymore, fretting over factors
we already have tumors
growing like doubts in our chests
we have nurtured them,
tended to their hungers and thirst
until we have none of
our own
Aug 30, 2013
Aug 30, 2013 at 1:59 PM UTC
I sit in a restaurant, quietly drinking my wine...
I notice our waiter in his black & white clothes, His shoes were old and raggedy.
I think of him struggling to earn a living,
Surviving off the tips customers give him after serving their food and drinks...
And yet he is smiling.
I watch a 65 year old couple playful arguing about what to eat.
Surely They've been doing this for years cause the waiters greet them by name.
Aah, Love never grows old. *(Mr & Mrs Koekemoer)
I see a business man suited and booted. His always on the phone and always in a hurry. He spills some coffee on his white shirt.
Ag! He seems to be annoyed with himself...
Now I'm looking at this Girl in front of me. A cute yellow-bone with a mini-afro.
She has brown eyes and her lips are shining with cherry lip-gloss. Her smile can sink a thousand ships.
Wow, I'm happy around her.
But...
I notice the missing finger she tries to hide with her other hand. No poetry can describe thy brutality.
But still, she is WORTH it...
Jan 13, 2015
Jan 13, 2015 at 2:13 PM UTC
i dont smoke wen i *** i *** smoke.
i dont think out loud.. its too loud to think.
wen i destroy planet. i dont destroy planet.
i make space.
if my eyes are open and no one can see them..i must be in a restaurant with an all blind staff.
eating alone. after hours. recycling ***** recycling puke. singing to tiny people who live on my shoulder. in my car. driving tiny cars of their own. and i lay down with a brick on the gas so they can make an overpass on top of me. and there is a sunset in my car. and we all try to catch it. but that would **** us. or at least make our hands disappear. and no one can drive safe now. we're going to crash. drive off the overpass and into my mouth. or fly. and this is all happening in every tiny car. they are giant people. with tiny cars driving in their cars. whos cars... the worlds cars. cars for fleas. cars for ded birds. cars for ded people. we are all ded people. we are all worlds. we are planet. ded planet. exploding and harboring the tiny suns. making too much sound. so no one thinks. because ded dont think. they make space. i am space. a space with shape. inside space. talking to animals. and eating. and drinking love potions. and none of them werk. especially the animals. theyre disabled. they have no hands. and have suns for eyes. but all they see is planet. with a restaurant in it. where waiters are blind. spill your soda. walk into knives. get cleaned up by night crew. werk for nice things. spend time on things. until they are destitute. but things still stay. and change shape. and are fake food. for disabled animals. and they lose all their time. the fake food absorbs all the time. the last of their time makes them rot. and the thing is now ready. to trick someone. into eating fake food. things are real. they have lives now. they miss birthdays. they have birthdays. they have time. they lose time. time is walking. but time is not moving. planet is moving. space is still. space stops breathing. space gets fat. space dies. time is stopped. nowhere to go. turn inside out forever. loses its mind. doesnt have one now. doesnt kno its gone. doesnt kno its time. its not time. its the only thing. not a thing. everything. no friends. no family. no pigs. just inside and outside. no inside. no outside. turning inside out. forever. so no inside. outside. no space. no shape. filling up itself. constantly changing. but never different. and never die. we die. we are lucky. we are happy. happy poeple. very big and very small. emotional. stupid. too loud to think.
Dec 27, 2013
Dec 27, 2013 at 1:54 PM UTC