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Kewayne Wadley Jan 2020
You are thick in size
Curling around my fork
String by string.
You anchor my stomach
& kiss my lips in a slurp.
You never have to worry about
The intrusion
Curving my appetite with your
Delicious coil.
You curl yourself in front of me
And invite me to come back for more.
Fork after fork
You unravel your flavor &
Pack them in my mouth.
You're the first thing on my mind
And bowl
Tasting you before you come to a boil.
You're my noodle
Perfectly seasoned and anchored
To my soul.
The broth the last kiss
From me to you
Until the next bowl
shuble Dec 2019
That moment

There is a moment in your day when
you


YEET that empty can into a crowd full of people and SCREAM
"THIS BEVERAGE THAT I HAVE PURCHASED PREVIOUSLY AT THE MACHINE IS NOW EMPTIED OF IT'S CONTENTS PREVIOUS TO ME THROWING SAID EMPTY ALUMINIUM INTO A HALLWAY!!"
乁(ಥ ͜ʖಥ)ㄏ
I was writing something serious but then I said why not and wrote something hideous. I happen to enjoy spicy crunchy juice water.
Poetic T Dec 2014
"slurp"
"SluRP"
"SLURP"
Heard from *tongue
and mouth
Little teeth,
Lick,
Slurp,
Chomp,
Like a baby ****** on wood,
 You look at me with a cheeky smile
What was once clean now a sticky mess
Licking a lolly,
Keeping you entertained
Looking as if after all this licking, chomping
"Slurp"
"Slurp"
"Slurp"
That its looking like when you first began,
Then as if a moment past, the lolly
That was whole now but a stick,
Tongue, teeth, mouth
Chopped away till all was gone
Just a smile though sticky lips,
"Slurp"
"Slurp"
"Slurp"
Was heard, now all quiet as just a grin
And a stick passed to daddy, and the words
*"Daddy can I please have another one "
Another short poem story inspired by beautiful but noisily slurping daughter :)
Martin Narrod Apr 2014
You choked on chariots raw. Red egg yolk suppers, churned of the milk oceans this morning you kept.
The lintel of stone turned toward dusk. Some great dynasty of submissive spirits catering your morning
Out on a cart of muse, forms of heaven cannot even hear you. You are a soporific knot in the tale of your Old womanhood. In this infinite Tuesday morning your small black eyes, like an oil tanker toppling over The intense azure sea- shipwrecked, and lost.

Departing from your childhood you slurp Coca-Cola from a silver straw. From the corner store and inside Winter yawns. There is no face, only strikingly beautiful black hair. The body under you is at home in all
My hand's fingers have to fill. All the clothes that you could carry for the two-way adventure. There are
Never enough bubbles between your lips and the glass bottle you have. Only the score of the whistleblower. And the poor symphony you had prayed for into the dial-tone phone, the deep Wilderness, that stiff forever-ago budding from your coffee cup. Neurogenesis lifted from your Fingerprints and emblazoned into this lump of human ingenuity. The hopeless octave that cut us all short.    

Every short story that was left untold. There are the brief deaths recoiling in your spiritual architecture. The ****** of morphia has bourn me awake. Inside you are often unscathed, vanishing as some of Tonight's parts assemble you, on you blue is a beautiful color. The sweet retreat that gave you life or the bountiful deaths that counted you too cutely by your side. You are the sun in my black coat. Here is my sea, your sea, you'll see.
Written for Anna Farinola

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