"buttercream" poems
You can’t have your cake and eat it too. Not for long, anyway. Cake doesn’t settle well when it’s all you’ve had to eat. It’ll churn like butter inside you, and creep up your throat to project like a cannon, barreling through a wall. Cake won’t sit right with you anymore. At the mere mention of cake, your insides will crawl with disgust and an association of icing will replace your taste buds with ***** You will never be able to enjoy cake—at parties, as a delicacy, with ice cream—because you got greedy and wanted to eat your cake first rather than save it for such an occasion. Now all the different kinds of cake you fantasized about trying—black velvet, coffee cake, buttercream pound cake—will only be a reminder of your pitfall that led you to make yourself sick with desire, for cake. You can’t get the icing off your tongue, the smell of batter baking has festered in your nostrils wired to the pungent taste of red from between your teeth. But it’s all you can think of when you’ve been wronged by your favorite dessert. What sort of chemical reaction in the bowels of your stomach caused all of this sorrow? What rejected the cake? Your body has a way of telling you things—we should listen more. Cake is not sustenance, it has no value as a nutritious food. It doesn’t help, only hurts.
Jun 19, 2014
Jun 19, 2014 at 2:11 AM UTC
There is a cake.
There is a beautiful, rounded
Vanilla swiss buttercream well-iced cake
That they gave to you.
This cake makes me miss you
Makes me miss running my fingers
Throughout your hair
And gently pressing my own soft lips
To yours, Instead of your lips pressing
this stupid cake.
And I know that you love it.
And I know that if you do not have
every ounce
You will starve.
I was jealous of this cake, I admit
Jealous indeed of the shiny new replacement
They gave for you for my love
It made you feel good inside and out, as well
Enriched your brain, and your appetite
I was jealous and stole a slice in spite of you.
Then I realized, that you love this cake
You have waited for this cake, every year
Every birthday
Hoping for the envelope informing you
That the time for cake was now
That the cake WAS your time, now, and that
All of you was invested, in this succulent dessert
And you needed to keep as much as you could,
for your sake,
I came to accept the fact, that you needed so.
But like your hair, I brush this cake
with the tips of my fingers, I taste this cake
I understand the sweetness you enjoy
and the sanctity of it being left alone
But if I dare to kiss this cake
because I adore the things you care about so much
and some icing comes onto my lips
Have I stolen something from you?
Nov 5, 2011
Nov 5, 2011 at 2:45 PM UTC
Her voice, sweeter than buttercream
- Salty words won’t pucker her song,
Honey bees follow her adoringly -
The kindest person ever to come along
Her legs, thick with gorgeous muscle
- A tornado couldn't knock her down,
Tree trunks turn green with jealousy -
She's the strongest person in town
Her eyes, alight with warm welcome
- a blackout wouldn't dim her glow,
Lesser stars shrink away in envy -
She's the friendliest person to know
She’ll protect anyone who needs it,
Forgive the most egregious slight
Faced with anger, she won't feed it
Full of grace, she’s everything right
Sadly, he won’t go the way of Earl
But who wouldn’t cheer his self-demise
He who siphoned power, stifled song
And stole the laughter from her eyes
Somehow, she’s still tornado strong
The bees know she’ll sing once more
Her trust might need a little time but
When she’s ready, glowing, she’ll soar
NCL August 2019
Aug 1, 2019
Aug 1, 2019 at 3:09 PM UTC
Amen for the chocolate cake that melts and oozes gooey goodness in the warm custard
Amen for the rich taste of the moist soft sponge
Amen for birthdays and anniversary's
And all the excuses
Amen for the most enticing smell
Amen to not resisting temptations
Amen to diets meant to be broken
Amen for powerful combinations
Like cake and ice cream
Cake and custard
Cake and coffee
Cake and tea
Amen to icing and buttercream
Amen for cake
Aug 16, 2015
Aug 16, 2015 at 2:05 PM UTC
╰⊰✿´ℒ♡ⓥℯ '✿⊱╮
Slim, flavoured meringue cookies
Smooth top, chewy mid
Petite, but perfectly round
Filled with buttercream
Ribbon-soft in mouth
Take two bites
Yum!
╰⊰✿⊱╮
Aug 10, 2018
Aug 10, 2018 at 1:48 PM UTC
imagine a calloused doubt.
cracked, chipped, clicking
like warped wooden floorboards.
soft from overuse
but still overrides willpower
in one palpitating breath.
grimy yet illusive
like your teeth after a day’s work,
collecting gunk that sidles up
to calcium companions,
crunching down on things
that become
so bland in the end.
doubt is offbeat,
monstrous footsteps hidden deep
off beaten paths,
its thudding is clammy and hurried,
aligned to the discordant jazz of
your alarmed body.
it tastes like
coppery heartbeats,
rising bile,
salt and mucus in the back of your throat.
it is a truly uncomfortable thing.
it stacks sweetly like buttercream pancakes
but crumbles you
with such a sour taste on your tongue.
imagine an agony that loves you.
Jul 25, 2018
Jul 25, 2018 at 7:09 PM UTC
cheering and poorly sung melodies echo throughout the room,
the kitchen is dimly lit with the small flames and smiles of family members I rarely see,
the air is pushed out from my lungs,
the smoke fills the air,
the candles smelling of burnt happiness,
the oil spills on the buttercream frosting,
the pinks and yellows swirl together,
but I can't think of anything besides
"oh god, when will it be over?"
©L.F.
Feb 16, 2020
Feb 16, 2020 at 7:49 PM UTC
If my world's a bakery
in an endlessly large country
you descend upon my city
we pass at the stale loaves
eyelashes flutter, aghast
like I'm an insect assailing your glasses
I watch you smile or grimace
Run your tongue, checking for guilt stuck in your teeth
"Oh! Hhey!!"
Your voice surprises us both
it is the same timbre in which I render
words more decadent than your courage
to spit at my living person
when it stands all but 5'6 and breathing in front of you
washing up bottle messaged on the beaches of my awareness
***** jezebel, ******
-her-
See, I've been receiving your cookies
in brown paper parcels
Little birds didn't want me to miss out on the flavor
I see you, small creature
how quickly you frost your hate
with buttercream icing, your loathing is cake
you devour and feed to anyone who'll taste
You have laid your field fallow
and let me assume disgrace
I want to tell you you're wrong
I want to push you with my mind
I want to throw sprinkles at you
I see you, small creature
with scrunched up fists
and I taste your poison
like grand marnier
it spoils everything
The recipe was followed rule for rule
The souffle rose
***** though you may
I'd almost rather hug you
if it would squeeze out your wretchedness
a flouncing whirl cupcake summit
so we could be tin-pan square
and may our pastry never mix again.
Apr 15, 2012
Apr 15, 2012 at 5:19 PM UTC
I want to warm my hands in you,
the soft merrigold folds of your
buttercream skin.
Lay in the crook your shoulder,
hiding my face deep in the smell
of ocean breezes and mist,
spraying up around me,
setting me free.
Trace my spine like the highway,
hitting every bump in the road,
sliding off the side once in awhile
to skirt down the slope if my side;
tuck your knees to your chin,
like you do,
like you are.
How when I think of you,
I think of the cosmos,
and nebulas,
and star filled spaces
All clustering like broken glass.
Because that's what you are,
you are broken glass.
See through in most places,
Tiny splinters here and there,
so you can
Still see through,
see your reflection,
But when the glare hit just right,
you are inpenetrable,
no ones eyes able to look for long.
I wonder what you think of when you
think of me?
Do you think of wind?
Always around you,
touching inch of your skin,
setting you free,
or setting against you,
heavy.
Or do you think of somethin else?
Something worse?
Something,
like invisibility maybe?
Can you really see me?
Cause I don't think you can.
Not with the way you treat me.
Pretending I exist only half the time.
You let me do things for you,
put myself out there..
And then I get excited about something ,
or maybe I need you.
And you jut sit there,
and pretend I don't exist.
And it feels like my lungs have been cut out.
But it's okay,
what's the point of breathing anyways?
When the life is knocked of you,
again,
and again.
Oct 10, 2013
Oct 10, 2013 at 2:36 AM UTC
oh little macaroon
with your shell of beaten egg whites
sweet swiss meringue buttercream filling peeks out of your sides
but still trying to hides it’s saccharine form
oh little macaroon
with your bright pink composure
you're perfect with no air pockets
sometimes you can be filled with savory chocolate
oh little macaroon
i don't know what to do with you
your so cute sitting there
without a care
i don't want to eat you up!
oh little macaroon
your smell has gotten the better of me
im so sorry!
i nibble your edge with a bit of regret
i've loved you since the moment we meet
and im sorry it must end
BUT I'M HUNGRY!
oh little macaroon
please forgive me for biting down on you
your crisp shell gives way to soft and chewy texture i've been craving all day
sweet artificial strawberry taste does not take hast to fill my mouth
without a doubt
this delightful creamy taste will stain the roof of my mouth with a rose tint
oh little macaroon
what's it like in my tummy?
just so you know you were oh so yummy!
Aug 3, 2015
Aug 3, 2015 at 6:35 PM UTC
Got a problem?
I can make thousands
millions
all up in the ceiling
mosaic tiles
blue and gold
holding down the albums
memories so soft and sweet
buttercream to wisdom teeth
picking out the files with an ax
and you can ask
any fella on the street
what he thinks
he'll say he doesn't,
we're honest by nature
nomenclature
soggy,
**** sapiens forever
loving bones and gorillas
never feel ya
quite the same
as that time in the attic
with the static
in our brains
it was insane
the way we thought our thoughts
touched touches
with more
would have scored
had it not been for the spiders-
frisky little things
squashed em long ago
and that's why they don't have wings,
unnecessary condition
apparitions to trife
made a foxy wolf lick his chops
take Peggy for a wife.
Sep 8, 2012
Sep 8, 2012 at 5:33 PM UTC
laying in bed with ephemeral kate:
her hands are
brazen, fingernails clenching upon
my hips beneath the sheets,
her grip barely elucidated beneath
buttercream bedsheets.
her pale pink *******
cast aside hours ago,
and now the sun slants
westward upon her bedroom walls.
I laid waste to her skin,
ravaging her with lips and tongue and teeth,
and I am
sated, if only for the moment,
scent of her skin upon my tongue and
her ****** a badge of honor upon my mouth.
her bedsheets are ruins,
UNESCO World Heritage Site
waiting to be uncovered and reclaimed;
if it wasn't oh so lovely,
laying languorous limbs
asprawl, your stomach pulsing beneath
my thigh, her chest
rising and falling, rising and falling,
beneath my head; I always boasted I was
cutest when sleepy, and she always
murmured assent with a halfsmile;
that ******* halfsmile, playing
around the corners of her
endlessly kissable mouth,
lips glistening with a mix of
lipgloss and ***
the sun dips down towards the horizon,
a girl hurrying homeward a minute after curfew;
her nails traverse upwards,
scouring my spine; my mouth is
pressed against her neck, tentative
words and laps embossed upon
the hollow of her throat.
she laughs, she sighs,
endlessly inimitable kate.
Jul 5, 2014
Jul 5, 2014 at 10:03 PM UTC
in my sweaty palm, melting
is medical-pink candy coating.
the pieces click, clack, roll around,
and the generic sugar tastes sweeter
than ever, sweet like a fever, sweet
like smiles under the concrete bridge.
tastes like sweet'n'low piled high in one-
dollar coffee drained in two seconds,
like buttercream frosting smeared
across your arm. tastes of the indoors,
of doors shut, of stale snicker-doodles.
it is sugar that tastes like promises gone far.
when i swallow (that is three, four, twenty more)
i can taste it in the pit of my stomach:
sweet, sweet candy coating masking
the poison, the anodyne, the analgesic—
candy coating to cover all the little scars.
Sep 6, 2016
Sep 6, 2016 at 2:33 PM UTC
your car doesn't have
a cd player
which is a little unsettling
but i don't really mind
your hands remind
me of my dad's
i want to wear dresses
play taylor swift
spray myself in
citrusy perfume
and paint my eyelids
a shimmery pink
when i'm with you
i feel safe
i'm not convinced
that soulmates exist
but i am convinced that
we pick up people on
our way through life
and some of them just fit
some people are habit
can't remember a
time without them
and some people are the future
what could be instead of
what's always been
you're art in the foam on a cortado
you're a peach drenched in
heavy cream and limoncello
old overshirts and amaretto
you're champagne
and i'm the idiot
who intentionally
calls it "sham-pag-nee"
you can see through the
espresso stains on my
hands and arms right
down to freckles over scars
even if i slap myself to wipe
the pleasant look off my face
at the end of the day
you'll still think i'm cute
and when you say things
like that i start to feel all
gooey and underbaked
like a fallen cake with
cinnamon buttercream
melting down the sides
perfectly and
unabashedly flawed
i am selfish and afraid
and you don't seem to mind
so here's a toast to
letting someone new
into my life for
the first time
to allowing myself
to be vulnerable
and happy even if it
might be a mistake
because goodness knows
you're sweeter and softer
than i ever dreamed
someone could be
May 13, 2018
May 13, 2018 at 5:33 PM UTC
Heavy,
like molasses,
sweet
like buttercream,
syrupy,
more-ish,
and boy,
those chilied
rhythms,
piquant and hot
on the tongue.
Your voice is
cut clean
like crystal,
crisp yet full-
bodied,
light dancing
on merlot
or rosé.
Sep 30, 2012
Sep 30, 2012 at 9:42 PM UTC
I gave you a blue stone
You said it was green
It was special to me
You laid it aside
Now I miss the stone
But you have forgotten about it.
I brought you a jar of peppers
Some special mustard
Imported ham
You had already eaten dinner
A week later, the ham was spoiled
You never opened the peppers and mustard.
I brought you a handful of straw,
Buttercream-colored like a baby's hair
Soft, spun from past loves and hope,
Wine pressed in my heart by my own hands.
You gave me a room, unfurnished,
A garden, dead and brown,
A well, neglected and brackish.
Jan 23, 2016
Jan 23, 2016 at 5:21 PM UTC
He drank and continuously created
white clouds,
Though he was withering he was beautiful.
He resembled a browning oak tree; leaves
slowly drifting in the wind.
Leaving the tree **** as nothing but a frame.
My darling, for you it was time, and winter came.
Squashing the burning tip beneath his shoe,
And mumbling the forsaken words,
I love you.
Hair a mess, and pinching the silk of my dress;
let's sit in a field and I'll pull at your hair.
I ask you if it hurts, but you don't seem to care.
The last time the air was clear back in
November, I tell you all the time but you
don't seem to remember,
How important you are
Now engraved in my bones.
When you're not with me I feel so alone.
Cheeks as white as the frosting of a
buttercream flower.
Lips dried, lungs died.
Over your pit I cower; calloused fingers against stone.
Christ, I should've known. Just know you'll forever,
my home.
Apr 3, 2015
Apr 3, 2015 at 12:54 PM UTC
he watched her excitedly
eat **** shaped food
especially eclairs
as she languidly tongued
the white buttercream
from the sides of her mouth
thinking of her
his masturbations
powered the lights
of the Catskills
it wasn't just his profession
it was his obsession
just another horney
borsht belt gynecologist
Dec 8, 2020
Dec 8, 2020 at 4:01 PM UTC
Drunk on love
Is a phrase I have never understood
Until now
It's the way you say lollipop
It's the minute bobbing of your hair when you laugh
It's your ability to fluster me and leave me speechless when I normally pride myself in my rapport and
I wonder what you're thinking right now
Is any of it the same?
It's your curiosity and your genuine soul and spirit and your tentativeness and your fear and
It's that the whites of your eyes
Remind me of home
Sun kissed skies
And a longing to roam
The horizon
There's a familiarity and I get a pit in my stomach that tells me I miss you.
I notice the difference when I reminisce, you-
The difference is, you don't smell like cow ****
You smell like crisp morning rain
And bath salts.
I don't actually know your scent.
What I meant
Is that I'm calmed by the crashing of rain
And the other supposedly drives you insane.
You provide me with both:
An overwhelming peace
And an ever-growing crease in the folds of my mind
As I try to rewind
To the first time I met you.
Burned into my brain: the first time you set two
Boisterous, beautiful, brown gold orbs
Patiently on mine as you tried to absorb
All of the pieces of me
Contrast and contour
Not one fault ignored.
And by no fault of yours,
You sat and you listened
As sunbeams glistened
And my heart raced
And my mind doted
A smile donned your face
And my emotions exploded
Amidst this maelstrom of noise
These powerful currents
Distant echoes grew poised
And struck me recurrent
And your laughter sprang forth
From your buttercream smile.
Time slowed, and I thought: please stay for a while.
Residual raindrops grew reluctantly silent
The insecurities of my ever-racing mind resided
Dim in comparison to the fervor you'd quelled and excited
I could feel my legs keel and go weak
When you returned stolen breaths as you started to speak
And they told me to "be careful"
And "not to fall too fast"
But this vertigo feels lovely
And I'd rather it would last.
Dec 23, 2016
Dec 23, 2016 at 12:53 AM UTC
you make me want to write something beautiful.
something like honey that drips on the lips,
golden and sweet and precious as amber-
or perhaps decadent frosting
made of buttercream, fresh vanilla-
constantly stirring the wrist, stirring the mind,
must fill the tongue with sugar and patience.
but how does one write that something?
how do these letters and commas and gathered dots (ellipses)
coalesce, rise, reach 415°F
without collapsing in on themselves,
or worse- growing doughy and sickly and peaking too early and too late?
....
could you teach me how to make, how to bake,
this beautiful food for the soul?
Mar 15, 2018
Mar 15, 2018 at 11:38 PM UTC
I heard falling stars twice tonight
and am pretty sure they both were full of milk.
My heart is too heavy
for me to bring it everywhere I go, sometimes it just wants
to sleep under the blankets and sheets all day
where no one can ********** it but me.
When it opens, the treetops are covered in the
color of buttercream
and its branches split like eyelashes from their lids.
Moons can get tired, too,
let go of her brothers and sisters and just burst.
Sep 12, 2013
Sep 12, 2013 at 7:09 PM UTC
i cried him a storm of rose petals, the soft leaves blinding him as the thorns press into his sides, he can't see them, he can't feel them, he can't see that i am a violent battlefield, a fallen angel disguised as a soldier, my love is a pile of grenades and the pins are already pulled, and the whole thing will blow up in his face long before he has the chance to pick another rose.
our love is soft on the outside, the color of ballet slippers and the taste of buttercream frosting but when you get past the surface you see our love is hard, solid. we are just a couple of slightly damaged people who haven't felt the sun on their faces in so **** long; they crave the validation, they crave the love hidden between the other's lips, their desire surpasses just that-- it is no longer a want, a desire. our love is a need.
he has used a needle and thread to stitch his name into the blood running through my very body, filled my lungs with only his voice so i often forget how to breathe when he is not with me. i know i have become too reliant, too dependent on his velvet words but i can't stop now, can't back out, and the rose petals are falling from my eyes.
-a.c.b
Nov 19, 2018
Nov 19, 2018 at 9:15 PM UTC
Tonight, the sweat of the earth hangs heavily in the thick August darkness. Standing in the yard beneath the fat buttercream moon, I muse on the emptiness of dusk, on the lifeless hollow of another quiet night.
At my feet, deep within a thick forest of rye grass, a hidden world writhes. The swollen moon has awoken the tumescent locust, who lunges, twitching through densely packed pthalo blades as he presses toward the siren song of a distant lover. Leaping forward, he startles corn borers and cabbage moths into flight which scatter upward like petals caught by the ancient wind. Abruptly, one petal is plucked from the sky, dragged back to the dark earth by the silent toad, soft pale wings disappearing within a vast and warty grimace.
Tangled in the rhizomes and soil below, earthworms labor, purifying the fetid remains of the surface world, while grubs feast upon the great network of roots, preparing for inevitable transfiguration. Pouring from subterranean colonies, waves of ants toil under leafy branches and plump rotting fruit, then return to their telepathic mother, abdomens distended with nectar and saccharin honeydew. Nighthawks and barn owls sit perched above, their gleaming eyes recording the squirming earth as they plan their swift assaults.
Amidst the chaos, amidst the living breathing wild I stand, a blind giant musing on the emptiness of night.
Sep 1, 2016
Sep 1, 2016 at 8:07 PM UTC
honey heals my bruises
milk heals my cuts
buttercream heals my scars
and you heal my heart
Dec 12, 2018
Dec 12, 2018 at 6:31 PM UTC