Kitchen Sink Poems
 

Weird stuff you think of whilst dazing out the kitchen window as you wash the dishes to try to take your mind off your aching back.

My head is a sieve
No matter how much I give
It leaks
O
U
T
plop!
A big Noah douche
of knowledge
A Flood-
From Ape to Beal-
Zebub
passed through --
left not a trace --
No sign
to mark the place
of things I once knew
For a millimeter moment or
a second or two.
It's sad.
It's true.

But the days keep
Rushing
Onward
Forward
Towards me
in a ceaseless seeming
March of Do!
There's no time to
Wattle and daub
Only marvel.

I mean, with my head so empty and all.

And the scalding water does not clean
The years of work from these hands
This lemon scent, it does not mean
That they use lemons to clean pans

I like the poem!

Excellent!

thanks. Modest blush.

why does jimhelm get to best me at everything?

Huh? Whhhhhhhyyyyyyyyyyyy???????????????????????

better call me the Wahmbulance.

;)

I like ur pome, bri. :)

Jim's isn't better, just different, and later.

Bri, just think of how you inspired him. :thumb:

*hand up to forehead in dramatic pose*

Always the muse, never the Artist!

this.



I was there because of what you wrote. It gave me a strong mental image. Thats good poetry, Doll. you're better than I am.

Dug out of memory:

Am I cleaning plates?
Or making water dirty?
Or making dirt wet?

It's wonderful, Bri! Great free association.

You probably know about the movie genre Kitchen Sink Realism:

http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Kitchen...n_sink_realism

One of my all-time favorites The L-shaped Room is in this category.

Lately, I've been writing dashboard songs. I'll tell my car "Daisy Head Mayzie, we have a lot of driving to do today, but then you can rest, then we only have to go to work two days next week and you get a vacation!"

This seques into me singing songs about my life. Really off key, semi-rhyming, with intricate notes and backgrounds. Free associating ideas, admonitions, with some Pollyanna to trail off...kind of a rock opera only it's not rock and it's not opera. It's not even music.

I think all this tells me I need to talk to people more. :lol:

Ha! When I'm feeling really good I do a version of that singing/free association myself!

I feels good and natural - like an extension.

lately, though, I've been really bogged down with my son.

Ugh.

Soon, soon, he will be in his own abode and I can breathe free.

at least that's what I'm hoping.

I've been feeling so stifled - so restricted. Like walking on egg shells.

The boy YELLED at me FOR CLOSING HIS BEDROOM DOOR.

see - I'm NOT supposed to touch his stuff. Which, by 'stuff', extends to his fucking bedroom door.
who knew?

I really really really feel your pain. It's horrible. Just awful.

When you can breathe free again you'll often forget that you can...and the sudden realization that you can is outstanding.

Hang in there a little longer. :)

Brilliant poem, Bri. I really like it. One of those poems youread and think...Oooh..wish I'd written that!

High praise, indeed!!

thanks!

It's a toy car. But that's ok. I WANT to work with the great big archetypes, but I can't even control my terrier.

Zombie plumbers don't want no brains,
They stagger around looking for draaaaaiiiins.

She's choppin' broccoli...

FTW!

:D

Nice, Bri. I wish I could write like that!

You stand over me in your shame
The cold fried Chicken crumbs
Descend on me like tears
Like tiny little failure flakes on a grave

Wash them down now, wash them down
Close the fridge, you left it open
Tip up that glass of Vodka, friend
I'll take it when you're done

Leave it for the morning, leave it behind
The morning sun through the window will find it there
With the last smudge of lipstick
From the date you were on

You had JUST ONE glass of wine
And you had the Fish
And you only ate half
And you didn't even like him

But with me, you are honest.

These remnants of food and drink
bestowed on me in shame
They lift me up, they fill me
I am your friend. I am your Kitchen Sink.


PS. Comet burns my throat.

kthxbai

:applause:

+1 clever

Fucking brilliant.

I've just been clearing the top of the stairs (ugh...just ugh) and came across one of several notepads, taken up mainly with to do lists, but with a poem in pencil on the inside cover. I remember writing it. It was about 2 or 3 years ago. It was quite literally a 'kitchen sink poem' and the page is slightly crinkly at the corner where some water dripped onto it :p

I've come across it several times and spotted the poem just in time to not throw the pad away...and looked at it, unsure of where it should go. It is one of those unfinished pieces that litter my life :P

Here it is:

The air is brittle and cold,
and smells of distant bonfires.
The light seems fragile and thin,
like new ice sheeting across a lake.
There is a warning in the wind,
This year is dying.

I love poetry. I can see it when it's good, but I sure can't write it. There's some real talent here in the Cellar!