Deep brown color, messy as it’s eaten.
Like something that failed to crunch.
Brittle yet soft, rough and delicate.
It can be fudgy, chewy or cake-like, topped with walnuts or apricot glaze.
A heavy horse failing to hike the high mountain of crisp.
******* the outside, but not as taut as chocolate-chip cookies, or M&M;’s,
A fragile strength that breaks with subtle touch.
Smooth and moist inside, melted chocolate held together.

Created solely for a royal’s mouth to taste,
Slowly dissolving, sea foam ****** by the damp sand,
A guilty pleasure I cannot live without.
The brownie becoming a beautiful bouquet blossoming
In my chocolate tinted mouth.
It cures whatever ails you,
The flavor empowering any mist of dullness or bitterness.
Forgetting about everything, as he mixed the batter
Creating the perfect combination of smoothness, sweetness,
And the creamy after-taste.
Our favorite thing to bake together.

Friday evening we scurried to the kitchen, creating our own baking contest.
His hazel eyes, swirling with the batter poured in circles,
His lips, whistling to the beautiful sight of brownies, plumping as they bake.

Days later, we would come back to that kitchen,
With the scent of freshly baked brownies still lingering in the air.
We would look at each other’s deep brown eyes
Like the brownies we baked and enjoyed together.
His lips, a wallop of sweetness.

My Grandmother's Hands

My Grandmother's hands told many tales
Of scrubbing steps and broken nails
Hand-washing clothes in enamel sink
Red football socks turned white towels pink

When not baking cakes at the old gas stove
Rag-rugs with old scraps of material she wove
Pantry shelves filled with powdered egg
Homemade rice pudding sprinkled with nutmeg

Sea-coal burning on an open coal fire
Bread on a toasting fork burning like a pyre
Grandma plumping up pillows from beneath granda’s head
Applying ointment to sores caused by being confined to bed

Hours spent at auctions bidding with her hand
Buying an incomplete bed wasn't what she planned
Back home in time for tea, crumpets and homemade strawberry jam,
I can still recall the smell of it, bubbling in the pan

Switching tv channels with a flick of her wrist
That’s how we did it back then, when remotes did not exist
Working hard all of her life, meeting everyone's demands

Every line and wrinkle told a story
On my Grandmother's hands

he's terrified of her voice
that whips his eardrums like kashmir switches
and tickles his diaphragm until he convulses
in nervous laughter inside his head

the way it inquires broadly,
like an opera written in tornado sirens and megaphones
and the brightness of lighthouses,
for conversation he thought
had drowned long ago and only
reemerges as bubbles on the lake's surface

a boiling body popping deafeningly
with anxiety, and plumping
bravery pasta, which smells seductive,
which he loves...

he's just not hungry right now.

A Bountiful Sky for Foolish Old Men

early up, haunted-stoked~woked by a multilingual sky,
an impish childish creation of an immature god,
inconsistently incapable, of making up his moody mind,
whiny then smiley, cloudless besotted, morphed
into crystalline blue of a well behaved in Sunday best,
warming the souls of the begotten and the misbegotten,
the hardened and the poetic souls, tho he laughs at
himself, for he too is both, curmudgeon and a mr. softee,
whiny child in rapid aging body, wearing of discovery
of new places for to ache, pains that don’t fit med scales
of 1~10, unless it is the Richter Earthquake formulation.

despite all, his eyeballs seethe, immaculate degeneration still
allows the seeing of broad brush paint strokes of the team of
angelic artistes that do the detailing of the palette above,
how!
they, love their big bold brushes that sky swipe atmospheric
residue into 31 Baskin Robbins flavors, with swirls of caramel
chocolate butterscotch that make the man’s complaints whisked
into who-cares-a-**** anyway ice creamery reverie and all
that other stuff disbarred from the aborning morning clarity of
“good morning ole man, where’s my coffee” diurnal tuning that
the women hums, reminding those in the earshot crowd of one,
that s’mores and chores, tasks and at lasts, dogs need walking, gardens watering, cushions  plumping, evening dishes moving from dishwasher onto wallpaper-covered shelves, geese-away-chasing, and loving poetry
by a poetoftheway scribbling…




8:01 AM Frieday, Jun 30

Sewn together out of old
flannel memories and work shirts of the past
a network of  veins
plumping generations of
angry blood
We carry traces of mean,
scared people
Terrible things
not fondly remembered
at reunions
And yet are present in the tapestry

But

There are many
kind
compassionate
beautiful souls as well

They are all on your tapestry
Know it
and display it well

Creases cemented in skin of ages,
bending forward ratcheting wrinkles
piled like a car crash, systemically dried
routing for moisture moguls, malfunctioned,
marked measures of time spelt skin attack,
pillowed ruts run deep, prolonging
their birthmark, plumping....out on a date
with new age spaces yet to be filled

Sarcasm streets, filching frowned brows
suns' stolen chastity, lifting out brown
messages spotted at random
grey mandarins, juiceless, bribing
to be heard, a manifesto hidden,
shrivelled prunes wallowing in dried skins
reaching out for the bottomless custard jug

You had slowly sunk your knife up to its hilt into his chest, piercing it into half. You saw his life slowly evaporate from his eyes. But you still heard his heart's pump which had grew old, crumpled and soon would be silent. You had felt his life trembling through the knife in your hand. It had almost overcame you for time being, the gentleness of being at the center of act of guilty. Guilty of being humane less. Then again it started flowing in your veins, but this time in much vigor, fearful and drearily. This largely ephemeral fear went away when you started plumping the knife several time with out being aware of him. It was like cutting butter with no resistance at all. While doing so you had went to floor with him to finish him. His eyes was remain wide open, you got the impression that he was imploring you not to harm him but to do right thing.*

You heard a hazy voice, "Thank you."

Under the moon, near the groves,
grows the summer's bitter fruit,
plumping for harvest.

We are bound to them,
thirsty for their tartness.

I know nothing of farming
these lands or caring for
elderly children, lost
inside their own minds.
I am only an observer
in these fields, destined
to carry my share home.

When I left my wife I felt
the angst, but underneath it
was the overwhelming
relief that I didn't have to
pretend anymore that
two halves could ever equal one.

I watch the bitter fields,
under this moon,
only an observer,
adding up these fruits,
counting these bushels,
knowing that we've all
our own fields to tend,
serfs that we are.

Sitting there
plumping up your Russian-red lips
around a straw that is
as long as it is thick
Girlie
I know you ain't read none of them books.
You wait for the movie to come out.
And do you know what happens in that movie?
Well.
There's this little girl in it
much like you
with the same red lips
and heart-shaped glasses
like yours
and sweet sky-blue denim
hugging the comely swope of
girlish *** and soft rounded thigh
hiding so little of slender leg that I wonder-
why bother wearing clothes at all?
And she and this man...
well...
she and this man get to be good friends
like you and I could be
if you would first just tell me your name.
Oh, you're busy, are you?
Well, I bet you are
Go on then.
Tempt some other sucker
while you **** on
some other such ******* symbol.

october sings to the grey hills
where the cloud fades and drifts
into the summits
like white turrets of a purple sea
captured in the moonlight,

the moon’s chandeliers glitter
with candles.

the house is better for an open fire
plumping silk cushions
on a ragged sofa,
(they are best worn out with love)

midnight wears an evening gown.

the rain sinks into the
white walls and the
beech hedge,
has its own pitter patter
like bare feet running
through a wood,

the sky's hair is high upon her head.

I have been an avid reader of you for two years
sticking with you through every fat melting, curve creating, ‘scientifically tested,’ filling, plumping, thinning… lie
Dear Mr Magazine
I was there through every fad, every phase, every diet…
and now, it is now, it is only now, that I realise.
Dear Mr Magazine
I realise that even though I was there for you, you were never there for me
wrapping me up in your pages
I thought you were a blanket of warmth and solidarity in a world that only lied…
but you were the liar
Dear Mr Magazine you lied to me and I trusted you
I wrapped up my heart in your pages to absorb what would make me beautiful
because I could never really be beautiful, could I Mr Magazine?
Dear Mr Magazine
you gifted us with a free makeup brush and a trip to the psych ward
you gifted us with ‘TOP 10 TIPS TO PLEASE YOUR MAN!’ and an eating disorder
you gifted us with diet shake recipes and bottles of green happy pills
Dear Mr Magazine
I was an avid reader of you for two years
sticking with you even though you never stuck by me
I wrapped my trust up in your pages and you swallowed it with smiling white teeth
Dear Mr Magazine
you tear away little girls self esteem like I am tearing you now
the rip of your pages slowly pumps belief back through my heart
I cannot believe I let you control me for so long!
Dear Mr Magazine
I just want to thank you
thank your shreds lying on my bedroom floor
I just want to thank you
for showing me what it’s like to live
as a ghost of myself

Hours of fruitless frustration,
Rotating slowly through paltry poses,
Crushed by substantial somnolence.

Innumerable thoughts racing rightward,
Abruptly leaning left,
Splitting up like schools of frightened fish.

Darkening the room to calm cares,
Plumping the pillow to enhance elevation,
Removing the phone to disrupt distraction.

Turning up the fan to aid complacent cool,
Pulling up the blue blankets,
Burrowing deep as if a mother mole.

Yet nothing brings the sought silence,
The rejuvenating recovery,
Of simple sleep.

Once upon a time,
my skin was skin,
splendid,
as long as I kept it clean.

Now I’m told
by the TV, internet, and magazines,
my skin
needs plumping,
brightening,
smoothing,
anti-wrinkle cream.

The mirror
used to show my reflection –
it served a purpose
like a toothbrush
used to maintain oral hygiene.

Now a mirror reflects
not just my visage
but judgement;
flaws
that need fixing.

Now I’m the clingy lover,
insecure, as I hover
two inches from the glass surface
that is less fragile
than my self-esteem sometimes.

Every morning I make my bed
I roll off the mattress and immediately get to work
Straightening my blankets and folding them back
Plumping the spread with throw pillows that were gifted to me and don’t quite go together

But the morning after you leave I lay in the bed a little longer
Leave it messy and tangled even as I leave the house
I come home to a reminder of you being with me for one more night
Messy and tangled

I get into my unmade bed and remember how warm you made me feel
How I didn’t need the layers of blankets for heat and pressure cause
You were there with me
Messy and tangled
Havent we been here before

This morning I made my bed
The sheets were strewn across my room
Requiring a little more effort cause I had neglected them yesterday trying to keep a token of you being with me
I left this morning starting a new week with a made bed but
I want you to be with me
again
Messy and tangled

Exhaustion is not the right word. Instead it is
training your tears, sugar and bread
Rising and dipping
The syncing of an algorithm, you have cheated it. This is someone else!
Beautiful and empty: a political, sensual housewife
Curled like a shrimp: is this too much?
You have a metal chest, lock and key on your wrist.
You wake without an alarm, and hips click and throb from long walks and the weight of LOVE
Its discovery of sickly clues that point toward the deathbed
Girls with little red hearts, there are hundreds of them. You mimic their vanity, it is insincere.

The plumping, powdering and stitching of a patchwork doll. You are homemade.
Fear leaks into the dream state, you cannot speak
Brainwashed girls are always looking for peace or violence. And you are not brainwashed.
You stand with a camera lens, pigtails and hope. You chew discomfort and loneliness.
You analyse when you are home. When you are home you can sleep.

as a pancake,
somersaulting high in the air
an acrobatic made of eggs, milk and flour.
Scared the sleeping, curled up cat,
lying on the kitchen chair.
Falling flat into a frying pan of sizzling butter,
Plumping himself.
bumping against the sides
filling the whole bottom.
Gold as the leaves in autumn.
Shining as the sun,
but none to turn him.
He burned from outside in.

As she cut into him
the gold turned black,
sticking as plague to her teeth.
Charred as ash underneath.
No honey, cream or syrup
could deter it.
And even if it could
she'd not prefer it.