Best Gristle Poems
Walls breathe insistent hunger,
red as the inside of a split pomegranate,
richer still where the tallow has melted,
slick as the fat from a burnt offering.
Scarpia does not eat.
He savors—sounds of gristle
snapping in the next room—
—low, wet gasps—
body writhing beneath unseen hands,
a melody of muscle breaking.
Tosca stands, spine locked,
as he drinks from a goblet brimming with the color
of a mouth left too long in the sun.
He watches her throat move,
slow, careful, like a deer
scenting iron in the air.
A scream glissandos through the walls.
Scarpia wipes his lips.
His fingers, thick as butcher’s twine,
gesture toward the door—
an invitation, a demand—
a sermon delivered without breath.
Tosca does not kneel.
Not yet.
But the feast has begun,
and the host holds the fermata.
(note: this poem was inspired by a scene from the opera Tosca by Giacomo Puccini)
In my small kitchen she sits
Simple and plain
My mechanical maid
Who never complains
Who takes cups and plates laid
On her long arms with ease
And returns every one
Scrubbed clean of grease
Because I am NOT at the sink, wrists plunged in grime
I have precious time - and peace of mind -
To fashion and design these meandering lines
This is the gift she grants -so humble, so grand
Yet after decades of duty, she's become tired
Sputtering and leaking from weakening wires
Like all teachers and nurses, she deserves to retire
When I told him it was time to buy
A new dishwasher, he said the price was too high
I say, the value of my sanity
Is worth more than his 200 channels of cable TV
(of which he watches only three)
Or his mountains of Lego, or toys for his truck
For those, he'll happily spend a buck!
So dear, after next Saturday's barbeque
I'll let you scrape off all the gristle and goo
Then maybe you'll appreciate what a dishwasher can do~
3/01/23
The words were stale and restless in his mouth,
so he spat them out onto the floor,like the gristle of
an overdone steak; and her brow furrowed over
every writhing anecdote, as his falsehoods lay
withering at clumsy feet. So,
she could see through him;
He was more than ready to let it all burn out,
he was tired of the rot. Tired of running his tongue
over teeth begging to spark under weighty words.
And she…
She was done carrying a corpse with the
arms of a shadow;
Memory can only drive a vessel so far.
So, as the sun rose and dried out the
flesh between them; the finality of
goodbye drove them apart,
like a sunrise, that can never be set.
Not again.
It’s all just earth now. Decomposed; however tampered:
It’s hot asphalt burning the toes of lover’s dreams.
Molten Steel falling unto the breast of a newborn city.
Pollution choking the quake of sentient evolution.
Love dampened by the leak of morality, fidelity….
It’s so easy to throw a wrench into the machine,
and too damn tempting to watch it burn…
-James Kelley 2014, All rights reserved.
I don't mind if you climb inside
This stump I left behind
This lump of rot whose body parts
Broke free of dotted lines
Pluck a tooth, score a limb
Scrawl a note or two
In this lair of desert air
There's room for both of you
Odds and ends amidst the mud
Insinuate a face
A thin disguise free of love
Cheeks the wind erased
An alibi for skin and hair
Where only dust resides
Crumbled like an arid lie
Free of human fear
So grab some stringy gristle
A brittle part will do
Or a compact mass of bone and grass
With the mellow scent of dew
I don't mind if you grin or pout
If you're whole or if you're broken
Despite my rugged gutter mouth
My door is always open
Written by © Raven Drake
Her words were mumbled unprovoked and put him through the grinder
minced they were tearing apart they hurt like a dagger so he finally knew
where his heart was dismembered as it stood still one sentence then silence
No stream no consciousness emotion arrested a world destroyed broken shattered
He picked up the pieces the fragments shards of an ugly mosaic coloured in black
The cutting edge of glass penetrated into frozen blood in icy veins turning tattooing
engraving the twisted knife chopping torturing where passion kindness love
had once been the messenger grinning at the grisly gristle ground to the core
With surgical precision her scalpel incised at the flesh scarred in a flash razor
wire ligatures asphyxiating suffocating mortal wounded lost mindless soul
Denervation ensured neurochemical transmitters flowing into nothing a wide open
schism fissures fission exploding with nowhere to venture a road not yet travelled
Blessed in disguise of disaster her words grew into an unlikely story of hope of
a mixture of memories retold new pathways narration novel meaning of words
No more mill stone weighing the rope round the severed necklace of horror
he found undreamt off passion with a new soulmate and lover a poet tree in motion
Weaving kindness now sensual emotional reason scribed on paper fantasy clouds
written on dreams healing momentum of moments nights and cinnamon bark
their sizzling skins their touches feelings new found beauty make love and make
loving and making love with words and with lived meaning worthwhile again
16th June 2016
We're furry and coloured grey, brown, or black
Be-whiskered and sleek and reeking of fat
We'll squeeze through a hole, a gap, or a crack
For rotting flesh or dry bones to gnaw at
Four-legged dealers of lingering death
Malodorous creatures crawling with fleas
Exhaling our pungent foul-smelling breath
Urine and droppings on foodstuffs we squeeze
Our bellies swollen feasting in famine
Scrape on the ground as we scurry in swarms
Our carte du jour is often Scotch salmon
But our tastes transcend conventional norms
Some hang up meat to improve the flavour
We like ours scabrous and oozing with pus
Seasoned with still soft faeces to savour
But with or without we don't make a fuss
Our long yellow teeth are honed to the point
Where nothing's too hard for us to devour
Bone marrow, muscle, fat, gristle, or joint
We’ll crunch them with relish in half an hour
You clearly love us – we’re treated like kings
The streets are knee-deep in tit-bits half-chewed
Hot dogs, hamburgers and delicious things
Like deep fried chicken or vomit you've spewed
We're stealthy and brave there’s naught we don’t dare
To avoid rat-catchers putting us down
But once in Hamelin pipes played a strange air
That drew us deep in the river to drown
Next time you hear a scuffle or squeaking
In a cavity wall or from the floor
It might be us foraging and seeking
To build a little nest and breed some more…
Here they go again.
anything to win,
indulging
in shameless
self-promotion.
layin’ it on thick,
makin’ sure it sticks,
slappin’ it on like lotion.
“click my stuff,
and I’ll click yours too.
wanna feel like the best
even though
it ain’t true?”
back n’ forth complements
are so self defeating.
inflating other’s heads for praise
is a blatant way
of cheating.
“do unto others”
but don’t lie,
to boost their ego.
misleading them
to raise their hopes
should clearly be illegal.
no need to read
a word
of their work
while scratching their backs
bare.
skimmin’
skippin’
scannin’…
all’s fair
in tactical
warfare.
poets thought to be adored
while chewin’ truth’s gristle.
before you swallow,
broke a tooth that hurt
like a damn
lit
missile.
feeding on lines
with hidden agendas
is worse
than bein’ ignored.
cuz’ when you find
copy n’ pasted comments,
your hopes
are sadly floored.
how about
reading and endorsing work
you actually enjoy,
instead of
feedin’ folks a line of crap
laced with praise
and “atta-boys!”
roast beef (rare) had looks beyond compare
his face was rosy and blush
without a trace of stubble or gristle
he was suave and clean
a beef lovers dream
hard and lean a macho machine
gleaming
dreaming
scheming of a way to seduce Phyllis Filet
roast beef (rare) met Phyllis filet on a gray day
the were standing in line at the slaughterhouse gate
small talking
awaiting their fate
as the inched their way closer to endeavor the cleaver
they felt so much lust they were encrusted in fever
burning to escape the date of their fate
they devised a plan
a slaughterhouse scam
they executed the plan with lightning force
Phyllis wiggled over and started flirting with a horse
she glowed
her words flowed as she took him for a ride
roast beef (rare) felt a swelling of pride
he knew when Phyllis caressed the horses tail
that there'd be no way that their plan could ever fail
that they'd soon be romping in greener pastures
both of them getting just what they were after
they flung on a fling
high
low
every which way but loose
Phyllis the poor dear conceived a papoose
a bouncing baby beef to be or not to be
that was her dilemma
after she found out that roast beef (rare) was infested with salmonella
‘Morning, mousie in the housie
Puss’s got the munchies
For yummy little crunchies –
You’d best be on your way
Rev ‘em up, your little pawses,
Cat’s relentless, never pauses
It’s just his nature and that’s because he’s
Been cravin’ mousie-pie all day
Little mouse, I’ve got a hunch
Puss-cat thinks your name is lunch
He’ll reduce you to a furry bunch
Of gristle, bones and clay
So, little rodent, if you’re smart
You’ll get yourself a good head-start
Pussie’s got his feline heart
Set on eating after play
I thought to write a poem on a gristmill.
First I googled it, having never really heard that term before.
The “grist” part had conjured up for me
images of grisly scenes like in a horror movie
in which all that remained of dead bodies
was the ghastly gristle of victims killed most gruesomely,
the parts of them ground up inside a mill!
But no, a gristmill is nothing so sinister as that!
“Grist” is just another word for grain (the grain for grinding into flour).
A gristmill, therefore, is the name for the machine or for the building
where the gristing is performed!
Strange that I’d only heard it in my region called a mill.
If the word “mill” denotes the place for the grinding,
isn’t it redunant to add a word
which also is as repugnant as the word “grist” seems to be?
Or maybe it’s only I that find the word so ugly -
ugly like the words gargle, gagging, maggots or mucus.
Funny to think that since my ancestors likely worked in gristmills,
my maiden name might have been “Gristmiller” and not Miller.
I thought to write a poem on a gristmill, but ended up with this!
June 2, 2018 for The Gristmill Poetry Contest of Craig Cornish
Poultry farm chaos
Chicken-lickin’ you
Sweet and sour future
Henhouse flurry
Henpecked and handpacked
Epistle of gristle
Cellophane stiffy
Wishbone hope?
I can hear them with their laughter
dinig on their wine and steak
hunger has to wait 'til after
doors are closed to fill my ache.
I hide inside the dumpster green
like the garbage, unaware
until the grubby hands are seen
throwing in my daily fare.
The echoed footsteps fade away
silently I open bags
what have they brought for me this day-
this crumpled soul in dirty rags?
Bones with gristle, rice pilaf
some beans and cold potatoes
there's meat that they did not chew off
and slimy wet tomatoes.
The foul smells that I notice not
as I keep hunger at bay
would make another lose their lot
but I'll live another day.
Survival is my only goal
but I would give instead
my heart and yes, my crumpled soul
for the tatse of fresh baked bread.
Unforgivable
There was nothing I could do
Except swallow the guilty mouthful
Taken from their bowl of rice
And chew upon the gristle
Of my add hot water pot noodle
Couldn’t stop the ice clinking
In the glass of my extra chilled white wine
Couldn’t stop me eating
In my clinging to my life
No I couldn’t stop their hunger
Or wipe away their tears
As they picked and ate the peeling paint
From the sides of oil drums
No way to stop the sun
From drying to brittle leaves
No way to halt the madness
Of other peoples greed
Nothing I could do but quench my thirst
And dine with the ugly flies
Clinging around the brown babies eyes
Nothing I could do
But feel my muscles work
Feel the nourishment of bone
While they live as human skeletons
All I could do was sit there
And apologise for the world
All I could do was sit there
And respectfully eat my meal
Adding too much salt so it mingled with my tears
Adding too much mustard
So the food went burning down my throat
I could do nothing else
Except apologise for myself
Sorry for being born in my wealthy world
Sorry for my country
For not rushing to your need
Sorry for my government
My vote helped to bring them in
Sorry for the United Nations
Who’s squabbling leaves you starving
Sorry they did not stop the war
That turned you into refugees
And all the weeping mothers
Their desperation in their eyes
Their children no more than rag dolls
Limply hanging from their arms
Their little bloated bodies
Going to join the others
On the lime dusted piles
All I could do was sit there
And apologise for the world
All I could do was sit there
And say sorry for myself
Sorry for being born in my wealthy world
Each and every mouthful
Was swallowed with a choke
But all I could do was sit there
And respectfully eat my meal
written for Christie Moses and Sharon Weimer's competition "I'm Sorry"
CHICKEN BONE HUNGRY
Chicken bone hungry, no food in the home,
All of six people to a chicken bone.
And it’s no laughing matter when the fortunate one,
is the one who gets to have the last hot dog bun.
Scrape the jar of mayo til all the white is gone.
Eat the chick’n-bun-dog til not a lick's on the bone.
Now wait a blame minute, you’re still not done.
Eat the gristle like a chisel n’ front of everyone.
No shame in your game, here’s the straight and the narrow,
So hungry til you’re chewing right down to the marrow.
Wait a cotton pickin minute, there's a look on your face,
Oh Lord, you’ve just forgot to even say your grace.
Chicken bone hungry, may sound far gone,
that after eating all the chicken, you go to work on the bone.
The black smooth rough hide of midnight dark
Rivulets of dusty sweat leaping off
As he ran and dodged and feinted and attacked
The man, day-glo matador, flashing eyes and sword.
The baying crowd dry-throating the challenge and the curse
The black leaping forward to the cloak-cape-wall
Swelling eyes, and angry mind, a spear a jockey
Deep in his side, bouncing and jolting, searing stab.
The folds of the cape enfold his head and horns
His blindness concentrates the pain of the blade’s harpooning
His tempter bullet spins, back facing his final havoc wrought
Ivory hook of gristle, piercing the skin, kissing the heart, extinguishing the lights.