"bacon" poems
cedar planks line the dim lit hall
morning snow begins to fall
sepia print in a chipped wood frame
embers spark from the franklin flame
rustling sounds from bunks below
records play in a tight alcove
bacon grills on an iron sheet
gloves are warmed by baseboard heat
bean bags tossed on colored ****
papka placed as a punching bag
red brick wall with mounted poles
windows filled with glacier bowls
whiskey jack on the southern rail
a frozen patch of wine and ale
pine cones fall in gathering white
brothers bathed in firelight
sleighs are on the table top
canyon road is at a stop
northern winds that bite the face
lines are up the gondola base
cornice clipped by gully goats
the rubber man appears to float
alpine depths are on the rise
peaking sun through parting skies
triple ropes and nordic luge
honored guests from baton rouge
gelande jumps on rainbow drive
nostalgia’s light and warm reply
Jan 2, 2017
Jan 2, 2017 at 5:50 PM UTC
Dear Future Wife,
I know that it wasn’t easy going through the tides of life. It will never be easy. You might find yourself looking for someone who would fulfil the emptiness that you would feel inside. It is my strongest hope that you won’t entertain anyone who would try to take your heart. I would like you to focus on your studies at this point. I know that studying could sometimes be boring or somewhat hard, but I trust you with this one. You can do it.
I’m writing this letter for a purpose. I would like to tell you some things before I marry you or before you become my girlfriend or even before I meet you. I would like to start this message by thanking you in advance. Thank you for choosing me out of the billions of men who are better and more handsome than me. I know that I never deserved somebody like you, and it’s kind of unfair for me because when we would be together, I know that we would look like beauty and the beast. You’d be beauty and I’d be beast.
Thank you for the patience that you will have with me for the next 10 to 70 years. I appreciate how you would make me smile and laugh and even cry at times. It wouldn’t be hard to be with me, because I beat a girl in terms of emotions. Thank you for being faithful with me. I just want you to know that I would not look for anyone else but you. You’re the one I am praying for every night before I go to sleep and every morning before you get up from bed.
It may not be my season yet to be in love. I promise you that I will wait. I will not rush anything with you. Forgive me if I wouldn’t give you flowers and chocolates for valentines while we are still students. I promise you that I will give you something more than that at the right time. I would reserve my hands for you, you and my mother will be the only women who would be able to grasp my very hands while walking. I would reserve myself for you. There would be lots of temptations, but beloved, I promise you that the only one who would control our relationship is God.
It would not be easy being with me. It will never be. But I thank you for choosing me. Forgive me if I can’t be as handsome as the celebrities you watch in movies. I may not be handsome, but I promise to love you with all I am until my final breath.
I’m Excited
I’m excited to be your boyfriend and experience butterflies in my stomach whenever I’m with you.
I’m excited to give you gifts every occasion.
I’m excited to text you the words “I love you” every morning.
I’m excited to see you walking on the altar.
I’m excited to hear the words “You may kiss the bride”
I’m excited to be your husband.
I’m excited to forestall you in waking up just to cook for you.
I’m excited to have dogs (we’ll name them Bacon and Goya)
I’m excited to start a family with you.
I’m excited to roam the world with you.
But while our story is not yet clashing to each other in His book, my excitement would not stop me from waiting. I will wait for you. I promise. I love you.
Your Future Husband
Feb 20, 2017
Feb 20, 2017 at 11:14 AM UTC
Happiness
I wake up fresh and happy as can be
Monday mornings are just simply nothing for me,
A new day has been given to me
Oh for what this day has in store for me I just can't wait and see,
Class starts with the teacher telling a joke
Recess and gotta sip on some of that coke
At the math class the quiz was postponed
At lunch my crush sat with me and I'm feeling like I'm ******
Just got home and mom bought some pizza
And how i enjoyed grobbin' down on that meat
Pepperoni, ham and bacon now that's just neat
Oh how today was a good day
Endin' everything at night
Just chillin on my bed not a ****** in sight
Oh how today was cute like some pup
But it was all ruined when I heard wake up!!!
Jun 9, 2014
Jun 9, 2014 at 5:07 AM UTC
Oh, plate of bacon, how you tempt me so
With your sizzle and your crunch I do crave
A gift from Gods wrapped in a tasty bow
There are no leftovers to even save
Why can't I feel myself grow full from you?
There are no others that can be as true
Your fame is unmatched by any before and it's easy to see with such allure
With every new bite, the tears grow stronger
This small plate won't last for that much longer
As the bacon leaves, I fear what's to come
The plate is bare, with not even a crumb
Oh, plate of bacon, I still need you so
With hope, I pray for more bacon to show
Aug 25, 2015
Aug 25, 2015 at 4:14 AM UTC
Will it be all the nights of your bed empty when I couldn't sleep?
Are you going to choose instead, the moment
I put underwear on my head and asked in a horrible Russian accent,
"Would you like some bread?"
(--Look that wasn't entirely all my fault I...
had a lot of coffee and had been awake two days in a row.)
I'd prefer--
the flash of my mouth at your belly,
the way your cold feet shock me awake and
the run-on-wheezing-snorts
from you making me laugh so hard I cried.
Actually, I'd prefer
every moment of every day I said I loved you in cups of morning coffee.
Bacon and egg breakfasts.
Hanging out of cars and making Wookie calls;
the moment you taught me about Baba Yaga and I said
you were the smartest man alive.
I'd prefer if you remembered me when I go,
as the sun on your face in the morning after you get to sleep in.
(because I know how work, life, goes for you.
They never let you sleep in.)
As the lips on your closed eyes,
as the love that men and women fight and die for--
wrote legends, penned scripts and made movies about.
That love, our love.
I'd prefer if you just remembered me
as love.
Jul 14, 2010
Jul 14, 2010 at 7:46 PM UTC
Why would it be bad
To have cake and also eat it?
Why is that a metaphor of greed?
What else should I do with cake?
It could be a piece of art
Something beautiful to behold
But it’s purpose is to be eaten
It’s cake
Yes, I would like my cake
And to eat it as well
I want to enjoy
The things I enjoy
Not simply to hold them in my hands
Stare at them upon a platter
Wonder what they taste like
I want to eat the cake
It was made for someone to eat
Why not me?
Too much cake
Will make me fat
The sugar and flour
Conspire together to build a gut
It is not healthy to eat cake daily
I cannot keep cake in the house
The temptation is too great
But everything in moderation
A piece of cake here and there
To be had and to be eaten
Is a nice treat
The daily grind of salads and chicken
Nuts and fish
Avocado and eggs and water
Will keep me healthy
Grounded
So when I feel like cake
I can have it
Order cake for dessert
Or to celebrate a birthday
An accomplishment
Or anniversary
No one bats an eye
But order cake for breakfast?
Might just incite a riot
There is a time and place for cake
Society has deemed it so
We are not the rulers of our own lives
(Though we could be)
Instead our culture dictates
The rules of life
Steak for breakfast or for dinner
But not lunch
Bread goes with every meal
Eggs and bacon are for the morning
But at night is a nice treat - on occasion
Beer after five
But it’s five o’clock somewhere
And somewhere
Someone is ready for dessert
So **** it
Let’s eat this cake
That I have procured
You and me, together
Let’s have our cake
And eat it too
Mar 27, 2019
Mar 27, 2019 at 6:19 AM UTC
Silent as the storm
Black as the nights sky
You never know when its coming
Temperature ranging from hot to cold
Moon swings come and they go
She can make you feel like the lowest **** on earth
Or make you feel like a King
We are in a league of our own
The take no mess take charge kind of woman
Sweet as honey beautiful as the sunset
She’ll drain you and leave you begging for more
With her smooth complexion hair just right
Dress to impress and the legs smooth as silk
Her take charge attitude with sophistication
Can work the room in any situation
Wither in the boardroom, fancy restaurant
or at home with family and friends
She can cut you down without missing a beat
Leave you standing there wondering what happen
A work of art in her own right
A independent women but can make you feel
Like you are needed always treating you like you the man
A way with words that will leave no room argument
Will cut so deep leave you grasping for breath
But you can never want to hurt this woman
Cuz she can turn on you like Cain turn on Abel
We are devious creatures and with a devious mind
And a women who is scorn is a dangerous combination
A woman with so much confidence
It will make you sit up and take notice
But at the same time she knows her place
As a women by your side
While all the while bringing home the bacon, cook it and serve it to you like royalty
Watch out cause she’s on the rise
As a strong independent black woman
Never fearing of the two strikes against her
In this mans world that we live in
So watch out, take notice and pay attention because she is unstopable
Dec 6, 2010
Dec 6, 2010 at 9:25 AM UTC
I was brought into this house
Ordered from the local furniture shop
Made to order according to specifications
I am a wingback,
Upholstered in full-grain leather
True to my rich heritage
I was placed in the library
Amongst the illustrious works of famous writers
Half- a - century have passed, providing support
To the backbone of the family
Although tired, he finds solace in my cozy embrace
I give him my wings to fly into the world of literature
Cervantes, Bunyan, Bacon, Goehte, Dostoevsky, Chekov, Tolstoy
Some of the names from the illustrious collection
Not all were privileged to have a seat here
He was transported to each era, savoring the rich legacy
Of literature down the centuries
I was privy to the mind-boggling debates
Which he conducted with himself
Trying to reason each work of literature
A mere wingback rose to be a companion
Providing sturdy support on the mahogany legs
One fine day the reading session ended in deep slumber
Five decades of bonding and companionship came to an end
Now, I stand here, forlorn, at the corner of the library
Reminiscing the reading sessions, and siesta
The wingback does not have the wings to fly away from this bond
© Amitav (Radiance)
May 26, 2014
May 26, 2014 at 2:35 PM UTC
The beauty of comatose can only be seen through
the eyes of a wizard in a blizzard
strutting in garlic slippers,
or Christ with knees bent at the tabernacle
peeling bananas and kicking prayers
farther than eternity with each gapping second,
or like Basquiat slumped back to the wall,
with ounces of speedball dancing through his veins,
eating 80’s free-based fried chicken *******
as his eyelids paints beautiful nightmares of lemon flowers
and Bacchus bacon over a glycopyrrolate desert
of flagrant cuckold buffoonery.
Or like leprechauns burning chocolate ******* candles
on the mantle of Zion, sipping oatmeal sprinkled
with Staten Island malt liquor bacon.
or like Tupac reading the thoughts of Mother Shipton
through the daze of California cannabis
and hearing the ominous voice of Plutarch sing death assignments
from heaven to Assassins on horsebacks goggling ***** water
to wet the dry bones of their throats as they prepare to fulfill
the gospel of self-fulfilling prophecies of being fell by ***** bullets.
Or like sophisticated wallets of spice and kitchen characters in a bald head
cooking chemical kisses and 18 February nights under Moloch’s skin,
where constitutions are written in charcoal diaries with Egyptian ciphers and razors.
“I had rain sowed into the pockets of my sneakers and composed 1310 eulogies
at the basement of king David’s tower,” said the Kraftwerkian caricature,
as he dangles cigarettes in remembrance of Klaus Nomi and philosophizes on the proliferation
of poetic vandalism at urinals where modernism failed under the phosphorescence of coloration at the avenue of no trees where Picasso's "Guernica" **** Lies All.
Jul 17, 2012
Jul 17, 2012 at 6:01 PM UTC
I'm craving for food,
maybe some eggs
or waffles.
Maybe a bacon on the side
and a sausage.
A huge pancake
with a lot of syrup,
strawberries and bananas on the top.
A piece of bread
with ham and cheese inside of it.
A side of fruits of different kinds ,
chocolate
or an apple pie.
A big glass of juice,
it could be orange or cranberry.
The cup of coffee... Oh, I want a cup of coffee.
I want something that makes me feel better
in this cold and hungry morning.
Why not everything mixed?
Why not make a big breakfast buffet?
Scrambled eggs,
waffles with bacon,
pancakes,
the sweet syrup,
some delicious strawberries
and bananas as a topping,
a mini sandwich,
fruits with chocolate
and another dessert.
The glass of juice for the end,
the lovely cup of coffee to begin.
I want to do a breakfast party, I'm starving.
Apr 10, 2015
Apr 10, 2015 at 9:53 AM UTC
such a greasy pan.
mornin' bacon sizzlin' - our
cholesterol high.
Apr 29, 2014
Apr 29, 2014 at 6:15 PM UTC
Standing on the hillside is a rustic yellow cottage,
Rusty yellow staining from the steel dust of the trains.
Passing, rushing carriages that crisscross by the hour,
The ten o clock from Frankston meets the City train detained.
Golden light of sunrise in the calm of early morning
Golden light reflected on the rusty cottage roof,
Puffing at his briar and sitting at the doorstep
Old Grandpa drinks the peacefulness whilst stroking cat aloof.
Bacon smells a-beckoning from coal range fires a-glowering
Delicious tang of coffee from my Granma’s breakfast fare,
The clattering of silver wheels as silver rails reverberate
Sings the music of the morning with not a trace of care.
Memories from yesteryear I treasure on reflection,
Memories, a little boy, recalled from times secure.
Memories of cuddles in the ***** of my Grandma
And the scent of plum tobacco giving Grandpa’s pipe allure.
Perhaps a trick of memory, perhaps my passing fancy
But I clearly recall a sign above the kitchen door,
A simple sign of welcome with a sense of real belonging
In the gentle name of “Sunrise” to warm the heart galore.
Marshalg
In memory of my dear Nan and Pop Cummings @ Mordialloc by the bay.
23 April 2013
Apr 23, 2013
Apr 23, 2013 at 2:58 AM UTC
Mary had a little lamb,
two lobsters and a Christmas ham,
a three-pound tub of chicken wings,
seven bratwurst tied with strings,
thirteen loaves of garlic bread,
a schnitzel bigger than her head,
four rare steaks, a dozen eggs,
caviar and turkey's legs,
strips of bacon, mushroom stew,
chunks of bread and cheese fondue,
and two whole jars of sauerkraut,
(to clean all of her insides out).
Finishing the pasta salad,
Mary soon looked drawn and pallid.
"I don't feel well," poor Mary said.
"I think I need to rest my head."
Then from her stomach came a moan,
a straining, churning, twisted groan.
Mary gasped; her eyes grew wide.
She'd only seconds to decide.
What could she do? Where could she go?
Her stomach was about to blow!
So, reaching for the nearest bucket,
she retched, and then began to chuck it.
All the courses that she'd swallowed,
and the apertifs they'd followed,
all the steaks and all the fish,
each and every single dish
came flying back from in her belly,
filling up the bucket smelly
with a foul and toxic brew,
and no one knew quite what to do,
so this went on for ten whole minutes
till Mary had expelled her innards.
When she was done, her eyes were red,
and sweat was pouring from her head.
"Are you alright, sweet Mary dear?"
her mother asked. She didn't hear.
For Mary was already off -
the waiters saw her try to scoff
the whole entire pudding bar.
Now, this had pushed her mum too far.
"Alright!" her mother cried, "I'm through!
I've done the best that I can do.
I'm sick and tired of all you eat.
I will not pay for all this meat.
I'm going home. Go get some help —"
Then Mary's mum let out a yelp!
She glanced down at her legs and saw
sweet Mary there begin to gnaw!
She struck the lass, but with great haste,
alas, the girl had reached her waist.
As Mary's ma was there devoured
by her offspring, overpowered,
she cried one thing ere final slaughter:
"It smells like lamb in here, my daughter."
Mary licked her lips and grinned.
She belched out loud and then broke wind.
She felt her tummy start to rumble -
and calmly ordered apple crumble.
Dec 18, 2017
Dec 18, 2017 at 4:52 AM UTC
Though you've barely had a ramble
are no wayward canine daddy of note
that brief encounter in our brambles
has left the experts fearing a cancerous growth
So we starve you of your pine nuts and bacon rinds
so we can feed you anaesthetic
and betray you to the thief of time
only to make you, I imagine, feel pathetic
And you often so full of life's exasperate scurry
I worry
will the shine stray from your eyes
those hazel pools of so much of
my feeling mature, just for
pertaining to a creature's care
we all seem in too much of a hurry
to stifle what little spirit
that surrounds us
to wear
down on every minor aspect
of childish delight
in this silent sacrament
of the aging process
and with arguably years
of your fatherhood left
in the very ***** some dry eyed savant
decides it correct we should tamper with
Tomorrow I will snuggle you in favoured, bouncy eiderdowns
that will blanket your unknowing
and treat you as if
you were an eastering child
on cured hams and other saltiness
after you awaken
from those strangest enforcements of sleep
and through our eyes we will trade more secrets to keep
And we will hope, as we only can, that it was for the best
For you, Yorkshire's son, or Sheringham's
And consider with all of your
exhuming breath
That we meddled, stilling over life
To cheat a slightly delayed death.
Apr 11, 2017
Apr 11, 2017 at 5:29 PM UTC
My dear friends
Go on and enjoy yourselves
Slumber the morn away!
It seems early on Saturdays
I've always far to much to attempt to convey
While my few kind heart-ed followers
Tend to sleep their mornings hours
Peacefully in and out of REM
While I'm at the computer rhyming again...
It's late
You passed your chance for early waking
Hell you miss out on a great early baking!
And now it's far past time for eggs and bacon
The munches, as you can guess
Have all been forsaken
And what did you achieve
With extra sleep
Morning dreams of distorted thoughts
Poetic themes now subconsciously lost?
I know, I know
You made wonderful love the night before
And you need your beauty rest
I read your writing, I get it
you are so blessed!!!!
I went to bed alone and played
With the thoughts of someone wanting me
I wish my poems could reflect
But all they do is bleed
How I envy all my followers
If I offend
Give me a holler
You've been hanging out late
With a habits to itch
We all have a role to play
Unfortunately
By the time you get around to reading this
I'll either be asleep
Or on my way!
.....
Sep 22, 2018
Sep 22, 2018 at 8:35 AM UTC
Friends are the
bacon bits in the
salad bowl of life!
May 21, 2014
May 21, 2014 at 7:27 PM UTC
A delicious little bakery
is only down our street
the smell of baking bread
well.. it really is a treat
It is run by Mrs ******
she is just so very charming
but she is a little clumsy
it's really quite alarming
You see,
she does her best to make the cakes
and bake such tasty bread
but the currants just go everywhere
and in the pies instead
And in the Cornish pasties
there is very often nuts
and in the fruit pie filling
bacon and beef cuts
But she seems to be quite fancy
well there has been many rumours
of her and the deliveryman
well... she flashes him her bloomers
But she really is so charming
poor soul.. she has the worst mishaps
like when she inadvertently
displayed her finest baps
And no one will forget
when in came a group of nuns
all asking some tea cakes
but out popped her Chelsea buns
But she really is a riot
you can't help but love her so
she give you all you ask for
in a bargain box 'to go'
And she takes care of her customers
and gives out treats to sample
you'll never go home hungry
you'll end up with quite a armful
So if you get a moment
take a stroll just down our street
to Mrs Dingle's bakery
she really is a treat.
Jun 4, 2016
Jun 4, 2016 at 1:39 AM UTC
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
This is the story of two lonely souls....
Who found each other, without cajoles...
Neither had ever had a mate....
Yet Jack and Gill decided to date.....
They felt an instant connection....
As both were Chefs and had a fixation....
One for Chicken the other for Bacon....
And so decided to take their direction....
From what they had learned in life....
Party animals that they were....
And perhaps now you can concure.....
Their feelings for each other....
Was so far from any another....
People just didn’t understand....
Why when they walked, it was always hand in hand....
They never strayed and held tight to their ways....
Believing their world was just another phase....
But eventually the world would accept you see....
That what they had was called * “ smaltzy “....
*Yiddish word for rendered chicken / animal fat or a garish over the top fancy party...
Apr 13, 2015
Apr 13, 2015 at 11:28 PM UTC
im
NOT
sexting you
im
NOT
that kind of man
i really never think about such things
and deplore that behavior in my male counterparts
really its disgusting
i never look at your face
and never think
what would it be like to kiss you
to kiss your ***
your drooly pert *****
to be your foot slave
geisha boy
sticky pink
full a joy
boy toy
jolly
lolly
pop
****
im
NOT
lookin at that teensty
little picture of you
and stinckin thinkin
mmmmmmm
is her life all ****** up
is she married to dead in the bed
lookin fer love
is she
hornyyyyyyy
all vanilla
or
a ***** *****
spicy hot *****
who likes it hard
like a delicious hate ****
that's just to
hot hot hot
for tender love
no
ow you beautiful steamy creamy thing
NOT
at
all
ravenous for
feral porkers at the feeding trough
NOT
caring that tomorrow you are my bacon
maybe hoping you wanna be bacon
for a raw lascivious wet mouth
and big teeth
all achy starved
slick yap salivating
like a sopping squeezing porous sponge
to be chewed and digested
no objectification here
hell no
im
NOT
sexting you
NOT!!
Jul 19, 2017
Jul 19, 2017 at 11:46 AM UTC
Oversaturated in grease,
Frying in the light of embarrassment,
Here,
Take a plate and pick off the unnecessary,
With oily fingers to stuff your bellies,
I give you my pleasure and you give me pain,
Bite off the circuits of my love called an aorta vein,
I can't sit here wondering if you love me,
I need some source of validation,
So stop chewing on my heart,
For your own parasitic elation,
Apr 2, 2015
Apr 2, 2015 at 1:13 PM UTC
To have them shipped across the sea,
sitting like ornamental drops
tinsel strung around your eyes
pocketed the tree
walking down sunset avenue
reeking of bamboo stalks and water chestnuts
looking for a place to submerge your treasure
with a rattling breath do you deflate
And the Oak trunk that grows unimpeded
hanging her branches
caressing the Spaniard shingles
the clay missionary tabs
touching the stucco with a golden blade
of sunlight
cutting a thousand little strips
to hang about the face
moving a thousand miles a second
stopped in place with the quiet repose
of a yoga state
humming and shimmering
yet let me be sweet oak tree.
And I wander through the canyon boulevard
between the rocky cliffs and the endless riff
of surf-rock echoed off skate parks
and riding the PC
highway hair bedraggled and snaked into next week
lingering bonfire on the cotton shirt
plant for plant
*** for tat
seed to breed
Now dance, you and me.
Insinuation
drooling salivary tongue full
bacon
pigging out on burgers
getting red-eyes from vegans
smoking plants
murderers
We squirt,
relish on the act of dying
all things dying
choking life second by second
dying to live.
Staring at neon fins lining the gravel lot
Koi flickering beneath the celestial night
Suspended pondwater
pondering
In surfce tension
the deep mysteries of life
Tracing the snake through the winding streams
we watch atop the rooftop
Gaia
Taking in the burgeoning
Ocean of incandescent tangerine
and Peyote-light
Cacti hidden somewhere between
the quiet slumber of mindless streets
aligned by formless hands
Drinking the mescaline
air
Twisting the nightly moments
as locks of hair
I curled them, slipping, within my fingertips
tracing the long winding road of Tao
along her shoulders
Enraptured by her sensual bliss
When I finally drifted along the clouded memories
of divine rumbling eyes
she disappeared into the sky
blinking along the Jet turbines
Never meant to be mine
for more than a night
Aug 7, 2018
Aug 7, 2018 at 12:25 AM UTC
# *Twin glasses of orange juice, froth quietly fizzling out
A plate of turkey bacon piled overzealously high*
I would cook you French toast every day, if you'd let me.
*Fresh croissants from a bakery down the street
Halved strawberries drizzled with honey*
I'll sprinkle cinnamon in our coffee, just like my grandmother used to.
I don't know much of love, but I know this:
When the sun breaks through my kitchen window,
I hope you'll be sitting at the table. #
Nov 17, 2022
Nov 17, 2022 at 4:14 PM UTC
here comes the fishhead singing
here comes the baked potato in drag
here comes nothing to do all day long
here comes another night of no sleep
here comes the phone wringing the wrong tone
here comes a termite with a banjo
here comes a flagpole with blank eyes
here comes a a cat and a dog wearing nylons
here comes a machine gun saying
here comes bacon burning in the pan
here comes a voice saying something dull
here comes a newspaper stuffed with small red birds
with flat brown beaks
here comes a **** carrying a torch
a grenade
a deathly love
here comes a victory carrying
one bucket of blood
and stumbling over the berry bush
and the sheets hang out the windows
and the bombers head east west north south
get lost
get tossed like salad
as all the fish in the sea line up and form
one line
one long line
one very long thin line
the longest line you could ever imagine
and we get lost
walking past purple mountains
we walk lost
bare at last like the knife
having given
having spit it out like an unexpected olive seed
as the girl at the call service
screams over the phone:
"don't call back! you sound like a ****
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