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

Palm me Off


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

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 ♠

Guerrilla Gardener

you are a supplicant –
petitioning for the blossoms
with violescent weighted eyes

you collect seeds by fingers outstretching –
on the floor of urban streets:
– a cigarette butt
nesting in the twigs and matchbook covers
caught on the lip of
concrete curb
and sewer grate mouth
– a wingless dreadlocked
dead bumblebee
plucked from an ear-bitten rose
spilling itself to pieces
before the gated entrance
to 696 Salvare Drive
– a torn piece of paper
from a creosote soaked
utility pole :
screaming yellow back
in bold black type-faced
broken words
feat raven in black
partydusk  til dawn
ccccover  44charge
call 333n  assk foSabine
222Eden’s  54ace
565656565– 898 – 88  88

and pocketing the night’s aubergine bruise
you collect yourself –


this night
violet eyed wildflower
a wildcat strike with black silk spiders
tatooed on both wrists
the flesh an albicant sarcophagus
skinned in tilleul leafed tea
adorned with heliotrope
and citrine scarabs
as dawn pours itself saffron

©2017 Scribbler’s Dipstick

mlmm prompt: writing prompt sunday: peculiar
image: Copyright by Юлия Борзилова

the words I chose: violescent, aubergine, albicant, heliotrope, citrine, tilleul, saffron ♠

Peter Bagged Himself A ….?


What if Peter hadn’t picked a peck of pickled peppers?

What if Peter wasn’t a piper, but rather played the mandolin, and one fine summer’s day, was strolling through the hay, sweet smelling fields, ready for the plucking, and had stopped to admire, the squire’s daughter, thumbing an early ripening plum?

His interest piqued, he felt a pricking on his skin, as a gentle breeze wafted over him, and suddenly dizzy with sin, he felt a longing and stirring at the sight of her flowing golden hair, and billowing dress, as she strained and reached high up, over her head, her breasts running the cups of her bodice in lace – why, there was a flush and rush of a pink staining blush creeping heat along Peter’s face.

Feeling the tickling stare of a stranger drawing near, this fair girl turned, her dress caught in the swirling carousel of her hips, and pouty lipped and plying, causally sidled closer to Peter, and shly asked, “Kind sir, would you oblige?”

So where indeed is the peck of pickled peppers that Peter didn’t pick?

The wandering ministral did bow low, and most courteously, and graciously obliged the young lady.

As to what happened later that day, in the sweet smelling fields, only this is certain: Peter played with his pickle and pecked the fair rosy cheeked girl, and left her with a bun in the oven, and a hot cross father.

©2017 Scribbler’s Dipstick

mlmm prompt: tale weaver: what if?