#spaghetti
Daddy does spaghetti face
it's that time again when daddy
starts making his spaghetti face and
we all know what that means
- Who's excited for Daddy's special spaghetti sauce?!
The answer is we are louder WE ARE
yes we really are so excited
oh daddy don't make that disappointed face
we do so want your spaghetti cooked to
perfection in the special salted water
at the precise temperature in the special ***
with a **** of butter salted and another secret
sprinkle we're not permitted to witness
Dear daddy with your special sauce that only you know
how to make and everyone agrees is the best
the richest the tastiest daddy sauce
no we're not making a face we look forward
to this day once a year when mummy
goes away for a little rest
May 24
May 24, 2026 at 8:49 AM UTC
always plenty of mindful food
for starving for-attention+affection
poets,
threw up a whole lot of poems,
to get them climatized properly,
no worries, hundreds more
squirreled away,
come Thanksgiving they’ll be
properly aged, and some will
yet be sticking to the ceiling,
a time we call, hehehe,
The End of the Fall
no worries you vegans,
they are unaccompanied~
children, no meatballs
attached, at least none
weighing more than a pound
Nov 1, 2025
Nov 1, 2025 at 4:21 PM UTC
The soul aches
numbs the brain
Pictures float away of women
crying, laughing, ironing sheets
thinking about jobs and ***
finding work and
cooking cheap spaghetti
Playing with malnourished children
recovering from trauma, turmoil
turbulence, schizophrenia
from wombing life and giving
garlands with open hands
Copyright © Ghairo Daniels | Year Posted 2012
Sep 26, 2025
Sep 26, 2025 at 2:49 AM UTC
love my spaghetti
love my spaghetti mind oh
yah the spaghetti
May 5, 2022
May 5, 2022 at 5:03 AM UTC
based on the essay in the notes below
which was forwarded to me by Liz Balise
<>
*all poems and their accompaniment sauces commence with onions,
that start by fouling the air, bringing forth only unrestricted tearings,
but then...
the slow cooking elicits the sugars hid within,
the unpleasant odor, refined into something
minted new sweet and savory.
so too, the poem must simmer, slow cooked,
harmonizing the caramelizing,
even if some ingredients
claim the first born birthright of the eldest first essential,
despite the collective harmonizing.
the ripened color of the blood red tomatoes,
the ruddy cheery sanguinity of
certain words in each poem,
are the coloration of its entirety -
the ones your never forgive for never letting you forget them!
what matters not but how, the daring to substitute the new how,
how you chef see it and color it with the crazy way how
you beckon us over one by one to the big *** for a tasting
accepting critiques and suggestions, a thousand pinches
of your salty sweet essences.
and the recipe is dog stained and pointy corner ear-edged,
cause you cannot exactly write it down, and you bend the corner
for every substitution and variation,
cause every poem
made to taste the how of us,
each one a subtle different.
everyone understands metaphor,
even the society of the reticent ones in the back row,
just say the “trapdoor of depression” and they’ll nod knowingly,
so say to them a poem is a metaphor for you,
and spaghetti sauce is how you see, recreate in words,
how you need to add an ingredient of yourself
to this one,
a word, a phrase, becomes you,
becoming you in it,
in you,
you in it are both poet and poem,
a simmering new and different*
————————————————————————-
A Well Written Essay— The Spaghetti Sauce Method
As a teacher and a learner, I have always wanted to see the "nuts and bolts" of everything. Yes, it slows the process down, but the learning is more complete, and a person becomes capable of making endless connections of understanding, branching to other creative possibilities. Writing like dancing, and all that is worth learning, deserves all of the pieces and steps of the process.
I remember telling my students every year that grammar could indeed be a dry bone, but necessary in the process of good communication. Told them that I would teach writing by the "spaghetti sauce method" (Visualize their perplexed faces here.). "A well-written essay should be like a really good sauce-- smooth, fine textured, with a complete harmony of meat, sweet, tomato, and seasonings-- not one overpowering the others, but all in marvelous union of great flavor and aroma."
I continued, giving the example of my mother's
(God rest 'er) Irish spaghetti sauce" as a contrast. "Mama would throw in onions, peppers (if she had ‘em), hamburger, salt and pepper, fry it all in corn oil, and mix with two cans of plain tomato sauce. This was all okay with me," I went on,“ till I experienced the epiphany of garlic, basil, oregano, pork neck bones and a cup of wine; in the kitchen of an Italian neighbor, who walked me through the process and ingredients of real Italian sauce that was simmered for hours."
I continued to nudge them with the comparison: "Excellent writing is more than talent and passion, otherwise a tirade of curses, knotted ideas, and copied paragraphs of someone else would always do.” "No," I went on, "It is clear thought, captured, slow-cooked in the labor of mind and understanding— and in good time, expressed, in a way that others can comprehend -- with great attention to the cardinal rule: It is not as much WHAT you say-- but HOW you say it."
Through the year I focused on one or two aspects of better writing at a time for each paper. It was an uphill battle, often teaching against the mediocrity of the expectations in the PA State Standards of Assessment. It would add ten hours to my work week to grade and comment on a set of a 115 papers.
Jan 28, 2018
Jan 28, 2018 at 3:52 PM UTC
days strange
like spaghetti without taste
Dec 8, 2019
Dec 8, 2019 at 11:42 AM UTC
shaved my head again last night,
watched empire records and saw deb and shaved my head again last night.
ate spaghetti, my best friend got into college
my best friend got into college and we ate spaghetti and shaved my head again
we shaved my head again cause we watched empire records and i saw deb and i saw deb shave her head and i thought that looks awesome
so we ate spaghetti
and she got into college,
she’s already in college but she got into a different college
so i made her spaghetti and we watched empire records
and we watched empire records
and ate spaghetti
and she shaved my head cause we watched empire records
and now she’s going to college
a different college
she’s already in college
she’s going to a different college
i didn’t text that dude
i didn’t text that dude, and he didnt text me
i saw his girlfriend on instagram
his girlfriend posted on instagram and i saw it
a picture of that dude
i was maybe going to text him
i was maybe
going to text him
but then i saw his girlfriend
on instagram i saw his girlfriend
his girlfriend posted on instagram
a picture of that dude
so i didn’t text that dude
cause i saw his girlfriend
i woke up and my cats were on me and my arm was asleep
my arm was asleep
my arm was asleep cause my cats were on me
my cats, both of them,
two of them, my cats
were on it, one of them, one of my arms,
both of my cats
both of my cats were on one of my arms
Dec 12, 2018
Dec 12, 2018 at 3:17 PM UTC
the noodles are elegant, lovely and fair,
i see now there's a reason
why you're called angel hair.
buttery smooth, and golden light reflection
it's strikingly radiant
the epitome of perfection.
the sauce is as red as my cheeks
when one is deeply in love,
far higher than a mountain peak.
look, it flies in the saucepan
alluring is not a word to describe,
but truly, it's so hot, it needs a fan.
the meatballs are spheres of joy
what geometry could calculate its area?
though it ignores me, i tell it to not play coy.
how lovely the ringing sounds of sizzles,
light my ear with fireworks unheard,
oh, how my feelings are a shizzling!
oh spaghetti, my love, my joy, my life,
it's unnatural to see my tears fall on the plate.
you are my happiness, my leftover bowl of strife.
i mourn when there is none left
for breakfast in the morning,
but i dream of you when i go to bed.
Nov 15, 2018
Nov 15, 2018 at 10:31 AM UTC
Warm sauce
as hot as my blood
splattered all over the floor.
Spit out,
puked up,
you slammed my head on the floor.
Mop up or eat it.
You used my mopped head to clean it.
Ever since then, I couldn't eat spaghetti again.
Oct 22, 2018
Oct 22, 2018 at 1:25 PM UTC
She told me that she never had real spaghetti before.
Of course she's had spaghetti before but not in the sense that made it worthwhile.
When I asked why she replied that it didn't feel real.
That in a sense it was pasta.
She always broke the noodles when she made it.
She developed a fear that everything would boil over and catch fire.
That part of the noodles would be too crunchy.
All of it would never fit in the ***
Her mother always broke the noodles so it just became habit.
In the same breath.
She told me at least once,
That she'd like to twirl the noodles around the fork.
The complete taste and feel of what makes it spaghetti.
The cheese blending into the sauce.
The big ball of noodles just wrapping around the fork waiting to be bit.
When I asked about the meatballs she laughed,
She was vegetarian
Jun 2, 2018
Jun 2, 2018 at 3:33 PM UTC
I am not here now.
Not available,
Absent. Not present.
Hijacked,
Held hostage,
Tied up in a tangled web
Of locks and chains.
Trapped,
Houdini like,
In a cage and thrown
Into the turbulent waters
Of my shark infested mind.
****** in by a
Whirlpool of stories,
My thoughts spin
Epic myths,
Fantastical tales,
Dark fantasies and
Cheap thrillers.
Each teasing,
taunting and
goading me
To disconnect,
Shutdown,
To flee from
This moment.
This tender,
Aching moment.
This unashamed longing,
Drenched in the desire
To be penetrated by
Your presence,
To free fall into
The lap of the Beloved.
But you, like me,
Are not here now,
Not available,
Absent. Not present.
May 14, 2018
May 14, 2018 at 3:42 PM UTC
My brain is a bowl of spaghetti
I can be turned with a greedy hand
And a rusty fork
Eating my thoughts
From an unwashed container
Please stop eating.
I don’t think I can afford
To lose another fork-full
another strand of memory
Let alone
Be mixed up
With the other ingredients
Poured into my skull
It seems I’m getting sloppy.
Refills are impossible
Because the more I try to stuff inside
The more the contents overflow
And the threads of words
Come spilling out
When I beg them not to
Well.
I hate contradicting myself
But without anyone eating
And without room for refills
The nutrients inside
Will begin to rot
And disintegrate
Into nothing but molded mulch
So everything I try to retain
Will be useless
and inedible
The filth accumulates.
Insanity will be the smell of my mind
It will control my every action
A single whiff
Strong enough
To lower the IQ of a genius
I’m losing myself.
I’d try to explain it
In understandable terms
But it seems the correct words
Were lost
when I was bitten into
And scattered
when I overflowed
This is what I tried to describe before:
My head is a box of noodles
I can be dented with a pinky finger
And a dull knife
Tasting my dreams
From a…
Hm.
Sorry.
What were we talking about?
Jan 13, 2018
Jan 13, 2018 at 12:27 PM UTC
My life's shoelaces are always a little loose.
At any moment I could come undone
and trip over my own two feet.
Fall headlong
with my hands tied behind my back
with the ropes of yesterday,
whose knots are tangled and frayed
like my nerves.
I clench my fists
like ***** of fire could escape them
to keep me straight,
but I feel my feet become boulders
and it becomes harder to lift them
with my spaghetti legs.
The weight in my mind
sandwiches my heart between
it and the rocks
and I eyeball the river and think
wouldn't it be so easy?
Apr 26, 2017
Apr 26, 2017 at 3:23 PM UTC
My belly is filled with the sweet spaghetti
Helps to releive you of your regretti.
Eat spaghetti when you are sore
Its tomato sauce will fill your core.
When you are have woes or filled with sorrow
Spaghetti will carry you to tomorrow.
An amazing euphoric meal
So good you will have to kneel.
The waiter brings me a second bowl
I need more to feel whole.
the bowl arrives but alas,
the garlic bread seems to have passed.
The garlic bread is an essential piece
give to me to maintain the peace!
I wake up in a holding cell
with blood on my hands
it seems I killed all the mans.
I'm given life without parole
seems ill be spending time in the hole.
But I have no regretti
for I did it all for the spaghetti.
Mar 21, 2017
Mar 21, 2017 at 11:04 AM UTC
It's times like these when you look to the rest of your life and say, "what am I supposed to do with this", so you throw it at a wall and see if it sticks. Because life is far too long and far too hard, and at a snail's pace we don't get very far.... it's like regression to childhood; being lost in a large neighborhood, and uncertain of which turn to take- that's every **** choice you make. There's no way to know how to make it better, we just keep walking and getting wetter as the storm gets harder and we get farther from finding answers......
The spaghetti test in terms of life, I suppose, a way to see if all this strife is worth the outcome we seek. Because life is definitely NOT for the meek. Those who abandon heart will never see the light, for life requires such a fight. But unlike pasta growing soft in water, if we wish to persist we have to be stronger- and throwing life to see if it sticks only works if we cease and desist at trying to remain hard and fast, and pushing up against coming last.
Dec 2, 2016
Dec 2, 2016 at 1:20 AM UTC
Men of Reason: bold, progressive
hammer wielders, depth resounders –
shout from the helm your Godless missive
as our Bible-lifeboat flounders.
Send that Flying Spaghetti Monster,
our imaginary friend,
to the myth-conception dumpster:
let the Bronze Age folktales end.
Make the idols bow to Science.
Your progressive task: to mock –
seek that end in brave defiance.
Down with the shepherd’s useless flock !
Laser-focused human reason
serves to clarify the matter,
strips the symbols from the season,
superstitious tales to shatter.
We, mere rubes in need of crutches,
simple children, willing tools –
must be rescued from the clutches
of the fables preached to fools.
Seamless garments, bushes burning:
are but schemes for fleecing sheep…
We are plebes devoid of learning;
rouse our silly souls from sleep!
Flood us with your noontide wisdom
decimate the weaker link.
Blow away our card-house kingdom
show us Christards how to think.
Then, like you, we shall no longer
cling to ignorance and lies.
Missing links make chains yet stronger,
dragging fairies from the skies.
We shall join you in assurance
that there is no great beyond
thus no need for fire insurance
clergy, staff or magic wand.
We shall celebrate together
joyful, freed from superstition
endless, godless sunny weather:
non-existent non-perdition.
Having thus improved the light
and magnified Man’s modern day,
God’s angels will expire in fright;
the Lord shall meekly fade away.
Sep 9, 2015
Sep 9, 2015 at 8:34 PM UTC
Love goes for his guns,
**But Apathy's too **** quick.**
Jun 5, 2015
Jun 5, 2015 at 11:44 PM UTC
(SE01EP01)
Showing up late
Was worth the wait
I just can't stand it
I was made to believe
Low battery
What can I do?
Patience
How long?
"Please be seated."
According to my legs
But then from afar
I've just seen a face
And I realize
I'm high and lucky
The good times
That night was;
We all had this ten
When I almost reached heaven
We all had this ten
Maybe we should do this more often
May 27, 2015
May 27, 2015 at 10:51 AM UTC
In the dark
Listening to linkin park
In the steam
browsing dank memes
-break-
rickity rickity
bickity bickity
i am from hungary
follow me on the twitti
@spahgetti
May 14, 2015
May 14, 2015 at 8:48 PM UTC
Blind is he who detracts
from the presence of carbon
and hydrogen fused
like twigs in a bird's nest
As the glow from the sky
weakens at dusk
so does the chutzpah of the feeble
weaken with doubt
Lines drawn with chalk may wither
But lines drawn with utmost knowledge
lingers like dried noodles
on the inside of a ***
As fall resides and winter is looming
The souls of doubters
wander without seeing guidance
The true believers shall never starve
From the first to the last
The righteous sally forth together
No journey too treacherous
Let there be garlic bread
Nov 20, 2014
Nov 20, 2014 at 3:34 PM UTC
A good metaphor for life is a man trying to eat soup out of a spaghetti strainer
He goes super fast
Cause hes trying to get the good stuff
But no matter how much he gets
He just ends up with a bunch of soup off over his pants
And then he dies of old age eventually
I am not good at metaphors.
Sep 29, 2014
Sep 29, 2014 at 8:42 PM UTC