You serenade
with saucepans,
cutlery and Tupperware;
my kinda man.
Category: Poems for the Home
Summer Lovin’
sweet acidic grapefruit juice splashes
squeaky thongs on the kitchen floor
summertime lovin’ in the suburbs
Broken Pieces
Broken and chipped cups
and sauces sit still in a
crate next to your kitchen
cupboards.
As a true bohemian and
lover of broken things, you
embrace Kintsugi.
To you, gold and silver joinery,
no matter the cost is more
beautiful than any
complete piece.
Those broken pieces are
your broken pieces, as you
mend the sorrows of your life.
Crying over a piece, you forget
yourself and reach for the kettle.
The Wildflower Tea of your
sorrow flows into your cup, yet
the hot water and steam turns
sorrow into sweetness, as you
sip from your cup of sparrows.
Miniatures
You were locked in a constant word battle,
until she said, “Let’s paint miniatures together…“
No Sugar
You said there was enough left when there was none.
I started on this journey, and now I can’t turn back.
Why did you do it? You know I am not the one to blame.
You push my buttons and make me so angry.
I’ll never understand why you said there’s
sugar when the bowl is empty.
Imaginary Drug
You’re like a drug when
I watch you on the screen.
You make me believe I
could fall in love with a block
of unkempt cheese.
Dude, how did you do it
to yourself and me?
Unattainable folks with cash
and bad haircuts,
but you’re a bit nonplussed.
My feet tingle as you hold
that piece of plastic in your
hand, but how old are you?
You’re fucking the cardboard box
of my life with a blunt knife,
yet I don’t care how you do it.
Continuing to undress in irony
or act like you are the ultimate corporation as you place your name on every plaque.
Whatever the case, Dude, you’ll be using a walker soon enough, and I’ll be wishing I’d said something nice to the lady down the road before she died from a pinprick.
Relatable love
We’re so relatable;
just like a knife and a fork.
Rosary Beads
You know you’re fucking it all down to the ground with your vacant looks and your fish-faced stare.
Then you spoke! I was someone else for a moment engaged in gossiping like a groupie infested with a lust for fame and shiny gold plated bling.
What became of my intellectual underpinnings, a desire for books to enclose around me, and that rebel we-don’t-understand vibe?
Is it I who was mistaken when I judged you too soon? Are filled lips just as tasty as regular lips? Are vacant looks filled with more sorrow than The Picture of Dorian Gray?
I’m bleeding philosophical perspiration from my pores; it flows down into the stormwater drains and out to the sea. I’m perspiring Aristotle, Foucault, Nietzsche and more. I’m infecting the sea with philosophy.
Should I worry that the rich people with yachts will touch the water I infect and find Bitcoin boring?
Will they walk in a different direction or put down their Versace cushions to move about, looking at the sky and the sea as they mutter eccentrically?
Would people think they were being touched by an angel or melt at the thought of the Devil?
Standing and speaking to this rather fashionable Nun, I cannot say a word for a moment as her words creep over me.
She holds the rosary beads up to my height, and I feel that childhood pew. My knees suffered on that wood for sins I hadn’t even committed.
Then she said, “You’re a wicked one the way you think too much; The Devil will get you in the end.“
Miss Nun jolted me out of my musings and back to the dark. Without warning, words escaped my lips as I walked away, “If you see the Pope, you can tell him I want a refund for all those Rosary Beads I had to buy as a kid. They didn’t work…“
Spatula Pad
Not one to shy away from the strange and the obscene, he thinks of some party tricks for tonight.
Ladies are many and boggle his mind, for he sees himself as an urban Casanova.
Unable to settle for one love, he prefers to love in threes or fours.
The time arrives, the guests are bouncing, and the party is swinging and shaking all about the mansion.
Beauty abounds and lovely young sights as he thinks of nibbling on chocolates or rose water delights.
Tricks do begin, but it’s the usual tosh, yet he’s thinking about what he can do.
With weird ideas swirling and too much bourbon soaking, he goes to the kitchen & thinks, “What do I have and what do I need to get my perversions on track?“
Looking and looking, he opens the cupboards and draws with swirling thoughts plaguing his mind. Searching the kitchen and not drawing attention, he grabs three sturdy blue spatulas.
Like Houdini on crack or DMT, he makes frosting enough for three cakes.
It’s causing some giggles and a few weird looks, but he’s too fucked in the head to agree.
The frosting is ready, and it tastes like a sweet dream, so he lines the bowls up on the bench.
He waits for the prudes and the boring to leave until ten of the lovelies remain.
Once properly pinched and appropriately plucked to shine bright, he smears frosting all over the nymphs. Once frosted, he moves in and starts to carnally satisfy his longing for sweets.
There’s frosting about and in places unseen, yet he beats his best record of four.
With ten lovely ladies all over him now, he’s a man in a heaven of sorts.
Refuge
A refuge
to eat
chocolate
and
ice cream
without
judgement.
C & K 