#butter
There once was a cow from Calcutta
Who mooed with a st-st-st-stutta:
She'd m-m-m-MOO
At the passing Hindoo
Who'd milk her and churn some b-butta.
Mar 5
Mar 5, 2026 at 11:52 PM UTC
A woman who had a Large chest
It was bigger, and really the best
Get your mind from the gutter
It's where she stores her butter
She bought it from a dealer out west
Feb 23
Feb 23, 2026 at 6:33 PM UTC
Churned by cream
Sweet
Oh, but it is
A rose
Dipped in butter
Translucent yellow
Melting into fleshy
Pink
Punctuated thinly
On the edges
Where dirt might get
Into a fingernail
Showing a line
Where color meets
Love of a rose
Singing the sweet and salt
Of butter on
My olfactory
Tongue to the
Earthy fragrance
Only a rosey delight
Gives
To my sight
You are one
Of a kind
My butter Rose
May 28, 2025
May 28, 2025 at 11:09 AM UTC
Vibration of light
From the flower Moon
Like buttered tulip
Melting inside
Dancing between my joints
Weaving a river in my blood
A yellow only flowers would know
Moving like honey-milk
To a temperature just right
Breeding wave by invisible wave
As you set far south west
Before anyone knows
You left behind your pollen of hope.
May 18, 2025
May 18, 2025 at 5:43 PM UTC
except,
when the old eyes tear, with the greatest of ease,
hitched a planetary ride round the sun, more times
to know that the square root of the human is not
his exterior, which without fail, grows and erodes
on a timed schedule not of his own choosing...
but the mystery that never ages, the arousal of
his base metals, when the women looks upon him
with a intriguing askance, tasking a masking of an
invitational challenge, a whimsy expression of hither
confusion is the reigning ruler, mining for her actual
intentions, the push~pull of her contradictions and
her puzzling diction, impossible to interpret until I
admit, jingle jangle woman, I'll come following you
this is a familiar newness, a fresh candle lit for burning,
and every time is the first time, so there you have it,
I'm no ****** but born renewed, when the heated heart
quavers, with the anticipation of the known unknowns
and the old tears free falling, she finds its puzzling,
even troubling, till she grasps my smiling countenace,
and my head, two~handed embraced as she studies my line~age,
my map of wrinkled experiences that whisper yes, I understand
and she kisses my forehead, acknowledging acceptance that our
paths have never until now crossed, what a delightful surprise
will be the reading of a unexplored map of our conjoined palms,
the greatest wonder be that surprise has not died, and I
with one hand waving free, welcome it all, and she grins at my
exuberant silliness, and that we choose to be with each other, on
a treasure hunt for a poem as of yet unwritten, but so so wonderfull
comforting that its mere outline and its composition~completionition
familiarity speaks of the good things that experience has brought
and now, again, will yet bend time to our wills and what fun that
will be, defying odds, reliving new moments unique, hot created,
and this adventure reinstills the awe of wonder at familiar unknowns
*that early morn smell of
buttered brioche bread,
fresh, virginal,
like the sweat
we have shed
and laughs we,
just baked this
day*
Apr 8, 2025
Apr 8, 2025 at 7:43 PM UTC
There once was a man from Montana
Whose favoritest butter was canna:
He'd spread it on hotcakes
(Which made of them potcakes),
And add some sliced up banana.
Feb 25, 2025
Feb 25, 2025 at 11:49 PM UTC
I rendered a recipe
Of leftovers in my mind
That happen to be
Complete garbage
Of dysfunction.
Where do I begin
It began in my heart
Where I pulled out,
Longing for safety,
Dripping clotless
Rags that made up my frame
My apron stained red.
In the middle was observed
A town of hate
Lacerating the bowels
Of everything and anything
Leaving a mighty stink, mistaking it for butter.
Towards the end a drifting
Spice of malcontent
Sprinkled from the pores
Of harmless thinkers
To crisp the tenderloins
of affection.
The oven is preheated
Everyone a dark hot mess
Needed no thawing
As the goop of alienation
Makes everyone a witness
and a vulture
for a meal.
No matter how
un-schooled you are
Your neighbor shouting, the stranger drooling,
The cop beating, all have the same home-spun recipe and one main ingredient,
Human, baked at 325.
Resulting in
a deus ex machina.
Jan 14, 2025
Jan 14, 2025 at 7:37 PM UTC
Peanut butter sheets; she’s trying to jam
Me up, sometimes when we’re making love –
_But hey,_ we had a good laugh –
Our feelings;
Were never really bred so well from the start –
_But hey,_ these days she loves a slice of my love.
Every time I spread her open, whenever she butters me up –
_But hey,_ she’s my favourite flower, and my __Buttercup.__
Oct 29, 2024
Oct 29, 2024 at 12:54 PM UTC
There once was a man from Green Bay
Who made it a habit each day
To ****** an udder
While churning his butter,
Then go for a nap in the hay.
Oct 12, 2024
Oct 12, 2024 at 11:33 AM UTC
There are butter walls out there...
Sometimes salty, sometimes just wall
There are butter walls out there
But not all walls are butter,
And not all butters are wall
Some are circles
Some are in my sandwich
You love the butter walls
...Even when the butter walls don't like you
That's why these walls are made of butter
To cob the corn you eat
To melt when air is heat
Promise the water-bowls that cry
We'll live in the butter walls
To live a butter life
Sep 5, 2024
Sep 5, 2024 at 4:20 PM UTC
A vegetable sufficiently boiled
And buttered and salted and oiled
Can taste just like meat
Off a parakeet
Or platypus flambéed then broiled.
Apr 11, 2024
Apr 11, 2024 at 2:50 PM UTC
National mindsets self interested suffer
forms of dementia as the order all confessed,
demands of each a concentration of self worth,
you bet your soul, but only in the spirit,
step into the fray, say, let me lead you,
say let me take elected office,
democratic to the edges, being your voice
in a popularity contest, not an intellectual joust.
Tutelary deontology 101.
Governing is managing the labor. Ask the king.
Any flock in the system, governs itself.
Business is business.
Some arrangements are always secret. All
grown ups are in the business of war supplies.
Let your children's minds be at ease.
Trust the checks and balances history proves,
have never worked on balance, for the poor.
Get rich quick as one can imagine, on a bet.
War meets Peace, like it is the storm
that left Greenland, a legend until now.
Easily intreated innocense, who could know.
Prosaic first morning pizz to prime the pump.
How deep is the generational debt due to war?
How many bonds have been sold to pay interest?
How many times has the national debt ceiling failed?
You know.
Every time.
"Each major conflict in U.S. history
has been accompanied
by a sharp rise
in debt as the government raises funds
to pay for the fighting."
But laws do exist…
"Without a declaration of war
to put the country on a wartime economy,
Congress paid for Vietnam
by increasing the national debt.
Over the course of the conflict,
America's debt nearly doubled, growing
from approximately $317 billion in 1965
to $620 billion in 1976."
Now the debt is rising
on interest alone. No need for another war.
And America's trade balance is hinged,
on the point of war.
The ideal centermost irritant, war's hate pump,
pain expanded by generational trespass acts
likened unto the pea
under the stack of feathered beds,
or the bit of grit forcing oyster stress
that has made the misshapen pearl sold
to sovreign entities, those colors on the map,
these mental aggregations called nations,
by nationalist mind frame riveters,
foundational eye beams, remove before demoting,
ah, slow, riveted beams spanning ferro-concrete tech- think.
Building a reasoning trap, children,
ask your fathers to whom we owe our national debt.
Ask also who sells the weapons to the world at war.
Semper fi,
no offence, but… holy hate is as crazy as hungry hate.
A voice from a song, from nowhere,
you just could rethink, or did, that first time think
a bridge over troubled waters being a truly old good idea,
come to rescue you,
in the early days of Boomer parenthood… being grown ups,
we never missed a Disney Movie, though by then,
they were losing the gnostalgia, old knowns to be like so,
were no longer even imaginably so.
Old Yeller,
Childhood's end, the separation
from hearth felt comfort,
to the class rooms and hallways
of massive cold concrete schools… where on day one,
the child pledges with its cohort of coeducatables,
the ancient bond of aliegiance...
I pledged mine first in 1954, the year "under God" was added.
In the just now settling down towns along the great freeways,
there has been no peace on earth in my generation,
at the level of military minds in conflict caused by stories,
boys bred with old hates just waiting for a sigh-psignal
sci-revealed to those willing to become Jason Bourne,
to the best of your abilities, ring the bell, any time.
Welcome to the front. Sanity is on the line.
There is no conspiracy, we sell our souls for what money
can be demonstratively proven to allow and even augment.
War is all we sell. There is another game, it's a liar's game.
Many famous authorities have filled the space at the table.
Take your hat off, Bartholowmew, she does not understand you.
------------
Daily communication with myself,
one person, with no power to use
save the early cultural confidence;
sworn to tell the whole truth,
so help me, God. Yes, your honor.
Except we reactivate the curious why,
functionally suppressed during the standard
test taking by the proximate others
diligently filling in the blanks,
with graphite rounded just right, one swipe.
Except we see that hanging senselessly realized.
Each problem, one answer, not one option.
Only select correct answer.
Tell the child learning the pledge,
God is on our side, emphasize
how exceptional those who know so are,
extremely discriminatingly,
arranging the economy around
the great decussation at the air gap,
at the back of our national neck.
In this time,
thoughts and prayers, we hear
spoken of as easily done,
almost without thoughts, who
responds?, who, has ever responded
to the said to be going out constantly
thoughts and prayers, asking truth
to intervene and call the liars liars?
God is not angry, nor without resources,
according to the cultures now at war--
¿
Whose mortgage was not paid with earnings
from war readiness industrial complexes?
Whose talent was left with the userers,
because the Bible says y'sposed to earn interest?
Whose 401K deflated to oops?
Business begins with informed agreements.
Let's make a deal.
No killing, stealing nor needless destruction.
Minds join eye to eye, one mindwise agreed,
we become an entity, a being essential
to the parts, a mind in harmony, rank and file.
Greedy men with no agreement. Hmm, who loses?
Line up, not by rank, single file, fall in,
first and following, get in on the end,
and wait for the circle to close,
re done dances, life going wild as
we celebrate our circle, we sing of it
being unbroken in the sweet by and by…
The land of those who talk back to El,
yes, yes, we do, to honor Iyobe,
who first called for the Daysman,
who first
told reality, with all it's evil potential,
you cannot not be true, you know, in form
as spirit and truth containable in words, logos,
logos of all o-logies,
so powerful as to allow, in fact, cause, new mindforms,
species of thoughts that function as a system to make
sense, discernible, bits of valuation determinable in agreement.
--------------
Contractual obligations religiously adhered to
just between us, we take advantage for the nation's sake.
Madrassahs and aliegiance pledges set habits hard to break.
Set the cost of goods, lower than replacement cost of the price.
What does it cost a state to rear a warrior class individual
that self replenishes?
What does it cost me to scatter confusion in profuse create-ifity?
So, add a proper tip,
and pay the cost to ride this line to the next re-entering angle.
Middle east,
cauldron of all the holy empires thus far into the age
of entertainment so vast,
wise men can imagine, some day
there will be a war, and no parents will have
offered children to the infantry or made
righteous indignation acceptable national pride to **** for.
There Hamas, holy brainwashed haters of hatefulness.
Repents and perishes the very thought of peace.
Repay in kind, here, swear undying obediance,
fear not death, this is Allah's Promise, die killing Jews,
turns on the monstrous virgins awaiting you…
in post mortal walled places,
where the oldest civilizations occurred,
as God's great idea, I'll
empty the center of me, and seep
back in through fractured rationality
along trade routes between Africa and
the forested north above the desert.
Me, there, in mental efforting, thinking
thoughts, not prayers, but wishes, hopes,
thoughts that prayers attach to, as evidence.
"Ask and ye shall receive."
Love those who call you enemy, can you?
Face me, Mr. Nobody, the essence of other,
I declare peace, where none is, and you laugh.
No ritual, no enchantments with promise,
no sacred making of secular deaths, just
just just adjust the justice aspect, blame
the holy haters whose God dispenses vengeance,
at the behest of warriors fitted with military minds.
As when holy Americans gather to offer military aid,
blessed by the congregations alerted to intercede,
on the side that denies Jesus was God,--- ah, both sides,
in this case…
whither turn we, do we face Mecca, or Jerusalem,
or Petra or … Sol or Luna, all our enculturated faith,
blinks, a lense clarifying effort, rub the crust
of sleep fallen into while mourning, unsealing eyes
to see again, a war between two national identities,
both with warrior glory emulation traditions,
one with money as first de-fence, the other with hate,
nothing less than pure hatred, Cain to Able, sorry bro.
Old mean spirits.
If the hate can live in any man, wombed or un, it will.
Willingness to hate enough to **** a stranger, will
manifest as holy terror… enough to make Jesus weep.
--- and those were a few of the local thoughts made prayer,
seemingly automatically, as mysterious as most final secrets.
Part three, deeper, faster, harder… or not
Doings in the dark, are done by feel.
One, you or I, or some other sapien
augmented with the messiah's mind, feels the need for the deed.
Take the message from Garcia.
Mystic experience in story realms,
holding all the visions taken raw,
as revealed… as when a curtained
entry way is opened for inspection,
are we ideas in bodies?
are all ideas spirit in form?
Inhale an intuited absence of evil,
breathe the air of answered prayer.
Imagine that, let fly the idea of you,
beloved individuated potential saint.
Here is your sentimental inner edge,
your gnosis pressed flat as you see in.
The edge of this bubble, is distant
only to the holy cloaked in asceticism,
twisting wicks
for someday light in someday night,
circulate one way then the other,
rethinking perfected emptiness,
there are no others, up or down,
to and fro, vectors tie targeted states,
spider kites form single ray classic webbing,
slim banner, a flag unraveled long since.
Follow me, I say to me, follow me,
I say to you, saying back, I am not you.
My option.
Turn on, sit back and watch,
evolving cave wall interesting hooks,
look around, nothing interesting, eh?
Television as imagined by petrified apes,
during peak-info preservation history,
when men like Franklin and Voltaire,
met to share secret meanings of things.
Previous to any whole story
that remains, as when any mind mistakes
tzimtzum inside as first occurrence,
total emptiness, pre space, one time
this instant accepted as audience
in true gaseous we form, auto informing
the vegetable phaze passed eons ago, life
tells tales too esoteric for novices
to notice, in the ideal state, active
imagining, as with a child's mind, yours
since ever was, so far as you may wish
to remember,
a time when the state was deemed
comforting and beauty filled, chaotic
process of floating lipids, in form of air,
light has not dawned on us, we are
night scene setters of settings, nodes
of potential anything you can imagine,
level with me, even, straight, right… yes it
is the optional meandering mind engine,
an idol, or a daimon, madness of sorted
degrees, a little bit off the charts, sorted
out.
Not in, the bubble being becomes,
when one emerges in a self…
subtle is good, right, we agree?
Jesus, before Christianity, as a kid,
instructed with his cousin John,
likely by his temple servant uncle.
That can be imagined, projected
on the outerwall
of this bubble we be in.
At the moment,
on an Earth wired
for sound, elephants agreeing to meet,
to follow the pilgrimage, pilgrim beings
activated by stark necessity successful
to this degree…
by the reader's time's
at tension, pull
release
snap back, at what ifery, at once, push
most bottom centered point once sitting
in raw time thought processing, in
and out, efforting
- slightly off, not fully on
uncomfortable impression of holy
you better get better or else. Holy
blank slate, bubble pop, soft wow
Now, we're in the swirl, in the spin
toward, froward lips sealed, golden
silence,
subtler than any beast, creature,
living thing in the ruliad, am I? No.
BUT, you know, those penance prayers,
given you as a child, enchantments,
as with all your renouncements of evil
and pledges under God, in your child mind.
Look. To your own self, be true.
You still have private interpretation access
to your child mind.
If you put your worried mind to work
on some thought too deep to ponder then,
The idea of punishment by the Creator
of all that is not God, but was deemed good,
by God, because I said so, said the father,
in the child mind.
To know good and evil knowledge,
that talent, initial mark on our blank slate,
to know, not what you know, but ask
your child mind, how does it feel,
flat on your back gasping as others laugh,
and your child mind blooms an entire eon
- just to catch a breath takes for ever
and there were others, the whole family
of mankind of your kind, to your child mind,
stood laughing at your attempt to perform
a first flight, from an edged bet with an
I think I can virus perpetuated in ever after,
since mind made time make sense in chaos.
Instantly, things start to take shapes, in mind.
Non sense. Since. Processing time. Go.
Instants out of mind, in atari.
Fog of unknowns. I used to play the game.
Not really, only, one off thought forms,
cloudlike in symmetry, no clear tongue
and groove, fitting our pro-posed… pose
supposed, to listen and while listening,
learn the use of any knowing, can be
taken as granted possibility by your self.
- distant sound of light sabers actuation
Your blame and shame catcher, out front,
as we steam ahead across the gap,
thoughts made prayers must leap.
Keep your eyes on the prize, three
walnuts and a split pea with a hair, fine
infant hair, see it there, your old minds eye.
The unveiling of an artifice, an angle
greater than straight, from this point…
a re-entrant angle, like a point, banked shot.
in
Oct 10, 2023
Oct 10, 2023 at 6:45 PM UTC
Bittersweet, honest conversations
Chocolate and coffee on the side, is this our destination?
My dear as you speak, chills run down my spine
Thoughts of you, turn into butterflies as the moonlight shines
Bread and butter,
Silly little fights
Stay seated at the afterglow my Romeo
Oh! silly little fights end with kisses holding you tight
My chosen one, you're my gorgeous pink skies
The butter to our bread, as it gets dark
My hyped dopamine, kissing my birthmark
Up all night, you’re my greatest adventure
*
Fortune telling, as I dive into your golden clouds
My brown eyes lay out our future
Even if the dream ends, don't wake me up.
Magic armour, aren't you the warrior?
No more suffering, lessons were learned,
Love walls, stakes high, hand in hand, jumping blind
Hold on to the touch, I’m yours at last
The topic is forever swimming in violet grass
Wake me up every morning to the melody of your voice
Let my heart speak as my tongue wrapped tight
Smiles in between kisses, forever intertwined
Stars look like butterflies, heart's divine
Can't finish my reader
Emotions lost my words
Rosey lips locked, shivers as you look into my eyes
Forever, for eternity, forgotten lies
Love for always, a love that's true.
By Zoulaikha
Sep 29, 2023
Sep 29, 2023 at 11:35 AM UTC
_Time is as smooth as butter_
Man tries to control it
with a rusty butter knife
"His desire is blunt,
but still he'd cut himself"
_man's timely death of high cholesterol!_
Apr 18, 2023
Apr 18, 2023 at 5:03 PM UTC
The perfect amount of salt
It dissolves in my mouth
Melting on my pancakes
Complimented with sugary flakes
Dipped in syrupy lakes
My fruit salad with grapes
Bananas and apples too
It's too yummy to be true
While butter is still melting
I dig in, it tastes overwhelming
~12/5/21
May 12, 2021
May 12, 2021 at 5:00 AM UTC
This is tyranny,
this is malicious,
this is undeniably done out of contempt.
The ire of this man cannot be expressed.
This is gluttony,
this is sinful,
take your coins and feed on the poor.
Sleep at night.
In the peaceful hours of dawn,
don’t blink and eye,
for I have ****** of my mind.
Mar 23, 2021
Mar 23, 2021 at 9:12 PM UTC
You slid into my life,
easy as a knife through butter.
not like margarine,
of that I'm less keen
hanging out with you... ****** Nora
it's as easy as flowers via inter-Flora
You butter believe I'm here to stay
we're about half-way
and by this point, I'm sure you'll say
you wrote me a poem,
but I can't believe its not butter.
so come on Flynn...
Lurpak it in.
Feb 14, 2021
Feb 14, 2021 at 1:22 PM UTC
I am simply a lemon
I like to think I’m sweet
But I am just a sour soul that you can never eat
I am simply a lemon
with bright happy yellow skin
But, on the inside I am just a sin
Add a bit of sugar and I’ll be bitter sweet
But once the sugar fades away your destin for defeat
I am not a sweet little boy
I’m sour as can be
Why am I a lemon and not a strawberry
Jan 28, 2021
Jan 28, 2021 at 4:41 PM UTC
Turn the lights on,
so you can see my body
shimmering,
glazed by the honey shea cocoa butter.
Like a crystal reflecting the vanilla notes of the sweet somethings floating off of your tongue.
I come to you, eyes focused on yours.
You mean so much to me,
enough for me to expose my body.
Look at me,
Tell me, what do you see...
I don't usually crave milk chocolate,
the warm and hypnotic taste,
pouring down my throat,
into my spirit.
I can't help it right now,
Because you have my hips in your grip,
Rocking and falling,
swinging and calling
baby
baby
I feel intoxicated in this honey shea cocoa butter.
I bite my lip,
and I reach in for a kiss
slipping,
sliding,
my mouth and yours,
reaching for each other,
to get closer
Caressing your body,
with my fingers,
writing love tones with my features
Trailing your art with my words,
writing them all with my tongue,
down
down
down
you're looking at me,
but not with just your eyes
exposed,
Your body's staring back at me too
shimmering with the honey shea cocoa butter
I didn't use to be this way
At least not with anyone else
But then you touched my soul
So Let me touch yours too
Shamed by my body for so long,
scars,
marks,
a healing broken heart.
Walls built by the past,
I didn't think I'd meet a soul that could get through the last
But you're a surprise
Looking at me
A hot chocolate serenity,
Love bites,
******* on your skin,
let me in
I want to touch your soul too
Let's make love, like a love poem can do
Dec 16, 2020
Dec 16, 2020 at 12:44 PM UTC
When I first discovered hot buttered toast I caught a glimpse of heaven.
I was 15 and visiting friends.
I had only been allowed stork margerine at home and had grown to tolerate it.
But that was a poor reflection of the real thing.
Now I knew heaven:
Standing by the toaster, with tea in a mug and hot, butter-dripping toast.
Apr 12, 2020
Apr 12, 2020 at 4:18 PM UTC
hot butter strolls down my face
and rolls down my nose
dribbles down my chin
and spatters the floor
the lustrous linoleum
i cry tears of sugar
it tastes much too sweet
as they mix with my thoughts
and pour into the cracked bowl
the jaded green memory
my hands are matted with white
and caked with delight
but it's a less-than-pleasant mess
i've used too much
it called for just a teaspoon
Sep 27, 2019
Sep 27, 2019 at 2:52 PM UTC
how to make ghee
how to to clarify,
place the salt free butter in pan
turn the heat on very low,
then just listen............
first,
silence--
then sounds of drizzling rain for a while grow
to a creek starting to flow
then hear the steady rain pelting on leaves
(if it starts to sound like popcorn,
maybe turn the heat down),
then let the rain keep
trodding, until
it gets quieter
and quieter
and quiet
then
turn
off
flame,
the
ghee
is
ready
strain,
and
bottle
Sep 20, 2019
Sep 20, 2019 at 1:49 PM UTC
If I want
_flour, water, yeast, and churned cream_
I’ll consult a dictionary;
If I want
_a loaf of raised hopes which she spread thinly with the charity of others_
I’ll read a novel;
If I want
_unleavened lassitude, greasy with the guilt of neglected privilege_
I’ll write poetry.
Jul 6, 2019
Jul 6, 2019 at 9:22 PM UTC