the poets in the kitchen

And my god, I hope you wake up one morning to someone who loves you like you’re a sunflower and they’re desperate to keep you alive.
I hope you dance with them in the small space of your kitchen floor, messy hair and tired eyes because you both been up all night watching movies again.
I hope you laugh with them in a way you never did with anyone else, head tilted back and lips apart as you let out every sound your laugh can possibly make and I hope to god you don’t try to cover your mouth. And if you do, because that’s okay, I know I sometimes do, I hope they stop you.
I hope they grab your hand before it ever comes in contact with your lips and I hope they hold it to their chest as they watch you with kind loving eyes. Because fuck, everyone knows you deserve it. And I hope you find someone who’ll accept you.
I hope they accept your messy hair in the early morning of the day and I hope they accept the way you sometimes talk too much and can’t seem to stop when you’re nervous or how you still cry yourself to sleep on some nights.
I hope they hold you and kiss you on the places where you’re most insecure at and I hope to god you let them.
I hope you find someone who makes you happy, even when you feel like sometimes, life is too hard for you. And I hope that when you both come across a tough situation and it comes down to a choice where you are one of them,
I hope they choose you. Every goddamn time, I hope they choose you.
—  A.M//for you
a discarded citrus peel resting on the kitchen counter / so comfortable being both beautiful and unwanted / so unbothered by the lack of hands on it / so unlike this body / and the way it catalogs every day it hasn’t been touched / but doesn’t know what to do with the number / just knows it doesn’t feel like a body / when it’s not being used by someone outside of it
—  EVERYTHING BUT THE RIND by Trista Mateer
  • sun woo: okay, what i am going to show you is classified information: i have powers, ah ro.
  • ah ro: uh huh...
  • sun woo: i trust you'll keep it a secret between us?
  • ah ro: *rolls eyes* pinky promise.
  • sun woo: okay, watch closely.
  • sun woo: *touches pan on turned off stove*
  • *pan immediately catches on fire*
  • ah ro: WHAT THE FUCK?

in our tiny apartment kitchen,
toast pops out of the toaster 
with a force that should be startlingly 

but its your hands coming around my waist 
that makes me jump, butter knife 
clattering to the ground 


you push me up against the counter
and your lips meet my neck,
I melt and meld with you


pulling you closer and the toast-
long forgotten and going cold-
falls to the floor, always butter side up


and so it goes every morning,
loosing toast and learning each other 
over and over again


like we don’t sleep in the same bed 
or have a grocery budget, but these kisses 
and toast eaten cold from the floor


are a part of who we are.
who needs breakfast 
when you’ve got a love like ours?

—  domesticated || O.L.
azalea: the kitchen floor looks different on sundays; more like home, more like a sanctuary to our goddamned bodies. & cheap whiskey tastes almost as good as communion wine when god didn’t show for either. i ask forgiveness for the blood in my veins, and you swear we’ll stop leaking. & cheap prayers echo almost as sweet as the benediction when god isn’t listening to either.
—  flowers at the altar (1/5) || d.d
Kitchen walls

in nonsense only
he did feel at home. 

rising his eyes on the kitchen walls 
a writing in blood
the detail is in the devil
beware the vile’s tail

Hybrisfull went to the window where
the widow stole an n from it
a voile veil he saw levitating
in the soft morning air
and yes she smiled
cutting the cord

In Hades’ mossy dwellings
a dog-faced god
snouting deep into the abyss
of his pressure cooker heart

it’s full of shit master it said
shivering in delight

It wasn’t until I was eight years old
that I realized what men wanted;
they desired to pick plums
from the bottom of my back,
to sink fingers deep between
flesh and bone and
fish out what little comfort
they could find
 
they wanted something new and old
at the same time,
something fresh to the world
but old to pain,
weathered from too many
“bend overs” and “open ups”
yet bright eyed and slobbering
with the prospect of mature love

they wanted cabinets full of food and
no one to fight
when they came
hungry and thieving

—  onniki pooka, this kitchen is empty
when love doesn’t stay, it makes sense
that i leave the kitchen light on,
that there is a pile of dirty dishes in the sink.

at least when i wake up alone, i have something to do.

but it’s a different year.
it’s a different time.

this time, love parks its car in the garage,
unpacks its suitcase,
tells me he’s going to be here for a while.

at night, love tiptoes out of bed,
turns off the lights, and then slinks back.

kisses my shoulder, kisses my everywhere.

love apologizes for being late. says he was busy,
says he had to wash the dishes.
—  Yena Sharma Purmasir, “Kitchen Teamwork” 

Its National Poetry Month!!

During April poets from all over participate in 30/30. “30/30″ is a month long event where poets write a poem a day for the month of April.

Kitchen Table’s outreach director and local Tampa Bay Area poet- Slam Anderson -will be posting her “30/30″ poems on our page for all of you to enjoy.

If you feel inspired join the “30/30″ event in celebration of National Poetry month. 

Lets get writing!  

sit with me on the kitchen floor at 4 am, eating microwaved indian leftover from last night

don’t say a word

we can linger in the quiet seconds between night and day and breathe air that, for once, does not suffocate us with its terrifying vastness

sit with me on the kitchen floor, these white walls stripped bare and left emotionless but aching

if you hold my hand maybe it will keep the darkness at bay

our skin lit only by a single lightbulb, precariously flickering between bright and dull as the world outside our window sleeps

sit with me on the kitchen floor, and maybe this loneliness will become something less profound and more content, or at least something more resigned

-g.s.

I don’t want to be yours.
I don’t want to sleep beside you;
or hold you.
I want to exist;
within you.
Beside you.
I want to be your sun,
when all there is is gray.
I want to be your happiness.
Always.
But I will screw it up if I stay.
So let me be a memory.
— 

-A- (And I will always be there to chase the night away)

my-achilles–heel fierystarsrain gallifreanpotterhead

Long blonde hair and screaming eyes in the night,
Men with no ears will stand in the darkness
Wasting a wasted world with clothes too tight,
While time will tick on it’s ticking harness.
Across my dirty dusty fingertips
A universe may come to be alive,
Yet we urn to be on another’s lips
While we have this one life before we die.
To hurt, to plea, to feel amounts of pain,
We are all just little girls chasing lights,
Pipes leak dreams but love destroys all the same,
Ignorance is nothing without new heights.
This life’s an adolescent’s paradise
But this world is nothing for life’s suffice.
—  Juvenile by Kayla Kitchen

ALBUM OF THE YEAR 2015:
Nicole Dollanganger “Natural Born Losers”

“And I know one day Hell will catch up with me, and I’m sure that I will burn eternally,
one day it will come to claim its pound of flesh, and when it’s done there won’t be anything left”

Midway through “Poachers Pride” and we know Nicole Dollanganger cannot stop her actions. She shot an angel and will do it again, regardless of the inevitable condemnation above. She sings soft, which she does on all her tracks. The high lilt in this particular song almost–for a second–tingles like remorse. But this is only the first track off of “Natural Born Losers”. By the end of the album you realize there is no such thing as remorse in this world she sings of.

I didn’t discover Dollanganger until she became the sole artist signed to Grimes’ new record label Eerie Organization. And I’ll be the first to admit I assumed she would have a similar sound to Grimes. I was wrong in the best possibly way. If you research the lazy way (like me) and just preview each track on iTunes, you’ll likely zone out or think “oh that’s pretty” before checking what you missed on Instagram in the last 3 minutes. Her work is slow, her songs are short, but once you find the story–the serrated poetry–you’ll begin an irreversible devastation.

On “Mean”, the second track, the poetry is limited to two verses repeated. Brief electric guitar sobs linger while she sings-confesses “I like it when it hurts like hell, there’s nothing you can do to me I wouldn’t do to myself”. When she repeats the first verse again we see the extent of this self-destruction at hand. The electric guitar stretches and squeals to drown the mistake she invariably is making again: “you are the way you always were, you like your cruel games”. The verse continues, word for word, drums added and building until it clips off suddenly. Her mistake finally taking its toll.

When you hit “In the Land” there is no return. Dollanganger’s poetry here is outside of herself but sung so close to its subjects as to feel dangerous. The story feels like it’s been passed down through her town– “Hell has a name: Satan’s Den, got the lock on the trailer, got the tape recorder in”–which is perhaps where most of its citizens would leave the story. Not the poet. In her familiar even softer tone she sings the story to completion: “he’s gonna strap her to the bed, pull apart her legs, and pull the soul out of the body that it’s in”. Periodic gunfire drums puncture the steady guitar strum bedding and we’re only on the second verse. “Give it up for the Milk Carton Angel, soaked in vomit, tied up at the kitchen table”. Again, the poet must tell the story. By the end we’re left only with the gunfire drums every second or so, steeped in a thick silence otherwise. Each shot like the screams for help that of course nobody in this world could hear. There’s nothing we can do but wait for it to stop.

Perhaps it makes sense that the final song on the album, “You’re So Cool”, is (ostensibly) the least threatening. “You’re so cool, walking down the hall, Wild eyes they are black like the magic eight ball”. When the chorus gently beats in, it’s a familiar adage: “you told me: ‘When I’m good, I’m really good, But when I’m bad I’m better’”. But by now we sense Dollanganger’s game. Her type. We know “bad” isn’t just skipping class. The second time the chorus comes around a timber male voice is added; like shrapnel just beneath her own voice, as if it’s already too late. The song ends with her almost plea “you’re so cool, you’re so cool” and all we can do is start the album again from the beginning to see how it all ends.

I have an old soul,
and a young face.
Don’t be fooled.
I remember where
my footsteps fell,
A hundred lives ago.
Some truths I’ve learned
along the way,
Staind me;
Tainted me;
Clinging to my thoughts;
changing me,
until my mind is not my own.
My heart beats,
My lungs breath,
My soul bleeds;
but I will never be me.
I am them, reborn.
I am their thoughts,
their love,
their memories,
their mistakes.
I am the soul that stood the test,
that came back.
That remembers.
That knows.
I have lived a hundred lives,
a thousand fairytales,
a million tiny moments.
They teach you,
and you learn:
Life goes on,
Time won’t stand,
The world forgets,
And nothing lasts.
Take it from me.
I remember each death,
and the bitter taste on my tongue
each time I come back.
Let this be the last.
— 

-A- resurrection (nightmares sweeter than dreams)

Inspiration from lokihiddles2981 

the-haven-of-fiction eve1978 my-achilles–heel hiddlestories gallifreanpotterhead so-easy-to-love-me

It's 2015, Let's Bid Them Adieu (a poem)

It’s 2015, Let’s Bid Them Adieu


I think it’s time poets
let the Greek gods retire

they sit around my kitchen
this morning
as I pour coffee

Zeus making french toast
while Hera nags
he ruined the first batch

Apollo is downloading
an album from iTunes
while Hephaestus
is trying to figure out
how to work his tablet

and Ares keeps clicking
between CNN and
Fox News ignoring
his plate of scrambled eggs

I sigh at how out of place
they seem today
with their dusty robes
and wilted laurels

Elpis running into the room
with a handful of brochures
brimming with ideas
planning for their future

she says an island with
a mountain on it
looks perfect

but I say
it’s already been done
Poseidon agrees
and suggests opening a diner
somewhere out West

he hears there’s lots of work
feeding hungry truckers
so he grabs a pen and paper
to start working on a name

something royal but simple
that’ll bring in the locals too
for coffee and a slice of pie

as Zeus dumps another
batch of toast into the trash
then uses up the last
of my bread.