"condiments" poems
wrapped up in aluminum foil
head resting on cracked concrete
surrounded by winking lights
and blinking eyes
warmth from the glow of humility
basking in the rays of a two dollar toaster
cardboard dwelling and trashbag scenery
paper towel t-shirt, styrofoam socks
salt and pepper lunchtime
pedastal reconstruction
hot coffee burnt tongue
peanut allergy and poisoned water
locked cabinet, rotting condiments inside an unplugged refrigerator
dying romance read only in magazines
purple heart scrawled on my arm
syringe full of bourbon plunged directly in my eye.
Nov 27, 2011
Nov 27, 2011 at 9:03 AM UTC
An ant is just an ant my son
An impact it wont make
But a million ants will move the world
A conviction you won’t shake.
An ant is still a living thing
It eats, it breaths, it works
It runs in an environment
Where the hostile spider lurks.
It works in regulation
With a thousand brother ants
To a strict cooperation
That achieves communal stance.
An intelligence is present,
A timetable has been set
This organized endeavor
Makes it’s success an winning bet.
An ant makes love, it rears it’s young
It grooms it’s brother’s hide.
And if enraged an ant will fight
A foe a thousand times it’s size.
It’s glittering antennae
And it’s shiny compound eye
It’s economy of movement
And compulsion to deny
Involvement with any cause
Apart from that one sent
By the Queen Ant’s regulations
At the Ant God’s monument.
I am moved with admiration
For this tiny creatures heart,
It’s commitment to community
And resolve to set apart
All individual aspiration
And selfish action of it’s own.
To gather condiments for nest and Queen
Compelled forever more…to roam.
Marshalg
Mangere Bridge
17th May 2008
Nov 28, 2009
Nov 28, 2009 at 11:53 AM UTC
I have heard the haunted whispers of screaming and necrophliac anguish from the depths of the eerie crypts of ancient mausoleums.
There is a damp smell in disused railway tunnels which generates a fearful sense of grateful awareness.
Flying down the streets in astral projections of nocturnal liberation reminds me of the warmth of hateful urinary incontinences.
Does a Gold Star adequately represent a brand of brown sauce, or does it represent something else? Please enlighten me, as the guise of Rabatak inscriptions unravel ******* dismay.
Jan 7, 2014
Jan 7, 2014 at 12:05 AM UTC
CHAPTER TWENTY FOUR: of the EBook THE BULLIED, by Alan Johnson
(The Nonromantic Man is the art form most often described as a character sketch. It falls in the realm of poetry, which I call poessay. For it is not poetry by itself or an essay.)
The Nonromantic Man
Non-romanticism is the inability to overwhelm one’s ignorance of the opposite *** needs or desires. The non-romantic man is one who buys his non-pool playing wife a pool table and soon thereafter invites his friends over every weekend to play pool. He calls women ******* and ‘hoes. He rises late at night to fix a sandwich, leaves the spilled condiments for his woman to clean in the morning, then after a cigarette, with mustard still being on his breath, wakes her up for a ***** call. He gains weight and then demands that she go on a diet. In harmony with his poor values, he neglects to compliment the new sexed up dress that she is wearing but does notice that she is wearing too much makeup for him. He has to be reminded of her birthday or any other should special engagement. The result his gift is not well thought out, so he buys her a cheap necklace just like the times before. He has no taste for poetry, sensual lyrics or the practice of setting the ambiance which moistens the trail of splendor. He takes his woman out to dinner and complains about the dinner’s high prices, and work, and her in-sensitiveness to his problems, and…At least once a month, he rolls off the top of her and falls asleep while she stares at the ceiling and prays for a difference.
Dec 15, 2013
Dec 15, 2013 at 9:47 PM UTC
Be afraid.
The breakdown of civilization
is at the hands of our well-meaning,
overly thrifty,
spoon-wielding mothers.
Be very afraid.
They are entranced by spices
and covering condiments,
pepper and powder,
onion and garlic galore.
Gingerly they add cumin and dill,
cinnamon, nutmeg or cloves
with thyme to add sage and curry,
parsley, paprika and allspice.
Their casseroles become
zombie food
as the dead
reanimates.
These cheese-added monsters,
hungry for mystery-meat,
render brains to mush
and bind our bowels.
They stiffen our gait
with numbness and nausea
until we are rendered victims
of another pepto-pandemic.
And in the night
of the living dead,
feeding us salt
in a casserole apocalypse,
we panicked victims become
the casseroles we consume.
Now paralyzed
in fear
by the light
of the open refrigerator.
Dec 15, 2011
Dec 15, 2011 at 1:00 PM UTC
*And suddenly he finds this--
the season of strange happenings
befall upon him.In Bangkok rains lashed
for three consecutive days without stop.
Huge pythons with strange markings
undulated over waves, that were roads
three days before.A stranger to the town
he feared the fury of river Chao Phraya
but this girl took care of him well,
and when rain paused slightly
she suggested they should eat out.
He left it to her choice, though never knew
much about her, say he was careless.
In that dim-lit restaurant, she said
most unexpected things happen certain days,
and what she said was really true.
She ate his past wholly, so quick
when no one noticed, it was truly smart an operation.
It tastes exactly like Thai cuisine she told him, as if pleased,
full of aromatic leaves of herbs.
He just sat like a zombie, would he understand
the meaning of that sabotage, ever?
As she whispered her words in his ears,
he wanted to contradict, tell her about
coconut milk, pepper and condiments
in which his memories of past were marinated,
like his mom's incredible curries
of fish from Kerala coast.
She pretended she didn't hear
all his memories of spice coast,
she had tactically usurped.
Then a doubt creeped in to his mind
"Is she a banshee, after me?"
She persuaded him to take a stroll
along the bank of Chao Phraya in spate
None would believe him later
his eye witness account of the girl
who ate all his spice land past
jumped in to Chao Phraya turning in to a big fish
and disappeared, never to reappear.*
Oct 28, 2013
Oct 28, 2013 at 1:49 PM UTC
If only yoga tights came with mandatory spiritual experiences...like on your way to the local fast food chain you sweated just enough to activate the LSD laced fabric, which induced a state of cheese burger paradise, where french fries were now your best friends and represented freedom, and the clerk at the counter was a 6 titted guru whom guided you through the layers of brightly coloured condiments that made up your spiritual sandwich. Then maybe just then would stetchy fabric expand your mind far enough to realize, products don't create ease, yoga isn't a type of cheese and that the latest fad in seventeen magazine was designed to keep you on you knees. Namaste, girl please.
Apr 9, 2013
Apr 9, 2013 at 10:33 AM UTC
Once upon a mealtime
When salt had gone away
He had left in such a hurry
And with no sub to work his day
Poor pepper started panicking
Mostly missing his dear mate
But also with a worry
If he alone would taste so great
So he soon sent out a message
To all the pots upon the shelf
'Partner needed quickly,
I can't dust dinner by myself'
So suddenly came rescue
In fact response was vast
The rest of all the condiments
Took triumph for him fast
First of course came ketchup
So used to being shared
But pepper didn't quite believe
That they would be best paired
Then came Mr Mayo
With a winning stance he stood
But too eager for the winning
Pepper didn't think him good
In butted boisterous barbecue
Believing there was no other
Unless there could be any left
Of his favourite sweet chilli brother
But pepper wanted neither
For he cared about this dish
And they came in heavy servings
Which wouldn't be salts wish
Still with plenty choice left
He looked upon his friends
Mustards, chutneys and pickles
Fine flavours they'd all lend
But then he heard herbs and spices
Who were giving a loud shout
'If you want salt not to be needed
Then you'd best not leave us out!'
This quickly made him realise
That the best friends he could make
Would come not squeezed all over
But served with a gentle shake
So he rounded up the shakers
But he wouldn't work them all
'You're right you'll help me nicely
But who mostly? It's your call'
The chilli taking charge of things
Addressed pepper with this test
'Well what is this dish we're warming
And we'll tell you what works best?!'
When they looked upon the oven hob
They saw mix of veg and meat
Chopped finely and frying in a pan
Slowly taking up the heat
So suddenly they knew now
Who would win the role to take
Cajun and paprika
A fine taste they surely make
So shaked upon the cooking
It was served with a success
No one need ever know
That peppers day had been a mess
So later in the evening
When salt stumbled his way home
His apologies were heartfelt
'I'll never leave you all alone'
But pepper soon forgave him
He said 'there, there, it's ok'
For now he knew the secret
Of how to cook in the best way
Sep 18, 2015
Sep 18, 2015 at 11:54 PM UTC
the seconds and hours of life have wistfully aligned and
it is your birthday
and although I wish most sincere it be happy
I myself cannot help but feel terribly, terribly sad
so I am sitting here fourteen minutes past midnight
eating fruit in silence at the tiny desk of my tiny room
trying to sort myself out, trying to snap myself out of it
I know death has no preference of age
the young and the old flee indistinctly alike
but it's been two years since I noted your first bald spot
and a few months ago while we were eating breakfast at the kitchen table,
a flashback of abuelito came to mind while I observed a faint milky layer visibly
taking form around the lens of your charcoal eye
and the other day you forgot to turn off the bathrooms light and it wasn't the first time
and last night you had the televisions volume past fifty all the while sleeping
and those favorite pair of jeans you've worn for years no longer fit you like they used to
and the skin under your chin and arms are starting to stretch
and I can't help but want to cry
because here I am at the tiny desk of my tiny room
while you are sleeping alongside mom two bedrooms away
and this is how it's always been since I was a child
and the days will go by until it is not
and I can't help but want to cry
because you have always been my hero
because up until college you were by my side for every single first day of school
because the first time I had my heart broken by a boy,
you held me in your arms until I felt better
because you know what condiments I do and don't like in my food
because you give me encouraging words without even realizing it
because you never call me stupid,
even when I do stupid things like accidentally locking your keys in your car
because you care enough to take away my internet connection when I'm fucking-up
because you still tell me that I'm pretty even after all these years
because if it weren't for you, I don't know what would be of me
because my love for you is infinite,
but our flesh and bones are not
father, words can go farther than you and I both
and on this tenth of july, I leave such fate in poem
the seconds and hours of life have wistfully aligned and
it is your birthday
and although I wish most sincere it be happy
I myself cannot help but feel terribly, terribly sad
because sixty-five years ago today God gave just one like you
and this world so large, it will never have the feeling that I do
Jul 10, 2013
Jul 10, 2013 at 5:00 AM UTC
He manages to free his thoughts
as he gazes the television
for news from a distance,
while continuing to sample
his supper of rice,
and sauteed vegetables
on a aluminum serving plate.
The restaurant he owns
dimly lit this mid-afternoon
with ghostly lanterns,
and artistic impressions
of times past on the wall,
while customers
walk and gingerly pass
ordering from an eclectic
menu of indo-latin-euro-oriental cuisine.
A neapolitan of condiments
dancing among garlic chili sauce,
and mayonnaise.
Mahogany grained panel walls,
and formica woven
seats, uniformly
scattered among
porcelain white
plates; traditional.
Engraved Jade pieces
hung with colors of luck
on each entrance.
I approach the counter.
A sepia toned
picture of his family
hanging by his register
no first dollar bill
or recognitions.
Just family held,
through time,
as he hands me a check.
Jan 23, 2010
Jan 23, 2010 at 10:29 AM UTC
Insomniac, dehydrated & approaching mid life crisis seeks:
true love, uncomplicated, that likes cats
Hobbies include: sleeping in the **** fishing for compliments
& making strange condiments
If you are interested please
reply below & leave your number
P.S : Must like quoting Hollywood movies
& walking on the Beach
Oct 15, 2015
Oct 15, 2015 at 10:07 PM UTC
Faithful and Fruit to these Condiments bind
And soon will you find her Impatient Face
Yet, out of her Love's Shivered Interest, mind
Will keep her Wrist till satisfied your Place
As long as these Fishes persistent, bite
The very Saying most Lovers research
To you, an Arm's Open Wound set, despite
Drug-Crazed Pidgeons in concert to Feed, perch
This is why she has to keep her Silence
Till she finds your Earth to hold and adore
That very Tan, burnt to ample Conscience
Will inspire her Shells for more and more.
When such Fire quells, and Waters recede
Her Brow on your Chest; Your Arm's Brace repeat.
Mar 15, 2013
Mar 15, 2013 at 5:19 AM UTC
You show me your world,
catchy pop rhythms,
smiles and childish laughter;
I long for something more,
something different,
something that cannot be described
in words or song.
I know from the beginning
that this cannot be.
I show you my world;
you catch a glimpse through
the twilight gloom,
amongst distant thunderheads.
You can see, in the distance,
a vast, colorless landscape.
Mountains that disappear into the heavens,
endless plains outstretched into oblivion;
this is my world, you see?
This is me.
Your sweetness can be topped,
somewhat, with a cherry;
an ice cream sundae dripping with
warm fudge and decadent condiments.
But this is not me, you see?
This cannot be.
May 9, 2010
May 9, 2010 at 4:59 AM UTC
I bathe in the cashmere moonlight
The daylight fears what it does to me
My skin bouncing off in all direction to match its glory-
No! I will stay here under the worship of so many stars.
I start my day at dusk
So as not to startle the humans.
My body, to me, has all the mouth-watering intensity
Of a bran muffin
I no longer lust after myself
I no longer lust in general
There are only dark fleeting moments of contentment
As I shovel pasta into my temple-
My body is a Burger King deluxe.
There are no arches that I’m proud of.
And how did it get like this
I used to love what I am
And now
My body lies over a sea of ketchup.
I don’t even eat the tomato-y stuff
But I feel like I’m drowning in condiments
I bathe in cashmere moonlight
I take showers with my candles
I filter my image with steamed mirrors
And again I am the goddess I remember.
My curves are smooth, my skin glows
and my eyes have a hollow hallo of light to them.
This is what light skinned Barbies look like
What uncle sam expects of me-
In a steamed mirror
I
Am a patriot for beauty.
In the sunlight
I
Am a martyr for tuna sandwiches with 3 kinds of mustard.
Jun 25, 2011
Jun 25, 2011 at 3:36 PM UTC
Today I wore
Ketchup and Mustard
Because I wanted to
Not everyone can do this
And get away with it
But I did it
Because I wanted to
Tomorrow is a new day
Maybe mayo or tartar
Just anything but barbecue
But it's not about my sauces
Or my meat for that matter
It's about my feelings
Bite me because im what you love
Apr 17, 2013
Apr 17, 2013 at 12:34 PM UTC
You thrive in my heart and mind
as waves of life, go up and down
no amount of gold in a chest
needed to strengthen our bond by any kind
As kids, each day had eventful moments
things we had fun with
streaks of silly happiness, added to life
all flavors of spices and condiments
Pulling each other's legs, on stupidity
fighting, and racing on our cycles
betting on idiotic facts and ideas
but supporting each other , in life's turbidity
We went our ways ahead
molded ourselves in different worlds
though separated by miles, we were just a call away
hearing your voice, a simple reason to smile
In those times, when things look so bleak
clouds of trouble and confusion covers us
not knowing where to strike, which door to knock
you were there for me, not letting me feel weak
The joy of success
the urge to share, was
always with you
far, yet so near
They say with time,
people change, but I know
you will value me
our friendship, much more than any dime
When this journey will end
at the beach, watching the sun set
silently, melting these life's memories
I will be glad, that I had you all along
as my precious friend
Jun 8, 2015
Jun 8, 2015 at 1:44 AM UTC
Fake beef and chicken
No one will really like you
Despite condiments
Sep 9, 2014
Sep 9, 2014 at 3:08 AM UTC
I have discovered that my blocked nose
is not the reason I can’t smell roses.
The smell has been cut out of the genus
for the sanity of sensors on cargo airplanes.
What then, about my children and their’s,
when they discover old books for themselves
and ask questions about the smell of flowers?
About poetry, and the Nineteenth century?
How would I tell the tale of family Plantagenet,
with flags as dead as Lancaster and York?
This tragedy seems so terribly unfair when roses
are so much prettier than instruments on planes,
every petal a miniature piece of God’s own skin.
I need to walk down to the roadside florist if I can
get out of this sweaty blanket into this chilly weather
and find one of these ****** roses so I can dismember
its petals one by one. I must disembowel this litany if I can
she loves me, she loves me not, she wants me extinct
bred out of this world for convenience,
just like the forgotten smell of those roses.
The tragedy to be told is that women are not supposed
to be the main course in your life, the glorious bouquet of roses
that you set the table around. They are more like condiments
to an existence already charmed, but if the ketchup has gone rotten
it tends to put a damper on how everything tastes and everything smells,
I can’t smell the flowers and there are too many forks.
Jan 15, 2014
Jan 15, 2014 at 11:45 AM UTC
I wanted a
coke
but
the only ones
we had
were
out in the car
and my dad
had the key with
him
upstairs
so I search my
grandpa’s fridge
the same
one he’s had
for..
as long as
I can
remember
three half-emptied
bottles of whiskey,
bologna, condiments,
empty ice trays
only thing to drink
is pepsi and ski
I choose ski
a local concoction
of orange and lemon
flavors
I open it,
leaning back into
the worn furniture,
waiting on a phone
call and
writing down the
little adventures
I manage to
have
Dec 28, 2011
Dec 28, 2011 at 12:34 AM UTC
Pacing pacing to-and-fro,
speaking aloud with cat in tow.
Ranting,raving,shouting,craving,
whispering a secret all hush and low.
No crowds to gawk, no eyes to peer,
just pacing, ever pacing, from mirror to mirror.
No dishes washed, all dust on floor,
sailing small studio door-to-door.
All pauses brief to Howl or stroke,
while contemplating going broke.
All mussed up hair and *** pajamas;
all condiments and no bananas.
The sunlight dim, the sea all grey,
while pacing afternoons away.
The clock tic-toc, the dyer sounds,
but pacing, ever pacing, pacing bound.
Jun 1, 2013
Jun 1, 2013 at 1:28 PM UTC
Oh mama we're broke,
Yes we're as broke as the August drenches during a drought. We're as broke as the old jar on the mantle, the empty one with the dust and flies that used to hold our spare pennies.
We're broke like the rust on pa's chevy or the must on the ripped leather seats
or broke
like the missing tooth in Ronnie's crooked smile.
We're broke like the clothes that no patches could repair, Lindie's dress scraggled at the hem like a piece of crinkled paper.
We're broke like the cupboard with the peeling paint,
limp lifeless and bare.
We're broke like the old mutt of a dog that has surrendered to the unmopped floor.
We're broke like the work on my brothers back or like the young un's toys, soiled with the earth.
We're broke like the old tin that once held coffee,
we're broke like the spoat but the tap ran dry.
Oh me, oh my , we're broke.
We're broker than condiments, broker than the pots of watered down soups, broker than pa's tobacco pipe, broker than my overalls, held together by twang, or broker than the dried out grain of our raspy field. We're broker than the pitchfork, the ones thats missing two teeth.We're broker than the wintertime potato stew kind of broke, the one that brings a frosty bite.We're broker than the fight or the struggle, we're at the bottom of this cascading chain. At the core of our selves. We're broker than this dry ridden soil underneath my nails. Broker than a frown, now only a smile, we're broker than the layer of dust at the bottom of the barrell. We're broker than resentment.
Oh man were broke Mama!
So won't you please come home?
Feb 8, 2014
Feb 8, 2014 at 4:02 PM UTC
Schaüdenfreude pock less Pimples to his Face
And employ your Pass for his Love allow
From Onerous Programs dissolve such Disgrace
To break his Thoughts free from Shades disembow
But why these Flesh-Templed Bases compose
To wrinkle his Crumpets and fill our Sate
Then - through weeks - wound our Eyebrows be morose
And make his Misery become our Fate
Such Attitude - Un-Canny - Monstrous thereof
Fuelled by our Greedy Investments bid
Of Maps direct - Alien to his Betroth
Will Trample more of his Condiments hid.
That his Purpose - in Full Pie's Respect
Consumed he sees Fit - in all Circumspect.
May 11, 2013
May 11, 2013 at 7:24 PM UTC
Are you ready for the main course?
Prepare the condiments
Thin oven mitts
Teas cozies
Lace doilies
It's just a decoy
Here lies the kid who was left home alone while is parents visited The North Pole
Try to consolidate the front door
And here's a laxative called LSD to aide your constipated mind
Now go on with the insurrection
And fight Parliament for the sake of the proletariat
Who's names are always written in lower case lettering
The limousine drivers
The skrimpers
The savers
The single mothers with bad habits who have to dance off skimpy clothing to buy formula for their babies because they're milk is tainted with junk
The weary recipients of justice obstructions
And catch 22's
Who have been singled out because they have monetary deficits
Console them
Until Eureka!
Grab some Q-tips and clean out your ears
Stop gritting and grinding your teeth
A new realization is in bloom
When did be aware turn into beware?
When did alertness become fear?
Forget and get over your
Remanding-accursed-sweet-tooth-fatigue-that you let in
Because it's all in your head along with the idea that hyphens make things look more important and scary
I contest all that ********
Jun 27, 2014
Jun 27, 2014 at 2:10 PM UTC
#1
All the little beasties
Writing to-and-fro
Playing with symbologies
Like veggies in a row
Thinking their importantcy
Of self is Oh! so So!
Building meals with condiments
(but where'd the sandwich go?)
#2
Most things do not want to rhyme.
Take, for example, Space, and Time.
They do not have a common syntax,
Only a parallax entrusted
To one another
Like home-fries at the Waffle House,
Smothered and splattered and covered... Encrusted.
Jan 22, 2011
Jan 22, 2011 at 8:20 PM UTC
Standing against the crime of my heart
I’m tired of falling for your type
Today I’ll find my way and break apart
I’ll celebrate my victory with Irish bag pipes
But I’ll cry for you on lonely nights
How can you have made my days so bright
How I wish I never know ya
Now I’m all alone in this room in a Hotel in California
Divine were your kisses of pure seduction
Now I’m lost on this one way highway
Who would of known you were a terrible destruction
I’m meaningless without you! you were my dossier!
How come no one told me life would be such a bad ride?
Surfing in a ocean of my tears with a forecasted high tide
I’m pouring out my feelings on this ***** napkin
Cause unlike you, it at least holds a bit of dignity
We were foolish to claim to love each other into infinity!
The hunger made me eat too much with my eyes
Forgetting my values and my only decency
And I fell under the spells of your lies
Roses of pity in a bouquet of discord
Can’t even afford to pay attention
Can‘t keep going on with this tension, People where is our Lord?
I just want some words, give me the silliest explanation
Heal the pain you have purposely caused
Your false image keeps running thru my veins
Black rain won’t mask the painful distraught
The thought of seeing you again will be an attempt so vain
In which I try to forget those events
From all my mistakes your one I wish I can prevent
A soup so hard to swallow with these sour condiments
You’re a horrible person I take back my beautiful compliments
Can’t believe my days will be filled with your torment
I hope this is for the time being, just for the moment
They judge me for what I’ve done but what do they know?
If my only companions is a comfy carpet and a bottle of Cuervo
Jonathan Pizarro
Copyright 2011 ©
January 29, 2011 4:31am
Feb 20, 2011
Feb 20, 2011 at 9:30 PM UTC