Tea and Crackers

💀 Daily Obit: Tea and Crackers 💀
He was cheesed off.
She’s completely crackers, painting with pin heads all bloody day, on tea bags no less.
He squared off – the confrontation brewing.
She sipped and smiled a hibiscus kiss at him.
You’re just a tempest, aren’t you love?
Cham’o’mil’ere ya, – have a cuppa –
As she split yet another tea bag, pinning it to the wall.
Daub hand she returned to her creations, whistling with the kettle.
He strangled her from behind, with the coffee grinder electric cord. In the ensuing struggle, her eyes bulging, he slipped on the slop pile of loose leaf tea, puddling on the floor, cracked his head on the granite counter’s edge – and was no more.
When questioned by police, Gypsy Rose Teazle, caretaker of the flats at 66 Brewster’s lane, replied, “I knew it would come to this, something not quite right with the miss, and poor lad just wantin’ a cup of coffee, with his mornin’ kiss – I foresaw this me self, read it in the leaves.”

©2017 Scribbler’s Dipstick

Hardcore Edge

Hard to the core, and surface polished to a deep rich brown, years of wear and no tear treading on my tongue and groove –
although that odd dog, the weird one with long blond curly locks did sit and gnaw one of my legs – right number he did, chewed off veneer and polish and left me with permanent scars –
his teeth forever embedded in my flesh –
and ah, the look of stern disapproval from the mother when it was noticed.

But there are no ring marks from countless sweating steins or bottles,
the odd smudge from a hastily sweater sleeve wiped spill, honey sweet milky tea, and a few odd crumbs lodged in the split for the leaf wood, but they never stay there long –
a rough tongue will fish them out.

You don’t believe in table cloth coverings – preferring to see me age, wearing bald spots and shaving nicks from knife tips, but I’m tougher than this.

But it’s that one particular edge –
the edge where she sits and click click clicks as her fingers tap, when her nails are too long she swears at the endless number of mistakes she makes as she half bakes stories and slaps together meals on wheels on her lap top. I guess I could call it finger food tid-bits, if I could be bothered.

But it’s the edge that really matters.

Curved like a swollen fat bottomed lip I pout out and she plants her butt and slips, if the material is thin enough and I’m feeling finely tuned with the scent of lemons. And she slouches and shuffles and readjusts her ass and thoughts and hits the keys again, while I stroke her bottom, a bit heavier on the left side cheek, so soon enough, sometimes within minutes, she fidgets and shifts as her legs start the tingle slide from hip, along thigh, down past the rounded calf to end at her toes –

yeah, honey, this is the ticket – so hard and finely crafted am I – I can bring tears to your eyes –

The choice of pleasure and pain a fine line which I love crossing –
it’s within my nature to hard core craft as you sit and draft stories and words – stirring it up in the kitchen, where I sat for so many years, listening in to the silly stories and back and forth taunts and teasing, bearing the weight of squirming and intense stares, with toes clenching in death grips on rungs, the smell of fear staining dinner, wrung out of your skin as it stuck to my back – there’s no hiding from all of these trips –
and in a flash, I know your heart –
for I gave mine long ago –
to be tooled and carved and housed,
maple wood table and chairs –
a set of 4 –

And even if I can’t speak your language, I serve the purpose of reminder –

You’d take the axe and sharpen the blade to a shining silver fine line, swinging it hard and fast, splitting me into pieces,
the desire to throw me on the bonfire blaze breathing in your soul –
reduced to ashes

These are the imprints ingrained in my smooth and polished surface –
it’s this edge, where you sit, that really matters.

©2017 Scribbler’s Dipstick

mlmm prompt: tale weaver #129: around the house

Palm me Off

hashish-method-1

spit polish the metal
a gleaming clip where the hand
rises, meeting the face in the place
where breath is deeply drawn in –
held until dawn breaks eternity,
celadon dream-skin fluttering haze
behind the eyes
– roaches nesting –
never mind salvaging the remains
of this day or most others,
so scant it’s clad in lingerie lace
body less ghost
clasping pain under the weight
I sag
– a slag heap of glittering needles and dyes
drip injected then scanned,
yeah, you read between whatever lines
standing outside looking in –
but I’m unabashed in my trenchancy
as caustic as the acrid taste
of smoke swallowed,
the final drag leaves you nervous
as I split the lips and exhale
a bright lemon neon vacancy drifting in my eyes
– the roaches are stirring –
you cough on the smell of offal blistering
in the sun
the stench heated, permeating your wordless
accusations, mutating decomposition
you wear your fear like royal robes
empiric denial
but I can only laugh a pale green glaze,
a yellow smile
the rich deep aroma thick about the waist
coating my tongue
– my saviour,
the only grace released
in a backlit sun-stretch halo
ringing my head
as you trip in your bidding
trying to back away from me
feral cat rubbing figure eights around
your legs, bending the measures of time,
denying you your mind’s purpose
I spark life from this pitch dark tar
as the roaches scrape themselves free

©2017 Scribbler’s Dipstick

image source: unknown
mlmm prompt: wordle#165

1. Shine
2. Clip
3. Abash (v) to destroy the self-confidence, poise, or self-possession of; disconcert;make ashamed or embarrassed
4. Read
5. Salvage
6. Celadon (n.) a pale grey-green, any of several Chinese porcelains having a translucent, pale green glaze
7. Permeate
8. Sag
9. Nervous
10. Vacant
11. Offal: the parts of the animal that are considered inedible, viscera, rubbish
12. Trenchancy (adj.) incisive or keen, as language or a person; caustic; cutting; vigorous; effective; energetic

Stiff and Utter Nonsense

800px-Rubia_tinctorum_002
She brambled about the kitchen, stitching time, considering if her adventures were all in her mind. She was testy and munchy, and was considering crunching on something, but what – grumpy in pain, her mind took a left turn and jumped over the moon.
What if, what if – she licked a spliff and lit up, she beat out time on the counter with a silver spoon.
Would the pain of falling off the wall allow her to crawl back up this hill? – no king’s horses or king’s men,
“oh smack it Jack, you naughty boy” _ _ _ _ _ _

where to venture, where to go, let the mirror reflect your soul

♠♠♠♠♠♠

Alice pointed and pouted out, “nothing worth going on about in Miss Mary Mary’s garden, it’s all rather boring and contrarian, best to walk wild -” she looked at me, “don’t you agree?”
I for my mind, had knelt down and was frowning as I spied a blue caterpillar, who was rolling a paper thin leaf, in a rose sheath, so I asked him – “is it worth the tumble?”
He stretched his feelers and wiggled his spines, smiled a broad smile, “all in great time, quite the delight, you will soon bee” – he passed me the smoke, I took a hit, swallowed hard, looked to the sky in exhalation, the mists roses as the shadows froze, a watermelon smile lighting my face.

I noticed a big fat goose waddling by – without so much as a “by your leave”

And my eyes they danced, as I was entranced, as the wild roses petalled themselves undone, burlesque strip tease with charming ease, falling to the light summer’s breeze, as a band of blue caterpillars played smokey blues.
I looked up from the show and watched the steam clouds grow, jumping this ship shop in shape, trawling my way to the sea shore – casting about for shells and glass, but – “guh – ugh – what’s this? a fat thick slug? ugh – no no, you can’t hug me” – I squealed and jumped back 3 steps, as a shadow crashed my head, the blackest of crows rustling in-line swoop and swallow-tailed up, with a crunching gulp – alighting in a tall pine. “Fine dining this” he cawed to me, “you’ll bee-see – and yes, you talk to angels, they call you by name -” he nodded sagely at me, and winged a wink, “ask Alice, when she’s ten feet tall.”

But then a pull and tug danced at my wriggling toes, burying themselves in the sand, crabby legged landing, and “why, hello, who’s this -” zip and zizz – a rainbow blue bodied steed came to land on her upper arch – fluttered a most charming silver smile – “embark my fair lady queen, we will ride the sail of the sea skies” – and before my eyes this dragonfly grew, and I shrank to a size – little one, but not small – a two-handed posey, of peonies all blousy drowsy – and with a watermelon sweet smile, I slipped into his stream, as he sizzle-kicked, up we booted, in the thrust and rush of a mounted ride.

Oh how we rode – she atop his hard-sleek body, her eyes wide as sails, when she heard his words carry on above his wings, “let yourself fly off the rails” – so she clamped her thighs tighter and rocked forward a lick, and stretched herself erect and let her arms slip – straight out like arrows true – wings – oh wings – I have wings – and on they flew, racing higher and higher, she felt her blue buttons slip a notch, open and fall – mother of pearls – tumbling seeds, dropped and sprouted white wildflower daisies – so far down below, yet still they flew up to dizzying heights, – she split herself wide – laughed a lightning flash trill in a thundercloud head – spilled herself into a feathery realm, a hushing blushed bed, so soft and cradling, a fine place to rest her head – evermore.

♠♠♠♠♠♠

I bramble about the kitchen, stitching time, scratching and pecking, hunting for the eggs, bacon and hash, toast and marmalade, – yes, this would suit me just fine this mid-summer’s eve, a dash of salt and pepper, fantasy needs feeding – and birds of a feather must doff their yellow starred mad hatter’s chapeau -“oh Rubia oh Rubia, how you do glow, by what unearthly moon light will you sow – so ’tis madness this, oh non sense be true, to thine own heart, wish upon a star, a silver spoon and a fat goose.”

©2017 Scribbler’s Dipstick

mlmm prompt: tale weaver #127: nursery rhyme rifts 

image of Rubia tinctorum (CC BY-SA 3.0)
Rubia tinctorum: Rubia is a genus of flowering plants in the Rubiaceae family. It is commonly known as madder and is a source of red dye. 

 

By What Name Are You Known?

it drips – blood –
beading in a thread from the weave you pricked into your skin, along your inner thigh, trying to disguise the blessed virgin’s face
it steeped up as an aubergine bruise, after you took tea with the stranger next door
all the while wearing a melancholic look –
lost child the world has come undone, and you despair
you are called by the lines – crow’s feet –
they roost under your eyes, a woman who discovered that her body, contained
within the expanse of breasts and vagina, was not a nesting place for those whose hands wear 6 inch nails
you seek under a slip of silk, a permission pass –
to yearn beyond, because Freud imagined a pear to be a poor substitute for an apple, but willingly blamed your hysteria on your vagina and monthly blood anyway –
it was easier than admitting his impotence

now you live in seclusion, in Baba Yaga’s Hut –
the foundations broken wishbones and the floor a scattering of chicken feathers
and you bend in on yourself under the weight of the gale, the sky a misfit black fisted threat, but it can’t break a willow’s spine, much less when the leaf has long been stripped
in some respect, you regret your awakening, you wish for the bald blindness that was once your shield and protection –
awareness is bitter, the pocked pit of the nectarine you bite into with canine teeth, tearing at the ruby coral labial flesh, scaling hand over foot to mouth, to over-ride the pain, scaffolding into the royal black sky, as the stars are hungry this night

so it is you fall back, nuzzling the earth, eating the meat of the flesh before loping away in graceful strides – wolf
costumed in this body so foreign it weighs, like a spinning globe in your hands, territories uncharted but lands raped between head space and anus –
you, cast out from the foothills, where the archer rests his long bow –
in the darkness you ask of the moon, could you be called by any other name, other than the typical, the mimeomia sameness a first skin all women wear
and she calls out – wild child
– and you accept, refusing to wear a crown of thorns

©2017 Scribbler’s Dipstick

mlmm prompt: wordle#157

1. Blood
2. Despair
3. Woman
4. Seek
5. Seclusion
6. Willowy
7. Beaten
8. Aware
9. Nectarine
10. Scaffold
11. Wolf
12. Mimeomia ((n.) the frustration of knowing how easily you fit into a stereotype, even if you never intended to,even if it’s unfair,even if everyone else feels the same way — each of us trick-or-treating for money and respect and attention,wearing a safe and predictable costume because we’re tired of answering the question,“What are you supposed to be?”)