poetry, Prose

peanut butter jar

i scrape out the peanut butter jar with a silver legged spoon the water is speckled and dark as the feeling of an old hand it presses up to you and creates a shiver that rises in bubbles and foam i scrape out the crap the grumpy residue of a crusty morning even the sleep behind my eyes became slightly nervous and leaves the scene

the kettle boiled but only enough and on time for the army of cats to congregate around an angry frankenstein juggling the implements of desire and experience but that was enough to turn around and shriek like some primal werewolf and call forth the pungent primal archetype waiting for coffee to slush down his gut

the kitchen is mine and you are the wrong kind

of utensil to be stirring my coffee i grab grubby paws and people into my duvet and hoist them behind the berlin wall splitting sanity and calamity but i do realize i can be a tad dramatic by asking for the kitchen as my own and claiming naming blaming marking my territory

pardon me but i’m a male

probably not enough for as i venture out the kitchen and climb into the couch i avoid the paper and rugby and scoop up the poetry resting the rusk i wait for the feline family to swarm the kitchen climb into the exposed jar

naked and wet with water




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