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Honey, I love you, really I do
just like a hog loves slop
your big stick-out ear I chew
what the heck is this glop?

I kiss your chops, pucker up
hold me tight in the pen
mud pies are the runners' cup
if we win, we'll run again.

Dear, I nestle near your nuzzle
smooch me all over my face
take me apart just like a puzzle
I've lost my dignity and grace.

But first we have a race to win
slather soil, don't dare foil
beat the pork out of your twin
let's make it worth the toil.

I can always tell you two apart
you say you wonder how?
I can look at your counterpart's
moon when he take a bow.

Yours is handsome, his only cute
Hammy, you are my choice
let's cuddle in our birthday suits
tell 'im to drink with the boys,

so we can be alone, you and I
take a bath in tub of mud pies.
Silly Love Poem
One of my ridiculous ludicrosities

© Carmela M. Patterson, All rights reserved
Donall Dempsey Jul 2015
Two fictional characters
walk into a bar

in Malta
( * Marsaxlokk - to be precise ).

" beee. . ."
stammers Hamlet.

"Oh fer Gawd's sake...two beers!"
J. Alfred Prufrock snaps.

"You really milk that
"To be or not..." thingy."
J.A.P. scolds Hamlet.

"Tsk...tsk!" Hamlet tsk tsks.
( sticking his tongue out ).

Two Cisks are plonked
down before them.

"No...I am not Prince Hamlet or
was meant to be..!"
J.A.P. quotes him self.

"Awww fer Jaysus sake...loooook
just for the fun of it...the gas of it

we swop

Hamlet interrupts Prufrock's

Prufrock ponders somewhat doubtfully.

And, so:
Hamlet the Dane

( for yea it is indeed he)

(1) to eat a peach (2) wear the bottoms of his white
flannel trousers rolled (3) parts his hair behind even

(4) dares
to aks

the overwhelming question

"( Oh, do not ask, what is it! )"

Oh & (5) gets to hear
( ** ** ** )

"...the mermaids singing...."

Prufrock "Hum...."
kills the king.

Becomes the king.


" Buzz buzz...come come..go...go!"

"It's a very
Hamlet...I know

but - what the heck!

"See..? slurps Hammy
". . . now, that wasn't so bad...was it?"

"Another Cisk?"
"Naw...I'll have a Becks!"

"Jaysus Prufrock now
...what's up?"

"Don't know..."mutters J.A.P.
wearing a frothy beer moustache.

roars the barman in Maltese.

"I can connect nothing
Prufrock almost sobs.

"Like that time
on Margate sands..."

Hamlet cuts him curtly off.

"Don't even go...there!"

"But I still get that squirmy know...feeling

we are just
fragments of

the imagination of
some *
long haired Irish poet

sunning himself by
the waters of

the shimmering waters of
a Sliema hotel pool

...up up in the clouds!

Hamlet sighs.

"Yeah, me too

Hamlet looks behind him
checking for what isn't

there. . .

"Ahhhh well, never mind eh?"

Prufrock attempts an attempt
at being cheerful.

Fails miserably.

"Let us go, then
you and I...

when the evening is spread out
against the sky..."

Like a patient etherised upon a table!
they both sing outta time and outta tune

stumbling one
into the other.

A long hair Irish poet
smiles as he watches them


"Għaġġel fil-għoli...wasal iż-żmien JEKK JOGĦĠBOK!"
the barman roars.


Pronounced MAR SA SCHLOCK. Those Maltese Xs being really SHs in disguise.

* Pronounced CHISK but the new barman is obviously new to the language and pronounces it TSK which makes him think that is what our two fictional characters are ordering.

Not to be confused with mobile texting but rather the literary texts of which both of them owe their existence.

The play bounded in a nutshell as it were.

One Donall Gearld Oliver Denis Dempsey is a good example of this sort.

* The No. 1 song all over Heaven...beating Sparks THE NO. 1 SONG ALL OVER HEAVEN  to the top spot.

** "Għaġġel fil-għoli...wasal iż-żmien JEKK JOGĦĠBOK!" Once again the new Irish barman hasn't got his tonsils around the Maltese lingo and comes out with this terrible mish mash of the typical barman's cry.
Olivia Kent  Oct 2015
Olivia Kent Oct 2015
Venom be spat from the tongue that blinds.
Twixt the lovers.
Whose hearts, no longer entwined.
Words tied and tangled.
Twisted and lost.
Love becomes mangled.
Crumbled to dust.

No words dare be spoken.
The lovers that were.
Invoked the monster of Lady Medusa.
Screeching siren.
Lady's on fire.
Don't dare put her out.

Her eyes surely saved for you.
Muted sounds.
Exploding fear.
Hearing her dear.
Utters last squeak.
Unable to speak.
Bit his own tongue.
As she turns him to stone.
With eyes that don't see.

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Olivia Kent

9 hrs · Daily Mail Online ·

I rarely use Costa, I will be working back at Winchester hospital shortly.
I will use their canteen, the food is generally very nice x

Revealed: The squalor inside Costa coffee shops

A total of 23 Costas got two or less stars in their most recent inspections, including a hospital branch which had paninis at risk of contamination with bacteria which can cause paralysis and death.


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‎مستر صلاح السعيطي‎ likes this.


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Olivia Kent

Olivia Kent Ward , starting Monday x

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Philip McCarthy

Philip McCarthy Good luck with the job Olivia, But Im a bit of a coffee freak but will never use Costa it alwaysgives me bad guts ache afterwards.

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Olivia Kent

Olivia Kent Thank you Philip **

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Philip McCarthy

Philip McCarthy Hey I'm at the Cafe Reflections for the first time. It's good here x Photos to follow

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Sophie Herzing  Dec 2014
Sophie Herzing Dec 2014
Back in 2003 I found a piece of me
buried, like a shard of pottery, in the sandbox.
A Hot Wheel’s car, little rusted with one tire missing
that I used to shove in the little zippered flap
of my Powerpuff Girls backpack. Older, fifteen,
I carved another piece of me out and pasted it
to a vanilla letter, sliding the envelope through the slits
in his locker door, and I lost it. I’m not even sure he read it.
Nineteen, faded and little stolen, I threw another piece of me
into my mother’s grave. Plush petals, rosary beads, crystal
liquid drops infused with microscopic memories. I cut
myself in slivers and jammed uneven edges together
just to gusto the void, compact the space, walk solid.
And now, twenty-three, I press my face against a mirror
and slide my arms into a flannel, grandpa, hammy-down.
You took the last piece. You crawled into my guard, tore the lining
and spit your black blood on the blank memoirs I had hanging
next to the split.

Take me, now, if that’s how it’s gunna be. You wanna live
with the dust bunnies in my baggage? Feed off my insecurities,
my staggered breath, or my mercury dreams? I don’t want to be saved.
I’ve made my own maze with only one way out, so you’re trapped
in the Miss Havisham model I’ve made, rotten cake. Build yourself
a new girl from my discards, suckle the marrow from my bones,
and blow, like a glass ornament, a pretty replica of who I am.
Isn’t that what you wanted? Wasn’t that part of the chase?
The sweet idea that you could pull some perfect women out of the rubble?
I bet that’d be nice to show off, you *******. But here’s the catch,

I know I’m broken. You don’t need to remind me. So take
the smiles I’ve learned to draw on my lips for two cents,
and give up the **** fight I know you won’t win.
Khadija Ad  Mar 2020
Khadija Ad Mar 2020
My gender is pink
My gender is blue
My gender is a cravat,
A black cravat
adorned with colourful unicorns.
My gender is a mascara
My gender is black nails
My gender is rupaul's drag race
My gender is a long day at the gym
My gender is hairy legs
And a hammy voice.
My gender is
a girl identifying herself
as a ******* *******
a d*ck
at the middle of night.
Carly Salzberg Sep 2010
pile your musty ten
-drills of cloth in an anonymous  
mold rainbow
pile suited
impostures that cut out the
life of you
pile white t-shirts
stained in crimson
pile hip hugging denim
that never left ya
pile cotton
once bloated calmly against
blush tickled skin and pile nine
white ankle socks and one
wool sweater.
pile rite set hammy
downs to the ground just pile
everything and anything
that clung weathered to ya
pile your game day penny
sweat in a velvet aroma of
cheap beer and hot glue
pile up iron pressed blouses
and saggy waged sweats
pile color scented molds
dipped in tethered laced
songs of you.
Third Eye Candy Apr 2020
I saw a little Peace of me
in the War. slept through Grad-School
like a mad Fool on an Honest Quest.
speaking to the cheap seats of our Honest
I’d rather the Moon Mints
of an average Average…
slum ****** sick
with a Beautiful Algorithm
that No One can hammy galump
when the fade spark
is Actual.
Mary-Eliz Apr 2018
You can learn a lot
from a Facebook page
just from the pictures shown

what things a person collects
what kinds of things they own

their likes and dislikes
vacations that they've taken

how many kids
how many pets
even what time they awaken

but mostly I like to notice
how many "selfies" there are

sometimes it's quite amazing
you'd think they were
some kind of star

headshots would be another
good name
for those poses oh so hammy

smiling, grinning, grimacing
goofy, questioning, campy

those infamous pictures
on Facebook
shots showing a craving
that everyone look!
I don't do much with FB, but every now and then I kind of "check in". I can't help but notice the phenomenon of the numbers of pictures. One woman has 4 kids, a husband and a dog. I was looking for pictures of the dog for the Pets' book I'm working on. I really had to "dig".  The pictures of herself outnumbered all the others by at least 10 to 1. :-) I mean, kids change - adults not so much;
dogs do fun things and poses - adults meh!
Hailey Piper  Jun 2018
Hailey Piper Jun 2018
The smell of stale smoke lingers through our hair,
A staunch like presence,
but never fully there.
Yellow stained fingers,
and blood soaked knuckles..

hammy-downs that don’t fit quite right,   awake critiquing ourselves late at night.
Hoping and preying not to become what we’re destined to be.

Drifting through the slums,
Seeking some kind of pleasure.
Friends and family succumbing to ice,
Melbourne’s national treasure.

Young souls corrupted,
so much potential forsaken.
One hit,
And it’s total annihilation.

— The End —