Don't dig your grave with your own knife and fork.
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Kissing My Disgrace
Cut her into little pieces
Move her round the plate
Knife and Fork, Ill dream you're all talk
I'm kissing my disgrace
Kissing my disgrace
Older fragments with no meaning
Cloaked her smiling face
Today I eat myself a breakfast
I'm kissing my Disgrace
Cut her into little pieces
Move her round the plate
Knife and Fork, I'll dream you're all talk
I'm kissing my disgrace
Kissing my disgrace (repeated)
song performed by by Queen Adreena
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Knife Party
My knife - its sharp and chrome
Come see inside my bones
All of the fiends are on the block
Im the new king, Ill take the queen
cause in here were all anemic
In here - anemic and sweet...so...
Go get your knife, go get your knife
And come in
Go get your knife, go get your knife
And lay down
Go get your knife, go get your knife
Now kiss me
Oooh...well I can float here forever
In this room we cant touch the floor
In here were all anemic
In here - anemic and sweet...so...
Go get your knife, go get your knife
And come in
Go get your knife, go get your knife
And lay down
Go get your knife, go get your knife
Now kiss me
Ohh... I could float here forever
Ohh... anemic and sweet
Ohh... I could float here forever
Ohh... anemic and sweet...so...
Go get your knife, go get your knife
And come in
Go get your knife, go get your knife
And lay down
Go get your knife, go get your knife
Get filthy
Go get your knife, go get your knife
And kiss me...
song performed by by Deftones
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Is it progress if a cannibal uses a knife and fork
quote by Stanislaw Jerzy Lec
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Teaching a monkey to eat with a fork and knife will never make it a man.
I Take the Fork
I take the fork,
And select what I choose to eat.
I sample the vegetables...
To then sip on juice or spring water.
I slice the meat with a knife.
I taste for seasoning.
To see if it pleases.
It does...
And I repeat.
I take the fork,
And select what I choose to eat.
I sample the vegetables...
To then sip on juice or spring water.
I slice the meat with a knife.
I taste for seasoning.
To see if it pleases.
It does...
And I repeat.
I might have dessert,
With coffee.
I use a spoon,
If icecream is served.
poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
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The path leads one.
On my way in the path
When I met the first fork,
I took at random an arm [of the fork]
Which led me to the next fork,
From where taking an arm,
I met another and so on
Till I reached where I am now.
The path led me than I led myself.
06.02.2007
poem by Rm. Shanmugam Chettiar
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If a lot of people gripped a knife and fork the way they do a golf club, they'd starve to death.
Enough religious talk!
Just pick up your knife and fork
And eat some pork!
haiku by John Thorkild Ellison
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The Last Poem Shall Tinker With Mood And Meaning
silence silenced, and dreams dreamt,
and the speaker that listens upon the beatings of his heart
like a little drum inside his chest.
it is this resounding. this re-echoing
that like a spoon and knife to a porcelain plate
tinkers with the meat and beans,
segregating, and choosing little things
in colors and smell, and swallowing some and
throwing out the rest of what we
like to have inside us. sorrow and pain.
joy and bliss. yours and mine. you and i.
these are categories that we see and feel,
and care and care less and choose.
we tinker with mood. we like always to choose,
and discriminate, the spoon is a spoon and the fork is a fork.
and the knife that cuts,
we are careful enough. There is meaning now.
Blood drops out from your veins, and some beans
turn red. You cull out, what you want to believe.
you leave and carry with you
what is painless. That is as simple as that.
more or less, either/or. write the name of the person
that you love. Burn those that hurt you. Close the door.
Open the window. See the sun. And let always the moon
to kiss you by your window. It does not know what a door is.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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There once was a sailor from York,
Who never would eat with a fork,
Then he changed his whole life
When he slipped with a knife
Now his eyes are as sharp as a hawk.
quote by by John Carter Brown
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Things Do Not Seem To Be Them After A Careful Seeing
a spoon
and a fork and they seem to appear
with food on a silver platter
when we talk we talk like poets now
after years
a spoon is no longer just a spoon
and neither is the fork
and neither is the food the food that we
eat on the table
and neither is the silver platter a mere
silver platter as it seems to be
for a spoon may be me and i may also be
a tongue and i could be a tongue to your
fork, a protrusion that stabs me like a knife
and the silver platter could be our mind
a garden where we put every seed
and the table and the cloth that covers it
with leaves and flowers
myabe our worlds, covered and uncovered
with some intricate designs
this could be our world now. a world of poems
where everything is a roll of sensitive skin
a mind so fertile with its array of metaphors
and similes and
exaggerations, and these make us so happy
we tiptoe, we choose the word, we equate
every object to a meaning, we dance to a lot
of its nuances, and then we touch and then
we are so silent. we choose not to hurt.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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When I was little, my mother taught me how to use a fork and knife. The trouble is that Mother forget to teach me how to stop using them!
quote by Hattie McDaniel
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Objector
In line at lunch I cross my fork and spoon
to ward off complicity--the ordered life
our leaders have offered us. Thin as a knife,
our chance to live depends on such a sign
while others talk and The Pentagon from the moon
is bouncing exact commands: "Forget your faith;
be ready for whatever it takes to win: we face
annihilation unless all citizens get in line."
I bow and cross my fork and spoon: somewhere
other citizens more fearfully bow
in a place terrorized by their kind of oppressive state.
Our signs both mean, "You hostages over there
will never be slaughtered by my act." Our vows
cross: never to kill and call it fate.
poem by William Stafford
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The Fork To Take
I had pegged you as
protégé, adoptee,
someone I could save.
The last thing
I needed
was
another lover.
You call yourself
'an accident
looking
for a place
to happen.'
I call you
my sweet, my love,
not only
because you carry knives
for me
& want to beat up
all my
ex-husbands-
but because
you can laugh
at yourself
for wanting to.
We dream
of the baby
we will never have.
The little Jewish WASP
with golden blue eyes,
poems on the tip of his tongue.
your height, my hair,
& jokes that hit
their targets
on a slant.
He will never be
in the Social Register.
But will he know
which fork to take-
as you did
when you drove
off my road,
slyly taking the wrong fork
in order to stay
the night?
O you are sly,
my sweet wheat
looking for
a harvest.
Shall I reap you?
Shall I do to you
what the hurricane
does with the waving
grain?
Shall I thresh & bind you,
run barefoot
through your body
trying to stamp out
death?
Or shall I merely
let you
lift me up
like the wind spinning
an errant seed,
& let it
take me
where it will,
right fork,
wrong fork,
no fork
at all,
since we will take
the same path
through
the air
after all?
poem by Erica Jong
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As they say in Italy, Italians were eating with a knife and fork when the French were still eating each other. The Medici family had to bring their Tuscan cooks up there so they could make something edible.
quote by Mario Batali
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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On a Fork of Byron's
Like any other fork.—No mark you meet with
To point some psychological conceit with.
An ordinary fork. A fork to eat with.
No individuality of fashion:
No stamp of frenzy fine, or poet-passion;
An article in no respect Parnassian.
No muse “with ivy never sere” hath decked it:
In fact, it would be foolish to expect it.
I question if the muses recollect it.
A plain straightforward fork; yet interesting,
As to the world in general attesting
That poetizing hinges on digesting.
A fork not standing on its merits merely,
But, being Byron's, testifying clearly
That verse and victuals are related nearly.
Quite genuine; crest and all; a fork to swear by;
Some poet-stories doubtless hanging thereby,—
Associations such as gold can ne'er buy.
For 'twixt the fork and the divine afflatus
The links are perfect; there is no hiatus;
Fork, stomach, brain, pen,—all one apparatus.
So when the food that on the fork ascended
Grew into verse as with the brain it blended,
The fork wrote just as truly as the pen did.
For though the fork the earlier resource is,
Between the two no violent divorce is,—
I hold them to be correlated forces.
Perchance the unsuspected ministration
Of this same fork first set in circulation
The coinage of his rich imagination.
Perchance this very fork could give the clue to
What many of the famous thoughts were due to,
That now are part of me, and part of you too.
And if its prongs administered the fuel
That working duly unto brain-renewal
Kindled the thoughts that even yet fire you all,—
This very fork—(unless I quite astray be,
And you of unimpressionable clay be)—
A factor in your moral product may be.
And musing thus, does not this fork begin to you
To seem as consanguineously akin to you
As if the bard himself had stuck it into you?
'Tis ever thus: what Genius consecrateth
The nearest with the most remote collateth,
Till meanest use on highest issue waiteth.
This salad, now, in which the fork I'm pressing,
Wherein are all sweet savours coalescing—
What subtle shoot of genius efflorescing
Flowered in the flavour of so rich a blessing?
Is it that Byron's fork, some charm possessing,
Transmutes the—stop a bit—Who did the dressing?
poem by James Brunton Stephens
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Kiss The Knife
its stupid for me
to let u back in my life
but i cant go no more
without kissing the knife
i know i made u made
i shall pay the price
but all i wanna do is.....
kiss the knife
u can stab me in my back
but i can take that
what makes me feel right
is a kiss to the knife
sharpiest knife in the draw
there is my knife out the door
kiss the knife goodbye
it cut me open
n i gave it my heart my life
i want you back
kiss the knife
poem by James Bost
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Dispensable...
in this house
dinner is served and
those who live here
can eat even
without me...
i can hear the talks
the spoon and the fork
in their chatter
the soup burps and
the knife pisses
off
no one calls for my
name
and i am just there
watching
defining what is
dispensable figuring out
why is this so?
it is like a movie
when they do not mind me
as they pass through
my body
am i a ghost?
busted.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Restaurant Eating
Will the restaurants argue on this issue?
Can the fork and knife be argued with the teeth?
A moment only too soon is measured
To eat the correct fill.
You are meticulous in eating with us,
And the fried rice has begged our consumption
So that taste has completed its task
As we bear our stomachs with wreaking food.
poem by Naveed Akram
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You Found My Way
you cook so well
and i am so
anticipating about
the new menu
on the white
porcelain plate
beside the
silver spoon
and fork
and the corrugated
knife fit for
the medium rare
steak
more rice please
more lemonades
and lots of
lettuce for the
salad
a ripe mango
and alligator
pear
on a platter
lady, you found your
way into
my belly.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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