"broiled" poems
sitting here but not
my insides
in a twist
my organs blooming,
their flower landscapes
rising in my solar plexus
like poetry expanding
its cellular shapes
into
light frequencies
I need way more.
I need the pulling off
and stripping down
of souls
I need to meet in
a depth of falling
I need to be pushed off
the silent gates of madness
into endless sea
no looking back
senses piqued
from slightest brush
of oral butter pouring
on hot cream
my mouth, a searing
crimson wound
oscillates in
contraction radar pulses
ripe for intense
tongue exploration
aching to be filled up with
your distinct flavor
My essence molecular is
overflowing with fluid
giving me life
in throbbing, raw
electric vibes
whipped organic, in
rolling tides
Somewhere, out there
our volcanic impulses
meet in steamy ebbs
and send energyflow
to a new and ancient universe,
magnetic
and I am
a raging heaven's child
wrapped in
a tight little
tourniquet
blood pumping
through these veins
my longing for
dark stretches
of intimate caresses
to soothe
the spikes
of snaking pain
Give me
those airwaves that
let me breathe freedom
into the fields of our skin
Let me run like wild herds
of the animal within
and as I find myself
hanging off
my
own
edges
my many-braided loops
in zigzag split,
a-fray
my skin rips open,
parting fibers
that expose my
very
DNA
helix swivel
undulation
hips grinding into
soul
reaching in to
pull out
fresh rebirth
from between my folds
O help me to allay
this tender affliction
undo me, already
so I lose control
one little shove
and I am over the cliff
deep into ocean
**** over spliff
I am beyond ready
so grind it to the hilt
Give me your
tender-ripped heart,
spill your honeycomb milk
I am here, ravenous
in the pan
uncooked yet ripe
saliva and breath
steaming my own innards
flushing out strife
I am piquant hot pepper
ready to be broiled
my blood is already
boiling
my tender meat oiled
mull me over
in your oral cavity
like sacred wine
until I drip
through your bones
and down your spine
Just meld with me
and flow
into that light tunnel
of dark time and space
so I can stake out
my rhythms
and claim
my
new
sacred
place
Aug 15, 2017
Aug 15, 2017 at 12:20 AM UTC
December, 1870
After the beef was gone,
after the pork and the lamb,
and the fowl and the fish
and the dogs, and the cats,
and the rats in the gutter,
the butchers turned to the zoo.
We ate the wolves.
We ate the wolves
broiled in sauce of deer,
the antelope truffled and terrined.
We ate the camels
with breadcrumbs and butter,
and when they were all gone,
we sharpened our knives
and primed our guns
and came back for the elephants.
The gunsmith Devisme did the deed,
hurled an explosive ball
through each of their docile heads.
They fell like mountains,
like the pillars of Dagon
pulled down by mighty Samson,
and then we hacked them up
and carted them away to the kitchens,
to feed the wealthy and the rich
in the clubs of bright Paris.
Dec 29, 2011
Dec 29, 2011 at 4:51 PM UTC
A satisfied appetite is a simply joy
Overlooked and simplified
Like a growing urge, a salivating need
That is entrancing and glorified.
Everlasting for moments we call meals
Forgotten in time, lingering above
But the taste, the lonesome lover pushed aside
Gazes afar and near wanting to be enjoyed again
The young lady with a tongue of raspberry delight
And the matured widow with darkened cacao lips
Ripening nectar of a sliced peach center
Halved and topped with mascarpone crème
The man with a skin of caramel glaze
Caressing and savoring
With a fragrance and scent
Of hazelnut coffee indulgence and sin
In the pursuit of a brief love affair
What oral sensation did my taste buds want?
My odyssey of gustatory endeavors await
Through the seas of lined people and waiting staff
Generous portions and humble pies
Decadent desserts so rich you’ll die
Vine cherry tomatoes sliced and sauté
Over al dente rigatoni in a roasted cashew sauce
A robust aroma and savory appeal
Basil leaves with garlic strips
Olive oil to top the surreal
Hubristic meatball aborigine
Elysian cuisine or many dreams
Teasing the senses, warming the pit
Of flowing pleasures
And tingling fingertips
Without moral measures
And succulent wines
Rotisserie lamb falling of the bone
Seasoned with Sicilian herbs
And paired with broiled asparagus
Drizzled with lemon juice
And a glass of Merlot
Spices I hardly know
Lachrymose apologies beside a bottle of faded sorrows
With love there is pain, passion endured through the names
Thin soups, flavorless and dull, feeding street-thrown bums
Breathing hard against the delicatessen glass
Hickory smoked hams, pepper-seasoned pastrami
Vinegar cultured pickles and hard dried salami
Unpleasured, without measure, at one's leisure.
Forever my endeavor
Blackcurrant tea laced with slivers of gooping honey
Layers of cinnamon hair atop olive skin
red-painted doors with cedar trim
crushed almonds mixed with hazelnut butter cream spread
devilish rounds of crumbling rum-swirl bread
Smells and wonders, tastes so ...
oh god
Divine and sublime.
Jul 22, 2013
Jul 22, 2013 at 5:42 PM UTC
wind shuffles
through the long grass
seeded heads
drowsy
in the percolating afternoon
broiled air
heavy and lethargic
laboriously ascends
its unseen ladder
into the barren sky
Arcady sings
from a place
of unimaginable height
the song
is a whisper
at the precipice
I am the wing
that awaits your breath
to take flight
May 13, 2023
May 13, 2023 at 10:28 PM UTC
What do my memories taste like? There lies on my tongue—
An atomic bomb:
a purported speck, with no chicken pox skin situated upon such.
I spat it out; I wobbled on and on, stomping the microscopic intensity into the sludge.
No one sees; how pleasant…
My shoe’s underside slit it— a paper cut broiled to the infinitude degree—
Preposterous conundrum! Slam!
I fulminate! I screech, the needy baby I am!
My guttural heave strews in the wind:
deformed limbs on the newer generations, an abysmal thread.
Supposedly bland, but then: a guzzling bleed from you and I gushes on and on; but oh, was it needed!
Listen to my writhing! Soak in my curdling roaring!
I am the mafia mastermind, but I plead to guilt!
The vandalism cannot be grated, but I will
revamp, spot clean, and hunt for a vaccine.
I cannot cure a scored scar, but rest assured:
I will endeavor to solidify the clot.
Aug 29, 2020
Aug 29, 2020 at 4:31 PM UTC
Moldy mutterings-
A char-broiled doomsday
Licks the salted air, no condensation in clouds
Dry and cracked.
Elephant stomp
Pounded ground where
Lizard-scaled turnip roots drip
Into dirt, drooping low and quick.
That senseless racket, the incessant buzzing
Yellowed a crusted earlobe
The cauliflower cult.
Chipped to smithereens
As the sun split
In sizzling heat.
No porcelain skin to drizzle
Tender sweat beads
Blackened back-burner.
Conquest of detention to
Contain lackluster irrelevant lessons
Blessed with a dead hand
Crumpled flesh stump.
Hunched Trapezius circle person
Cowering in familiar corners.
Glisten as an oyster's ravaged shell,
Sour cream pearl dangling between your *******
Twinkling Adam's apple
This speech could sink its teeth in.
Spurting eloquence
Gushed up word juice.
Swallow hard and whole
Choke on the knowing.
Feb 20, 2014
Feb 20, 2014 at 1:52 PM UTC
clap for mashed potatoes
gravy on the side
ketchup smothered
is how i like my fries
love a baked potato
stuffed with everything
even like them broiled
butter and sour cream
hash browns grilled with onions
get my taste buds jumping
sometimes like them fancied
dressed up in au gratin
slurping of the soup
sprinkled down with parsley
even eat them raw sometimes
though the taste is gnarly
smoked me a tater once
living on the farm
followed around the little animals
till the cows came home
Aug 26, 2013
Aug 26, 2013 at 8:22 PM UTC
rise refreshed, walk the dog, after splashing water on my face,
breathe the air in and out before to many cars are about,
feed the beast and pick up my muse to read for as long as...
i can,
drink dark brew, after a lemon water, warm not cool
have breakfeast, an egg, half a bagel and a whole grapefruit,
with brown sugar, butter and walnuts, broiled just so there
is a slight crunch to that glaze, with each bite.
then off to my favourite bookstore in some part of the world
or near by, hope i can get the leer jet, to pass the time by
to get where Munro's is waiting.
then stay have brunch at some hotel or other five star place,
and fly back for early after noon and listen to itunes,
as I sip my green smoothie as the traffic motors by
making mockery of ocean waves as I read the book and rave
about my purchase. is that your beer or mine?
then dinner would be a winner, some veggie or meat dish
like ratatouille or nachos ground beef and cheese with green
onions, olives and tomatoes and please pass the guacamole.
have a glass of wine or two, red would be better considering the
chill in the weather at the end of the sunny fall day, might have
a hot desert or not, then to walk my dog, not to trot, as we
both are not as young as we used to be, maybe I never was.
well then i will wash up while showering
then to bed and write it all down as who knows,
when it will happen again, perfection is rare as
pure air, then read for an little bit,
dim the lights and see how easily
my head rests on my pillow, as i drift on some
translucent sea of blue, still comfortably fitting
her hand with mine, as it has been all day.
©DWE102013
Oct 24, 2013
Oct 24, 2013 at 11:34 PM UTC
Distant thunders of wars threaten
my peaceful
landscape of sleep,
in bed I twist and turn
shocked by the cries of
people getting killed for
reasons hidden or unknown;
when lives get complex
like tangled knotted strings,
for death to snap it
hardly needs any reason.
Bombs explode and light
a wild fire of destructions,
creating an illusion, that
it's just a happy fire works.
Misery has it's reign everywhere;
women are unconsolable in grief,
men are in moral turmoil.
Waking up I realize,
nightmares come in waves
soaking up waking hours with remorse
in our sad sordid times.
Bad dreams at night are merciful
as one is insulated from
being a nervous wreck.
how could one look away
when one is bleeding from
the eyes like a martyr?
Mothers are wailing,
fathers go missing, all of a sudden
children are made orphans
with no place to call their own.
Nobody seems to be concerned;
no one any more is
the keeper of one's own
brothers and sisters.
The world collects statistics
and explanations dutifully,
reports are written
and stalked in shelves;
all hyperbole, lies and nonsense
signifying nothing,
in a wold broiled as
love had gone missing.
In this silent night, smelling blood
of sacrificial lambs,
a pale moon hangs low
like human conscience;
silent witness or accomplice?
We stand here in the shadows confused;
"Aren't we trudging back to darkness?"
Oct 29, 2011
Oct 29, 2011 at 9:37 AM UTC
When my body is broiled with the crispening macabre glean of anxiety; I imagine myself to be a buoying loaf of cornbread in a torrent sea of acid.
my custard colored crust being licked away by the ravenous maw of the current, this is no terrain for a loaf of cornbread in the first place.
Ludicrous.
Perhaps if I joined the sun swept crystal island of idealism, I could be drenched in honey and bound frivolously in nectarous orchard fields.
But then, even here, I suppose a Raven may spot me and adorned with a vulturous sneer gobble me up in my blissful state there.
So where shall my pappy crumbling loaf of an existence reside?
In the trenches of unbridled realization, lapping me up in a despair riddled prison?
Or the land of beatitude and glee unfettered from the brutalizing truths of reality...
Perhaps there's some bridging ground between these two polar opposites...
but how should I know?
I'm merely a cornbread I can't declare cognizance.
Feb 23, 2017
Feb 23, 2017 at 11:09 PM UTC
Five children, a sixth on the way,
the eldest around 7,
the others barely walking.
The Dad looks like a Kevin,
heavy arms bringing his shoulders down
to the top of his daughter’s head,
he feeds and is fed on
nothing but steak, pan fried and
broiled
for succulent juices to run down his shirt
uncoiling and picking up the pace
from face to stomach, a slight overhang
so his belt never sees the light.
The Mum stays quiet,
a Kate or Collette,
but she says nothing,
just stands there carrying his sixth baby
keeping it away from the narrow traffic to the side of her.
Five children, a sixth on the way,
the eldest around 7,
all waiting to start another academic year.
Sep 29, 2013
Sep 29, 2013 at 9:34 AM UTC
There’s an after taste
that has been plaguing my tongues
for months now
and my conscience
tells me it’s something
called home.
Something like the sting
of rotten apples
grown along the stride
of Lady Liberty.
You see,
big cities tend to
stain my my mouth
and I’ve yet to
figure out how
to brush off such
brackish flavors
brought on by
bundled bodies
in train cars.
I am craving
warm subways
and cold concrete.
Craving that sweet insincerity
like candied cold shoulders.
I want to be served
every bit of a
baked BK attitude
in the furl of a brow.
Want to taste
hard broiled Harlem
in the switch of hips.
Mild Manhattan oozing
the stitch of an
Hermes steeple tote.
I am always quick
to order a flight
to my second home.
Apr 14, 2013
Apr 14, 2013 at 5:27 PM UTC
Spoiled in the muck,
As if a broiled duck,
My tarnished luck.
But came the princess,
Of all my happiness,
She is the mistress.
I dreamt about her,
Last night as I slept,
Vaguely I remember.
We haven't met yet,
But eyes have met,
In our dreams set.
So now I smile,
Along each mile,
Her fantastic style.
Nov 27, 2013
Nov 27, 2013 at 2:15 AM UTC
The guy at the diner failed to mustard Jake's hot dog
As he was eating it he felt as cold as a marsh frog
Yucky was the flavor without condiment
Chomping it down, a tasteless torment
As the fries on his plate were doing the backstroke
Having a jolly swim day in a puddle of oil
Asked for industrial towels to wipe up the slick
Before it caught wind of the Environmentalists
A complaint has been filed about their bill of fare
Nothing served over the counter would we wish to share
Placards will be shown over the Diner's facade
Warning customers of this ecological disregard
They won't water down their words like the Diner their drinks
Before you enter in you'll stop and think
About the Blue Plate Special with Salmonella on the side
Do you prefer your Botulism broiled or would you like it fried
Gastronomic delights such as they will make you pay
A stint in the infirmary is sure to come your way
With a tossed salad of pain, relievers, and antibiotics
Which none of the above will be deliciously exotic
If you can take the cooks looks and stomach the smells
Along with the service that's slower than snails
There's normally a coupon in the daily mail
Buy one get one free!
Ahhhh.....what the hell
Jun 13, 2015
Jun 13, 2015 at 9:14 AM UTC
Getting broiled in the daytime
And slow-cooked at night,
Could it be that
Al Gore was right?
Aug 17, 2018
Aug 17, 2018 at 5:50 PM UTC
undated
Autumnal leaf air,
with the historical cut of princetonian guile
I walk toward the dull exonerated street
she looks heavenward; asks for a cigarillo
tahiti bean
we never questioned our being,
we just floated and
the capsicum katana slicing our
corneas into julienne,
I tell her I can't, I quit,
never knowing quite what to do
smoking in june outside a wedding with the boys
she cuts me off, fast it's back to
thinking of melting flower pots and broiled
confectioner's sugar in my tiptoe mind-
my toes are flat on the ground I walk with a gait,
lifting my heels as if i myself seemed an aristocratic soul
I look up
she has walked away
toward the
candy store
to buy licorice
Sep 16, 2015
Sep 16, 2015 at 8:49 PM UTC
A vegetable sufficiently boiled
And buttered and salted and oiled
Can taste just like meat
Off a parakeet
Or platypus flambéed then broiled.
Apr 11, 2024
Apr 11, 2024 at 2:50 PM UTC
im a basket full of eggs
so hard yet so fragile
one shake on rattle
one quick long drop
and ill pour over the surface letting all of my organs show
they will spill and expand rapidly
drying up the earths soil
ill gasp for air-try to cartch my breath
im in a race
in a battle
to keep my eggs from shatterting so easily
to keep my eggs hard broiled
the be hard egg shell and strong on the inside
i strive to be that broiled egg.
so even when im dropped
i wont shatter
May 22, 2014
May 22, 2014 at 1:07 AM UTC
Jacob Rees-Mogg
had offered May a
Broiled ERG for her
Brexit, but, as there
was nothing to toast,
she just had freshly
squeezed Orange,
Ordered, then, she
looked out, at yet
another Ryan Air
Jet, with a Harp, and
no strings attached!
Jan 28, 2019
Jan 28, 2019 at 1:07 PM UTC
Right now, a witness I am, of the ever repeating ever progressing world,
Right now, peoples’ different definitions clash in a heavy sticky stew a-broiled; but
Right now, people are looking left, many more looking right,
Right now, the pendulum is walking back - this election is up for a fight.
Right now, the people are like crops waiting for the harvest,
Right now, the farmers are making their “witty” and impulsive agendas they claim are harmless.
Right now, America has no unity - until “POW!” - we are attacked;
Right now, I wish we could fight off our extreme, utmost, and bombarding differences
Right now. To come together. Our woes, sorrows gone.
Right now, achieve safety, happiness for all, and exclusion for none.
May 4, 2015
May 4, 2015 at 8:59 AM UTC
There were painter’s clouds that day;
broiled and tumbled,
moving inner silence across an easel.
Beneath them
a concrete mind mixed and etched
one long brush-stroke;
the tarmac before us.
Excited engines carried us along
and carried by us
an air befriended...
with the convertible top thrown down
your hair streamed behind
olympic colour; a spectrum of extraordinary.
Your head held back a sunrise laugh
and all the wind
belonged to exhilaration.
Ahead of us, the horizon captured another sky,
a mist-green hail filled sea; that ominous litany.
A pallet knife scratched its lightening
and the danger of no potential
that kept us moving on.
MChallis © 2015
Jan 1, 2015
Jan 1, 2015 at 8:25 PM UTC
After all these many carnivore years
You can call it guilt or you can call it fear
I've made up my mind to decide
I'm going vegan this November time
So I broke down hard and read some books
Heard some tapes on what it took
From veggies steamed to veggies raw
From beans of green to yellow squash
As my nightly dreams were all filled with meat
I pushed back hard with collard greens
But still had no clue of what to do
With a turkey substitute
And that is when a friend came in
Who Tofu's the line at turkey time
So I read more books and heard more tapes
On Tofu fried, boiled, broiled, and baked
Opening up my kitchen to fine cuisine
Minus the best part...that being meat
As I promised myself I can make this work
My Tofurkey would be the finest in edible art
I had bought my Tofu by the pound
Lucky for me it is pliable
As I stretched and pulled and pulled and stretched
Until I had something that looked like a head
With my artistic abilities seriously in doubt
I'm pretty sure what I conjured was the head of a cow
So I pulled and stretched and stretched and pulled
No ones going to call me an abstract fool
As I bring to boil the "Rodin" juices in me
And baste at my skills repeatedly
Where I come up with a turkey, giblets and all
And just for good measure I gobble a turkey call
Of course cooking the thing is another road and
I sadly lost Tofurkey 1, 2, and 3 in the explosion
When 4 hit the score I invited my friends
Whose friendship with them will take time to mend
Just because a turkey looks like a turkey, don't mean that it is
I'm now learning all this while I clean up the mess
As forks went to the mouths at the very same time
So did the retching along with the crying
But in a month they'll forget this entire sordid ordeal
When they get the invites for my Christmas holiday meal
With my time in the books and tapes I will spend
Looking forward to Christmas and a delicious soy bean ham
Nov 13, 2016
Nov 13, 2016 at 11:33 AM UTC
a creeping
wither did
vine rocky's
tail and
was falling
leaves in
Autumn only
blue by
trail weened
her dorky
tea in
throat that
her ***
broiled canapé
and wrest
on her
hot plate
Apr 18, 2018
Apr 18, 2018 at 6:02 AM UTC
Have to let this food digest
First I had broiled salmon
Then some chocolate covered raisins
Then some sparkling mineral water
Crunchy carrots are tasty too
Some more water
Finally I topped it off
With a bowl of shredded wheat
I have to remind myself to let the food digest
Before I keep eating!
6 feet, 172 pounds
I think I just gained two pounds
Well, I'll just to extra sit-ups ups tomorrow
Aug 26, 2014
Aug 26, 2014 at 1:58 AM UTC