"chianti" poems
I’m a Polyglot Polymath, Microphone’s a Polygraph,
Manners of a Sociopath-Rhymin’ keeps me on the path,
Else I’d be hackin you up like a cannibal,
Pullin the Chianti out-serve you up like Hannibal,
Words heavier than Elephants invading cross the alps,
Under Armour over Body Armour-waistline fulla scalps,
From the Belt o’ the Celt o’ the Schizophrenic Sandman,
You’re triple teamed by -EC- Raps new Xmen.
I broke me chains,some say I went insane,
But it’s simple,all I went and did was grow a brain.
be the Bane of your life,while Mal plays Dark Knight,
A rhyme Super Villain with a verse of Dark Light,
The searchlights on-watch the cockroach scatter,
We speak Dark Matter while your brain gets battered,
batten down the screws-worldviews get skewed,
Mal and Sandman's Positively Mental Attitude.
It’s the original Irish OG rough rugged and ready,
Battling me is futile keep your hands steady,
I’m no pacifist,and if you take the ****
I’ll clap you with a fist like an obelisk,
That’s a grave warning,-global warming,
The Dragon of Eire ,skies look stormy…
Since cassettes and disks I’ve been spittin ****
That makes wannabee’s wanna slit their wrists,
The Sandman’s calling,come in and take a mauling,
Rappin since clappin one two and yes y’allin,
from New Aulins to saint Pauls my kin,
Are gathering for the quickenin,pulse races,air thickenin'
Highlander in a land cruiser,take your teeth out like a dentist
E.C’s BRUISER.
batten down the screws-worldviews get skewed,
by Mal and Sandmans Positively Mental Attitude.
Apr 26, 2016
Apr 26, 2016 at 1:36 PM UTC
There's a passion that burns
within me that's never
more alive, than when I'm
In the garden.
And in the garden of
love, my favorite
flowers are the tulips.
They're especially inviting
after a bottle of Chianti
on a hot July night, with
John Coltrane seductively
blowing from the CD player.
Equally captivating, is the little
bud that lies North of the
tulips. And with the right
amount of attention, the little
bud, the pea in the pod, creates
a nectar of the gods that tastes
sweet, like honey to my soul,
like maple syrup to my spirit,
a heavenly sap that flows like
the beer on tap at an
all you can drink club.
Like Dylan Thomas at a
pub in Wales, my heart sails drunk on the tulip's fine wine.
And then like magic it occurs,
when ovulation yearns for
procreation, and on those nights,
On those nights...
I could spend forever in
the tulips.
Apr 6, 2023
Apr 6, 2023 at 2:20 PM UTC
What Dr. Lector devours with fava beans, inside rots. Too much Chianti?
Not likely. Likely, not enough
but there has been much else. Still,
no amounts warranting any shy example of overload. Mild splurges,
done in high style equal
nothing in comparison to toxic
baths taken in industrial grindstone
mortors. And the payback?
Walking papers and abdominal lump.
Poke it and choke on acid reflux. Pop
more pills to keep it down. Downers
prescribed on more downers.
Feeling down? Have another downer.
What else can we do? Your MRI's
and ultrasound, unsound, do not
come with flag from foreign invader,
claiming this new territory for king.
So, blame it on the offal.
Blame it all on the offal for not
having guts and glory
to fight off its own infection.
And eat your chicken livers.
Jan 31, 2016
Jan 31, 2016 at 1:21 PM UTC
Dinner with Dr. Lecter,
has always been a treat,
we usually start at the head,
then work our way down to the feet.
With every serving yummy,
he cooks with perfect ease,
whether it be brains sauteed in parsley,
or fresh liver and fava beans.
The Doctor's quite a master,
at innovative culinary feats,
and nothing beats a side of ****
served up with home-grown beets!
____________
Fava beans and a nice Chianti, anyone?
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=iVlkZVAw8Gc
Oct 6, 2010
Oct 6, 2010 at 4:26 AM UTC
Here is life and love, pain and pleasure,
Ten years traversing those steps,
Tired waitress, twelve hours hell,
I am facing the door in Fratelli’s.
Too-jolly Australians on a budget,
Eating soup and dessert, are missing,
The pasta, the best part, it seems,
I am facing the door in Fratelli’s.
Miscreant male constantly corralled,
By his Austrian authoritarian aunt,
Filling her face with a pasta mountain,
I am facing the door in Fratelli’s.
New lovers lost in each other’s eyes,
Carpaccio di salmon slices sharp cold,
Their Gaja Barbaresco lust blood red,
I am facing the door in Fratelli’s.
Old lovers holding hands in silence,
Pasta warm feelings of Taglioni Fratelli,
This Chianti Classico two will soon be one,
I am facing the door in Fratelli’s.
Married couple, on different planes,
Broadcast to their neighbours the plans,
Of loveless friends in lifelong *******
I am facing the door in Fratelli’s.
Meal memories of two and more,
Of friends and family, work and play,
Life and love and unforgettable moments,
I am facing the door in Fratelli’s
Nov 25, 2012
Nov 25, 2012 at 9:27 AM UTC
Oh my bella Signora why you wanna break my poor heart
Dino he tells me quietly, he saw you with that grande Signore
Tells me you make the **** eyes and **** laugh ooh lika that
But which for me you don't smile **** like that, maybe I bore
Dino says, Signore pretend and ask why you laugh like that
Bella Signora, why can't you see for you I have more amore
Oh my bella signora, Sofia says that Signore has grosso cazzo
Now I wonder if our friendship is beyond Via della Conciliazione
I make for you good coffee and don't rope you in with any lasso
Play as you like, I will bring you roses in rosa at Palazzo Torlonia
Don't leave to go drinking with that Signore at Campo Marzio
I'm sad because alcune donne says Signore has good testimonial
Oh my bella Signora if you break my heart I will run away to Haiti
People they say, you play with quattro corteggiatore or pretendenti
I say to Marcello, pretend as in English is more like it, go tell tutti
I know window dressing when I see it, know you are too faulty
You like rosa, yes! you like ***** maybe Martini or a cool Chianti
But I worry maybe that Signore turn your head with Royal Treaty
Sep 1, 2018
Sep 1, 2018 at 6:25 AM UTC
Even now, as we lie here, heartbeats like a metronome for the coming storm, I write songs in my head for you. And though my voice will never sing them, they are the soundtrack of your kiss. Each record scratch on my heart like a pressed vinyl love letter. Shaping my sinking chest into drum skins that my pulse beats against.
If I were covered in magic dust, you would be my happy thought. And all my childish notions of what it means to be romantic would be written down the sides of Chianti bottles in melted wax, like an oak. And in that bottle we would keep our hungry mouths.
And still I find my heart adrift. Ripped sails and ropes leading skyward like veins. Split and tattered and stitched haphazardly together, waiting for the lightning to strike twice and bring it to life. My throat a bricked flue, leading to an open mouth, spitting smoke from the torches my heart fears but always seems to carry.
And I stretch my spine skyward. Trying to wedge my head back into the clouds but manage only to cast the shadow of an orchid that has begun to lose its color and wilt at the edges of its wingspan. Coming to terms with the idea that it may never be picked. Not even its petals, even numbered like a deck stacked against it that it might lose in a game of being loved and loved not.
We want for a little more time. Arm wrestling clock hands into submission with god like fury. Ticking tongues to dampen the prophecy of false mediums. We practice fighting so we may fight for each other. Fight for the greener grass on the other side of the pavement walls we draw our chalk hearts on.
The clock tower is a lighthouse. The lighthouse is a windmill. The windmill is a giant. The stories never end.
Even now as we lie here, heartbeats like a metronome for the coming storm, I write bed time stories in my head for you.
Jun 19, 2013
Jun 19, 2013 at 11:24 AM UTC
I am a glass of skim milk.
I am a reconstituted congealed protein fixture-ate
molded like a rack of ribs.
I could be alien technology
if I weren't christmas lights and a projector.
In fact if I were any more prosthetic I'd be...
a picture of a painting of a plastic rose.
I'd be at the globe theatre.
I'd be lear, othello, hammers, macky, romero and roz.
Cuz I'm a lick-on-stamp of higher education,
and I'm a bottle of **** that you find under your seat in the van
when you're so thirsty you can hear Berbers in the distance.
I could be the mermaid on the front of wooden ships.
I would be the black olives on your gordita cruch;
and I'll smile at you with 9 inch long teeth
as I dutifully hang your laundry in the rain.
With dozens of laughs all covering up
tender spots I'm too chicken to cry about
I am a master parade floating up, up,
in the middle of the street,
Til I fall with a big black box of bottled bourbon *****
for my buccaneer bravado's.
And fists
I make while walking
and beating sticks
I carve, still beating,
with imaginary reasons
that I find a bit disturbing.
When I go walking I go walking off into the ending
cuz I'm just killing time while trying not to go crazy
i-I-eye-shouldastudiedmore
I shoulda beat up my *** drive in a dark alley
while it was still raining,
and a I shoulda
red more
bled more
sweat-ed more than I did,
cuz I'm standing here in a bucket
with the thunderstorm looming
clutching onto a flag pole for dear life
like it was my mother.
Hoping just for one big bang
to send me off into the twilight
to shoot me out past the moon once again.
Cuz I'm drowning in the rain that doesn't hit the ground.
and I'm smiling like Bob Wiley on a tree stump,
as I sip at strychnine
like it's Chianti.
Oct 25, 2014
Oct 25, 2014 at 2:28 PM UTC
(this festive traditional Central-Italian dish serves entire populations of citizens)
INGREDIENTS:
♦ faith in God
if unavailable, any stable moral-ethical framework can be used
♦ esteem for traditional cultural values
♦ willingness to say what you think
♦ hatred of Political Correctness
1) Wake up in the morning and breathe
rinse your mind and other ingredients well from previous day’s brain-washing
2) Refuse to believe media propaganda
ask friends/family members to ignore mainstream media & close Facebook accounts
3) Believe that God created Man and Woman in Genesis
4) Refer to God as He
main ingredient, beware of fire if Feminists/Genderqueer activists are near stove
5) Define family as 1 man + 1 woman joined in marriage producing children
let ingredients simmer. Add a pinch of absolute Biblical doctrine if desired
6) Critique Cultural Marxism in ALL its overt & disguised manifestations
7) Dissent from the One-World Techno-Narcissist mindset
algorithms and search-filters complement this dish, but feel free to serve it on its own
Persona Non Grata pairs well with a full-bodied Tuscan Chianti, or Montepulciano, but is especially enhanced by any vintage where the Grapes of Wrath are stored.
Apr 1, 2019
Apr 1, 2019 at 5:55 PM UTC
Momma was a bleeder
***** on the stairs outside the complex
Mainstays all unraveled
mildewed and rotting on the concrete decks
Her ceaseless curtain calls
belied the prescriptions for falling down
She was a butterfly hurricane comin’ from the coast
makin’ eddies swirl sanguine pools
Even Kruger wasn’t dumb enough to jump in her grey-outs
the guy simply walked away
Feb 10, 2010
Feb 10, 2010 at 7:01 PM UTC
Dinner is Served
*Continuous hunger
unsatisfied
and faltered
Feed the weak
and eat them young
Makes a simplicity
of having to
house them
or to let them run*
Baby calf, born to be
brazen with a side of pilaf
Seared over open flame
tenderly exquisite
Make no matter
of an empty life
Just too satisfying
to a tempered pallet
To think of where and how
this dish came to be
Ending a wee
youngling's life
Served best with
a chilled blush zinfandel
or an aged red chianti
White and/or red
make up life of blood
and life in continuation
Apr 23, 2011
Apr 23, 2011 at 10:40 AM UTC
Everyone at the gym is a slasher,”
I explain,
“actress/writer/actually works the front desk full time.”
Wyatt tells me he goes to the gym to hook up with guys in the sauna.
“Yeah, I always see you boys in the see through showers
that face the front desk.
I get all hot on my shift and have to go home alone.”
“Well, you know how us guys are,”
says Wyatt,
“Why are you laughing?”
“Because it’s true.”
He gives me his number.
“We should hang out.”
“I don’t know what to do,”
says Wyatt.
“Betty Blue at The Egyptian maybe?
Maybe the shooting range in Burbank?
I want a drink.”
“So drink,” I say.
“All I need is a forty and a sack.
Why are you laughing?”
asks Wyatt.
“Wouldn’t even have to go out.”
“Hey Wyatt, thanks for callin’ all the time.
I want to do something,
but I only have seven dollars.
I tried to go dancing with my friend last night,
Made it all the way to the club,
but didn’t have the cover and had to go home.
I’m bored and tired and it’s hot.”
Wyatt reminds me, “I have my copy of Women for you to borrow.
Chianti and spaghetti at my apartment for dinner?”
“Sounds great,” I say.
“Let’s get the five dollar bottle with the straw holder,” he says.
“Maybe we can splurge on garlic bread.
You know, my roommate is fifty and broke.
I hear him crying every day.
He still tries to get money from his mother.”
“I’m broke,”
Wyatt tells me.
“I have my cds at a pawn shop.
I may have to skip town. I have some trouble.”
“These things happen,” I tell him.
“Call me once in a while.
Let me know how you’re doing.”
Aug 14, 2013
Aug 14, 2013 at 4:59 PM UTC
Battle royal for a bottle of red.
Up the ante, we're going for Chianti!
Grant me kindness, pour a splash on my fettered tongue.
Up the ante, we're going for a thousand cases of Chianti!
Hoist the mains'l, sea dogs, raise the anchor, or you be hung!
Up the ante, the Cap'n is in a wanton need of Chianti!
Another wine won't do?
Up the ante, we know where they harbour the Chianti-shhhh
Wind be fast, my thirst is deep, as the desert is dry!
Up the ante, we're not paying' for the Chianti we're takin"
The ship from stem to stern, you get to clean, when we return, alive!
Up the ante, it is worth all the cases of Chianti, below decks we can hold!
Up the ante, we're putting' out to sea, we have a nose for good Chianti!
For when the Cap'n retires he will drink and
sing this Chianti Chanty at a seaside shanty, all day!
Apr 26, 2016
Apr 26, 2016 at 9:12 PM UTC
From a moments notice to
hours upon passing hours
the light trickling in the small basement
windows, stuffed with backpacks
and pillows to hide ourselves
from the outside world of uncertainty.
The churning in my stomach,
the awful, nauseous spinning is
of my own wrong doings-
a bottle of Chianti and 7 slept hours
later. I am in ruins.
Aching all morning while you lie
silently beside,
I can't help but think about all the
torture your beautiful mind was
forced to withstand. I too,
would hide even the most pressing
thoughts deep inside.
I cannot even fathom,
(I hope you realize) I'm still yet
a princess, sitting in another
castle in the sky.
Sep 22, 2015
Sep 22, 2015 at 7:52 AM UTC
quiet still waiting
dinner burns slowly
sun setting shadows
mindless drifting
wondering why
Is it thursday or friday
what rules apply
shall i run or walk
not one ***** dish
great love shines
he's returning to me
one plate or two
salad making spin
I know what he likes
denial doesn't work
candle burning love
snuffed out heat
two glasses of chianti waiting
Oct 13, 2014
Oct 13, 2014 at 11:04 PM UTC
I do not need
a fancy proper date
nor for you to wear suit&tie;
order the most expensive entrées;
Duck with Cherries In Chianti
names of the dishes that are outstanding
Servant to serve classy white wine
to cheers to our anniversary
I do not need
a sparkling silver-white gown
made by luxurious fabric
embroidered with stunning floral patterns
countless layers of tulle
to have a dance with you
and your classy tuxedo
that'll make a spotlight
shine on us while we dance
gracefully upon the dance floor
I do not need
A diamond ring
platinum band
filled with distinctive characteristic
our love story in our engagement ring
finish it with a 20 karat diamond
that represents infinity of our relationship
All I ask is you to stay
by my side
when I need you
when I call out for your name
and you'd be there for me
comfort me
protect me
cheer for me
Is it a selfish request ?
because all i ask was simple
but you couldn't do that for me
instead
you decided to leave.
Jan 11, 2017
Jan 11, 2017 at 3:44 AM UTC
Always the intermission
waiting......
buying juju beans standing on red carpet
Forever an after thought
the heart cannibalized
some fava beans and a nice Chianti with that?
Drink up sweet decadence..... ~M
Sep 13, 2012
Sep 13, 2012 at 8:11 PM UTC
Blended and aged to perfection
semi sweet or dry to taste
you pair well with any meal
We toast with you
and celebrate special occasions
when you get all bubbly
Rosé
Blush
Blanco
Burgundy
Chianti
Moscato
Reisling
Pinot Noir
Malbec
... just to new a few
My carafe breathes
with FERMENTED GRAPES
fill my Waterford crystal glass
Poured to perfection
I drink you in
you complete my day.
Jun 22, 2016
Jun 22, 2016 at 12:09 AM UTC
Jambo did turn towards the camp site rooms when
in the distance could be heard be music from
Halloween but its only july said he, then a mask
and blade he saw too late to run but said you can’t
**** me as a voice heard said I disagree as a knife
plunged through his chest and straight through
the tree, the killer smiled through the mask now
try to disagree…
Lolly looked around after her portion from Charlie
as he rode off, Lolly thought where have the rest
of the camp gone, have they have left me. As
she walked around horror music could be heard
and blood soaked areas all around lolly did
scream.
She ran to the lake it was blood red
with bits of people floating around she could see,
in the woods she found more murdered people
in parts people stuck to trees. Then as she turned
around, you look tasty I'll eat your liver with
some fava beans and a nice Chianti, as
she awoke screaming as he cut open her skull,
as she died he said mmm.. Jellied brains anyone...
At that moment driving his moped called Clarabelle,
a late arrival Marc was going 32 in the 30 what
the hell, breaking the law echoing through the
woods he did yell. Little did he know what was in
store, for he looked around and saw a face smiling
back at him?
He picked up the pace; little did he
know his life was to coming to an end, as a wire
took off his head clearly off. The wire snapped
as his head did roll, Charlie Hunnam drove past
and saw a headless rider drive past, he screamed
like a girl and felt a bump in the road. Little did he
know he had just ran over Marc’s decapitated
head. Poor Marc’s didn’t even get to the camp,
he became the legend of the headless rider that’s
know to haunts camp forwards woods on his moped
Clarabelle still looking for his head no less.
So the story does come to an end but the final
question remains what ever happened to Poetic T
was he the killer of all or could people write his end..
Apr 10, 2014
Apr 10, 2014 at 6:08 AM UTC
Rilke whispers to me…sedentary body of rush…heat pushes
out from the head…throat desires chianti and kalamata
open book, eyes look…words creating doorways
empty landscape. behind her mind prisoners break free, slam gates
mossy, tendril-vined romantic escapes. the time to absorb is over
the well is full…scribble, scrawl so fast...body relaxed
making music with the fast clack, clack of her old Olympia
chair thrown back, mad dash to each bookshelf and book stash
hunting for a line to feed her burning imagination…Nag Champa
flowery smoke signals inspire ancient thought…burns down slow
slower still...ashes rot…distant voices creep closer…the black ribbon is drying
words begin to resist the page…door opens...silence is crashed
beautiful stanzas fragment…slash...love enters and permeates every room~
Oct 24, 2014
Oct 24, 2014 at 8:31 PM UTC
maybe it's because it's 3am and maybe it's because he hasn't truly been with me when beside me in over a month but the more i look at him now the more i realise it's painstakingly easy for him to let go and it's embarrassingly difficult for me to do the same
when i grew up i was taught that love would walk into your life with a smile like no other; i was not taught love would be etched in cigarette butts smoked in earnest after sleepless nights and onto early mornings; i was not taught love would be sprinkled in every glass of red wine i have with the name chianti and the price £6.99 almost haunting every sip i take
the truth is, even when he's not near me i try in earnest to find him - i try to taste him long after he's gone until my mouth goes numb and my tastebuds cannot tell apart chocolate from meat, i try to find the remnants of his cologne in my bedsheets even though it's been a month since he's slept here and i've washed my sheets already because maybe, maybe there's still a chance he'll be there, i try to touch him but no longer on purpose - accidental, timid touches that have my veins screaming to seep out of my arm and grab him while they can because they need more oxygen and he was the only source of clear thinking i had for a long time
the truth is no matter how many times i wear my lucky socks, no matter how many times i buy my favourite shampoo, no matter how many bottles of wine i drink, no matter how many text messages i send, it won't make him come back, because wearing his favourite perfume doesn't change anything but the desire in his eyes and like a flame it burns bright and suddenly all within a matter of hours it stops shining altogether
call it naive, call it pathetic, call it lonely call it lost call it depressed call it wrong call it meaningless pointless tragic sad ignorant poisonous stupid, but my heart trudges forward, and i know at 03:48am that no matter how much i try, i won't be able to stop it until it has taken all the roads leading up to him
why?
so it can crash and die all over again
Feb 15, 2016
Feb 15, 2016 at 10:49 PM UTC
Care about old things to sell on
Living the memorabilia dream
What will you spend it on?
With blue-suede eyes
And polka-dot ties
What gives you a hard on?
I can't live a middle-class dystopia
Where our class system's ******
Don't live to tick boxes and beam ceilings
Small minds without feeling
What's wrong with homosexual healing?
You converse on conversation pieces
I knock head on open-brick
Save it for your dinner guests
Feb 15, 2016
Feb 15, 2016 at 7:54 AM UTC