"basted" poems
Benign, benevolent ballerina bubbly bathing by beautiful blossoming balsams.
A gander I took and I was a statue, still, allured, and enchanted. my lips basted by beauty, before her I was an apparition, lost in forests of adulation.
A vanishing spirit soon to be a vestige of a vestige. I shall wage wars, arm myself and battle my way to her hands that can melt the glaciers residing in my heart.
Feb 8, 2015
Feb 8, 2015 at 7:13 AM UTC
first I smell myself.
the deep bass tonality of my musk,
hot, creamy, sweetness unique, of coffee and creamy,
my owned sweat oiled secretions massaged into her skin
emplaced by vigorous parts rubbing and tongue caressing,
under the fading shadows of my glancing, desirous admirings
then I smell herself.
sinking sunset glimpses of last nights parfume parfait,
scattered in random strategic locations architecturally planned,
some flavors come over me like modest waves,
others spelunking found in crevices, cracks and caves,
where humans tread in guileless search of guiltless pleasure
then I smell our sharings.
lemon and thyme, paprika, sea salt and pepper,
a basted rub laid upon animal skin consuming, and consumed,
the vinaigrette balsamic and California yellow raisins, pine nuts,
decorating leaves of red soil spinach and spicy arugula,
word salads, so miraculously ingenious, you swear off eating flesh
then I smell our combinations.
the air conditioned atmosphere that blends us properly chilled,
the olive oils pressed from two colored differing skins,
the mortal and pestle finely grinding our own fresh crumbled dirt,
appearing in places where dirt is wet panko crumbs encrusting us,
our combined liquidity, shaken and stirred, drying in martini tandem
it is 8:17am and this recipe of reciprocity,
at its most pungent peaking,
for soon raining waterfalls of potable city water
and the sophistry of French soap,
the pseudoscience of modern chemical shampoo,
together erasing, scrubbing away this poems aromatherapy tapestry,
your perplexed complexing nostrils will mock you once more,
for ever disbelieving, thinking you could no longer write of
only love poetry that crested high above the trite
Friday, March 29 2019
Mar 29, 2019
Mar 29, 2019 at 8:40 AM UTC
#112615 #4:16PM
Minsan, pipila ako sa Fast Food
Pero yun bang pagkatagal-tagal,
Oorder ka't papaasahin ka lang din.
Minsan, magsusukat ako ng damit o sapatos,
Yung tipo mo na, pero hindi naman kasya,
"Okay, hindi yan para sakin."
Minsan, magkakape ako
Alam kong mapait pero sinubukan ko pa rin.
Akala ko kasi sapat na ang matapang lang,
Pero hindi pala ako kayang ipaglaban.
Minsan, magbabayad ako ng bill sa Globe,
Yung nagsabing 'Abot Mo ang Mundo,'
Siya rin palang guguho ng mundo ko.
Minsan, magtetext ako
At lagpas 3sms na't 1KB na,
Tapos wala palang load,
Pati responsibilidad, di kayang pasanin.
At minsan mahihiga na lang ako,
Mahihimlay nang panandalian,
Oo nga pala, 'Walang babaeng nanliligaw,'
Hindi pa ako basted, Owrayt!
Nov 26, 2015
Nov 26, 2015 at 3:19 AM UTC
Use a little compassion
Show some humanity
Basted in boredom
In touch with insanity
How many flies will have to die
before her thirst is sated?
How many eyes will have to pry
to show what you've wasted?
Worming through the night
scheming, hell bent
forestalling my demise
with evil intent.
She'll tend the garden
Like a perfect person
But her heart is hardened
as she mixes the poison.
Beware the water
Beware the daughters
Beware the good Samaritan.
May 1, 2014
May 1, 2014 at 6:19 PM UTC
there are some things,
that just smell so good:
corn freshly shucked, potatoes roasted in campfire coals, carrots fresh from the ground, then washed and stovetop roasted
basted with butter
and lavender honey.
the nape of my toddlers neck,
that clean fresh hopeful little boy smell.
coffee, straight up, freshly brewed
caramel warming,
passionfruit, strawberries, citrus any type, zested. freshly planed fennel curls, mint crushed for a mojito, roast lamb and rosemary gravy.
the smell of planed wood in the palms of my man's hands as i kiss them. frangipani, coconut tanning oil,
earth newly rained upon. popcorn popping, chocolate melting,
jasmine, orange blossoms,
a grove of pine trees.
warm gingerbread and mulled wine.
salt tang on the morning breeze.
the smell that lingers after the lovin.
garlic and ginger in a hot wok.
salt tang on the evening breeze.
prawns all sea salty and
a crisp cold beer.
sandlewood and citrus aftershave lotion on your smoothed cheek.
nectarines, apricots,
a yellow juicy peach,
freshly bitten.
apple scented shampoo daphne & lilac my nana's smell,
bay *** newspaper print and palmolive soap,
my pop's study.
rose petals crushed.
earl grey tea,
toast just before burning damper and cocky's joy
crisp fresh linen warm from the sun.
so many scents, so many smells...
these are my favourites please feel free to add your's, as long as it's clean
and above board.
Aug 8, 2014
Aug 8, 2014 at 7:10 AM UTC
So That Others May Live
My son and I go down to the beach today
And lay claim to a small square of sand
Where we ***** a blue plantation of shade
Inside a red umbrella city founded by dermatologists.
Slow cooking like a pair of pork chops basted in SPF 30
He reads a Jack Reacher novel, myself the LA Times
Occasionally, he looks up from his book and shares a passage:
How about I show you the inside of an ambulance?
The girlfriend his from Kentucky has never been to the beach
She is ensconced in the best chair eating watermelon
Reading poetry by Rupi Kaur god bless her
She should have the best seat if she’s reading poetry.
People form Iowa and Minnesota you know the ones
In the parcel of sand between us and the ocean
Have lain towels and blankets far too near the tide line and
Come noon we enjoy their Midwestern diaspora to higher ground.
We body surf in waves that are bigger than they look
He wears the right fin and I wear the left
I bounce off the bottom and get my *** sand papered
Then tumble into him like a forgotten dollar bill in a wash machine.
In the parking lot laughing and spitting salt water
I pour a bucket of sand out of my wetsuit onto the hot asphalt
And realize it will never be this way again and it won’t
The lines in his face a perfect nautical map of the future.
Jul 18, 2017
Jul 18, 2017 at 12:31 AM UTC
in that junction between summer green
and autumnal auburn skins
peaches dropped
their soft, burnt chins melting into ground
bearing teeth within like
quick-basted skulls reopened
or pages unread
the sugar’s been wasted,
a sin unexpected in spring
when first blossoms burst ...
then
like giddy children,
we would have us gathered ‘round early,
setting ladders, laughing to pluck ecstasy
and gods we might have been
or butterflies
not knelt so, the weight from this diet
of nameless hard words we’ve breathed,
boundaries woven into our clothes
worn to spite ourselves,
graceless beggars defeated
but restless, this:
echoes, now, of childhood and lovers,
friends who came and went as rain
another cold winter soon again,
the peaches we never picked
Sep 21, 2013
Sep 21, 2013 at 12:41 PM UTC
Sometimes I feel like ****
Even when I'm at my best
I sometimes feel like cutting myself with a knife or a razor-blade,
Just to see my own blood flow down my
Skin and not even think about the pain
But only myself regrets that I want to
Drown away , I just wanna gun, and some *****
And maybe some **** to go along,
That'll hold me down for awhile.
But later down the road I just mite,
Blow my ******* brains out,
End of story baby.
You knew I ******* loved you
How could you brake my heart
And ******* cheat
It's like I'm burning alive in my sleep
That makes me wonder why the ****
we even met anyways
I shoulda knew this **** was coming
To an end,
I shoulda knew this **** was heading to
Misery & pain
This **** is so bitter like unsweetened
Beer that makes you wanna **** up
**** and blame the world when in reality I know that I can't
cause your the ******* problem
I know you've hurt me but that's ok
You may have knot me down for now
But I will rise again like always
So go live with that basted Mr. John if you want
See if I give a **** girl
you so fake over that pretty face girl
Your full if lies you selfish ******** *****
Leave my light
And stop your ******* ********
You ****
**** the ********
You were never romance.
Nov 17, 2012
Nov 17, 2012 at 11:42 PM UTC
(To the tune of the 12 Days of Christmas) *
On the first day of Christmas my mommy made me
A batch of my favorite cookies
On the second day of Christmas my mommy made me
Two apple pies
On the third day of Christmas my mommy made me
Three basted turkeys
On the fourth day of Christmas my mommy made me
Four deviled eggs
On the fifth day of Christmas my mommy made me
Five pumpkin pies!!!
On the sixth day of Christmas my mommy made me
Six honey hams
On the seventh day of Christmas my mommy made me
Seven gooey brownies
On the eighth day of Christmas my mommy made me
Eight malted milkshakes
On the ninth day of Christmas my mommy made me
Nine banana muffins
On the tenth day of Christmas my mommy made me
Ten yucky yams
On the eleventh day of Christmas my mommy made me
Eleven pickled peppers
On the twelfth day of Christmas my mommy made me
Twelve ears of corn
Dec 3, 2017
Dec 3, 2017 at 8:19 PM UTC
walk side streets
alone - headphones.
zones of melody
channeling canals
deeper than all
the billboards basted
by bad barters.
must’ve been mistaken.
although their dressed
up, they’re simmering
thin - acetaminophen.
finished, drugged bugs
cling strings holding
last lines of defense.
Jan 27, 2015
Jan 27, 2015 at 2:02 PM UTC
Her touch brought light into this world.
Her smile chased away the cloud around my heart.
Her lips breathed air into my lungs,
forcing a breath, I didn't know I had been holding.
Like a flower in the spring day sun,
I basted in her light.
pitying those who could only see in black and white.
my love
my brave love
I do not know then,
it was your rainbow blood
and allowed me to see the world.
that it was your color that seeped through the creaks
of their concert cities
and built me a
home.
Away from all those who couldn't see the color of love.
Oct 20, 2020
Oct 20, 2020 at 5:10 PM UTC
black glassy eyes staring back at mine.
double reflections. doppelganger.
a hawk with spread wings,
attacking a nest. Its claws arched
aimed at a chick.
Stuffed and basted like it's Christmas without the carols,
it is still.
unmoving in the glass.
the chick, too, is frozen in time. or fear.
or stitches or reflections.
crown of feathers stuffed in my pillow,
I think of the hawk at night.
that chick.
those talons and that eye.
that little eye
staring back at mine as if to say;
_save me_.
I cannot.
Aug 2, 2019
Aug 2, 2019 at 11:38 PM UTC
you see the potential, then you think of time wasted; you seek true hearts, but to you love has basted.
you visualize happiness, complete bliss and unity; but sadly you know how cruel love can be.
here's to a time where it doesn't pain to love! to a time where people are so above; dissembling, dishonesty but are aware and complacent, that admire soul & value aside from childish relations!
in search of real, true, honest, unfeigned
here's to the real, true, honest, unnamed.
Dec 8, 2016
Dec 8, 2016 at 9:17 AM UTC
A turkey, even if basted,
Too long in the oven is wasted.
But gravy revives
When roasting deprives.
It’s gotten so juicy, just taste it!
Sep 2, 2025
Sep 2, 2025 at 5:32 PM UTC
awkward girls delivering their spoken thoughts
like hand written love notes
perfumed hopes cherished brightly
one of a hundred that stand at the edge of reality
and in the near perfect unison of dropping lovely invitations
to the magazine advertisements man who is supposed to
sweep them off their feet
the manly man who has button down eyes
and a wrinkle-free shirt
to him sex's butter is romance
her temperature dog
haunts her lonely steps
with a eager wag of his ratty tail
his pleasant eye wagers that she will return him for the deposit someday
its for the girl who has everything and a box of candy too
its not in what you have but its measured by how much you reject
sex's butter tastes salty sweet
she has a sidewinder viper gently cradled in her arms
calls it the child of her destiny
sex's butter is her bed and breakfast
an empty conversation
like a small hole in my mind
spilling its useless phrases to be swallowed whole
in the tepid sea of her eye
her hollow laughter two tables away
suddenly as it comes it limply dies away
alarmist by nature
she crafts a tale of woe
to suit her mind
but that tale is an empty eyed charter boat fish
that lay barren and objectified on her dinner plate
basted in sex's butter with a twelve inch whip...
Nov 25, 2014
Nov 25, 2014 at 9:58 AM UTC
We had the best table
at the very edge of creation.
Our waiter
( the Devil you know )
looking so
debonaire and almost human
rattling off
an expensive menu.
Embarrassingly I had to have it translated into Mortal.
The Devil's faux
supernatural accent
really grated
and I could detect
a slight Aberystwyth
tone.
"Now, this night
of nights
we are serving
a very rare Kraken
fried in a rich
imagination.
Or a superb Leviathan
basted in delicious mythological sauce.
I'm afraid the slightly sautéed souls are off.
And to drink
we have the finest minds
( from all time )
our cellars are the envy
of the Imaginary.
Or may I be so bold as to suggest
the latest universe?
Or a sparkling non-alcoholic
sub-conscious.
And for starters?
Some screams perhaps?"
God burps:
"I pray thee, pardon!"
I apologised
said I had already eaten
in a previous life
and that I was
anyway
a dreamatarian.
But if I could
have a glass of H2O?
I listened to the table talk
understanding very little
I didn't speak
fluent Creationese.
I politely made my excuses
and left
...before the after dinner
speeches.
Aug 10, 2015
Aug 10, 2015 at 2:47 PM UTC
appointed anointed entitled insane
assaulted revolted compiled remains
jaunty raunchy defiled deranged
daunting exhausting exiled and caged
experiment serious fistful explain
mysterious furious pistol disdain
lodger copter laughter softer
walking wanting wading wearily watching
thumping trading
vapor water left unbothered
shot and pulled and dropped to fodder
pushing pouting prodding per i lously pinching poking
paper thought or kept to rot and sought to put the trough
but
type. speak. letters. words.
components honing rodents fuller shoulder bone boulder
broken beaten bottled breathing baker bleating basted by
faker fleeting fated fearing facing feeble fine
CHOKE
keeper of the cold and crafted cattle
come to coddle all the wretched blood
it would it was and has been done
the blooming of a bud
Dec 9, 2022
Dec 9, 2022 at 3:57 PM UTC
In my family I am called the ******** one
for I am not out for riches or gain of others
they see me a jester, so way, way out of line
even if I tell them that, I like to do it my way
I wondered with my draconian upbringing
that could I really, hold my sword by my side
and not wield it in rhetoric crazy justice
well I passed on that one in some ways
Here now I sit, resting like a succulent chicken
just out of the oven, all basted in rich creamy butter
whatever they stuffed me with, it smells good
come friends have a bite out of me, You Know You should
lol
By Christos Andreas Kourtis aka NeonSolaris
Nov 14, 2013
Nov 14, 2013 at 3:21 PM UTC
Doom is a perilous art. I wait expectantly for the fall. It doesn't come, not yet. It's easier to feel in the dark.
I can **** my own demons. Or, at least, starve them in the corner. Experience carved armor into my skin. Theirs is still soft, squishy.
They're so blissfully oblivious. Put this snow globe moment up on the shelf. Pain doesn't have to exist anymore. I'm exhausted.
The black hole inside my ribs swallows up everything. My chest aches in a way I'm not used to. This isn't my sadness. Is this fear?
I collect stickers and stuffies with fervor. My pockets are lined with candies to stick the pieces back together. I'm sure I'll hear it. It's not often that ten hearts shatter at once.
Gap in the picture. No matter what, they're going to feel the aftershock. Turkey basted in tears surely tastes dry. I hope October never ends.
Nov 6, 2017
Nov 6, 2017 at 2:08 AM UTC
Some sack ration
Basted, Nation
Clicking limbs
Seraphim
The bow swung low across the strings
Heaven was created with memory
Jesuit chanting; hymnals ripped and
Hung beneath His fingertips
Queasy Art; Wrecked hands
Seminal beats and terminland
Catch the sokoreal
Spawning chests
caelestis, heartbeats; the first sunset
Feb 22, 2016
Feb 22, 2016 at 12:49 PM UTC
Fill me up, I’m empty
Fillet me, I’m cooked
Use me, I’m blind
Cook me, I’m basted
**** me, I’m done.
Yell at me, I’m deaf
Ogle me, I’m not pretty
Understand, read between the lines
Feb 2, 2016
Feb 2, 2016 at 5:47 AM UTC
The love runs through my veins,
although currently I have a blood clot,
at a younger age I slipped through the chains,
although I fear I have finally been caught.
As these thoughts begin to swell up inside of my heart,
and my heart begins to slowly tear apart,
I realize there is no going back to the start.
I must rebuild and reset my shredded insides,
in an attempt to maintain these growing tides,
for the love building up in me cannot be contained,
which leads me to funnel my love to be drained.
But do not worry as it will not be wasted,
as I will drain it out into your soul,
and I will continue until my heart is fully basted,
or until we are whole.
Mar 31, 2014
Mar 31, 2014 at 12:50 AM UTC