"brunch" poems
She waits. How beautifully she waits.
How impossibly lovely she is
with a thing so passive.
With what weight she waits,
making her bus or boyfriend
(or whatever she waits for)
seem like a first brunch with Christ.
She waits regally, in perfect contrast
to the drooling buffoon describing her.
Nov 24, 2015
Nov 24, 2015 at 6:31 PM UTC
Gliding deftly along the city street
rolling quick and constantly
onward to some unknown scene,
some backward park in the nighttime
smoke curling from these
parted lips, moist and inviting
calling me somewhere I've never seen.
New day, new night
new feelings, rage in delight
fill me with your hilarious entropy,
knock my quarks into the next century,
will you please?
Now you're smoking the pipe and all at once you are free
between you and me, this smoke is thicker and sticks
like glue,
wispy and dreamy and the world spins and calls Toltec
telephone company can't pay me for all those calls collected
and rendered obsolete
Sun god dead as that silly calendar meme
Amaterasu,
and Imma tell you
these ladies in the picnic table
buried alive for boxed lunch and god's brunch
Jesus ******* Christ
and a indelible roster of good guys,
to which we all must strive to live and die
behind,
never moving forward
chasing our tails like a sick dog
under the jasmine runner between the decades-old tanbark
imported from overseas
dead trees
dead canine
and oh isn't it just divine?
You see it, pretty lady.
I can see it hiding behind your eyes
the things you don't tell the others because you're afraid
if they found out,
you'd be crucified.
Well honey I hate to inform,
With KGB efficiency that these love-a-dumbs
aint Methuselah,
they'll be dead!
long before your flood of tears tears me from the land
ballistas me across the great expanse to some strange Ararat
of the eastern seaboard,
or maybe wash me deep along the 80
into the desert sands and tiles
on a leaky cell phone screen
desperately trying to dial home on low battery,
realizing all this was one big deferred dream,
baking in the sun and shriveling
oh well, back to the grindstone-- all those lies plucked your nose,
gotta cut it back to size,
'else your soul it'll outgrow
Don't worry honey bee
It hasn't happened to me,
and We know with calcuable mathematical truth
that it'll never happen to you.
Jun 26, 2018
Jun 26, 2018 at 9:50 PM UTC
I could’ve woken you up in the morning and could’ve been the sun that rises even when we both live in a place where it never does.
I could’ve taken you to museums, at least 2 of where I’ve been to. The first one, we’ll have to take the bus because I’d tell you that I’m too lazy to drive but for the second one, I will tell you that I’ll drive you there.
My car would look at me as though it knows that there is another soul seating in the passenger seat – it was no longer some books, a box of pizza, or my dog.
I could’ve taken photos of you in that place, post them everywhere but subtly so that they can see that there are at least 2 forms of art in that photo — the one you’re looking at and the one I’m looking at.
I could’ve talked to you at night under the stars, in the same rooftop where I told you that I liked the cathartic experience of doing just what we could’ve done; the same rooftop where you talked about your life, at least some pieces of it.
I could’ve brought you to where I used to study. We could’ve walked the halls that stared at me for being too alone and too lonely only so I could tell them, “Hey, here he is, finally.” and they could’ve smiled at me because they know how long the longing lasted.
We could’ve taken a stroll in the shade of the trees or could’ve had a picnic there while watching the joggers and the sunset.
I could’ve introduced you to my friends – they’ve been meaning to meet you. They too know how long I’ve been stuck on an island by myself. They know who I was when I was eleven and when I was sixteen and I bet, if you gave them a chance, you could’ve heard the crazy things we did.
And maybe they could’ve liked you. They could’ve told me how lucky I was and probably would’ve warned me that if I hurt you, they’d stick with you instead of me.
I could’ve introduced you to my family — my mom liked you even then. I could’ve introduced you to my little brother who I would consider as the biggest and most important judge of character because I believe that children can sense goodness in people and he could’ve seen that in you.
I could’ve written you letters, could’ve left random little tokens I would've used for all the words I cannot muster to say.
I could’ve played the piano for you even if I just know, at most, 3 songs; even though I don’t really know how to read notes at all.
I could’ve introduced you to the artists I like and I could’ve known more of yours. I could’ve listened to them and I would have had to remember you every time.
I could’ve held your hand, could’ve eaten brunch with you, could’ve read you a poem.
I could’ve loved you — could have – if I was the given the chance.
But, I was and I could’ve used it but I didn’t.
Aug 7, 2018
Aug 7, 2018 at 11:01 PM UTC
I’m sick of hearing my life’s a haiku.
I’m into magic, love, and other sorts of things that are typically voodoo.
I’m half ***** from a half assed absent African baby boomer brat.
I’m half white trash.
Here’s a well formed of dried tears turned into something to sooth my canine teeth.
It tastes like Moonshine.
I can’t swim anymore, so I’m here drowning in a concrete pool.
Always, I look for the hell in you.
I sharpen my boot knife for ****** assault protection.
The first swipes for the plus 200,000 in counting.
The seconds for the 66 percent underreported.
The lasts for me,
the 29 percent victims aged 17, 16, 15, 14, 13, and 12.
We have a higher rate of risking everything.
For depression x3.
For committing suicide x4.
For post traumatic stress disorder x6.
For alcohol abuse x13.
For drug abuse x26.
You all think I’m crazy,
I’m not.
I sometimes get called
stupid, ugly, ***** and thot.
I’m in pain, in sorrow.
I can’t help it.
He did it.
No one can undo it.
What do we do about it?
I wont scream, I won't cry.
I’ll ask how he’s doing with glitter and tears in the corner of my eye.
And after he's done molesting me,
"Want to go grab some coffee or tea?"
Personally, I like the cafe down the street.
They sell good brunch with amazing croissants.
And after this is over,
I’d ask him how it was while he turned me over.
Jul 31, 2014
Jul 31, 2014 at 12:11 PM UTC
I began my life active with sports and other meaningless award systems.
Girl's recreational soccer, basketball, bike riding, math competitions, the works
Today, I feel weightless
useless would be best fit
As if all the running, jumping, yelling, point requiring statuses pushed the light out of my transitioned life.
I find myself sitting in one area often, as one may do
But different than sitting on a bench or sitting actively in company of others
I sit wondering exactly who I am looking at
Why am I empty lifeless longing towards an imaginary spot in the distant wall
I imagine some events in these minutes of stoic despair
Hearing goes weak and frozen, in this second, while I continue my Sunday brunch with non-conformative attitudes and her mother, the sweet old dementia
I don't mean to have their meetings often, I must of first acquainted as the first grade trauma or the Broadway rendition of Alone Thoughts featuring the Broken High School Years.
I hope to work the wheels again, to end these meetings and to live for once, in the midst of motion and pause.
This time, stopping and starting as I please.
Jul 31, 2018
Jul 31, 2018 at 3:57 PM UTC
3-2-2017 (unknown date of origin)
Something's wrong... you don't belong here.
I said, looking down at the pineapple on my pizza.
I said, looking down at the ketchup on my macaroni.
I said, looking down at the cream of mushroom soup on my meatloaf.
He said, looking down at me and my boyfriend, holding hands in public.
Like I'm a creep. I'm a ******
What the hell am I doing here? I don't belong here.
You see there's these things that we learn at the dinner table.
When we're kids we have certain items served to us on our plates.
Whatever doesn't end up there, isn't a part of the discussion.
After all, they say if you don't have a seat at the table, you are likely to be on the menu.
So, when ****** orientation and gender identity aren't seated at the table of childhood, they get served for the first time in unexpected places.
Like an avante garde celebrity chef's designer meal, prepared for critiques by the food bloggers.
They get served in college classroom debates or in dorm rooms with freshman roommates.
They're on the menu in in some movies but served with a side of stereotypes and silly trope toppings.
They get grinded into glitter dust sprinkled on the annual PRIDE Parades like an overly salty seasoning mix.
They're on the menu in workplace diversity trainings, but too little too late - they get lost in the marginalized buffet.
They get served at the oppression Olympics, or actually at the Olympics unwillingly by a journalist who only pretends to eat a well-balanced diet, but really has LGBT food allergies, if you know what I mean.
In reality, these should be staple dishes consumed by commoners, consumed by you and me, consumed by children along with their healthy daily dose of broccoli and cauliflower, squash and zucchini, even eggplant.
They should be in every ******* cookbook with pictures and all different kinds of recipes!
I want every child to have gay on their dinner plate, lesbian lunch, gender nonconforming on the brunch menu, and bisexual breakfast.
And everything in between in the queer spectrum served during snack breaks.
I want every child to look down at their plate and see pineapple pizza and say, gee that looks great!
I love all of the pizza toppings, no matter whether gay or nay.
... except for anchovies, of course.
Mar 2, 2017
Mar 2, 2017 at 4:28 AM UTC
What would you do if you saw a girl spending pennies and pearls on food?
She gobbles it up and then she barfs, which she thinks makes her feel good.
Later that night, with her conscious she'll fight as the guilt eats her for lunch
But she'll never tell of the story where of she went to after brunch.
May 26, 2018
May 26, 2018 at 9:08 PM UTC
Preacher, don't send me
when I die
to some big ghetto
in the sky
where rats eat cats
of the leopard type
and Sunday brunch
is grits and tripe.
I've known those rats
I've seen them ****
and grits I've had
would make a hill,
or maybe a mountain,
so what I need
from you on Sunday
is a different creed.
Preacher, please don't
promise me
streets of gold
and milk for free.
I stopped all milk
at four years old
and once I'm dead
I won't need gold.
I'd call a place
pure paradise
where families are loyal
and strangers are nice,
where the music is jazz
and the season is fall.
Promise me that
or nothing at all.
8k
The Lego men.
Sat in the toy box playing with their bricks.
Johnnie the little fella took them out to play
Daddy put a board in the garden just upon the patio.
What was just a piece of ply grew before Johnnie's eye.
He tipped them out onto the board.
Went inside to fetch a drink and get a spot of near noon brunch.
A thriving hive of industry, was hidden in his plastic box.
He came back outside and all was built.
Castles and gardens, palatial palaces.
The Lego men had built a perfect village.
Nobody knew they could.
Just a little shocked.
His little sister Jennifer, she hid behind the garden wall.
It wasn't the work of the miraculous Lego men after all.
Who would ever have believed that the toys came out to play.
(C) Livvi
Nov 9, 2014
Nov 9, 2014 at 5:22 AM UTC
~for Maya, the Persian Canadian farmer in the dell~
your poetic riddling questions without hesitation re
my claim conceptual
refuting with factoids actuarial experiential derived,
that cows need milkshake making daily by sunrise
nonsense
so you wake me up groggy on a Miami Saturday 6:00am
with a reciprocal poetic to a dashed off to contra my
code of conduct poem-mine;
and all that stumbles through my almost reset rested,
main stem cortex is an a ancient hebrew homily:
on Sabbath Saturday, even the cows sleep late
ok;
just tween us rare passes the day that a glancing phrase doesn’t register a stabbing whine “of me, of mine do sing” and your point counterpoint incision demands inspiration instant re-mission
around 10am when the amiable barn aminals sipping cuppa #3,
and the chicken children want a weekend brunch xtra feeding
are done, in the yard, put out to
pack n' peck n’ play
so that’s an intro to this work
that jumps the line of a
hundreds of other’s poems promised and overdue:
insight inside your crafted wake up slam slap was
pretty **** near the makers mark bourbon of this distillers
bourbon barrels bulbous poem’s bibliothèque that
has an impatient waiting list
of poems waiting anointing
each a personage~poem of that day it was birthed inscribed
this particular one for you,
~
my complexity non-Napoleonic
just humanoid each, here are my leaders from and
into a veining so lovely colored
each poem a waving wheat stalk
before these old tired eyes close to closing hear once more
“of me, of mine do sing”
so I follow all of you by dimming yellow light,
for this is the soil of nutriment rich from where my
words grow taller and the yellow infusion feeds my wheats,
the amber, the red hard and soft, the whites, the durums,
and mon préféré, prairie spring white,
which is my secret nickname for a duality woman,
poet and farmer,
posing riddles
that deserve answers*
maybe
—-
https://hellopoetry.com/poem/2503650/little-ole-me-a-riddle-of-sorts/
May 12, 2018
May 12, 2018 at 11:17 AM UTC
It almost feels like summer,
breeze at the dusk, killing mosquitoes.
It feels like
Taking a stroll on National Mall,
On a summer night in front of Lincoln Memorial.
Playing Frisbee riding bike
On the meadow in front of the Capitol.
My summer in the capital
With you, him and her and them and myself alone
It feels like the humidity in the swamp, with jazz playing in the background
It smells like crab cake and french toast, out from the diners I frequent
It looks like the summer sky, cloudless, your eyes
The meadow the ducks, summer dress and birkenstock.
Brunch, breeze and bike, followed by more bike rides along the riverfront.
Sitting on the marble stairs of the Supreme Court
Dipping toes in Reflection Pool
Summer in D.C. oh how I much do I miss you and adore
Summer is a state of mind and so does love
But you never fail to give me the feelings of those above.xxoo
Feb 12, 2019
Feb 12, 2019 at 5:04 AM UTC
This is the day
when we get up late
we sleep even after the sun is up
when we dont have to run through the morning hours,
when we have a leisurely tea and
sometimes even skip our breakfast
to have a brunch
This is the day
when we read the newspapers line by line,
or glance through the classified column,
tune to the news channels to get a glimpse of news..
This is the day
when we clean our vehicles
when we clean our homes..
when we have an afternoon nap
This is the day
which goes so fast..
It is over before we realize
Where time runs so fast ..
This is the day
When the kitchen switches to a more active zone
When the kids sleep till they want..
when the plants in the house get some new life
This is also the day
Which precedes the weak to follow
Which crawls till the Saturday next..
The end of a week as well as the beginning...
This is Sunday...
Jul 5, 2015
Jul 5, 2015 at 3:33 AM UTC
When I was younger, my biggest desire was to travel.
Dreaming of swimming with dolphins in the Amazon River.
Dreaming of floating away to the Niagara Falls.
Dreaming of running all of the United States.
Dreaming bigger dreams than Martin Luther King, Jr could ever.
Maybe even go away in a hot air balloon until boredom struck.
See the highest peaks of the Earth, maybe until I’ve reached the gates of Heaven.
Have brunch with the President of the United States, or with a beggar I come across with on my journeys.
When I was younger, my wishes were beyond my reach
God’s angels seemed closer than my dreams could ever be.
And so, I made contact with one of God’s angels, as I floated on the cloud of my imagination.
This angel had brown eyes; hair fell perfectly every time
Perfection came to this angel without ever trying.
I fell for this angel faster than Lucifer fell from the glory of God, it was so unplanned and perfect.
Unplanned and perfect.
That was this angel’s method to everything in life:
Unplanned. Perfect.
Everything he did was unplanned and perfect.
It was… spontaneous.
He was spontaneous.
He was perfect.
The way he didn’t think about anything too much, and just did everything. Only thinking about things twice – or so it seemed. The way he didn’t have a planning sheet for life, he just wrote whatever came to his mind, like me. Except he didn’t write, he acted upon his thoughts. I literally write everything that comes to mind. But this angel? He acted. The finest actor that ever descended from Heaven.
Now, the perfection of his beauty leaves me speechless every time, making me a mime of some sort. The perfection of his beauty is marvelous, I just don’t know how to put it into words. All I can say is that, with this angel I’ve fallen for, I am somehow satisfied. Somehow, all the dreams I’ve been yearning for so long are brought to life at last.
The words he speaks flow perfectly - I promise you, I could swim in them. The ease of his tone makes me feel like I’m swimming in the Niagara Falls. Oh, and that laugh is so sweet and just as cute as the dolphins in that Amazon River I had wished to swim with.
He makes me feel like I’m running more than just the United States of America. This amazing angel gives me an adrenaline rush… I could run miles and miles. To him. To hug him. To kiss him. To get high off of his touch and feel oblivious.
God sent me the best transportation to the Gates of Heaven.
And this transportation is the most spontaneous and perfect.
This spontaneous piece of perfection is the best adventure, and I’m so ready to have brunch every day with that marvelous angel God sent.
Jun 21, 2015
Jun 21, 2015 at 1:22 AM UTC
The smell of swiss fondue
a chocolate fountain
moist strawberries
angel food cake.
The smell of brunch buffet
apple turnovers
honey sliced ham
bacon and eggs.
The smell of exhaust
as we walk
to the chapel
up Oliver Street.
The smell of flowers
rainbowed daises
heart shaped lilies
a single red rose
on the broach
of your six year old
brother.
The smell of family
friends neighbors.
The smell
of your six year old
sister
beautiful Easter dress
sky blue ribbons
silk bonnet
blonde hair
smooth skin embalmed
because leukemia
doesn't smell.
Today
we will all
believe in God
or pretend
at least
for you, her sister,
her mother,
her father,
her twin brother,
and for Ruthie,
her chest buried
in tear soaked flowers
in a four foot casket.
Oct 4, 2010
Oct 4, 2010 at 9:23 PM UTC
Somewhere between the pillow and
the motivation of a Sunday brunch lies
relative stillness and steady
progression of time like a
lightbulb, growing
brighter each second
Oct 13, 2012
Oct 13, 2012 at 11:59 PM UTC
she had a telescope in her pocket.
one of those cool tiny ones, like a pirate might have
if he were searching for buried treasure.
she told me it was magic, let her see
enchanted things
like fairies and mermaids
and little trolls with fuzzy hair.
they were scared of normal people.
they were really shy, she said
but they were real and alive,
breathing air and eating brunch
and taking baths
like us.
she’d look through her telescope when we walked to school
or through the park
lost in it, like she wasn't even there next to me
but somewhere else, on an island
that no one had a map of.
sometimes she’d point, say
“look! in that tree, right there!”
so I’d squint and try to see
what only she could see
but all I’d see was some leaves
or a nest
or nothing at all.
sometimes I’d lie next to her on the lawn
and close my eyes.
and she could breathe an image behind my closed eyelids
and I could feel the breeze as fairies flew by,
and hear the mermaids’ tails sweeping against toasted rocks
and it was like I’d rowed a ship
across that ocean to her island
I’d found the map, I was next to her,
and the world was just as she said it was--
magical.
but the difference between me and her was
she could open her eyes, and still see it all.
but I’d open my eyes, and all I’d see
was some leaves
or a nest
or nothing at all.
May 2, 2014
May 2, 2014 at 5:40 PM UTC
Plush beads of summer rain gently kiss the windows,
pitter pattering steadily in contrast
to the low hums and stutters
of the red coffee ***
that saves many souls
lost in a daze of former slumber;
a lengthy stretch,
she leans back against the cream,
or maybe more ivory,
sofa couch,
wiggling it up and down her frame
and in its last push
released with a crack through the tips of her toes.
scrumptious smells of eggs and breakfast meats,
brunch is always her
favorite hour,
balancing the crisp texture of toast
against the delightful spritz
of OJ,
sometimes blended with a splash of something
sparkling.
the chords and rhythms that thrummed and purred,
the puttering, the humming, the stuttering,
a baritone chuckle
escaping his smirking mouth,
the moment so inescapably
charming,
how satisfying their ritual felt.
Apr 20, 2014
Apr 20, 2014 at 5:11 PM UTC
When I wiggle, wiggle wiggle,
People giggle, giggle, giggle.
In the middle, middle, middle,
I'm not so little, little, little.
When I jump, jump, jump,
My big old **** **** ****
My rear end **** **** ****
Goes bump, bump, bump.
Once skinny as a rail
I’m more like a whale.
Because of what I did
Ever since I was a kid.
Any old kind of candy
To me was simply dandy.
Follow me around and
I’d eat it by the pound.
Mom would bake, bake, bake.
By belly would shake, shake shake.
I couldn’t flounce, flounce, flounce
My gut would bounce, bounce, bounce.
Now I’m round, round, round,
To the ground, ground, ground.
I eat just like a pig, pig, pig,
That’s why I’m so big, big, big.
Once skinny as a rail
I’m more like a whale.
Because of what I did
Ever since I was a kid.
Any old kind of candy
To me was simply dandy.
Follow me around and
I’d eat it by the pound.
When some say diet, diet, diet,
I reply to them quiet, quiet, quiet.
Every time I try it, try it, try it.
My body doesn’t buy it, buy it, buy it.
So i just live for lunch, lunch, lunch.
I love to eat a bunch, bunch, bunch,
And I have a basic hunch, hunch, hunch,
The same will go for brunch, brunch, brunch!
Jan 19, 2017
Jan 19, 2017 at 5:34 PM UTC
your George Klooney appeals to your filter.
you brunch with Tungsten and straight up toxic marriages.
the mob rules the Jupiter, so therefore and ever after
you mop Hell's kitchen while you slideshow
your thumb through the wreckage
of your tender aggressions in the marsh
where the hard sky lobs acid and false globs
of character... we blur the chi chi's and wiz bang
the last dirge
we incur the wrath of our blissful innocence
and sweeten the Lama
with our Lambda, " all back of the bus, and **** "
we betwixt the twain.
and that's the grease
in the varmint. the tuft of luscious.
you gob-smack the kiwi and chip away at the porcine thunder
of our pagan banquet.
the lungs you drum with; are even now
less equipped to sermon the mount
where your meek inherits
lengua tacos.
and your life means nothing, really....
Mar 6, 2013
Mar 6, 2013 at 10:41 PM UTC
Saturday Morning -
It's a little cloudy,
It's a little windy.
Text: We're going to get brunch
So get ready.
Thoughts: I'm hungry! It's getting late
and we have to go to a birthday party.
Baby. hurry!
Menu: I can't have anything heavy,
Me and my girlfriend were out yesterday.
To the lady: Strawberry crepes for me, please,
I'll also have a caramel macchiato, and...
Can you add a Perrier? Thanks.
Across the table: What is this moment?
It's not butterflies, there's no knots in my stomach.
I think it's love...it's definitely happiness...
This is straight out of a movie...
No, nothing speacial happened.
It was just a cloudy Saturday morning
But there was enough Sun to hit our window,
And I just couldn't believe
I was living that moment.
Feb 23, 2016
Feb 23, 2016 at 11:18 PM UTC
I'm on Urge;
Do not Judge;
I love Fudge;
With all my Grudge;
~
Like Such;
Wanted so Much;
But i was Clutch;
Ate on a Brunch;
~
On a Saturday;
Like in May;
Let me Say;
Was in Clay...;
~
It was Good;
Like my Mood;
That i Could;
Send a ****
~
And in Despair;
I had a Flair;
But to be Fair;
I didn't Care;
--------
I'm Lost;
What's the Cost?;
I got Exhaust;
By the Frost;
~
I've Failed;
Got Jailed;
It Scaled;
Blackmailed...;
~
They're Blind;
Can't Find;
And Bind;
Got no Mind;
~
Left a Mark;
In the Dark;
Like a Quark;
Instable as a Shark;
~
In this Blend;
I Attend;
She my Friend;
Brings the END.
Oct 1, 2018
Oct 1, 2018 at 7:13 PM UTC
ive been going out every weekend
i dont know if its bad or good
i don’t know if im sad or masking
I dont know if i am replacing habits with other bad habits
maybe im the bad habit
the liable rabbit that fell down the rabbit hole
i always seem to overflow
producing tears by the bucket load
i didnt mean to unload too much
unfold too much, save that for drunken spring brunch
grateful for my team, i know that much
but its hard to me to show my real love
but i live and i learn, i larbour and earn
i wait for my turn, the tables always seem to turn
take a left, trust i’m right, work the day, come alive at night
Mar 21, 2022
Mar 21, 2022 at 9:49 AM UTC
Our favourite diner
closed its doors two years ago
we can no longer walk in from the cold
feeling the warmth of syrup and coffee cups
Our favourite diner
closed its doors two years ago
and that server we liked so much
we haven't seen him since
and no where else has real carnations
in milk glass vases on every enamel table
Our favourite diner
closed its doors two years ago
it smelled like a Church basement,
felt like my uncle's house
and it was our place, it was what we did
Our favourite diner
closed its doors two years ago
and so we stopped going out for brunch
on Saturdays
we made new traditions
but they were never as good
And we both knew it
Our favourite diner
closed its door two years ago
and so did we.
Aug 14, 2015
Aug 14, 2015 at 9:39 PM UTC
I had a break
in my morning routine
& ordered
a Godzilla sushi roll
for brunch.
It was right on time,
a true global affair.
The waitress was Chinese,
the hostess a Thai,
the chef a Mexicano
& the food Japanese...
...only in America.
Apr 22, 2015
Apr 22, 2015 at 11:38 AM UTC
I bought a real nutcracker today.
A fine shiny black truly cool looking one!
Each crack compliments to a dandy vintage lad's imaginary home TV shopper Ad.
Saying‘It's guaranteed! Hundred percent of mechanosensory reception!’
I try to convince myself between time stretching
‘Yes or No’s and ‘Just use stones’
‘Come on you've deserved it!’
‘Why bother?’
You have been craving for each
Tried and tested any,
same as so many
even from a hard peach.
So why not!? Keep it! – as if a testimony, from tough to juicy mimicking fruity blending **** seduced by crunchy mouth twisting *****
Digested from special yearly events to monthly justifications then weekly to daily and surprisingly after dinner, before breakfast, as brunch or even a whole meal sometimes.
You gnaw like a small rodent layer by layer cute but so tight although he says that’s alright.
Dashing trunks as if a woodpecker,
Stealing home reserved only-for-the-pet’s crumbs and
Finally receiving next day’s well deserved belly cramps.
Come on you almost broke your teeth during your worldwide exploring different types of shell husking trip.
Feel blessed now one time for goddess’ sake that she winks and tweaks my lips while it creaks, festively announces your recent find that nuts you shall eat raw only - neither baked nor from a sinfully roasted ready packed plastic bag.
Oct 19, 2014
Oct 19, 2014 at 8:56 AM UTC