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chichee Nov 2018
Baby let's go
                           tipsy-toed
               Skinny dipping in
         disco lights.
    Drunken mouth in
                              worship,
            you call my body             Jerusalem
till I'm        
spluttering up
                             pool water.


    The ceiling spins
                                 a salsa,
the fridge exhales something
                               obscene when it opens
and the furniture
                         blushes
          I'm jealous of the
                                   love story
                    in my home.


We roll around in
                       bolognese
     I slurp the      happy
            out of
                     your mouth.
                                     Saucy smirks.
Oh keeper of my heart,
                             I chain myself to
your smile and
                              swallow the
                                                 key.
Something whimsical to pass the time
Kaitelka; Whale Mongolic down, first whale which said syndrome, evidenced by their presence, as didgeridoo, as spitting but more hypersonic, hyper cetacean moving his tail, Burguete funds, learned to swim faster than anything, but the Nautilus, not He paid attention to his mother in his care skills, but bad luck that can befall if not moderate their exalting and allergic omitted cases to obey.

So all blue, but little Kaitelka, seeking friendship among their peers, but he put  a tambourine limit gave him leftovers and liked more than a day a thousand years of perfect instincts. So step aside by the fire, and dodged the deafening roar of nymph Satinga; the most ancient senator of the headpiece, always full on its plateau of ******* hydrochloride that resistance, if they pass a thousand years and I do not understand these pairs, I adjusted my engine, but to no avail me, my instincts are diluted and slim as downpour edges left by the wayside in infants and solfa. That Jesus Light was said behind the screen rainbow arch, he takes her hand to Kaitelka, and back by the outer estuary, they attack by instinct ministry of evil.

Mildew petrified oaks, disorients the abject warty troughs the disordering of the genetic instinct, if I have to pause my essence, I leave in the hands of Joshua stone from beyond. Where the ticket is worth more to me, but I get the same. Where evil knows well, but tasteless well. Underground, underwater., Kaitelka take any more, wheels come and go, instinct taking shredding herbs near the sea, no longer separates me more. Bright the famous day that rebukes my dreams rather than a whole, plastering, or monument flash highborn of Mongolic loves whales, classless or inheritances acquired record. Kaitelka and in gratitude to accompany my walk, to the junction of Lisbon, walking from room to room, to begin the pilgrimage, his steps were Glup, Glup like a pretty varmint, over the hills she is beginning to the descritery of Satinga, or rather the descritery of Sapiens Hommo, rummaging instinct of love today, then unloved. Native forests make pairings, but separate links non-energy cataclysms, similar to the new alliance valley radial wave, tuned cetacean sonar power can be glimpsed.

The Ministry of Evil is no end to the retrospective marvel at Noe, Isaac or Abraham, or Luther King, is the delayed form of unsettled muscle primo Evo madding to neo Evo updated, and neither bells sound the same, as reboot gray phthisis diseases degenerate and synthetic. The instinct to put your hands into the fire will be lost ..., so more pace to the back of them cutting the seas in arithmetical divisions, if commend my antidepressants depressive relatives, caress the sea in each constipated solstice, I go every night with daisies in my hands defying every cliff, every cave turned into a tavern, killing instinct, when the brain is nothing, sprayed kerosene on stage, to see my beloved before he dies of a blowgun.  

Joshua Stone and Bernardolipus in a crossroad, spin the grazing, the black sheep, is barren, its classic label of Segregated debased soul, but defecated humanoid comment sing out of tune the territory themselves.  Three-step, three-way, Joshua embraces Bernardolipo. Welcome starts. Satinga you slice ferns and wild beast, vomits both diazepams swallowed, do not sleep, dreams transpose half orb. Halos, half halos, iridescent arcades, and warm breezes, must preamble Donated high liking. Soft and warm look, I do not lose my plate potato near my belly, warm adobe cellar. Nymph Satinga of reaction in reaction out of tune and the highlights midwife psoriasis for its reddish dermis by a fungus worming. The re instinct starts to chew his skull, dread end of the border. The cookies Lord is sending us on napkins.

Pre urbane figure born, they appear a hundred suns, so the crowd out who has the audacity to reveal the discrete enigma, the puzzle while the floor moves the seizure ... all stunned waiting for the flash Ritual to start the preliminary stage, the paradigm of unshelled trees, tough tables roll by the church at the foot of flowers crocuses scrolls flat estate. For the baptistery inscrutability warmth your network back double halo on the moon, scrub that level. Abyss where I fall near aspire to the coachman, I go away over time from heaven minute no second in hours where the avalanche of time lose my look to hold any deity that does not prevent the tendency to lose those not facing front, a day like this you do not walk any shadow, nor the Horcondising I would like to Santorini. The Borker wrongheaded, burning a cigar in rib Kaitelka, it provides a stunning scream as the end of the world, giving birth to the sky his beautiful breeding, as a good omen to present to the crowd in the Octagon and pleased transit day often fruity crestfallen fig.  

Adelimpia,  Strongly taken the and Thunder Aunt, washed in the backroom their aprons with Christmas, whose magical and enlightening sense, they were the Three Wise Princes, sons of the same kings of Israel. Sitting on some cobs, heritages from last wheel spikes. On warm evenings mantra Baba Nam Kevalam, I do not stay alone without others to see this magical high flood flow mention aversion in pontificates, necessary, pal meal with wine apocalyptic pale rider, Napoleonic soldier dethroned.

Thousands of hectares grassland in loving with heavenly muddy, as adhering to the force of Sorcery Camphor to move everything to the midnight launch eclipse. Thousands of hectares squirts do not possess any extension ratio, giddiness master eye, losing possession. What is Slice is Caren Lagoon, which is Alhué Village is Polulo mountain near the place, what Pichi of Barrancas... Out of my roles temple or regulators, as night plans still dating Jack, with overall equidistant to all orphan girl lost in the jungle inbenign . Cutting room of breath begins threshing., afar put the trays, and poor saint not to attend, this clever move, all atheists bruised, stiff and deprived of the worst failure smoothness, it´s the earth not plowed,                    
              
Dreams whistles hills ... Ghosts and spurs  ... Elegy opaque optical floors, all at Aunty Thunder dream the same...

If you can call night, inland sea waves have to educate infant’s tsunamis, they live among geological forces off the coast of scudding clouds of ... where she cuts through. Where our conscience, should play down a Machiavellian zero to roll it to the belly of the whale down. Their heavy udders milk, as long as a wild bird dueled, mounted in their beards, but the bird slips for his little body often and disadvantaged, to fall into the enzyme flash neuron meditatively; aspiring meditatively. While tsunamis grow, the mountains grow, decreases Hommo sapiens, conscience, he has left, minus zero exiled to the **** pony pens, to create their neighborhood over the eyes of a pupil of warty lameness. Reborn storm, stately power, Nymph Hetaira, who seduces the ringer smith, golden horseshoe, pal new millennium. His no longer harp, sewing lips ant, threading needles Grandma milking herbs get a grotto, families abandoned, shrill understatement by the echoes of the West, for you my Transients soliloquy turbid straightening of holistic aqueous molecules who want to sleep in my hands.

Good beverage, good consciousness nursery. Sleepily he walks by the barbed wire of stupid sort of busybody in thickness bolognese, or bandoneon, pilaster grandson male, to Vizcaya sailing or North Toscana, where after a barricade, Piedmont jumps to the south under Pichi.

They are falling water molecules on Maitén tree, or Tomato Adelimpia bow, and on the fibrous and head hair grass grandmamma Anna. Junks greet Bernardolipo, which was fishing with his wounded eyes, but the rub his mouth on the back of Kaitelka, calcium verve in carrousel turned. Line up the right hand, bottled lady Juana, he stretched to crush cilantro, but no ... or both...

Reigns for ?, to allocate a stop along the way, West Side Story Pichi. We are a few steps from misting dawn of propionate Stoics lash the oppressed people, clear water, singing  ... neuron in neuron, the cell last neuron, with the bow remained foul-mouthed, to shuffle, or Kawashkar Chilean Indian the slice of the leg, looking shoe children who roam the street without a blanket. They close their eyes, tears of shame. Here you are ecstatic stiffs arrows bows, feathers swaying in edgings shields tangled, hordes of haggard eyes flamed flames that no impudence and, which limp to a scoundrel that stuns resistant to fall on the sand. Show your dream, that dream bathe.

Continues the fierce Primor, falls brochures from red heaven fall prayers stammering to advance on this land saga, fall rustic donatives of grandmamma Mayor of coelum, Joshua insomniac in his tabernacle, defoliating his tome skip and jump down the estuary, before every misstep, holy water to step, a smile the Loica rural place Or a caress to the cheek moon in the arms of a blackbird, manacled to a rasp, stove teapot levitating top where grandmamma Adelimpia wheezes. Hail Mary ever ******, the other day, I heard that in September, flapping fall on Fiddler praise, perhaps mediate, for bad talking, founder of my undying love of life joined empty verbs on clovers where I to live forever, pre, pre paella prize moaning on my shoulder osteoarthritis crucifying collapsed tree. Nightmare builds a ship to reach Legion Mary. Centerfold, guns, howitzers, dissident’s ovaries ... final pages, declamatory winds ... perhaps agonizing leg expectantly... Or delusional feet of premature mortality, which brought pray to heaven, earth ... at soon I have to forget. The earth gives me the cheese, and bread sandwiching it goes...

Between him and earth coelum I doze my motive piece body, my shepherd Beetle Maximilian of Auschwitz sprayed me holy water the Vistula, I kneel down my hinges, and my hands for pray by pure attained effort, ***** great feat, who believes fall the abyss, and just below the earth tremulous, bell, first-throat yawning, loose cassock sounds a rainy morning, falling in the forest priority to see all morning, brimming with couplets of snow.

Continue to fall aqueous molecules, Kaitelka divides the estuary waters. Sheets of – Talami rural high lawns and wise water, South of  Pichi. Follow the dream, and just needed to uprighted the cabin, roaring gallop, wake up tomorrow morning sweaty dancing aqua, font of Lourdes, the four simultaneously open their headlights eyes, unblinking as echoes swimming duck feeding their young in the obsidian lagoon. Rock palafitte a piece of coal painted black each carriage serene, going from the Cantillana Mountain. Blasphemes morning fall roe bellowing wind annoyed tongue, windless striding through the window, thunderbirds mistress thousand flanks, now mount the besieged strands of colloidal solid. Elegy, opaque optical dreams, and drovers days nearsighted, soon saved our lives...

The never End.
hiperverb and imaginery poetry, based upon the eternal endless realistic living and non  logic  retoric literature.
copyrigth JOSE LUIS CT  2018
Big Virge Aug 2020
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I'm Writing THIS PIECE ...
in ... My Front Room ...

LATE At Night ...
Whilst Playing Tunes ...

TUNES That Made Me ...
Vibe And Write A Piece About ...
Some LATE NIGHT Vibes ...

Here's ... " The Scene " ... !!!

I'm Kinda ... " LEAN " ...

KNOW What I MEAN ... !?!

I've Just Eaten Some Food I Like ... !!!
Bolognese ... That Went Down NICE ... !!!

It's Sunday Night ...
Well Monday Morning ...
But I'm NOT Yawning ... !!!

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At A ... FRIGHTENING RATE ... !!!

It's REALLY Late ... !!!
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Has Met The Page ...

TRUST ME Folks ...

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PACK Your Troubles FAR AWAY ... !!!!!

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Whilst In ... The NOW ... !!!

I've Changed My Position ...
Whilst ... Sitting Down ...

Can You ... " Visualise " ... ?
Are You FEELING The Vibe ... ?

Can You FEEL My Pen ... ?
As I ... Transcribe ... ?

This Piece Is CRAZY Like My Mind ...
When It's CLEAR To Think of Rhymes ... !!!

A Tune's Come On ...
Called ... " HAPPINESS " ...

Music Helps Me Feel LESS Stressed ... !!!
Just Like When ... My Pen Transcends ........

At Times Like THIS ...
I Feel ... GOD BLESSED ... !!!

I CAN'T Fulfil What's In My Will ... !!!
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Are You Feeling The Words ...
I Have ... Compiled ... ???

THIS HAS To Go In My ... " Top Five " ... !!!
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Tunes Are Running ... PROPER NICE ... !!!!!

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And Now It's DONE I Understand WHY ... !!!
The Tape Is PROPER On BOTH Sides ... !!!

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I've Made Tapes Since I Was A Child ...

NOT CD's or MP3's ... !!!!!
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ACROSS The Lines of My Notepad ... !!!

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Just Like My Vocal Chords KEEP SOOTHING ... !!!!!

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This Piece of Prose On Sunday Night ...

Well ... Monday Morning ...
The Date Is Now ...

“ The Seventh of the Eleventh " ...
... " Two Thousand and Five " ...

So Folks Did You ENJOY The Ride ... ?
Well NOW It's Time To Say GOOBYE ...
And YES ... Goodnight ... !!!

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PLEASE .... FEEL MY ....

.……… " VIBES " ………..
LISTEN HERE : https://soundcloud.com/user-16569179/vibes/s-KdNAE
Joel M Frye Mar 2011
Her beauty leaves the gods to weep and beat
their chests from unfulfilled desire.  Her legs,
slender, strong, with graceful dancing feet.
Full of life, she understands the dregs,
the darker being lurking just below
my skin, the lust-filled poet-mystic. She
chats of cummings, karma and tarot
while cooking bolognese sauce with me.
Post-dinner, melting on my arm beside
me on the couch with baseball on the tube.
From there, off to the bedroom. Once inside...
well, kiss and tell is just extremely rude.
Ah, to be Young Frankenstein again;
creating love from Abbie Normal brain.
Started with the fantasy of combining the best of the wives/girlfriends I've known...and created a monster. Mwaahaahaahaahaaaaaaaa...
Specs Apr 2018
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.
Overwhelmed May 2011
She wore a knee-length skirt. I like them a tad shorter but for some reason this didn’t bug me. Her smile was bright and cheery. Her hair looked soft and came down to the top of her back. She was beautiful and her teeth were white and seemed to pop out of her mouth. I liked her a lot.
We decided we wanted Italian. I told her about Acario’s, a good-quality place up the street, and she said that it sounded fantastic. I opened the door for her and we drove away in my car. It wasn’t the nicest one on the market but it went fast. When we got out on the highway I pushed the accelerator to the floor and weaved between traffic. Some girls get nervous when I do this but she seemed to enjoy it. She looked over at me and grinned with those bright teeth. I don’t remember much except those teeth until we got there. I opened the door for her again and held the small of her back as we walked to the door.
There was some native Italians singing in the corner as we sat down. There was very electric light, only candles and occasional flicker as the kitchen doors swung open and shut. The waiter seemed a natural at his job. Sharp clothes, slicked back hair, good smile that didn’t seem full of contempt. He greeted us in Italian but quickly reverted back to a more common tongue when we began asking about their specials. She ordered Rigatoni a la pesto. I ordered Linguine a la Bolognese. We shared a semi-expensive Merlot that the waiter recommended. It was all very good but neither of us ate much. All I could focus on were her teeth. Their movement up and down when she talked. How badly it felt to see them go when she plucked a single piece of pasta into her mouth. We stayed for two hours. I paid the bill and left a generous tip. The waiter seemed grateful but I suspect he gathered this was our first date.
I did not want the evening to end so I asked her if she wanted to go someplace else. She suggested a park about a fifteen-to-twenty minute drive away. We both got into the car and I sped down the highway, looking over when I could to see the white gems she kept tucked behind her lips flare open as I revved the engine.
When we arrived she took my hand and led me to a lake a small ways away. We walked around the lake for a while until we found a bench. It was old and wooden. It had seen many people’s ***** and absorbed the sounds of children calling to their mothers, old women throwing seeds to the birds, and even the sounds of young lovers hungrily snarled in each other’s faces. She sat down quickly and smiled, looking at the quiet waters first and then into my eyes. Her eyes seemed full of life but I could not help to be drawn slightly lower, to the confines of her red rim.
I leaned in for a kiss but she didn’t lean back at first. I opened my eyes and saw her grinning, her teeth seeming to say, “you don’t think I’m that easy do you?”
“No”, I said in my mind, “no you’re not that easy. You know I want you. You know why I like you. Why I desire you. Fine. I’ll earn it. I’ll make you want it. Just come here. Come here once and I’ll win you over.”
I leaned in all the way and got my lips on hers. She didn’t kiss back. She wanted to see me try. She wanted me to impress her. I did everything I could. I moved my lips up and down. I ran my tongue on hers. I touched her teeth for the first time. It lit a fire in me. I fought harder than I ever had. I tried things I didn’t know could be tried. It felt like hours and I think it might’ve been hours but that one kiss was what did it.
When we separated she was still smirking. It was different this time though. She was satisfied, not disappointed. Approving, not taunting. She agreed. She was going to give me a shot.
We finished out the evening. I dropped her off at her house around 4 in the morning. We barely talked the rest of the night. We didn’t hold-hands. We didn’t kiss. I don’t even remember what we did for all that time, but it was wonderful. It was enough for me just to know those white, gleaming, wonderful teeth were mine.
That date led to another, the one after that to another one, that one to a fourth and so on and so forth. Weeks turned to months. Months to years. It was years and years and years it seemed to me. I couldn’t remember the days of the week, the hour, the month, the year. It was all about the next time I got to see those teeth. Until, one day, in the blink of an eye, it was the last time I got to see them again. The last time, the very time they warped to fangs and breathed fire like a dragon upon a now useless play-thing.
A short story, written in the style of Hemmingway (I do not assert I am any good at this).
onlylovepoetry Jun 2020
dear god, you humble me into quietude

she says it’s sunny and 75
nearing 3’o’clock, cooling,
let’s go for our usual constitutional,
for a lovely afternoon walk to Shell Beach

can’t can’t can’t walking now in
a bottomless pit, every handhold,
poems, newly commissioned, newborn,
broken off the wall, revealing a gleaming,
light of iron pyrite, really good fool’s gold,
cause only fools write good poetry, or even try


but tonight I’m gonna feed you bucatini bolognese
babe, you gotta walk, make some room for all the words
that will come tumbling free falling while I’m sleeping next,
you’re up prowling looking for rhymes, lines, unheard of before,
you’ll need energy to bite, write, and make loving poetry and then,
then, sleep late, my laddie-baddie, new ones on my nightstand,
for my perusal, my usual unusual man who gifts me them to
in quantities of ‘more galore,’ that I accept, adore...adore

so afterwards, I must say my morning prayer, as an atheist forgiven,
the one I commissioned, and you composed, for me:

Dear God: you humble me into quietude, with gratitude...
Ottar Apr 2015
Pairs well with steak, prime rib and spaghetti
bolognese, my cab-sav drank with no regret,

my dog has more likes on my instagram
@elverum51, is where it is at where I am

chances are dark chocolate will stain these lips,
as I slowly enjoy the limited sweetness, tongue trips

on slippery letters that form words bathed in wine,
I don't work tomorrow I will be just just LIKE fine,

same thing different day on wordpress,
I don't twitter enough for a wordsmith

I am sure there is a video on youtube,
for me dude, to solve everything I rue,

do you?

Need some time killers, murderers more LIKE
Can I interest you in Pinterest, Stumbleupon,

and their ilk?

LIKE me so I can love myself,
take my self-esteem off a shelf

freshly pressed and fine
that reminds me....wine!

How is this social, if I cannot prepare a meal at my meagre table,
Days are gone when my humility is thrilled you visit me, a fable

uncommon courtesy can be found by a common man LIKE me,

@iceintheattic mentioned me in a comment: @elverum51
Always too kind to the bones, kinder than the wind to
the trees - thank you @elverum51

I need SMT
for my SMA

don't message, don't check my status, don't even phone
just show up knock on my door, that is all that matters.
SMT = social media therapy
SMA= social media addiction
I tried to keep all entries below 140 characters, if I failed you might LIKE to point that out to me, oh, don't bother that takes counting.

Any subliminal messages were purely accidental, LIKE you will believe someone who uses his real name.
Nat Lipstadt Jan 2023
Sunday afternoon
her best bud,
our dearest friend,
coming over for
a television marathon:

appetizer, a glass onion,
a ****** mystery to whet,

NFL football main course,
accompanied by her pasta bolognese,

plus a tasty choice of English after-dinner treats,
with chocolate chip cookies, candied pecans,
a platter of  BBC sweet treats,
even one Viennese,
some creatures large and small,
a Victorian female most scarlet.


I proffer:

I will wear my
best pressed
bleu jeans,
my new Kit & Ace bleu sweater,
(that she bought me)
actively participating in all
activities, even keep my cussing
to a tolerable minimum,
and if asked, will gather in a taxi,
no matter it raining bitter cold.


She weighs my terms,
excepting
her acceptance:

Responding that my
dress code excessively formal,
sweatpants will be
infinitely more comfortable,
than jeans, given the intense
intensity of couched exertion.

A sole thought courses through my body:

Lord!
what a magnificent creature
you have planted in my garden
.
2:09 PM
sun Jan 8
2023
cheryl love Jul 2015
There is an owl on the gate and he is singing “tu whit tu whoo”
He is not sure whether he is at Chelsea or indeed at Kew.
He knew here there were well to do types
He also knew that bamboo was green and had stripes.
There were ladies dressed in white Broderie Anglais
Most of which were covered in Italian Spaghetti Bolognese.
Somebody said “Oh I do really beg your pardon
I do like a good nosh up in your garden”.
Some preferred a patch with movement and flow
on the other hand stuff hadn’t chance to grow.
Some folk needed style, imagination and some shape
And all that some required was a simple landscape.
One chap needed mud and a garden full of sweet roses
Rather a contrast but his stuff just decomposes.
Most were impressed with the Chelsea Flower Show
And they all shot off to see what they could plant and grow.
Magnificent!
We  will all soldier on because that's how we're made
one more commando
one more daylight raid and we soldier on.

Long after we're gone and the archaeologists move in to dig up our lives and try to begin and understand the way that we ticked
the way we picked fights,the wounds that we licked,
I'll be in somebody's sights as they examine my bones,searching for clues,considering how I had lived so, with a body abused and wondering if time had it all his own way or did I have some say in the way that I lived and the way that I died.

In the glass cabinets of museums the people will peer at me and what will they see but an ******* of bones covered in rags, a bolognese of a man all knotted then cleaned up and slotted,pigeon holed, allotted my own private page which reads,
'this is a man from the second dark age'
and in years to pass when the glass cracks with the weight of the history inside it
I'll step outside it and continue my soldiering on.
But we'll all make the raid until we're finally laid
at rest,
waiting for the semaphore,the telegram,the history man marches on.
Emilie Mar 2016
IF
If you can be the bigger person when on the other side of the wooden door someone is getting thrown in the red garbage bin,

If you can put on a blue dress with funny words on it and not even care about other people’s opinions,

If you can read a book in French in front of other people and keep your virtue,

If you can go your own path instead of being a follower,

If you can be honest with yourself especially when you’re wrong,

If you can eat Pasta Bolognese in front of your hot crush while he is staring right at you, but keep your cool,

If you can love yourself even with your flaws,

Yours is the Earth and everything that’s in it,

And which is more you’ll be a woman,

My daughter!

~E.J.W~
cheryl love Jul 2017
There is an owl on the gate and he is singing “tu whit tu whoo”
He is not sure whether he is at Chelsea or indeed at Kew.
The Pig knew here there were well to do types
He also knew that bamboo was green and had stripes.
There were ladies dressed in white Broderie Anglais
The Pig was vile covered in Italian Spaghetti Bolognese.
The Pig said “Oh I do really beg your pardon
I do like a good nosh up in your garden”.
The Duck preferred a patch with movement and flow
The Pig on the other hand stuff hadn’t chance to grow.
The Duck needed style, imagination and some shape
And all that the Pig required was a simple landscape.
The Pig needed mud and a garden full of sweet roses
Rather a contrast but his stuff just decomposes.
Both were impressed with the Chelsea Flower Show
And shot off to see what they could plant and grow.
SCHEDAR Jan 2021
warm
mediterranean
slapping seas
crash up against the asphalt wall
whipping red wine soaked
table cloths
tamed by wobbly carafes
spilling over the
winding bolognese stained cobblestone
Marvel at the windmills
beneath an animated sky
Time ceased to exist
as the two, were absorbed into
the surreal romance of their
first kiss...
cleann98 May 2019
...and that allure
so poorly hidden
and so over the top
in her smile
just had to keep me going.
        if anything,
she was my fuel
              and if anything else,
     she was happy to burn out
     if she was lighting the way for me—
before she had to go
she'd always tried
convincing me too
          'red had always been my color'
      when we've always
      and only have
                 ever known
   she looked best in a deep shade of blue.
at least i got to tell her
now that i understand
she could look perfect
in any other tint or hue.
            i guess there is
            a billion happy things
            about being your
            lover's own killer
like she swore there would
      as if she knew even a single thing
      about happy endings—

                           so vague and
          insatiable...
          just like her—

i got to hear her last words
muffled... mangled
    as i was pretending
    that i wasn't the man
    plunging that knife
    twisting the handle
    as the blade inches
    through her guts
           like a ***** slowly
           being driven in to
           the notch it belongs

"tell her she's lucky."
"she landed the man of the year."
"tell her she deserves you."
"and if you ever hurt her,"
"i will haunt you down and kick your ***."
        "tell her sorry"
        "that i couldn't"
        "make the ceremony"
        "if only i had a red dress..."
"but you can go now."
"and have the happiest day of your life."
"i am so proud of you."
        
                    i could really swear
                    this is the happiest
                    of the days of my life.

        a galactic soiree embraced me
        as soon as i entered the chapel
                cerulean sashes
  and a deep slate-coloured motif carpet
  with the lush of stargazers in every step
  as if the maid of honor did this all for me
it was perfect. everything was.
up to the string quartet playing
queen's love of my life as she
was walking down the isle
in her perfect velvet dress
         as if the only blazing light
         trying its best to glow bright
         in the pallid glum sight
         all around us...
                 with all her might—
she joined me to face the altar
unfazed by the absence of her
very best friend that planned this day...
        there are a billion happy things
        that i could just smile about
        just while standing there still:
   the wonder of 'i do' that for so long
   we've always anticipated to vow
   in front of each other and a priest;
         the gusto of that bolognese
         we've spent to much to have
         catering for in the reception;
that irrepleceable magic
of the musicians as they
played chopin's fantaisie;
     and that allure.
     so poorly hidden
     and just so ****
     over the top
            in her smile—

but i know red suits her
so much better...
     she should've been
     the one slathered
     covered in crimson
                                     not you—

one of the billion happy things
about being your lover's killer
is the fact that beyond the grave
i know exactly where to find you...
maybe it really is a happy ending.

so i was torn between this title and 'of honor.' because reasons. i might change it later, i don't know.

ANYWAY, THANK YOU FOR READING ;^; and sorry if it kinda ****** or felt too common this is like my 'training plot' that i use for trying out new techniques or warming up if i haven't written in a while.

hey do you have a 'training plot' too  share it or something and maybe i could make something out of them :>
only if it's okay with you tho.

huge credits to imai for the concept btw c:

anyway, please leave a comment on what you think and again, thanks for reading! ciao~
ogdiddynash Jul 2023
ah pasta!

the quality of good writing
is always strained,
unlike mercy,
always salted and drained,
the experience
combinatory of all
your five senses,
together in concert,
lusting for
each rivulet of
spaghetti strands
stands,
indivisible, under god.

calorically sinning individually,
defying forking unification,
each recalling the where,
the what, or the when,
but not
ah,
the how!

matters this know-now,
the how,
this how came calling,
fork+ spoon,
the resurrection
of inspiration,
the genetic sequence of
past mis-steppes

the how of life oft
grows spoiled, fuzzy first,
because a human assembled
it a long ago, the how,
but time took it upon itself,
to deconstruct
so
the tomato sauce bolognese
inspirational stains
exist to remind us
how
to remain perfect forever

poetica est enim propter cibum

poetry is what you eat
June 2020

— The End —