return to Secrets of Blinstrubs
Poetry by Cece Pigott

bread to toast

under normal circumstances
i cry
behind the marble wall
of life.
forever and ever,
not to be mistaken,
we careen
and eat meat
for nothing.
what does it all say?
no, not death.
certainly not that.
what then?
new guinea?

from mother/with love

meteorites are fun to jump on
even when you are feeling down.
the dog licks my hand with delight.
i clobber it with a mallet.
golden retriever steaks for dinner again.
i hate goldfish...

mode of transporting poached eggs in a warm summer breeze while smoking a cigarette and yawning

puff puff puff.

senile, but strange

everywhere she looked
she saw
purple spots.
turning towards her picture,
she dreamed.

living in a vacuum

Gilligan's island was actually
do you want to know a secret?
you do?
don't tell anyone
but i'm incomprehensible.
don't laugh!
oh yeah?

mc mann

seemingly undisturbed
he got up and took a shower.
putting on his clothes
he stopped to think that
something's wrong.
well, he left his house
and suddenly stopped to realize
he had no legs
or arms
or body...
too bad.

spare change

the space inside is shrinking.
my mind is a spiral
on the offensive.
as if it were alive...
the birds sing each morning.
their chirping does not relieve my pain.
the pain of 10,000 years
bottled up for eternity...
XXX are my thoughts
as the spiral twists endlessly on...


down is up
left is right
on is off
black is white.
yes is no
right is wrong
light is dark
short is long.
hot is cold
you are me
square is round
he is she.

Et Cum Lazaro

Only sometimes I
have felt it.

The new of it all
when the penis rises
or when you pump
up your bicycle tires
at the end of March.

Like Lazarus called out.

But the clitoris recedes and
the baseball loses its cover and
Lazarus dies for real this

time oh it must be nice
this second dying, nice
and green.


divided by half
approaches zero--

or infinity,
if God is

Bleeding On The Sidewalk

Deep in the darkest alleyway
Is where the young man lay
His blood spread over the sidewalk
Drizzles of rain wash it away.

The young man had been stabbed
His flesh cut open and wide
He lifted his head in pain
Put it back down and sighed.

He tried to turn his body
But the pain just pierced his chest
He painfully lifted his hand
And placed it over his breast.

He could feel his heart thumping
Surprised he's still alive
Then he began a fearful fright
What if he were to die?

He wondered what was important
To him in his young life
All that was taken away now
By a person with a knife

Why is this all happening
In our world today?
What's the matter with society?
Can't they help in any way?


There was a fine fellow named Jesus
Who was nailed to a cross by some sleazes.
But the guy chose to die
For our sins. Don't know why.
I guess he assumed it would please us.

It's a challenge to take your own life.
Once I tried with a Swiss army knife.
So I opened a vein,
And I let the blood drain,
But I got bored and just killed my wife.

An Anarchist's Alphabet

A is for Anarchy -- long may it rule!
B is for Burning, what's done to a school.
C is for Corporate lawyers who stink.
D is for Ronald McDonald's big Dink.
E's what you f*ck -- the Establishment, man!
F is for F*ck the establishment, man!
G is for F*ck the establishment, man!
X is for F*ck the establishment, man!

Whew, Ah...

Have you ever
slept with a sweet one
only to feel
a big one
about to be blown
out your rosette?

You lie there
in tight-assed panic
praying to Paul Boomer
you won't scortch [sic]
or sizzle
your squeezers.

Sweat beads
on your forehead
you gasp
wishing you could
let the blast gently out
in tiny little freeps.

Your life
races past you.
You'd give a nut
to be cracking the walls
in the Belk Hall toilet.
Cramps, pain, watering eyes.

You even ask God
to give you control
of this fart-to-be
just one time
before you die...
just one time Baby.

your problem
becomes absorbed.
No pass of gas.
Smiling in the dark
you wonder how these things work.

You vow
to call Professor Fulghum,
the bowel man,
the first thing tomorrow
as your tired right arm
anchors a hard breast.


My mother's gone ahead,
Triumphant, head held high,
At heaven's gate surely welcomed;
Well-loved, family reared to be
God-fearing folk. She can be proud.
I miss her.

My daughter's also gone;
An independent route she chose,
To live unshackled by a
Mother's watchful eye-- so limiting
To one who wants to live
Her own life.

The middle portion, I
A searching jellied mass,
A gob of sandwich filling
Reaching out to understand and clutch
The crusts on either side,
But in vain.


The steam from a cup of tea
sets frogs a-singing
in the pool of blood behind my typewriter.


I wanted to smash something
in their dull, so stupid faces,
until you reached out with a certain smile
and handed me a rose.


I love you,
And would brave anything for you.
Except bees.
I'm allergic to bees.

The Mirror

i feel the mirror slipping
i can feel it falling
but there is nothing that i can do
except watch it fall
and crack into a million pieces
i need to feel loved
my heart feels like the glass it's
cracked upon it's surface
straight to the bone
it is cracked
and there is nothing that it can do
to fix its brokenness
and neither can i
i am lost in this world
i have no way of knowing if it was for real
or if it was just a dream that i have wished for
so often
so very often.

Lawnmower of life

Plowed over by confusion
and sprouting again
the lawnmower of life
never lets you higher
and your dead friends fall
between you and the survivors.

Memories rot your brain
until you realize
a lawn is a waste.

We all live,
we all have a lawn.
We all eat,
and cut the lawn on weekends.


A vindictive young fellow named Hamlet
Lost his girlfriend, Ophelia, poor lamb-let.
Instead of taking a wife,
He is stuck with a knife,
Then orphaned and poisoned, poor Hamlet!

Thumbs are OK I suppose,
But Oh, for opposable toes!
The things we could eat
If we could just use our feet!
We could munch where the coconut grows !

Thumbs are OK I suppose,
But Oh, for opposable toes!
It would really be great
When you're out on a date
And perfect for taking off clothes!
(by E. Wolf)


The call is there.
To ease into the pool of
To slip into its waters.
Black and caressing.
Holding me as no other
has held me before.
My mother said when I was
a child, I didnít like
to be held.
I crave hands to hold me under.

For My Red-Haired Elf
As much as I might try,
I cannot write that love poem.
For every sweet sentence I write
three more cynical lines
sneak their way in.
If I could compose sonnets
like Shakespeare
or odes
like Keats,
I could put my feelings
into words.
But I prefer to express
my love with a look,
a touch, a smile.


There's little in taking or giving,
There's little in water or wine;
This living, this living, this living
Was never a project of mine.
Oh, hard is the struggle, and sparse is
The gain of the one at the top,
For art is a form of catharsis,
And love is a permanent flop,
And work is the province of cattle,
And rest's for a clam in a shell,
So I'm thinking of throwing the battle-
Would you kindly direct me to hell?