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JoyAndPain Nov 2020
roses are red
my name is not dave
this makes no sence
microwave
this is not my own. search memes about poems on google and click images and you should find it.
Sage May 2020
Underneath the surface,
the earth is the microwave.
We are the engine, we are the heat wave.
The earth and it's rhythm is enough to move the world. We intercede in the natural process, so we corrupt the cycles.
rowdy lee May 2020
I'll look at a kid girl across the bar
and will fall in love with her -

what's that
in her eyes
*******
what's that? -

at that moment

there is a new order in the printer

and I have to make a drink
melli7 Feb 2020
So
I hate
HATE
washing dishes. But I don't
discriminate (pots and
pans and spoons and measuring
cups are also on my *****
list)

So
when I bake
in a microwave,
in one bowl,
with one mixing fork,
and no measuring tools,
it's sort of kind
of a bit of
a miracle
when the baked thing rises
AND it
tastes
ok
MisfitOfSociety Dec 2019
Out of the womb into the microwave.
Brain cells pop,
Electric shock.
We all worship,
In the house of metal.
Devil in the computer,
Screams like a kettle.

She sings through the holes in my head,
She likes me better when I’m half dead.
Fading in and out like a ghost,
Possessing me when she needs me the most.

Metal temptress.
No one sings like you.
Metal temptress.
No one can dress like you.
I hear your whispers through the radio.
I see your image on the video.

Pavements of heaven grow colder against your moonlight.
Your lies rung through my head,
I still see the truth in what you said.

No one lies like you,
No one believes you like I do.
Kieran Messer Apr 2019
Soggy crusts:
Sustenance for us lazy.
As we hear our battle cry --
The endless beeps of the microwave --
We gaze longingly,
Prepared for the mess we have made.
More food fun: I'm publishing one I wrote about fried chicken tomorrow.
Jodie-Elaine Mar 2019
Let the babble stop
Let the brain farts cease
Let pleasure be your guide
And the poet slip into their persona,
Like a performance uniform,
A slip dress
An existential throw up of thoughts like
Bad Chinese food.
The kind that climbs out of Tupperware,
slippers ready

Of Tupperware and ready slippers
***** out takeaway rice.
Performance uniforms sit up in bed,
Babbling about existential poets.
The bad Chinese food
Waltzes with its guide,
Brain dribbles out of nostrils.
Dear night-shoes,
This babble has ceased,
Pleasurely.
From my Poetry Collection: 'PERFORMANCE ARTIST POETRY AND BRAIN FARTS FOR UNSOLICITED MICROWAVE HEADS' (yes, all caps)
Anya Oct 2018
I was eating a cookie
But it was too hard
...
So I put it in
The microwave
For a minute
...
...
And guess what?
It worked!
MisfitOfSociety Apr 2018
Out of the womb into the microwave,
transforms you into a mindless slave.

Diet soda, chips with dip and a bucket of KFC,
sit next to me.
Black holes for eyes absorbant as a sponge to the colors in view.
The colors come to collide,
To whisper a message to my mind.
A message consisting of anime girls and talking animals,
not what people would call manly,
but it is a guilty pleasure,
so spare me the commentary.

So as I was saying,
I lay unmoving,
Licking my greasy fingers like a fat ****,
strapped down to my living room chair,
whilst the colours penetrated through my eye hole,
cutting deep into my soul.
******* out my mother ******* brain,
clearing reality out and washing it down the drain,
The conditioning from the wash has left me braindead,
painted a picture I don't understand but I will remember what it has said.

Phosphers,
of dreams and wonders,
grab me by the hand,
and whisp me off to wonderland.
It takes me,
Like a reaper,
out of my body,
to an obscure,
reality,
painting a picture,
fantasy.

Living in a world of simultaneous information,
Crawling inside and taking away my perception,
everyday,
a part of me is taken away.
They have,
Taken my eyes, so I can't see
Taken my ears, so I can't hear
Taken my heart, so I can't feel,
Taken my mind, so I can't think.

Out of the womb into the microwave,
transforms you into a mindless slave.
What did I just write
Marc Hawkins Sep 2017
That lonesome,
Long distance
Kind of love.
Shared through
The microwaves,
Images he will treasure
In the darkness
Of his motel room.
They will be his only
Flicker of light
For the next 5 days,
His own solitary pleasure.
He will gaze into that full
Bright handheld moon
And imagine
Floating gently into
It’s haze, losing himself
Slowly, bit by bit,
Measure by measure
While she waits
Patiently on the other
Side of the world,
Assisting,
Offering,
Pleasing
At his leisure

Copyright Marc Hawkins 2017
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