who?
what?
I,
thats who.
who's asking anyway?
Was it that ratchet **
frahm the deli?
*** I got something to say to her, And I will say it
sometimes she puts my chicken on rye
on ciabatta.
And sometimes it's fine because...
sometimes I see the moon then soon I see the sun, sometimes I like to look out of the highest floor
and everything is so small and so peaceful:
no one can upset that tranquility,
the sheer exhaustion of life,
gives one a tough exterior, a shell.
If someone comes a knocking, before i've had my pie, it's all over,
but sometimes realizing you are but an ant...is refreshing
then you get back downstairs and someone spills their grande americano, no milk or sugar, because that's so mainstream on your cashmere cardigan
then you realize
that throwing a punch is so very healthy
a punch straight in the retro glasses that they do not need.
pow, right in the kisser.
So you can tell the nashty from the deli
she might be next.
The man who spilled his drink is now on the ground, but it's ok he instgrammed the whole thing.
Mar 19, 2013
Mar 19, 2013 at 11:30 PM UTC
ducks need water
possums need acting classes
a horse needs to run
ligers need fans
and monkeys need macadamia nuts
I need some ray bans
dogs need love
cats need mice
like mice need hide-aways
I REALLY NEED those Frye boots
mosquitos need blood
and fire needs air
water needs a pathway
I need a new weave
feet need ground
sails need wind
Louis needs a direction
and I need their new cd
Mar 19, 2013
Mar 19, 2013 at 11:17 PM UTC
on a nudist beach
there was a man wearing shorts
they were yellow shorts
and a jaunty hat
which despite their cheerful airiness
the chipper summer colour,
he felt alone, down and shunned.
the mere thought of those dear shorts
invited des amigos and an invitation for tacos
a sombrero night he thought as he picked them out in the store.
but now
alone on the beach
he caught disdainful glares directed
at the winsome shorts
he had arrived at the beach so vivacious and jolly
but walking along,
the rough, hot sand blistering his feet,
he was
morose
forlorn
sorrowful
and wistful for those dreams
those empty shells.......
.............
............
............
sombrero
Feb 25, 2013
Feb 25, 2013 at 12:25 AM UTC
on top of the world
the veritable top
staring down at the others
climbing to the top of the stars
and call on nigel
who didn't believe in you
and call him his best pastry
burnt
a crispy blackened burn
not a heavenly, crackly, toasted burn
a burn that seeps to your core and throughly
blackens all other senses
cutting them off
leaving you with only a sense of deepening despair
as you consciously realize that
you've fallen up the stairs to the top
and are falling down
away from the stars
toward the mud
Feb 25, 2013
Feb 25, 2013 at 12:09 AM UTC
the hombre he stares
out into the dessert
before this,
he saw an ocean
filled with the unknown, the undiscovered, the possibilities
now as he stares out
do the grains off dry hibiscus plant inspire him
nay
the bleak never ending dunes of powder
time
went by
so quickly now he feel trapped
like Nigel
within his own window,
passing the time as his ear grows smaller
and fonder
of his toad
garamy
he no longer works his biceps as he pours his chai tea
into the mug of destiny
of
fate
of life
of
lust
the barren wasteland of the city
bleak and passing without him
without Nigel
goes by with the plumage
the crest of the soul
drift further and further from consciousness
living on the edge no life, no warts, no brownies
nought but Nigel
Feb 17, 2013
Feb 17, 2013 at 11:24 PM UTC
the shout comes across the playground
deep from within her bowls
hey
football head(tm)
the lust evident in her screech
olé
the stars shine before her eyes as she sees nought but his football head (tm)
does she see the ocean
nah
does she see the city
negative
does she smell the sumptuous scent of cinnamon congealing with butter and sugar
as she passes the local foodery
never
alas, a single shimmering tear escapes her eyeball
Feb 17, 2013
Feb 17, 2013 at 11:11 PM UTC
I spent my life
staring down at his hair
blond and shimmering under the light of the screen.
never to see his face only the hair
his life so tough,
life on the streets,
became a ***** ,
intoxicated,
the shimmery waves
attract attention on the street
a charming photographer stops him,
you'll be big young sir
said he
the child stares up his water blue eyes welling will impassioned tears.
his life
flashed before him
nought but money and lust
A life on the surface
lies upon lies
he imagines a throne to the sky,
the impossible,
in the clouds, his hair is greasy now,
the shimmer comes from within as he wakes up
amongst friends and foes
the cost of fame
Jan 22, 2013
Jan 22, 2013 at 9:19 PM UTC
le gout de France
succulent on my taste buds
like a french emory board
never enough
always too much
it files away at my thoughts
each day
as I long for the scent of the bakery
the sound of the ovens
the heat of life as it wanders by
slowly
as it passes each day
the same
insight to the minds of the habitué
their lives, so small,
lingering for compassion
insignificant to the huckster
only out for money
as their lives move on slowly
he watches from the outside,
his only true companion the slow ticking of the clock
the rhythm of the cash register
a lullaby
intoxicating his dreams
the scent of the euro wafting his nasal hair
as he weeps silently,
into his life
pain au chocolaté
Jan 22, 2013
Jan 22, 2013 at 9:00 PM UTC
jamie taught us salt,
nigella, the art of the beef stew
cake boss, the art of chocolate fondant,
the mafia
so rich and chewy
mafia,
the true american dream
richness and trophies and abraham
the mob engulfs the flames of life.
Nigel asleep in his room
sound, it wakes him
Nigel, he says
remember the naked chef
remember him
forever
Nigel goes downstairs
pours a glass of milk
grabs a cupcake
one boxed
he cries a tear of shame
as he remembers
Jamie Oliver
his queen
his Kingsley
his Oakley
his larry
his life
was a box of chocolate
he grabbed the caramel
but was greedy and seized the brie also
it was a sad day
as Nigel fell
off the cliff of life
into a hovel of doom...
the mob,
Nigel,
all attached
no way out
Brie
Jan 22, 2013
Jan 22, 2013 at 8:46 PM UTC
I'm the real Chuck Bass
I am Nigel Barker
****
Noted
Fashion Photographer.
i engulf all men, women and children with my succulent odour
especially when i use the flames of the baldinator.
it makes me bolder... and balder
Baldness is my strength, chutzpah, and truth.
Smize all you like Tyra
I will always come out on top.
I have
the passion,
the power,
the Porsche.
model ******* work for this, for me.
My scalp illuminates the night
leading me up and along the path of the nigh.
Serena van der Woodsen your Pantene waves of glory
will fall victim to my patent shine
now let me beam fiercely
PERFECTION
Jan 22, 2013
Jan 22, 2013 at 8:20 PM UTC