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

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?”)

Wish Breaker

what of the hauntings in your heart?
does terror leap and grab
you in the throat
or are there seeds planted as wishes
held sacred in this most secret
of gardens
where artemisian light flows wild
and free with an inner strength
both curse and blessing
in these
watery dreams –

what makes or breaks your legs
in these moments
lucidly held in your hands –
do you tremble whisperingly light –
a slice of a shiver
some untranslatable on the tongue
silver grey scale
like the runaway fish that surface break
and bubble kiss in their undisclosed
pathos –
an innocence locked in the mistral’s wings
a symphony strung in silver violins –
volumptuous chords drinking from the goblets
of the psyche long held ancient
whining in the bended elbow of the old oak –
or is it an apple tree –
the rubble the remains of your town
which upped and left
of its own discord
as you flew away
in a slurry of swirling skirts brushing
against your exposed ankles –
this is the war inside us –
we are children of a wondering moon –
nothing more than fallen fruit

©2017 Scribbler’s Dipstick

mlmm prompt: writing prompt sunday: “it’s all in the title”

Wish Breaker
Undisclosed Pathos
The Silver Violin
Children of the Wondering Moon
The Haunting of Cora Applebaum
Whispers in the Willow Trees
Psychic Chasms
When Fish Runaway
The War Inside of Us
The Town that Went Missing

all great titles of choice – so I opted to weave ideas and essences from each into “one” thing ♠