We are heating up
A-glow--- A-star--- A-blaze
Many other well-lit planets
She's luminous like no other
Simply crazed__Fairytales

*She's Peach-Fruitti-Tutti
Godiva loves nuts
All the melt in's
*Mr. Bacio-Hazelnut*
Mr. Pistacchio he got his nose______
Inside their sweets____Pinnochio
She's the Light-up Icecream Cone  

Moods are like ice cubes
hot and cold websites
I prefer cold zone
Feeling like
Eskimo in Alaska

Miss Prima Donna
Oh! Donna is her name
Gelatos are not all the same
We are not here to have
special privileges

Robin lost some ruffles
Polar bears ice Igloo
College boys with their sports mug
Polo shirts Santa hoo duffle bags
We don't know what she knows
or what he likes the stars
of the Cosmo we are not
here to win someone's love
OH! Yes Lotto

We are not professors or wizards
Harry Potters, they have some
Pots not a fan of pans got
some ****
**** so cool menthol smoke indeed
Around the Gelato in eighty days
The Race of a drive
computer clicks one-day creation flag
Hens and chicks laid the golden egg

Mr. Egghead meeting Conehead

His tasters choice  
 She loves Mr. Maxwell Mansion
This is Italy the Art sculptures
Sweet Gelato lips say a
thousand words of pleasure
We travel with Exotic lovebirds
Saving the Ice blue diamond
Icecream wreck what a she
gains more than a pound
Mama Mia,
not the Chia job plant
 Over the rainbow
chill out pants
Having Gelato clean
as mint float

To the waffle cone top
of the mountain sugar coat
Niagara Falls here
"Gelato calls"

What spaghetti my name is
Carretti
Mr. Alfredo his physique and
passion for food
Feeling like the comics
Having fun marveling
Carvel walking through
the love tunnel
  
Hot ladies how do they ever
Decide iced up inside

Hothead Alfredo throws
the dough
She coughs he laughs
The pizza everyone's
the head is turning beet red
Something is burning exorcist,
Lady in red pizza list

Back in Brooklyn best
Pizza and Italy (Rome) Venice (Florence)
But Bensonhurst Saturday night fever
With Nightingale Mr. Chippendale
He's chatting away on his cell phone

With her Gelato looking at the
stars of the men spiritual experience
The Cosmos feeling meltdown presence
St Thomas sunny like yellow
gelato melting

Being a saint please don't faint
A food critic dessert
*** a hex playful flirt
T Rex mighty green lime
The love fallout of coconut
He's the hottest man
on earth Pluto
Being whole flavor or 1/2 pint
of Vanilla Sky scholar or
Intermission Icecream internship
The Canadian cup another trip

  Nike air what an ice cream pair
Going back to New York City
Rockettes icecream kick
He's on his time feeling the royalty
Lets bow to the dogs best friend
French barrette in her ice blue
Corvette, she is 'Ice Queen"
Super Ice me, Hero

Do what the Romans do
Lend me your warm soul of hands
Getting married Italian medieval rings
For my next Gelato adventure
escape be polite on Google
Mr. Alfredo loves all kinds of noodle
The shape of Cone's to come in her head

Not an Antman, please or fly by night
Icecream Cone Head Batman
*But I am a woman named Robin
Christopher Robin, Robin Hood
Why are boys and girls name alike
**** good humor lady
Good humor truck
Where is her order head chef
shrimp scampi
In the islands of Sorrento

What a time for ironing
What a waffle shirt eating
his waffle
Icecream with ladybugs and dirt
So many varieties mental thing
Everything icecream you scream
What a college Varsity every year  
"Hot lady Gelato's" head of the dean
list oh! No
[Mr. Alfredo} ice cream chair with
another Gelato pair
Chiao for now

My idea of a good morning is at six AM
when two cases of fettuccine alfredo,
captured by the gravity of this planet,
dive for the white speckled tile.
Trying to **** me.
Glass, alfredo, smell of cheap pasta in the air.
I look around
sigh
delicately begin to pick up glass.
Tiny shards make my skin their home.
My leather boots have never encountered such a substance.
Oh fettuccine, sweet fettuccine
I will never consume again.

When you ask the right question and get the answer you hoped wouldn't come
When you find the truth and it's what you wished you'd never see
You can feel it in the back of your mind
The tension
That feeling in your head that things aren't what you thought and they probably never were
It's something you gotta sweat out before it clogs up your brain and your heart
All learning is alleviation of tension
All decisions too
You can't run from it and you shouldn't want to
In dialectics you have thesis, antithesis, and synthesis
What is, why it shouldn't, and what must come next

I promise that I'll never come to a final conclusion about what Anarchism really means
Because anarchy means standing up for your neighbors
Anarchy means letting the people you care about have the choice to not have you in their life
Anarchy means embracing what you love even when it kills you
And maybe it's up to me to make each day worth living
To get out of bed and have a good reason for doing so
Because some of us have to carry the baggage of being awake each day
And some of us live their days painfully sober carrying the pain of emotions unhindered
But the pain I feel now is as meaningless as the imaginary lines that separate countries or the flags that fly over them
My pain is meaningless compared to the knowledge I stepped back so that you could live life according to what you want
Because being an anarchist means living life in accordance to what you think
And that's always been hard for me
For once I knew exactly what I wanted
But I also knew deep down you weren't ever as sure as I was
And here we return to the tension
The tension that has kept me up a few nights and forced be to go on long walks until my feet hurt instead of my heart
The tension that left me feeling like nothing, but not in the way Max Stirner intended it
So instead of hiding this tension or letting it eat away at me like so many times before
I have to live according to what I think
So we have the thesis: looking for stars through a wall of clouds and the hope I had in my heart
The antithesis: uncertainty and a sentimental past two steps ahead of me
The synthesis: Realizing that I need to let you go

Alfredo Alfresco was born
In tesco's,
Right by the self service
Checkout.
It's an act from beyond.
(God's always been, well,
A bit peroxide blonde)
As to why,we haven't
Enough much information
To say.
After all, meanings can
Move in a mysterious way.

Giovanni the Pizza Guy (Pronounce "a" as "uh")



Giovanni,you make a de savory tomato

and de thicka white creamy alfredo

you are a de pizza guy, amor'e

Si', I make a de homemade paste

she's a richer for you taste

and that's a part of my story.

I make a de pizza pie

I make a it to please

you wanna de pepperoni

or you wanna de plain cheese ?

I am a you waiter I take a you order

when you food-she a comes

she make a you mouth water

I make a de perfect pizza

in me you should a trust

you wanna de thicka or de thinna crispy crust?

I can make a spagetti or make a zucchini

butta for you , I make a linguine

I can make a de sauce red

I can make a it white

after you taste-you wanna more bite

I make a de spagetti -she's a made a with love

I cook a real slow you order ahead ;

or you take a to go.

I putta de stuff on de top

I give a you wine or a some pop

Uno momento, will you please

I must a cut a de cheese

I am a you pizza guy to make a you pizza pie

Why must a you stay a at home

when a you can a dine a in a Rome ?

I save a you a table

I tell a you a fable

I fill a you pants

I make a you dance

I make a de sauce thick

I make a de sauce thin

I make a you laugh

I make a you grin !

Si', Please a come a back ; see a Giovanni again!

CHOW FOR NOW, BELLISIMA !

emma, 13 years old.
alfredo, 61.

emma: hi grandpa nice to see you what's your wifi-password?

alfredo: i don't have wifi.

emma: written altogether?

We made chicken fettuccine alfredo.
I don't really know what food has to do
with death, but
we made chicken fettuccine alfredo.

strawberry frenchfries dipped in chocolate fondue.
cry me an 8 oz cup of water when i step on you with my giant blue shoe.
dance through the forest with gnomes stapled to your shoulders.
hide your foil gum wrappers in manila folders.
left and right. front to back,
oxygen in the atmosphere may lack.
pluto and jupiter intertwine when night falls.
orange and green leather sewn to your ragdoll.
licking the excess frito crumbs from under your fingernails,
eyes pealed to the scenery of wacky inmates in jail.
selfish yellow and blue fish yelling at dr. seuss,
reading books in sunrooms drinking orange juice.
camera flashes and ripped dollar bills,
making chocolate pancakes on top of cherry hills.
hazy eyes drowning into a dream,
winter nights as cold as ben&jerrys; ice cream.
red hand chasing numbers on a clock,
movement of legs turns muscles into rock.
acid drops from black heart clouds falling onto driveways.
little kids on scooters munching on happy meals while saddened by the loss of sunrays.
23 degrees celsius and shine forcing itself through.
ice cream trucks and roadraged humans trying to get through.
bumble bee roads with lines and street signs,
teens boredum, smoking dope, drinking *****, getting fines.
police on the prowl everyday, every night, seeing through lies,
keeping their sight wide-open like a mouth in surprise.
fettuchini alfredo at fancy restaurants.
ice cold water knocked over on a ladys lap.
words missing letters, conversations missing sound.
apples and basketballs losing shape and sense of round.
flat chested skinny ******* slipping through cracks in wooden floors,
obese transexuals getting stuck in between doors.
puzzle pieces glued to the top of a bald head,
veins appear blue but blood is red.
blowing kisses, blowing out candles
cats,dogs,birds wearing sandals.

She—an unrepeated motif—waxes precocious like her ancient self.
Never mind the counterfeit eccentrics,
strange enough to be noticed but not doomed.
Their only burden is imperfection.
She’d die for these people, but they don’t realize omniscience is boring.
In preschool, she learned people are mean for no reason.
There’s no sense in spiting the inevitable,
so she gave away her quarters at bake sale.
Her mother would say, “That money is yours.”
The girl would ask, adjusting her overalls,
“If it’s mine, can’t I decide what to do with it?”
In the future, when repeating this story to a potential motif,
she’d know he’s The One when he’d say,
“What do four-year-olds need to know about capitalism?
Thanks to Walt Disney, they want to conform
and follow their hearts at the same time.”
She’d get off on his grumpy, and then notice his ring.
If he had met her first, would he still have married his wife?
It’s not worth hoping for divorce. He’s built to mate for life.
Instead of turning twenty-six, she’ll choose a chair in purgatory—
trapped between what should be and what is.
As long as she’s sitting, she may as well start smoking.
It’s a fine day for oral fixation.
At least she doesn’t smoke Parliaments like the counterfeit eccentrics.
She’d wonder if in a past life she was a dusty vacuum cleaner,
covered in what she was meant to destroy.
It’s too easy to claim hypocrisy,
too easy to cry genius for discovering what works
when for so long, failure was the only place to go.
She hasn’t been happy since she was thirteen.
The day before her first existential crisis,
her mother said, “Stop being so melodramatic.
You must want to be depressed.” Her response:
“I’m not too young for a mid-life crisis. I just won’t live to see thirty.”
She owes her life to a fear of hell,
knows we all experience hell differently. Hers is a banquet.
The proceeds will go toward ending world hunger.
At the end of the night, the keynote speaker complains
that Alfredo sauce doesn’t reheat well, so the leftovers get thrown out.

our toes were cold, my left hand warm.
It smelt like mushrooms and Alfredo.
He kissed me in paradise and in Paris, though
there wasn't much of a difference (your lips still had the smooth feel of glass, sharp edges included).

I smiled at the nonchalant music, paying
absolutely no attention to the things they said.

I am afflicted,
dreamy,
with vivid visions
like deja vu.
We're seated there,
in uptown Manhattan,
she's sporting platinum hair,
covered in golden fleece,
scribbling
cryptic poetry to me
underneath the table.

Her eyes turn azure,
screaming
daisies
over a plate of alfredo,
I am in a hurricane.

And from the corner of my mouth,
I drool streams,
seeking answers
from outside the box.

Does she feel
like I do?

The boats are
like constellations from up here
and all
I can think about
is being on one
sailing south
to Love
to you
back where I came from
the stork in the sky
back where I came from
a love keeping me so
high
and down here, I want to
tell him how the smoked salmon
on the grill mixes with
the fog of the ocean
and how it tastes dipped
in pine.
I want to show him the smiles
of happy old lovers and their wine,
having the time
of their
lives.
I want to stare into those
matching eyes
of sea grass
paired like
a pie-in-the-sky
I want to tell him everything
and nothing
but show him
everything stung by Love
Show him the ways my eyes flutter
with thin ocean stained glass
waiting for
a light house
a seagull
a message in a
card, bottled with his Love
humid warmth sticky like
melting popsicles and kids in the
summertime with
sticky eyelids wanting to open only to
the trace of his skin I want him
to peel
like onions the layers
away
reveal
everything I am and spin me on the deck
of this dock
like a top.
I want him to taste
my Love
in my sweet tomato basil alfredo pasta
or my midnight cinnamon toast
or my
sea salted lips
I want him
to feel this
sweet sea **** entangled
in my heart
I want him
to know this
everytime I come Home
to him,
I've come back to where
I came from.
All things rewound-
among this sea
I am
Lover Bound.

Followers of Sfera would be glad to know that the Spanish fashion brand recently launched its Fall-Winter 2016 collection at its flagship store in SM Makati.

The event, held in partnership with the Spanish Chamber of Commerce in the Philippines (La Camara Manila), had the local Spanish community and members of the diplomatic corps among the guests.

They were treated to a fabulous showcase of the collection, along with cocktails and an exciting shopping experience.

In attendance were Maria Jose Carrasco, wife of Spanish Ambassador Luis Antonio Calvo, Pedro Pascual of the Commercial Office of the Embassy of Spain, Alfredo Roca, vice president external of La Camara Manila.

Sfera, part of Madrid’s renowned El Corte Ingles Group of Companies, opened its first store in Asia in the Philippines in 2014, on the second floor of The SM Store Makati. In 2015, it opened more branches—on the second level of Building B in SM Megamall, and on the upper ground floor of SM Seaside City Cebu.

September 2016 saw its first department store corner at The SM Store in Aura Premier.

This premium fast-fashion brand offers men’s and women’s wear, and is known for its ability to stay on-trend every season while maintaining good-quality clothing and affordability.

From SM, heading to the opposite side of town, we were treated to a gastronomic symphony at one of our favorite restaurants, Salvatore Cuomo.

The six-course dinner, prepared by chef Salvatore Cuomo himself, served as a sneak peek of his new dishes on the menu.

The Italian culinary titan has narrowed the boundaries between innovation and fine taste. The meal was a roller-coaster of dynamic flavors and textures—an array of small bites paired with light aperitif for starters, washed down with Italian and French medium-bodied red and white wines.

In true Salvatore Cuomo fashion, the ingredients used in the entire dinner were thoughtfully selected and sourced from the best producers in Europe and Asia.Read more at:http://www.marieaustralia.com/formal-dresses-sydney | www.marieaustralia.com/red-carpet-celebrity-dresses

She couldn’t believe she could breathe underwater for 43,829 minutes. Especially with all the constipated looks of sympathy.

Poor girl stuck in a box, they thought as they tapped the glass.

Some days she would float, barely moving, unresistant to the small currents that swayed her whichever way. Others she nestled away, trying to find something the temperature of blood to bury her face into.

But most days she acted normal. When they watched, she swam.

It wasn’t until she was alone that she removed the ceramic vase from where it sat and wedged it into her armpit, her arm wrapped around its base.

Ah, yes. The vase that once held flowers with promises of decay. She rocked it and rubbed her face against its glossy exterior. She ate fettuccini alfredo with it. She watched “Gone with the Wind” and “It’s a “Wonderful Life” with it. She sang Beatles classics to it.

But on the 43,829th minute, the vase slipped from her cold and slimy palms, shattering on the hardwood floor like an exhausted piece of coral.

She retrieved the broom, swept and took a seat next to the broken pile.

When she looked at her naked feet, she realized she hadn’t groomed them in a month. And with that, she hand-peeled her long and yellowed toe nails, flicked them into a dust pan full of ashes, looked up at the water stain on the ceiling and said, “here’s looking at you, kid.”

My feet are dry.
Belkin54g is not connecting.
My armpits are itching.
Uncle Tom’s cabin is sitting at my dry feet needing to be read, but I don’t want to read it.
I need to brush my teeth;
but I’m comfortable sitting on the futon in the living room
which is my bed.
It also keeps the muscles of my upper back tight for the rest of the day – like they are now.
I feel heartburn coming on because I ate too much chicken alfredo.
The train won’t shut up.
Belkin54g is still not connecting.
I also wouldn’t mind a joint of some purple urkel.
But that’s not a complaint, it’s more of a request.

Le Troquet le Méribel à Croix-Daurade

(Chronique des années de Blues et de fièvres)

C'était un bar de Croix-Daurade,
Dans les années soixante-dix,
Placé sur la route d'Albi,
Près du Lycée Raymond-Naves
Qui lui donnait sa clientèle
De jeunes gens émerveillés
De découvrir leur liberté
**** des regards de leurs parents
Ce bar était dans l’air du temps,
Des banquettes de moleskine
Un jukebox passant les tubes
De ces «golden seventies»
dont les jeunesses s’étaient saisies
Pour jeter les bases d’un Monde
Qui puisse leur ressembler un peu
Les chansons étaient leurs bannières :
Parfois «Let It Be» des Beatles, parfois
«My Sweet Lord» de Georges Harrison
Quelque fois, l'harmonica de Dylan
Évoquant Monsieur «Tambourine Man»,
Et bien d'autres que j’ai oubliées.
Nous buvions le plus souvent
Des petits noirs sans soif ni fin,
Parfois quelques bières pour les garçons
Des diabolos menthe pour les filles.
Nos conversations infinies,
S'enflammaient d'esquisses de flirt,
Et nous étions tous fascinés,
par leurs regards pareil à des aimants,
Leurs les longs cheveux dénoués,
et leurs yeux emplis de lumière.
Les filles nous semblaient belles et douces
Et nous n'osions pas assez le leur dire.
Mais leur présence charmante
Piquaient notre fièvre de «Tchatcher»
Lorsqu'il y eu la grève au lycée,
Suite aux blessures infligées
au normalien, Richard Deshayes
Le café devint un vrai QG,
Où nous préparions nos expéditions,
Des militants vinrent recruter,
Et nous initièrent aux querelles
Qui n'avaient rien à envier
A celles des Byzantins assiégés.
Il y avait le bel Alfredo,
Et des étudiants qui faisaient
Tourner la tête aux Lycéennes .
C’étaient comme l’écrivit Louis Aragon :
«Des temps déraisonnables»
Mais c’était une époque de fantaisie
Ou le demain se conjuguait
Au rythme de notre insolence
Et d’une soif de vivre sans pareil.

Paul Arrighi

I stole a traffic cone last summer
it sits in my bedroom next to
a mason jar with 25 dollars
worth of change in it
more or less
and a hundred dollar bottle
of perfume

I own 8 vintage cameras
and only 3 of them work

I woke up yesterday at
12:45pm
and I ate 6 girl scout cookies
for breakfast

the windowsill next to my bed
holds a candle that I will probably
never burn
a book that I haven’t finished
a half empty box of condoms
and a roll of electrical tape
because all of my chargers are
broken

today I fried chicken in a pan
and I ate it with noodles
and canned alfredo sauce
and I felt accomplished

today my sister called me
to ask what she should wear
on a date where a man
cooks her dinner at his apartment
I told her to wear jeans a blouse
but I don’t know what
one wears in that situation
because I’ve never been
in that situation
and then I hung up and
watched 2 more hours of netflix
alone

tomorrow I will call my mother
while I walk back to my car
from poetry class
even though I don’t have any
news to tell her
and when I hang up I will wonder
if she notices that I call her
every Monday and Wednesday
around 10:30am

tomorrow at 3 o clock
my phone will remind me to
take my medicine
and I will take 75mg
of Effexor and I will
drink a full glass of water
because I am afraid of getting a pill
stuck in my esophagus

tomorrow night I will lay in bed
and I will have a brief anxiety attack
about getting older
and then I will fall asleep
and have scary dreams about more insignificant things

Please me_
(In) the- in -crowd
You lose me
(Out) the- out
Fury 
 never
works
out with
Gary_

Don't ugly
goose me
No pretty, please
me  so deceiving
Whole entire
City is leaving

Hot fun summer in the city
A curse like a bad omen such a pity__

Face me
Camelian
Stan the evil
man
To the ugliest
Fight at the
Grecian slam

Huncheback of
Notre Dame
The Pompeii fire
flame
Ugly ducking tamed
Modern
Video-game

Chavez
Fizz Roz
Heading towards
The Planetarium
Pretty tragic
Ending up in a
sanitarium
((Magic))*

Strikingly
matched
Twin of topaz
The Solarium Jazz

Going to Saratoga
Song Sara Smiles
But travels all the way

To Minnesota
So drained Rotto
Rooter
At the Polaris Mall
Christopher Columbus
Clockwork on a bus
Oh! Ohio red roaster
Never pretty at the
Bull's eye Rodeo
Rodeo drive
Devil and Domino

Virgo meeting Hugo
Taurus
The Pluto Bull
of lotto

Gina eating
Italian Alfredo
Mudpack stinks
Frank and Dino
Sammy the
Rat pack

Moms
Baking soda
Dominque
Mystique
Trapeze

Doing Yoga
Please without
the pretty
Bo ditty
Feeling gitty
Not to be flattered
So bloated
fatter
Role Gotta give
Beauty beast wider
On Fox Five
Harley Quinn rider
Arizona

Eating
Tapioca
Life is a ***** not
a beach diet
Never do we pray
Pretty please to preach

Seven cooks in the kitchen, making spaghetti,
Each one hurrying and rushing to ready.
My *** of bolognese, succulent, simmering,
Sits on the front right burner, heat shimmering.

One chef diligently tossing a salad,
Another one turns on a calm Italian ballad.
"Help!" Cries a cook as she comes running in.
"My Alfredo sauce won't work! It's much too thin!"

"Not to worry, my friend," I console the bereft.
"My burner is hot, take my place." I move left.
Things are a bit more crowded with her,
But I happily give my sauce a good stir.

Things are running more smoothly now,
'Til another chef bursts in (also having a cow).
"The spaghetti is cooking, but keeps boiling out!"
I think long and hard as the chef starts to pout.

"I'll push my *** back, so you can still see,
"My sauce will be fine for a minute or three."
My time in the kitchen has made me a quick learner,
So I smile as I move bolognese to the back burner.

"Stand and watch through the oven door," I said,
To keep a chef from burning his garlic bread. Another chef needs melted butter in her dessert.
Letting her use the microwave can't hurt.

All these chefs doing their work in a blur
Prevent me from giving my sauce a needed stir.
As minutes pass— five, eight, twelve, sixteen—
I begun to understand what the phrase means.

Although the situation is very fitting,
There's just too many cooks in the kitchen.
I don't want to let the wind out of their sails,
So I take a step back, waiting and biting my nails.

Time to dish up, and all chefs leave the area
And I approach my sauce on the verge of hysteria.
It's now much too thick, the bottom is black.
I've neglected my job while picking up slack.

There's no one to blame, I should've learned
If you move to back burner your dish will be burned.
Other chefs are being praised by our boss,
And I'm in the kitchen with a *** of bad sauce.

I want to write you something perfect
For every perfect moment you gave me.
You helped me everytime I was down,
Just you and I with music cranked loud.
You were worth every dollar I gave you,
You were worth all the grief you gave me.

Do you remember when we got high
At a dead end street in a development?
Do you remember when we felt low,
Rolled down all the windows,
And sang so loud that the people would stare.
It feels like we were always in a rush,
You were the reason I stopped taking
That toxic number four bus,
It made me so sick, I would get in the door,
And just throw up.

You were the wingman no one noticed,
You were the therapy I never went to,
All the loses and victories, you were there.
Every obstacle I ever pushed passed,
Everytime I felt like a failure,
Putting my head on your dash.
All the nights I laid out with you
Just watching the stars and moon.
Although it's been more than a decade,
With you, it still feels too soon

In the crosswalk
With a male voice hollering
NICE SHORTS
at me. I looked down at those
Two pale things protruding from my form like ugly, overlarge monsters.
I tasted the fettucini alfredo and pizza I had let myself splurge on after a breakfast of coffee and fruit.
I tasted the tang of sweat forming in beads on my forehead and trickling down to my lips. Little rivers of effort on stationary machinery, my body moving but never really going anywhere. I tasted embarrassment and my own weakness.
Maybe I was better when I was sick
With wanting perfection. When I wanted what my favorite band sang to me through my speakers:
A perfect body; a perfect soul.
Maybe I was better when i was sick and the fettuccini swirling away from me
Down down down that liquid rabbit hole that consumed my secrets
Maybe I was better than these fat legs
Crammed into athletic shorts
Maybe I was better than just
Some joke

Portobello mushrooms, I use them all the time
No matter how topped they always taste just fine
From cream cheese and crab to chicken fajita
No matter what you just want to eat ‘em

Philly beef cheesesteak, they’ve also been topped
So many possibilities, I’ll never stop
Bleu cheese and steak makes a hell of a filling
Portobello themed restaurant, I’d make a killing

Chicken Alfredo, or coconut shrimp
How about spinach artichoke dip
Turkey and dressing or how about pulled pork
You’d want to eat those with your fingers or fork

Taco, or nacho, or enchilada
How it gets better, I got zip, zilch, and nada
Or I don’t know how about spinach frittata
You could go Greek, lamb, feta, and Kalamata

Mediterranean, flavored quinoa or couscous
So many options, man just turn me loose
Lemon pepper, scallops, or Oyster Rockefeller
Or Chicken Rice saffron, it would be yeller

At this point, I feel like Bubba from Forrest Gump
Going on about toppings, oh well over the ****
Buffalo Chicken or Asparagus turkey parm
Just about anything you can get at the farm

Goes great on a mushroom I think you can see
Most people wouldn’t, but, hey they’re just not me

Convengo de cualquier modo.
No son raras hoy las víctimas,
y es preciso, en el mercado
donde todo se cotiza,

que se derrame y se busque
el material de la orgía...
Pero una madre, ¡una madre!
a su hija, Dios santo, ¡a su hija!
¡Oh, Alfredo de Musset! Dime si Rolla
regateó con el diablo la tarifa,
o con la madre monstruo tiró dados
sobre el desnudo cuerpo de la niña.

Alfredo sauce
chicken bean soup

Yes, I do like Georgetown
Grey stone on grey sky
Grey catholikos
Mother Mary My

I remember Uncle Marty
My mother's last breath
3772
Long past death

African American students
Give me a gentle smile
The Amazing Spider-Man
I wander for a while

Chapel closed for cleaning
Divergent are my books
Father Greeley Ben Vereening
Quinlin Jai - he cooks!

                   Fettuccini!

in light of a film coming out... the... what is it?
the american society of magical negroes...

for a little while i thought
i was in on something...
humour me or rather:
i'll humour myself...

                                         knee                    grow...

better still...

            akin to Samuel Beckett's Watt
                                           custard pie of verbiage:

a Mrs. Grown, née Grow used to
appreciate the theatre,
before meeting a Mr. Grown who
had no ear or heart for theatre
and instead adored opera and cinema...

these have become somewhat "angry"
statements concerning:
it would have been a privilege once
to be privileged so by nothing
equipping me to succumb to an Englishness...

only recently during a shift
a company rep
who i met ages ago supervising on level 5
of Wembley with:
that baby faced black giant
i'll call Alfredo for now...

come to think of it: race relations have
never been better: no since that
hiccup after a most glorious childhood
in the mid to late 1990s
something happened
akin to angry youths rioting at
Tottenham or some **** or other...
or: there was a designated desire for
materialism: so they started stealing bicycles
because there is no road tax invoked...

so this brown skinned... Pakistani Bangladeshi...
Indian... never mind:
we all look alike i've been identified
as Albanian, Croat, Swede, German, Russian...
us white people all look alike: don't you think?
it's a white "privilege", "thing"...

i thought Albanian was rather weird
since i have nothing southern European
going for me...        
but this walks up to me and starts to embrace
my hands....
oh... i love where i work...
it's in full scrutiny of the c.c.t.v. so nothing
can be hidden...
he comes up to me an embraces my hands
with his...
says:

i've been sitting in this corridor with the other
company reps, in the dire cold...
my... you have really warm hands...
and we stand there embraced with hands in hands
one brown skinned boy
with a white skinned boy...
i think: rather weird...

i even managed to convince Francis the...
an African of sorts
to work his charm on the ladies
at the vending vans outside the L.S.
to give me free food...
and supposedly we're now buddies...
as the saying goes: black don't crack...
he might look like he's in his 50s by white standard
but i suspect he's in his 70s...
loud *******... almost grotesque
in his broken english but bulging lungs
of some baboon baroque boom boom boom...
not that i never think of myself
as the albino aqua **** similis...
because i do so it's not a real insult
if i'm also bewildered by my lack of tail:
although i have more hair:
on face, head, back, torso, legs, ***...

of note... i had to overhear the Englishman
in his 60s... frustrated, demoted,
given less responsibility:
how these types will cling to faking anti-racism
and begin slagging of eastern "Europeans"...
listen: i don't have the heart to beat an already
beaten dog... so this group classification
of eastern "Europeans" like there's no difference
between the Polacks the Hungarians
Lithuanians... it's just poor education:
or rather - to have been educated in
a hyper-geography of tourism that extends towards
Somalia and Hawaii...
but even i don't like to be grouped
in the term eastern "European"...

            because there really isn't a term
western "European" given that that's pretty clear
the immediate distinctiveness of the French
the English, the Spanish, the Italians...
so this gas cage this rummaging in a collectivism
is sort of... unbecoming?
but like i said: i let the comment slide...
because i don't really have a hunchback
to lean on in terms of: historical reparations blah blah
and sorting the salt from the snort of *******...

but something is emerging...
new race relations...
                i always had a positive race relations mantra
instilled in me...
all the way back from Poland
via a Juliusz Tuwim poem 'murzynek bambo':
accusations: because it was written by a Heb?

so much false-accusatory sensibility-ism
off an -ism off an -ism
        yet none to gratify some diminutive
concept of what is so otherwise so wrapped in
grandiosity of: neither spectacle nor... problem...

בֵּית
             b, yes... ah... *** *** army of Tottenham Hotspur:

beit...           y... י

        and.                                      ת  

טֵית (teis)

            סָ             wait... not teis? tey't?

סָ sa
                 מֶ m'eh

       ךְ (X)              harking k'h...

                      well **** me it's not mysterious to me:
ś š         ć č             ę
               ł                                   ż           ź

סךּי

sky - samekh kaf sofit yod

   a sky filled with ʊn       i.e. 'uns
rather than noons: ω: oohs and oozing more oohs...
the double-o's rather than...
what? quadruple the u's? into u u uu's?

   working from sky...           sea...

       QERE...

                          יָם         (mem yod...
or rather... yod...      a....     m....          yam)

yes it is...

                    שָׁמַיִם

hmm...                  ends with an m...
begins with a sh...
although a slightly different sh...

definitely a sha-
      
                         shin dot right not left so SH not S...
sha... ma... yi-          -m

what was i asking? earth in 'ebrew?
shamayim...   no... sky... oh lookie lookie...
i'm starting to get the hang of reading hebrew...

sky, sea...             earth...

אָבָק            a a down below... a tale of two Adams...
and already one on top, the Alpeh...

אָ (Aa)
א (A)

בָ (va)

             with ק being Qof...

Aavaq                  earth is aavaq...

   so it is: dust... or by extension a hint...
          
                                     as much as can be ascribed
to the mystery of the yod (י)

i ascribe as much to the following combinations
that i call the bridge of sighs...
or the bridge of hiriq-tzere-segol...
                    where Eve and Lilith reside...

אה

                                                                  חע

and in turn reversed: toward the bridge of laughter.