The nice girl who doesn’t swear.

I’m a nice girl who doesn’t swear.
So crack my head open
And pour the contents
Onto a frying pan,
Hear the squawk and sizzle
Of protein cooking with the past.
Throw the empty shell in the garbage,
And stir the browning contents,
Bet you thought a nice girl like me
Knows no bad words, no cuss words.
You’d be right.
Expletives are a strange kind of honest,
And I like my world glazed with deceit.
So I store my words in a dank, dripping cellar:
Tight.
Airless.
Hot, like a predator’s breath.
My words aren’t coarse, they are smooth,
Like poisoned wine, a bit fruity at times.
Cursing is too well adjusted;
My words foam, like rabid dogs
Enunciations flapping in the air like jowls.
My words aren’t in bad taste either
They are however likelier to dissolve the tongue.
Bet you’d bet a face like this could know no violence,
And that woodland creatures hop in and out of my dreams,
That my world is lit by leprechaun rainbow power
Because I am so very nice, and so very good.
Lets go with that then,
Wearing a wide-eyed, wide grin,
And talk lovely things about the nice girl,
The nice girl who doesn’t swear.
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Bored Today.

Take the peeler,

And begin with your forearm,

You’ll be tempted to cry out. Don’t.

As the peels of bloody skin roll up and out,

Think of how ordinary pain is.

 

And remember,

Blood is blood inside the veins,

Within the body it counts,

Outside, it loses all meaning,

Just drops of red on a marble floor.

 

Crack. crack. crack.

My bones break one by one,

But that’s okay,

I was bored today.

 

Are you bored tonight?

Is your heartbeat quite right?

Lub-dub-lub-dub-lub-dub,

Listen to it a while.

 

Don’t drop the peeler,

Keep going even when it’s a mess,

It’s a lovely night after all,

And later, I promise, you’ll get to rest.

The Dish

I simmer on a low flame. The chef has already given me a dose of the high flame when I was put in the pan. Perhaps he was in a bad mood, perhaps he didn’t pay attention and left the flame on high for the oil, but I am a little burnt. Now I must cook slowly, evenly, my surface needs to be crisp. The chef is on a call, extremely busy, as the oil and the herbs seep through my skin and the heat hurts me at a steady level. I wonder about what life was before this pan. But there are no memories of before, I just am. In the pan. Like always.

Now the chef hurries over squints down at me, makes a ‘tut-tut-tut’ sound and rummages through his plastic containers of ingredients. He adds some garlic and onion. The pungence of garlic assaults my senses and the onions scream each time. I hate those little melodramatic buggers. Aren’t we all here suffering and dying and burning? Aren’t we all keeping our screams within?

Anyway, I tune them out as they cook, worrying about the fat vegetables that are definitely going to be added on top. Good god, they walk all over the rest of us like they own us. Just because they take so long to cook with their thick skins! Sure enough the chef, muttering dark things, sidles over and callously throws the chopped carrots and beans onto us. I hold my breath as two carrot pieces land on top of me. With a wooden spatula (a grumpy fellow) the chef tosses and mixes us all up. He peers in and then disappears for a bit. Half a cup of water later I am swimming in a stew as much my own as the others. The heat dissipates some for a little while. But the relief is fleeting. The chef begins to whirl us in the pan with a jarring, disorienting frenzy. I scream out loud, even though the onions have long fallen silent. No one hears me, no one can hear me. The chef now covers the pan and everything goes dark.

The heat begins to rise. The water so welcome as a relief, begins to bubble ominously. Slowly and slowly, piercingly we cook, surrounded by the heat, unable to see, unable to speak. I wonder what I’m being made into. Am I part of a continental dish? Or Chinese? Or Indian? Or Thai? I wish I could know what was happening to me.

The water now drips down onto us from above where it condenses on the cover of the pan. It is too dark to tell who is cooking beside me. There are only the sounds of the sluggish boil of water, and the hiss of the flame beneath us. I cry now, not because it relieves me, but because it is the only thing I can do.

Suddenly the cover is lifted and all of us shriek at the stabbing light that falls upon us. The chef grunts and shakes the pan and then flips us in the air. For a moment there, I am in the cool air, free from my indifferent, bovine food mates, and I am…happy. Once, twice, thrice…I shout out in glee! These are the best moments of my life. And so of course they end.

We are then put into a fancy china bowl. Suddenly I’m looking at a beautiful thing with lights suspended from the ceiling, and then woops! I am scooped out and placed upon a plate. A low murmur rises from everywhere around me. Then I feel the cool tip of a spoon swoop down and claim me. I am rising, rising, gloriously rising and the gates of heaven open, all round and moist and dark. I feel empty as everything goes pitch black and I cease to exist.

Wise Fools

You can’t know what you don’t know,
Because what I know, I don’t know.
And I think you know what I know or don’t.
Then who knows? Maybe everyone and no one.

Sometime while sliding over rainbows,
We hit a snag of a storm cloud,
Then we had to learn to travel by lightening,
With thunder booming loud from the stereo.

I wore a gown made from the whitest cloud,
And did my hair up with ice-crystal pins,
Twirled in fancy, with a love infancy,
You called me beautiful and cute (what?!)

Let’s jump off from the ocean into the sky,
Do a tap dance on floating ice bergs.
Let’s skate along the rings of Saturn,
And after, have tea with the red spot of Jupiter.

Should we interview the Sentilenese?
No, they would not like us in the least.
But at least we could wave,
As they threaten us with arrows and hate.

Let’s drink the drink of fools,
Go where all the insane ones go,
Because we’re a bunch of wise fools,
A bunch of wise fools who don’t know.

Chemicals

I want to breathe you in,

Like scented words of a poem,

That fill my head with your essence,

Till there is room for nothing else.

 

Blame you for travelling far,

Into the realm of other worlds,

Where you give me a look, the look,

That keeps me in my head all day long.

 

I imagine the roughness of your fingers,

Running up my neck and into my hair,

As you pull me close like a black hole,

Up to your lips, your eyes, and your soul.

 

I imagine the heat your body emits,

As it glues with mine,

Then for a second we break apart,

And crush back, fiercer than a head-on collision.

 

I bite you, not in nibbles,

But in wide, animal gulps,

Leaving signatures on your neck,

As your tongue and teeth play upon my body.

 

It’s your musk, your scent,

That drives me insane,

Pheromones and hormones,

And that chemical drugged craze.