The CuisinArt

From Adam

–

Pitiable destination, never to be reached
A weak stream drying
Droughts of love and verve, parched for a crest that would replenish strong rivers,
Flowing lush beneath a permeable blue
No solace, but the desert
Dried tears, salt and not much more

Weak streams creep
Creep toward a sea of dust
Stream to dust, dust to dust
Nothing here in the delta
Desolate, easily traipsed

I’ve come far in search of rivers, to the horizon’s end
Prayed they be wide and rolling; spare me weak streams

Abandon it, abandon the attempt
Before the arrival at the weak stream’s delta

Nay, I’ve pressed on in misery

An oppressive trail
Full of old dogmas and forbidden gratifications

The straight and narrow, like an arrow to the horizon
Black as bold typeface in a blurry, smeary green-gray jungle
Flagellated in contrition, I mush forth with eyes on the line
Limping gait favoring to the left, to the right
Footfalls lead, follow
My uncomfortable, uncontrollable arousal into brambles
In search of always sweeter fruit

Though I walk the line
I veer subconsciously,
In search of sweeter fruit, delectable indulgences
And sap on the trees
Scarred, mute, remorseful,
I trek haphazardly from the darkness,
Back to black as boldface

Guiding stars lay hidden
Cotton web clouds stick to my thoughts, my memories
Clouding my reason, chastity
Diffusing the black bold straight-and-narrow

Yet somewhere an alabaster moon, partially concealed
Hovers like peering over shoulder,
Threatening to expose the fraud, painstakingly spun
A looming apprehension and
A persistent, recurring erection at the wrong time

Amidst the uncertainty, the doubt, the lack of
A light to follow through the night,
There remains a steadfast guilt
Guilt of the circular penitent, succumb to his egression’s transgressions

A beacon, pulsing, warm, stands like a monolith deep in the smeary jungle
And I veer into brambles
I bow to my own obelisk in the wrong place, always at the wrong time
Huddled in the shadow of its respite, I am lost to the horizon and old typeface
I am tempted by something that stings to spite such things
Overcome by fructose and bramble berries
Red as sin in the smeary gray-green

Sullen, bedraggled, utterly sober, wading once more back from brambles
Again, still again, I follow footfalls
Those deep, weary drums that sound the dirge

I fail to grasp: no sweeter fruit but straight lines black and bold
Sullen, steeped in the languor of misdeeds and paths too often taken,
I tread the line
To the delta
Slightly off kilter, dead and closer to dead.

Here is a poem from Shane, our newest and making a run at bluest Contributor, though he has some stiff competition….
–
you are the leading role in a play i’ve seen before
the shadows are bigger than the actors, and a violin sings the score
it looks like a comedy but ends as a tragedy
because your role requires you to be what you have to be
your words are written, and your lines all memorized
and you laugh at the clown with tears painted under his eyes
the tickets were expensive and too much to afford
and the real price that i paid is at the end of your sword
the crowd is snoring and the audience is bored
some are getting up and running toward the door
but still i sit here watching on the edge of my seat
biting my nails in anticipation for what I’ve already seen

–something seathroughe

He dreamed of writing
Famous films for the screen
For wealth and fame, and all in between

He took courses and classes
To improve his skill
He had a little talent, and more than enough will

But with no connections
Or friends well equipped
With power or influence, to sell his script

Networking takes time
And he hated to be
A small drop of water, in a vast open sea

He needed to meet a star
Of A-list quality
So he joined the Church, of Scientology

He’d meet Tom Cruise
And show him his play,
And Tom would fast-track production that day!

Now, a fraudulent sycophant
And in his mind he did posit
That he’d move up the ladder with every deposit

And so he gave to the church
The endowment his parents left him
And with no questions asked, the church made their collections

He acted his way
Up the OT rank and the file
Knowing L Ron would be proud of this duplicitous style

From OT I
To level VII in a year
He was so close now, well past “The Clear”

After all this dedication
He one day met Mr. Cruise
And shared his script, which he knew Tom would approve

But to shock and dismay,
And in true Hollywood reversal
Tom hated the story, and refused to call Universal

The dark moment had come
For this opportunistic endeavor
Because the Church wouldn’t let him leave; “You’re with us forever!”

He’d read about people
Who tried to break out on their own
They were beaten and harassed at work and at home

So he found other members
Planning an egress, just like he
And this was the reincarnation, of the “Galactic Confederacy”

The battle was fierce
Thetan meters violently destroyed
And soldiers of Xenu, soon were deployed

The bloggers and hackers
In V for Vendetta Masks
Joined him in this foreboding task

And together they fought
Against a Church, “So they say”
Though our hero just wanted someone to make his screenplay

Without truly knowing
If his story was worth making
He really wanted fame, and fortune for taking

Like Mr. Hubbard before
And like many to come
There’s millions to be made by exploiting the “dumb”

And regret he sure did
Infiltrating this bad sci-fi dream
With intergalactic wars, as the source of why we’re mean

Oh how silly we are,
Oh the lengths we will go
To seek ultimate truth, though we’ll surely never know

For art or religion
Or to be self-actualized
Don’t follow ambition, with two blinded eyes

And L Ron’s no different
From a rabbi or priest
Taking money from peasants, to enjoy they’re own feast

Our hero barely survived
After nearly kicking the pale
Don’t join a Church, just to make a movie sale

And he returned to LA
And started anew
And just as he thought, networking blew

But his will was as strong
And his desire as extreme
To see one of his movies, up on the silver screen.

From Dylan…

–

I had married a Succubus but
Didn’t realize till after we’d wed
Emerged a vixen so oleaginous, I
Had to escape from the Demoness’ bed!

For some newlyweds we had quite the dwelling
A place atop a hill with twenty-five rooms
All surrounded by marshland and mire
With an inhabit of her womanly ruse

For leviathans she had quite the beauty
Though a chthonic she looked tanned in the sun
Not carious, at least not on the outside
But on the in she was well over done

She didn’t sleep and had impressive peripheral
So my skedaddle had to avoid the day
I needed desperately the cover of sable
In aide to avoid her covering gaze

In her repast the night I had planned it
Slipped her opiate to addle her limbs
Then used that moment to slip out of the side door
While she collapsed to the parquet languid!

Then came the moment of my anagnorisis
As I tromped through the Buffalo Swamp
The gangly devil who I left behind was
The only woman I ever would want!

So went to return to my darkly lit quarters
Fetch my true love and sorely apologize
But as I lifted my feet from the peat stirred
A snake so deadly when it bit me I died!

The pain was quick but the poison was quicker
I fell in water and was numbed to excess
I could have lived to die with my darling bloodsucker
Instead I died with a snake and regret!

APPLAUSE! APPLAUSE! APPLAUSE!

Enter Stockton B on a bright stage, curtains behind him, house band to his right, and a boisterous crowd just yards in front.

“Thank you folks, it’s great to be here. First thing, I gotta talk about this. Medical history in the making. Surgeons removed a woman’s kidney through her vagina, so she could give it to her ailing niece! You heard me. An unusual operation they hope will encourage others to donate because it reduces pain. Amazing. Yeah, apparently soon after, Kim Kardashian made an appointment to have her entire insides removed that way. Yup, she had 200 consecutive orgasms, and now she’s dead. The doctors are thrilled with the results.

And that’s it. I’m done. How’s that for a monologue? Take a note, Leno.

But seriously folks, Tonight, as you know, is our 5th Post Anniversary. And so we’re beginning the fifth, with a first.

For Johnny Carson, it was Groucho Marx. For Conan O’Brien, it was John Goodman, for Diego Maradona on La Noche del 10, it was Pelé.

And for The Cuisinart, it is Dylan Mayer, of Dance on Friday fame. Our first celebrity! So, mindless babbling and off putting jokes aside, here is the first outside submission to the blog. Who will be next?

FADE OUT, FADE IN:

HORSE WITNESS -

Please forgive me and my horse
We need some money for the courts
Who apprehended my eldest girl
For a wrong she’s not done

You see it was the orphan lad
A castrato for that retched band
Who with my daughter had a dalliance
Now she’s in jail for a lustrum

He went into the barn with her
Laid her in the provender
No, I was not there, of course
But this falabella has stated

That the boy produced
A match and lit it on his boot
Dropped it to the floor and hooted
As the place conflagrated

You see it’s the oldest tale
According to this miniature mare
Two lovers in peril who prevail
But one flees as the other is hauled off to jail

If it wasn’t for she
Not speaking it would most certainly be he
Behind bars but they two agreed
To not squeal to the authorities

So I’m taking this tiny steed
The only witness to the entire scene
To tell the police exactly what he’s seen
And set my poor little girl free

I just hope they believe
And can understand this horses’ speech
And it won’t come out a string of whinnies
But first some money for the bus ride, please
A few pence for my pony and me.