"yeasts" poems
I add sweet sweet honey warm
to feed my little
yeasts
Sep 19, 2011
Sep 19, 2011 at 4:01 PM UTC
at first the woman sits in the man’s hand when he’s resting
if he goes to work he leaves her in a dimple on the bed sheets
she yeasts like dough
she raises
and picks all flowers all apples all grains
he comes back and sees the disaster
powerless
he sees into her belly through the tips of his fingers
she sweeps and cleans afterwards
the patch of earth they sit upon together
the man and his woman
untie the comets’ tails with their hands united
they’re a supercontinent for a moment
if they break apart unnamed oceans and archipelagos emerge
under the front of his head the front of her head and so on
Aug 22, 2014
Aug 22, 2014 at 7:46 AM UTC
Duplicity...
Its messy oh yes
and when the hound
refuses to confess
at best refutes indignant
the treachery then significant
when its plainly calculated
evidence piles up, saturated
deceit creeps in sideways
lies lay down on the page
under the guise of "oh so sage"
throwing up hands in mock rage
what to say? what to do?
stoop down there in your dirt
scoop it up to expose you?
or just let it slide slither
like your shed snake skin
to wither on dry forked tongue
ethics loose and low hung
to fade away for another day
of "oh woe"
no one around to stroke your ego!
oh yes I know how it rolls
that two faced scene
been read and it is obscene
professing elevation
but disdain is the revelation
caught in the trap
fly to Venus
or just to spew up vile bile
most heinous...
to speak of love is one thing
to act with love another
lip service cheap
served up on tap flowing
when the yeasts not risen
open the oven not knowing
and it falls flat on its face
finds you amidst a schism
not of your making
just a set-up
ripe for the taking
well, I guess,
I do digress
crux of the matter is
no time for duplicity
my roll is with loyalty
so all this messy messed up prose
just too obtuse
for those who stick up their nose.
J.C. honey-tiger 25/05/2019.
May 25, 2019
May 25, 2019 at 5:23 AM UTC
And when one sins a little and falls into sin: He gurgles chocolates down his throat with unauthorized methods, giving one-person cakes the ultimate honor of such sublime and sublime passions as being in love! To become one: Flour, water, eggs with an immortal yet metaphorically changing dough body, mouth-watering, bohemian distillates, can be created for rebirth! - One can and feels conceived, the subtle, superstitious details do not yet form - only at the cost of hard work -
the whole and thus the re-created Universe is sanctified: A bite of only tastes, smells, and thoughts - a redeeming noble task: To rename people into unity, a common wavelength, if possible!
In the rumen of abundance in the furnace, on the wedding bed of flame-caves, the flame gave birth to millions: diligent yeasts again, they could recreate even man-made dough. How many uplifting and special miracles does it hold, and how many more can the waiting, the well-deserved fruit of our patience, unfold?
And how the dough shape fills and swells: it resembles the condition of blessed mothers, while its waistline increases in a curved curvature, and it is exciting, as if only the Sun was caressing. You see, there will be plenty of good, and the dated universe will be carefully highlighted, with due maternal tact; be careful not to crack your existing cartilage,
and they are dressed in a heavenly garment of sifting powdered sugar, which is falling like snow, and it sweetens as many tiny ***** of true pearls as the sieve sifts! "We're still waiting with a scurrying worried stomach." In the attic of our mouth, in the meantime, the charm and the fried bride were served directly to our table!
Sep 3, 2020
Sep 3, 2020 at 12:41 AM UTC