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David Burster Feb 2014
Ice Ice Ice
Ice Ice Ice Ice
Capital I
see eee see eee
Ice Ice Ice
Ice ice ice ICE
Ice ice ice iceice
Ice Ice
ICE

Cream cream
Cream Cream Cream
Cream Cream Cream Cream
Cream Cream CREAM cream
CREAM cream cream CREAM
cream cream CREAM cream cream
krrr eeem krrr eeeem krrr eeem


Ice cream I love you
like a love song baby
But Ice cream is lovely
Cause it's such a wannabe
Cause ice cream is cream
who pretends to be ice
What say you ? Let's roll the dice
For my chocolate Ice cream PS: I love eating you
Mateuš Conrad Sep 2021
oh i'm pretty sure the anglo-sphere doesn't care much for other tongues... or what happens in them: how they arrived to where they are now... but... sometimes... it comes about by the most curious of circumstances when, the natives & / or their extended family of trans-Atlantic cousins (etc.) start to... mishandle their: zunge... then... something wakes up, that should have been sleeping... in a person who treats this tONG in the confines of: acquisition, rather than something... passed down with: accent... idiosyncrasy... "whereabouts": local "allegiance"...

covert excess drinking:
i'm starting to love it more and more:
i get to play both actor,
a shadow... and fictional death...
all is well when you can
summon the... nerves(?)
to also make a distinction between
making strawberry gelato vs.
strawberry ice-cream...
no eggs more fruit pulp
less cream for the former...
plus... "displacing" things...
you wake up... it's... [there]...
half an hour later it's... "there"...
these spontaneous pockets
of amnesia:
these spontaneous bouts of...
AM... née: SHIA...
how else? Zee-E-E'Ah?
there's another name for this:
SKLEROZA...
it's not an English word...
but the symptoms are:
you get to walk a lot...
it doesn't hurt...
ah... memory... such a fickle faculty...
it's like we were engineered to:
forget in order to: push on
forward and... replicate... procreate...
alas... what if you...
don't want to?
   like an antithesis of
Frankenstein's monster...
who... if written by a man and not
a Mary Shelley would...
play the Sisyphus for a while
and then... do-himself-off...
hanging... stab to the heart
while working out the arithmetic
spacing of soft flesh to ribs...

cumin coriander, garlic ginger
cumin coriander, garlic ginger
cumin, coriander, asafoetida... ginger...

"apparently" it's offensive to call
a dish a curry...
it's more or less just: gravy:
gwavvy...
those blue Indians of Bengal
and elsewhere those Reds
and those Incas never really
drank or for that matter: minded
the concept of yeast...
flat as the platitudes of
Belgian mud or a *******
japati...

it's the middle of the day
i've pickled myself in some 70cl
of bourbon from the night
before and... right
now: with a swiggle and a hum...
i'm pickling...
irritably pickling... some sweet
notes to mind: but otherwise...
sour as a stash of lemons...

and that's fine... because i'm also
thinking about the self-help gurus
and the machinery of:
capitalising on everything:
even death and sickness...

my advice is? read the three musketeers...
my advice: have about 3 maxims handy...
categorical imperatives
or what not...
here are the two that i best behave
under:

Tao: the best way you can help
the world is... to forget the world
and allow the world to forget you...
non-verbatim...

Dumas: the best advice i ever gave was:
to no, under any circumstance:
give advice...
since... if people take it...
will probably regret it...
ergo... blame you for it...

- currently there are two words on my mind...
one borrowed from a list:
parsley sage, rosemary & thyme...
the last on the list... thyme...
not... F-I'm...
thyme... time... thyme... time...
such a delight i have with this tongue:
you can say the same set of syllables
but imply a completely different meaning:
esp. sharpened in writing...
perhaps i was born into a language
that is as clear-cut katakana as no
other European language:
apart from the necessary workaround
of consonant graphemes: just as well as
in English: SHould you CHoose to bother
yourself: with...

i'm still not quiet following the whole
pseudo-grammatical pronoun agenda...
*** is never associated: will never be associated
with nouns in this tongue...
a table is neither masculine nor feminine...
perhaps that's... why pronouns have
imploded?

i'm currently in the process of making
a distinction between strawberry gelato and
strawberry ice-cream...
obviously no eggs in the former...
a 2:1 ratio of full fat milk to double cream...
but the cream needs to be beaten...

slang terms:
LASKA - LAS - forest...
LASKA - a fit: most desirable female...
also a walking-stick...
LODY - ice-cream...
   robić lody - to make ice-cream...
also slang for... *******...
OSTRYGA - oyster...
K'WIAT - flower...
     well... something to counter making ice-cream:
lody... gobble down an oyster?

it's not even that any miniscule variation
of katakana would help...
no stand-alone consonants apart from N...
why N?
always clinging to:
vowel: woman...
consonant... man...
mind you: there is still no concept of ***
bound to nouns in English...
the moon is him
the sun is her...

i'm gently drinking: while also fasting...
the combination with immaculate sunlight...
why wouldn't the flowers be rejoicing?!

excuse me: hrabia: wal-do-dechy
     count: hit-to-the-plank (of wood)...
echoes of expressions of a dead man...
clearly i should know:
born into a language with clear:
Clear syllabic distinctions...
more! added to vowels:                     Ą!

oh... but beside the Italians & the Greeks...
just your European neighbours...
i too don't want to mind the pan-Slavic
movement... some called it communism...
i will never understand what
the Russians were up to...
ha ha... pan-Germanic is sort of happening
while everyone seems: coolly bothered
by something with: an alias...

terrible ideas ought to die...
seems like Marxism is not such a bad idea
if it finds volunteers... zealots to:
revise it... Darwinism does account for
mutations... doesn't it?
like a pig that barks or a dog that oinks...
a bonsai tiger... wait... tigers don't growl...
do they?
they snort apathy or something...
i don't know... i was never placed in front
of one...

murmur murmur... m'hmm something
in the place of: too far away from the sea...
from one wave: to another: mω...
oh... look:
           it's only a double-u if it's an omega-yu...
yule...
    otherwise? sharpen the edges:
v'ah-v'ah: empty the room! Wedge & Whinge
are coming in with a pink-elephant
and five blind men!
should have been expecting a carton of milk...
as you would: armed with a mω a mᵒₒ...

well... at least making ice-cream... ******!
gelato! clearly there are no poultry abortions involved!
is not a sour-note metaphor for...
giving ******* to... a hungry bandwagon
of Pakistanis eager to please
the children of Ing-Land...

   - what a sight! a canvas i have returned to
throughout the day... now:
night has come...
how bewildering to stand in the garden
while two insomniac magpies chase
each others' cackle...
one perches in my eucalyptus tree and
rattles, rattles: cackles... stutters...
so much so that even some poor dog left
in the warm air of September replies
with a bark!

how rare to hear birds tell their presence
in the night...
how rare to hear birds in the night...
how welcome these spies:
they must be either magpies or crows...
it... simply: sublimates their otherwise
cautious presence in the day...
and the magpies cackled in the night
so much so: that even the dog was roused
to bark!

- one glug, two glugs: make it three!
whiskey this cold so it almost resembles some
syrupy liquid ought to be imbued with much glee!
i could make ice-cream all day!

esp. since i have found a most pristine recipe!
i'll be ever the most obnoxious
when i tell you: dear reader
of the difference between ice-cream and gelato...

i think i memorised the two recipes...
ice-cream...
    as a warning: i usually halve the suggested
amount of sugar...
whether that be using raspberries,
strawberries, blueberries...
crème anglaise

mein gott! i'm in one of those rare instances
of life, reality where: *** can be compensated:
or thereby a lack of... an Ava Lauren /
Monique Fuentes...
i like to think of *** like a well-worn...
many a times sat in: leather... arm-chair...
i like that: i don't know what the thrill
with inexperience is... all about...
timid bodies... timid: frail... dolls...
i can compensate this desert of the ****-less...
as a curiosity by some Pakistani who

i could make ice-cream all day...
i'd rather make gelato... but all day...
i could make curry all day...
curry and gelato: i'm your man...

- i abhor sober opinions: let alone sobering up
in the domain of dialectics:
i have enough on my plate with
English: the language...
making no attempt to transcend the Latin script
with any sort of addition of
diacritical markers...
Charlie Dickens: good "sport" might have
included the term: orthography...

one reason leads to another... just bad spelling...
but it's only orthography if...
you apply diacritical stressors...
can have an Empire to rival Rome's with their
alphabet... but can't exactly keep
the neo-gothic Victorian romance
alive... on a mere whim...
look at it! disintegrating into vagabond
graffiti... or... emoji! which is not the same
as breaking away from the kanji in favour
of something more: phonetic...

Koreans & the Japanese are right up there:
on my... ahem "spice" list of ingredients
of people required...
the origins of writing is to: encode sounds...
to write sounds down...
no ideas... not insinuations...
throw the whole bunch of those
sand-******* into a crab bucket and see
what confused :)( comes out... savvy?

sober people and their sober ideas...
always so... *******... serious!
like they mean it... but rarely do they
keep themselves intact on enacting their intent!
i better eat a dollop of whole-grain mustard before
every meal before i deal with:
sober, serious... sen-si-blah... sensible whole lot of them
get the ***** to launch an offensive
on the groovy... gravy... groovy? gravy train...
**** me: it's good to know i'm getting old...
and out of touch...

i get pockets of nostalgia: time... immemorial...
anecdotal evidence that i:
somehow brushed against...
the pain... the strokes... of time...
and made some spatial-coordinate concerns
moving: for-ward...

ice-cream: 5 egg yolks...
bruised by... ha ha... "bruised" whipped to a lighter
colour... some sugar was added...
two cups of double cream... one cup of full fat milk...
a cup of sugar...
your choice of berries: heated up separately...
blah blah... combined... hey presto! an indigestion
pause... relapse...
depending on your temperament...

that's ice-cream... but... gelato! GEE! LA TOE!
T'OH!
no egg yolks...
    2 cups of full fat milk...
one cup of double cream: beaten... whisked...
it has to... half the sugar you're expected to use...
in the berry pulp...
    
i'll need the RRR... why has the trill of the Ar
disappeared in the Ing-Leash tongue:
betäubungzunge: compounded... obviously...
higher tier Germanic... not this... Ing-Leash...
mongrel sort...
so the adjective comes before the noun:
rather than the noun coming prior to
the adjective... i don't want to be asking for:
proper this... eh... proper that...

the exasperated yawns... gags and yelling impositions
of the "liberal" moralists...
like a god finally said: if i gave them
free-will... can "we" just agree that:
they better experience their full: "potential"?
oh i believe in god: but i also believe in free-will...
one counter-acts the other
in the way thus: follows:
to completely have: free-will...
you can't expect a nanny-state c.c.t.v. omni: gwand-p'ah
moment... can you?
there's... sweet & sour...
there's... sweet & salty...
can't have one... without... the other...

my god! genius logic! look for applause
when all the self-deprecating humour dries up...
clap... clap... clap clap...
how can you expect a god...
when... you're also expecting free-will?
you can... no... wait... you can't be a murderer!
Cain... was a vegetarian...
Abel... ably sacrificed a goat... or a sheep...
or two... Cain was a Hebrew version of:
'indu...
so... the northern European mind simply
boils corrupted with: staged logic
and...  the idiosyncrasies of other cultures...
yeah! thanks for the bread... where's, the, yeast?!

you use it?! you... ever used it?!
yeast: you get to say yes a lot...
you allow yourself to encourage to grow bread...
you also make beer...
no? not handy? o.k.: we'll just leave the "appropriate"
answer for the white women folk: people-kind
to conjure up a "properly": response...

ooh... believe me... i can play the grammar game
like... for eternity...
in between being allowed breaks
to do some proper *******...
like... churning strawberry ice-cream...
or making a curry sauce...

i am: SCHEMING!
i'm not going to allow this language to be
left in... *******: tartan: let alone:
tatters... even though it's not my own tongue...
i will not leave it: to... RUIN!
i'd best keep it in runes....

                    ᚱᚢᚾᛖᛋ...

no... you don't tell me what i am: or i am
not... "supposed" to do...
you settle my score on the fabric of
capital punishment... i die... you live...
but... it's not so ******* simple... no?
leech eats leech...
crab bucket...

she's a... three-dimensional woman...
looking for a... two-dimensional man...
ah ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha!
i need to write down laughter:
since it's so silent... so covert...
it doesn't really require a stand-up
comedian's solipsism to ****-me-off...
ha ha!
a three-dimensional woman...
looking for a two-dimensional man!
ah ha ha!

goldfish of an ego:
in a muddle of a "think-tank"
of 70cl of... is whiskey...
i could be her grandpa santa
and she could be my selfish elf
quasi dwarf on my knee:
not readied for a spanking:
i'm so turned off by modern *******

time is a concept i'd rather forget....
father Xavier...
i just want to make ice-cream:
or... make the distinction between ice-cream
& gelato...
& curry... i want to make a bucket load
of "that"... enough to make joking remarks about
an invading envy equivalent to match up to
the Ottoman Janissaries...

i don't like being sold the sole impetus
that blatantly numbs me...
a walking abortion: i am...
             find me in my most reclusive spot...
when the  birds... triple the night...
merge with it... allow the: bystanders!
postcard enthusiasts! tourists! begone!
with Essex: alone!
i don't care much fo the western aspect
of England... POMPOUS SODS
THE WHOLE LOT OF THEM!

anything associated with Bristol
i wouldn't feed to pigs...
sure... they might be the most pristine sort
of people:
they're still a people i wouldn't
share food with... sorry... what?!
you might care that i might care?!
how... custard-esque...
how... bewildering...
i... exist?!
                    *******...
really?! does one digest that fat of fact
with a: hmmm...

         SUDDENLY?!
"diatribe of waking shadows"?

forget it...
the postponed death of Johnny Cash
matched up to the "un-expected"
relief of... false claimants oeuvre!
Elvis... ought to have died...
he died... the end!
Anna Vida Jun 2013
I have an affinity for ice cream.
I can eat bowls upon bowls at a time.
I impress myself.

It's funny how the things you love grow from the things you never questioned;
Never appreciated;
Never even noticed.
Jumping out of the car the last day of school.
It was hot.
But it was California.
And it was home.
And my dog waited in the backyard.
Happy we were home.
And I stared at our pool and I wanted to jump in;
But I didn't have the courage
       Because I didn't want it enough.
And the refrigerator would be full of Drumsticks.
      (chocolate on mint)
And I would eat one or two a day.
And sometimes the ice cream man would come.
      (he was terrifying, but he had ice cream)
And I would stand outside and eat my ice cream because we weren't allowed to eat it in the house.
And my brother would finish quickly and go inside and play video games.
      (or run down the street to see his friends)
And I would try to be a cliche
      (just like in the movies)
And put on the roller skates I rarely used and try not to lose control as I shuffled down my driveway.
But I never had anything of value to do over the summers.
I never went to camp.
There weren't any summer traditions.
I had ice cream and board games and my dog and the pool I was afraid of.
I counted down the years I still had left at home
      (petrified of what would happen after)
And I didn't understand why mom wasn't as scared as I was.
      (1,2,3,4,5 years left at home; 1,2,3,4.....4 years left at home)
They never taught me how to ride a bike
And I never learned to love the water
And my skin never browned
And I had to stay inside
Except for when there was ice cream.
I could always go outside for ice cream.

Nineteen years of life.
My mother hates ice cream.
She tells me I'm just like my father.
My temper, my moods, my impatience.
Sometimes she says I get his savvy;
His ambition;
His humor.
Sometimes.
My father loves ice cream.
      (I love both my parents)
      (I think they love each other too)
So I took my father's ambition and ran across the country
Where I'm hopefully learning to be a good doctor
And I met these people that I love
      (that I call my family)
And we like ice cream.
We like ice cream and pie.
And going to the beach when the weather is nice.
And ice skating.
And coming home to each other.

I'd say I have an affinity for love;
I'd say I have an affinity for life
But you can't eat love and you can't hold life
Because both are fleeting
      (but so is ice cream).

Ice cream is the summer before 8th grade
When I spent all my time with a girl I loved and learned to hate.
Because we fought over boys.
Because that was middle school.
And 8th grade was horrible.
And I never ate ice cream.
And I never tried to roller skate.
And California became too hot.

So if I were to develop my own ice cream flavor,
And call 31 and tell them what it would taste like,
It would taste like a pensive child
It would taste like mint
It would taste like chocolate
It would taste like missing my friends
It would taste like missing my parents
And I would call it nostalgia.
And I would laugh while I ate nostalgia
Because the thought is absolutely absurd.
It's lengthy and it's disjointed.
Martin Feussner Jun 2014
Ice-cream
Ice-cream
Ice-cream
Ice-cream here
Ice-cream there
Ice-cream everywhere
Through happiness
Through sadness
And through loneliness
Oh ice-cream
Oh ice-cream
Oh ice-cream
What would life be
Without you?
Don't we all love ice-cream!
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Mateuš Conrad Aug 2021
it always makes sense: to make your own
blueberry ice-cream...
or raspberry ice-cream...
  come to think of it: having watched a lot
of Australia Master-Chef...
hmm... beetroot ice-cream...
basil ice-cream...
                it makes sense because it's
a quintessential happiness...
altogether something different from...
making your own wine...
but this has to be the most pristine base recipe:
2 cups of double cream
half a cup of sugar: perhaps even less...
one quarter to half a cup of sugar...
5 egg yolks...
obvious beaten and when the cream sugar milk
mixture comes up to 165 Fahrenheit...
the ideal temp. for roast chicken: mind you...
i remember those Sundays when
both my mother and grandmother
turned chicken ******* into chalk...
all the men in the house would be gagging for
the dark meat: near the bones...
since that couldn't be overcooked... over-baked...
obviously if i were to compare:
taking out my little culinary chemistry set
when making a curry...
is one thing...
but there's something: i don't have either
noun or adjective to suit this adventure...
it's: ******* blueberry ice-cream...
you could almost reinvent the thrill of riding
a bicycle heavy-traffic when
making ice-cream...
i'm more of a savoury cook...
when it comes to sweet: baking irritates me...
ice-cream i can stand: under...
but cooking sweet is so less alchemical
than cooking savoury...
whiskey ice-cream: it's doable...
double up: coffee-whiskey-caramel ice-cream...
oh... wait... that's tripling up
    on the effort...
sure... some cheap vanilla extract to boot...
but since blueberries are blueberries...
and not raspberries: there was a sly squeeze
of a lemon...
i'm hoping for a good harvest
of grapes this year...
i'm assuring myself to be able to...
squeeze out a dozen bottles of row-zay...
looks ugly: phonetically... no?
i'm not going to introduce an acute on the E
to morph a rose into a: hue...
7am tomorrow... a romance with the bicycle...
and all that's Loon'don...
running through advertisement in the river
of thought of all that's: subliminal...
after all: journalism no journalism no...
they still get that itch from time to time
to replicate the glory days of Woodward & Bernstein...
for me... it was a one off...
these days journalism comes too late:
or too early...
too pawn-brokered...
   i still read the newspapers: mostly like a solipsist...
not that i'm somehow immune
to the everyday: greyish horrors of...
average people: i guess i'm one of them...
because wouldn't i want to think
somehow more of myself:
i can hardly scold... demean the prostitutes
i visit from time to time...
it would leave me supposing an ownership
of a pair of two left hands...
drinking a bottle of 70cl like it might be
a bottle of milk:
thank god i didn't have the "bright" idea
of mixing it up with a shy... 35cl of beer...
sure... it might work in an ice-cream:
coffee... whiskey... caramel...
    this ugly necessity of being agitated: prompted for
no great purpose other:
perhaps... i'd rather not talk...
fixing some shelves in the wardrobe...
making the ice-cream...
hence my demand of propping the advertisers above
the "journalists"...
it's good that i don't have the sort of money
they're gagging me to spend...
insurmountable joy arrives from
the clarity of: not having the sort of money
needed to be spent given the effort
of advertisers to make you: want to spend it...
you don't need to advertise whiskey...
or beer...
Franziskaner Weissbier:
                           but Carlsberg needs the slogan:
probably... it isn't... probably or otherwise:
****-juice at 3.5% at the keg...
the monk's brew i'll buy:
with or without an advertisement campaign...
it's most probably a niche product:
only niche consumers buy it...
i don't suppose the art: is it still called that?
of poetry: ugh... rhyming cripples...
caged rhymers...
    it would be more fun to play a game of:
slap a ball against a brick wall...
to reiterate: i don't Horace ever had a care
for rhyme...

deus inmortalis haberi dum cupit Empedocles,
ardentem frigidus Aetnam insiluit.
Sit ius liceatque perire poetis:
invitum qui servat, idem facit occidenti.
nec semel hoc fecit nec, si restractus erit,
iam fiet **** et ponet fanisae mortis amorem.
nec satis adparet, cur versus factitet, utrum,
minxerit in patrios cineres an triste bidental
moverit incestus: ceste furit ac velut ursus,
obiectos caveae valuit si frangere clatros,
indoctum doctumque fugat recitator acerbus;
quem vero arripuit tenet occiditque legendo,
non missura cutem nisi plena cruoris hirudo...

Empedocles: wanting to become a god...
chilled by old age: was supposed to jump...
into the burning mouth of Etna.
if they want (it), let the poets
have the law unto their death.
who: whom against their will saves,
the suicide double condones (finishes off).
not for the first time:
not so easily said: i am human.
he wants to glorify himself with death.
i write poems. why?
     maybe i ****** on my father's grave,
maybe the place has been struck
with a thunderbolt: spread and is now impure.
like a bear in a fury, breaking the bars (of the cage)
scares the wise & the fools:
thus a wordsmith interloper...
      whoever he will catch... with recitations
puts down... not even with a leech from
the skin will not fall off:
                                           until satiated with blood.

he who (against their will)
               saves: the suicide double condones...
knuckle-head stunts...
not for the first time.
it's not so easily said: it's not easily said...
i am: human.
he wants to gain fame through his death.
i write, poems.

the book fell from my hands... onto the floor...
the floor breathed...
i spoke: no more...
like some ghostly wind...
if i don't translate it proper...
there was some wording about:
******* on one's father's grave...
turning the pages quickly like:
a pigeon might be flapping its wings...
328.... 329...
pages...330 & 331...
a book fell... like...
a woodland pigeons might flap its wings
while i turns the pages... "haphazardly"...
i'm no poet caged to rhyme...
i'm... Horace's horse: prosaic...
i turned the pages like...
the sound and image...
of a pigeon... flustered... wing-clapping-the-wind...
                                               might... just might...

i wash my eyes with cold water...
ensuring the rest of my face is:
welcoming a tiredness of day...
if i done things proper...
i'd throw my naked body into
a bulge of nettles
for: some... adequate... revision of...
what's to be felt...

why?
    maybe i ****** on my father's grave...
maybe the place: thunderstruck... spread...
and he became: impure.
how a bear in a fury...
breaking out from in between
the cages's barricade of bars:
shuns the wise and the idiots....
such wordsmith: poetry minding: ambition...
agitation... whoever it befalls...
with recitation doubles down on:
second-hammering...
a leech will not fall off the skin:
until it is satiated with blood.

one might start calling it an:
agitated wardrobe?!
                the dead leave us pardons:
so many that the living will ever allow:
i don't want to be among the living:
i want to be among the dead...
i want to juice up as many prunes
as there are grapes
and still... leverage what half harvest i might
have from the ..
i forget at what point i'm to care about
being an investment prospect...

i would never say that translating Latin was...
somehow: fun...
wordsmith interloper?!
John Stevens Nov 2013
The little girl stood, with cone in hand. The ice cream on the ground.
The tears welled up in her eyes, as people stood around.
Tears fell like rain, her heart was breaking, she didn’t know what to do.
Then through the tears, saw grandpa kneeling… Saying, “Grandpa’s here for you.”

Grandpa said to the ice cream man “Another ice cream please.”
“Stack it high and pack it tight.” “We’ve got things to do and see.”
The little girl melted into his arms The sorrow turned to joy.
When grandpa’s near, all is better For grandpa’s little girl.

Oh, grandpa loves you Lucy Girl Forever and always.
When things get tough, call on Him He will lead you through the maze.
When you get to Heaven, many years from now. You will find me waiting there.
I’ll be by the ice cream stand a waiting Just for you to get there .

The little girl grew to a fine young woman. The time went by so fast.
She learned of things not of this world. The things that will always last.
You could see grandpa and the young girl, Walking side by side through life.
When things got tough they called on Him, To help them through the strife.

Oh, grandpa loves you Lucy Girl Forever and always.
When things get tough, call on Him He will lead you through the maze.
When you get to Heaven, many years from now. You will find me waiting there.
I’ll be by the ice cream stand a waiting Just for you to get there .

The young woman cried when grandpa died. As they lowered him in the ground.
Tears welled up, in her eyes As people stood around.
Tears fell like rain, her heart was breaking. She knew just what to do.
So she looked up high to see the Father And heard “Grandpa’s here for you.”

Your, grandpa loves you Lucy Girl Forever and always.
When things get tough, call on Me I will lead you through the maze.
When you get to Heaven, many years from now. You will find him waiting here.
He’ll be by the ice cream stand a waiting Just for you to get here

Oh, grandpa loves you Lucy Girl Forever and always.
When things get tough, call on Him He will lead you through the maze.
When you get to Heaven, many years from now. Your will find me waiting here.
I’ll be kneeling right next to Jesus While I’m waiting for you to get here.

Good night sweet Princess. See you in the morning.
©9-15-06 John Stevens

11-08-2013
Written originally for my grandson Tony (8).  People say we are joined at the hip.  He is a 24/7 little guy and this is how I "wish"/"hope" life will be lived.  I realized I needed to make a copy for Lucy Girl (4) so she will be included.

Ice Cream was written for my grandson Tony (Anthony Stevens) as a reminder how I want to be as an influence in his life. There is also an underlying deeper meaning as to our relationship to God. Our Ice Cream (blessings) hits the ground from time to time because of our neglect or possibly no fault of our own, but God is there if we just look up and see Him kneeling to take us in His arms.

It all started on a Sunday morning when my Pastor said, “imagine a little boy standing there with an empty cone in his hand…. and the ice cream is on the ground. The images came flooding in and by the time first service was over, most of it was written. Since I run the sound system I listen to both Sunday morning services. Much of what I have written about has come from a trigger on Sunday morning or something similar. What do you do when YOUR Ice Cream hits the ground?
It has been sung to a couple of venues.
Isabelle Nov 2016
Familiar eyes staring at him
Instantly she was gone with the crowd
Haunted by her melancholic gaze
Like an animal, followed her scent from miles

He ended up in a small ice cream parlor
Dug dug dug dug dug dug dug
His heart singing a song of nervousness
He’s just 2 feet away from her

----------
Four years ago, a boy met a girl..

“Two vanilla ice cream in the largest cone please”
The boy is in queue after her
Out of nowhere stars will light up the room
Only for the two of them

“Vanilla ice cream is my favorite”
“Good, I hate it” he answered back


And the conversation continued
Inside and outside the ice cream parlor
They just clicked for each other
They just..

It became their new favorite place
He started to love vanilla ice cream too
No need to state the obvious
Their eyes spoke of affection and love

----------
He ended up in a small ice cream parlor
Dug dug dug dug dug dug dug
His heart singing a song of nervousness
He’s just 2 feet away from her

----------
It was the place where they first met
Where they first talked
Where they realized they like each
Where they confessed their feelings
Where their love turned as sweet as a vanilla ice cream

Two years ago when he last visited that place
Two years ago when he last tasted vanilla ice cream
Two years ago when he last saw her
Two years ago when they broke up
They ended in the same place where they have started

----------
Sweating despite the cold weather
Tongue seems to be tied
Palpitating heart, butterflies in his stomach
But it wasn’t her, it will never be her
Because she was gone, she was gone

----------
He wakes up from the bittersweet dream
It was just a dream, a dream, a dream
A beautiful yet a sad dream that will haunt him forever
And then he remembers, it is her 2nd death anniversary today

And instead of flowers,
Vanilla ice cream is what he brings on her graveyard


She will forever haunt him,
For their love is a love that is hard to forget
- A once in a lifetime kind of love..
#pcNovember2016boymeetsgirl
Tea Talk (or Taking Tea)


Jam comes first
And then the cream
Said the scone from Cornwall
To one ‘n’ all
Taking tea

Milk jug blinked.
The teaspoon gasped,
Who would have linked
The layers of bliss that sweetly kiss
With their order between the halves of a scone
From Cornwall
Where one ‘n’ all
Know that the milk is churned
Until it’s solid
Then we say the cream is clotted.

The teapot looked at the scone from Devon
Who knows that cream and jam is heaven
But only if the cream comes first
And then the jam . . . . .
My thoughts exactly said the ham
From between its sandwich fingers
Where it lingers
Until it’s time for tea.

‘Are you sure?’ the teacup said
To ham within its breaden bed.
Saucer asked the cucumber salad,
‘Should jam come first?’
‘But does it matter?’ said cucumber salad.
‘It’s a ballad
So red and white,
A symphony of taste
Into which to bite.
It is so right
For those who are taking tea,’

‘Jam then cream, is what you do,’
Insisted Cornwall’s scone who
As we know likes cream to be clotted.
But tomato blushed and quickly said,
‘With cream from Devon I am besotted
Because we know it’s clotted. . . . .
Too.

Onion, hearing Cornwall and Devon
Knows that cream and jam are heaven . . . . .
But jam and cream are bliss
Sealed with a kiss that is heaven . . . . .too.
The dilemma of order fuels onion’s frustration
And onion’s tears lead to prostration
For those who are taking tea.

What is to be done
To solve the question of order
Jam first . . . . . or cream?
The issue borders
On the ridiculous
As the layers sweetly intermingle
Like the lovers’ kiss
As those who are taking tea
Bite . . . . .
Ouch! said onion
The scone from Cornwall
And the scone from Devon
‘Either way is heaven.

David Applin

Copyright …David Applin (2015)
.....after visiting Reid's Hotel, Funchal Madeira
Robert Andrews Jan 2017
Winters depth was cold.... sharp..... and bright.
Saturday was pristine...... endless and white

Ice cream!

It was our destination!
Miles hence
as flies the crow
'cross frozen wastes
in boot deep snow

Leroy
Roberta
and I

We were
Invincible to the temperature
that squeaked the dinted snow,
and made ice groan.

Fingerlings on tree branch ends
popped
like corn
We were Invincible.... We ignored!

Ice Cream! Ice Cream! Ice Cream!
A single minded mission
held by three

Forging scars
in a world un-marred.
****** world for us
but for snow no more.
Imprinted with our mark

No worldly hurdle
would keep us
from this dream
Ice
and Cream!

We were Foot soldiers
subtracting distance,
in a mimes frozen vision
of a frosty silent world

Undaunted,
onward we tread.
Invincible as Gods.
Superior to man,
As I've said.

We reached the river.
Our path behind,
a thread.

It tied us
to such comforts
as food and warmth
and bed.

We met the ice fearless
Our souls skimming cloud tops
Boundless in our self belief
Far greater than the confined dimensions
of what was real
Our Ice Cream dream
secure

Leroy
Roberta
and I

That deep freezer freeze
Held for years

or so it seemed

Stealing the breath
of days uncounted
Each memory hanging in the air
that Christmas break

Suspended

Like a frigid ornament
or the unchanging face
of death.
Chiselled in my mind

That river...
a congealed
unmoving
hibernating vein

Single file we forded
with a mine field mentality
Our Ice Cream destination
drove us on

The river screamed
aching bones rubbed together
by the weather
moaned and heaved

Tortured sounds
like chambered souls
escaped from the dungeon
of the river bed
wailing like the forgotten ******
The forever dead

Ice Cream....
Ice Cream....
Ice Cream....

We were Gods!
We would not stop
for the ****** and the dead!

But There!.... There! ....There!
There collapsed the Godly dream!
River ripped wide,
an unholy seam!

Shore to shore!
Between my feet!
And all those souls boiled
Fleeing from the depths
for their escape!

Roberta my twin
and Leroy my friend,
like snowshoe rabbits
never felt that breath
and ran!

I FELL !

I fell that day...
clinging to my life
death beneath my feet
so wet

I clutched!
I grabbed!
I crawled!
I scratched!

Fingers digging deep!

Away, away, away,
I inched from that hell
made especially for me.

Saucer eyed and transfixed
my Twin and Friend
overcame!
grasped my wrist
and stole me from my end

and there we were
Him and Her and me
and yet...
we could not leave.

One Christmas boot was gone
as was the ice cream dream

Tantalizing
That boot seemed to balance
where the water boiled
icy cold

Hells rift gloating open
Its blood exposed
Boot there dancing ghoulish,
on the seam

And so we lay prone
upon the ice
A now less than Godly chain
Roberta grabbing for my boot
A prize of value
above worldly gains

She snatched that boot
and made quick retreat,
We were defeated soldiers
Him and her and me

We followed our string
t'ward comfort waiting
warm and safe,
Secure.
Serene.

Death had not beaten us.
Nor the wrath of Gods
Not even that river
where hell escaped
could claim that mighty deed

No!
No!
No!

It was a much hotter fire!
A colder ire!
The punishment
of "Mom!"

Our Ice cream dream died that day
as did something else
I no longer walk among the Gods
A diminished view
of self

Never again would I place my boot
within the world of men
Immortal and invincible
Now I am...

simply just a man

Roosty
John Stevens Jun 2010
The little boy stood, with cone in hand. The ice cream on the ground.
The tears welled up in his eyes, as people stood around.
Tears fell like rain, his heart was breaking, he didn’t know what to do.
Then through the tears, saw grandpa kneeling… Saying, “Grandpa’s here for you.”

Grandpa said to the ice cream man “Another ice cream please.”
“Stack it high and pack it tight.” “We’ve got things to do and see.”
The little boy melted into his arms The sorrow turned to joy.
When grandpa’s near, all is better For grandpa’s little boy.

Oh, grandpa loves you Tony Boy Forever and always.
When things get tough, call on Him He will lead you through the maze.
When you get to Heaven, many years from now. You will find me waiting there.
I’ll be by the ice cream stand a waiting Just for you to get there .

The little boy grew to a fine young man. The time went by so fast.
He learned of things not of this world. The things that will always last.
You could see grandpa and the young man, Walking side by side through life.
When things got tough they called on Him, To help them through the strife.

Oh, grandpa loves you Tony Boy Forever and always.
When things get tough, call on Him He will lead you through the maze.
When you get to Heaven, many years from now. You will find me waiting there.
I’ll be by the ice cream stand a waiting Just for you to get there .

The young man cried when grandpa died. As they lowered him in the ground.
Tears welled up, in his eyes As people stood around.
Tears fell like rain, his heart was breaking. He knew just what to do.
So he looked up high to see the Father And heard “Grandpa’s here for you.”

Your, grandpa loves you Tony Boy Forever and always.
When things get tough, call on Me I will lead you through the maze.
When you get to Heaven, many years from now. You will find him waiting here.
He’ll be by the ice cream stand a waiting Just for you to get here

Oh, grandpa loves you Tony Boy Forever and always.
When things get tough, call on Him He will lead you through the maze.
When you get to Heaven, many years from now. Your will find me waiting here.
I’ll be kneeling right next to Jesus While I’m waiting for you to get here.

Good night sweet Prince. See you in the morning.
©9-15-06 John Stevens
Written for my grandson Tony (5).  People say we are joined at the hip.  He is a 24/7 little guy and this is how I "wish"/"hope" life will be lived.

Ice Cream was written for my grandson Tony (Anthony Stevens) as a reminder how I want to be as an influence in his life. There is also an underlying deeper meaning as to our relationship to God. Our Ice Cream (blessings) hits the ground from time to time because of our neglect or possibly no fault of our own, but God is there if we just look up and see Him kneeling to take us in His arms.

It all started on a Sunday morning when my Pastor said, “imagine a little boy standing there with an empty cone in his hand…. and the ice cream is on the ground. The images came flooding in and by the time first service was over, most of it was written. Since I run the sound system I listen to both Sunday morning services. Much of what I have written about has come from a trigger on Sunday morning or something similar. What do you do when YOUR Ice Cream hits the ground?
It has been sung to a couple of venues.  No it is not recorded.
The Good Pussy Sep 2014
.
                                      I
                                 scream
                             you scream
                          we  all  scream
                          for ice cream. I
                          scream you scr
                          eam we all scre
                          am for ice  crea
                          m. I scream  yo
                          u scream we al
                          l  scream for ic
                          e cream. I  scre
                          am you scream
                          we all scream f  
                          or ice cream.  I
               scream you scream we all
           scream for ice cream.   I scream
              you scream       we all scream
                  for ice                 cream.
Kate Lion Mar 2015
how would you let the ice cream melt
if you didn't want it anymore

would you take a blowdryer to its droopy shape
whisper you're sorry but just can't stay

would you compliment the ice cream
watch it blush
let the heat rise to its face
then whisper you're sorry but you're going away

why would you let the ice cream melt
if you crave its texture and taste

when something isnt good for you,
perhaps it is better to let it bleed through
so that you can carry on

would you abandon the ice cream
there on the kitchen table
congealed and sticky and unwanted
letting the drips from the carton signify all of the tears
the ice cream would shed in your absence
John Stevens Jul 2010
The little girl stood, with cone in hand. The ice cream on the ground.
The tears welled up in her eyes, as people stood around.
Tears fell like rain, her heart was breaking, she didn’t know what to do.
Then through the tears, saw grandma kneeling… Saying, “Grandma’s here for you.”

Grandma said to the ice cream man “Another ice cream please.”
“Stack it high and pack it tight.” “We’ve got things to do and see.”
The little girl melted into her arms The sorrow turned to joy.
When grandma’s near, all is better For grandma’s little girl.

Oh, grandma loves you Payton Girl, forever and always.
When things get tough, call on Him He will lead you through the maze.
When you get to Heaven, many years from now. You will find me waiting there.
I’ll be by the ice cream stand a waiting Just for you to get there .

The little girl grew to a fine young lady. The time went by so fast.
She learned of things not of this world. The things that will always last.
You could see grandma and the young lady, Walking side by side through life.
When things got tough they called on Him, To help them through the strife.

Oh, grandma loves you Payton Girl Forever and always.
When things get tough, call on Him He will lead you through the maze.
When you get to Heaven, many years from now. You will find me waiting there.
I’ll be by the ice cream stand a waiting Just for you to get there .

The young woman cried when grandma died. As they lowered her in the ground.
Tears welled up, in her eyes As people stood around.
Tears fell like rain, her heart was breaking. She knew just what to do.
So she looked up high to see the Father And heard “Grandma’s here for you.”

Your, grandma loves you Payton Girl Forever and always.
When things get tough, call on Me I will lead you through the maze.
When you get to Heaven, many years from now. You will find her waiting here.
She’ll be by the ice cream stand a waiting Just for you to get here

Oh, grandma loves you Payton Girl Forever and always.
When things get tough, call on Him He will lead you through the maze.
When you get to Heaven, many years from now. Your will find me waiting here.
I’ll be kneeling right next to Jesus While I’m waiting for you to get here.

Good night sweet Princess.  See you in the morning
©9-15-06 John Stevens
Everyday I see the same ice-cream truck go by
With the same children screaming and chasing after it
But one child never gets to try it
Whenever the child gets near, he speeds away
The child desperately wishes for an ice-cream truck to stop for her
So she may experience the taste, texture and good feeling
She dreams, but dreams are only dreams
She dreams for the day she can have ice-cream
One day, an ice-cream truck passes by to greet the children
But notices one is missing
The chant of the truck searches for the girl
But she never comes
One day, the ice-cream truck man asked where the last girl was
The mother stated she wasn't here because
She waited so long but you never came
Whenever she came near you, you sped away
The girl left without ever tasting ice-cream

Everyday I see the same ice-cream truck go by
But whenever the truck passes the final house
The ice-cream starts to melt.
John Stevens Jul 2014
The little girl stood, with cone in hand. The ice cream on the ground.
The tears welled up in her eyes, as people stood around.
Tears fell like rain, her heart was breaking, she didn’t know what to do.
Then through the tears, saw grandpa kneeling… Saying, “Grandpa’s here for you.”

Grandpa said to the ice cream man “Another ice cream please.”
“Stack it high and pack it tight.” “We’ve got things to do and see.”
The little girl melted into his arms The sorrow turned to joy.
When grandpa’s near, all is better For grandpa’s little girl.

Oh, grandpa loves you Lady Sye Girl Forever and always.
When things get tough, call on Him He will lead you through the maze.
When you get to Heaven, many years from now. You will find me waiting there.
I’ll be by the ice cream stand a waiting Just for you to get there .

The little girl grew to a fine young woman. The time went by so fast.
She learned of things not of this world. The things that will always last.
You could see grandpa and the young girl, Walking side by side through life.
When things got tough they called on Him, To help them through the strife.

Oh, grandpa loves you Lady Sye Girl Forever and always.
When things get tough, call on Him He will lead you through the maze.
When you get to Heaven, many years from now. You will find me waiting there.
I’ll be by the ice cream stand a waiting Just for you to get there .

The young woman cried when grandpa died. As they lowered him in the ground.
Tears welled up, in her eyes As people stood around.
Tears fell like rain, her heart was breaking. She knew just what to do.
So she looked up high to see the Father And heard “Grandpa’s here for you.”

Your, grandpa loves you Lady Sye Girl Forever and always.
When things get tough, call on Me I will lead you through the maze.
When you get to Heaven, many years from now. You will find him waiting here.
He’ll be by the ice cream stand a waiting Just for you to get here

Oh, grandpa loves you Lady Sye Girl Forever and always.
When things get tough, call on Him He will lead you through the maze.
When you get to Heaven, many years from now. Your will find me waiting here.
I’ll be kneeling right next to Jesus While I’m waiting for you to get here.

Good night sweet Princess. See you in the morning.
©9-15-06 John Stevens

07-14-2014 For Sye
Ice cream ninety nine
I know you make my lips taste fine
I need a big one mister
give me your large ice cream, ninety nine

We hear you coming
with lame tunes, Mmm pretty shifty
but we love to see you here
in our slum of a f>>king city

Yet Ice cream man
your sauce is tasty
and the blood you put on
makes kid's like us factory

Come back ice cream man
just one more ninety nine
come on ice cream man
let us bleed you dry again


By Christos Andreas Kourtis aka Neonsolaris

By NeonSolaris

© 2013 NeonSolaris (All rights reserved)
John Stevens Apr 2012
The little girl stood, with cone in hand. The ice cream on the ground.
The tears welled up in her eyes, as people stood around.
Tears fell like rain, her heart was breaking, she didn’t know what to do.
Then through the tears, saw Momma kneeling… Saying, “Momma’s here for you.”

Momma said to the ice cream man “Another ice cream please.”
“Stack it high and pack it tight.” “We’ve got things to do and see.”
The little girl melted into her arms The sorrow turned to joy.
When Momma’s near, all is better For Momma’s little girl.

Oh, Momma loves you Brenna Girl, forever and always.
When things get tough, call on Him He will lead you through the maze.
When you get to Heaven, many years from now. You will find me waiting there.
I’ll be by the ice cream stand a waiting Just for you to get there .

The little girl grew to a fine young lady. The time went by so fast.
She learned of things not of this world. The things that will always last.
You could see Momma and the young lady, Walking side by side through life.
When things got tough they called on Him, To help them through the strife.

Oh, Momma loves you Brenna Girl Forever and always.
When things get tough, call on Him He will lead you through the maze.
When you get to Heaven, many years from now. You will find me waiting there.
I’ll be by the ice cream stand a waiting Just for you to get there.

Momma cried when Brenna died. As they lowered her in the ground.
Tears welled up, in her eyes As people stood around.
Tears fell like rain, her heart was breaking. She knew just what to do.
So she looked up high to see the Father And heard “Brenna’s here for you.”

Brenna loves you Momma Dear Forever and always.
When things get tough, call on Me I will lead you through the maze.
When you get to Heaven, many years from now. You will find her waiting here.
She’ll be by the ice cream stand a waiting Just for you to get here

Oh, Momma loves you Brenna Girl Forever and always.
When things get tough, I’ll call on Him to lead me through the maze.
When I get to Heaven, a few years from now. I’ll find you waiting there.
You’ll be kneeling right next to Jesus While waiting for me to get there.

Good night sweet Princess. See you in the morning

(c) 04-07-2012
Brenna sustained a brain injury 2010.  She died 6 months ago, at home after a struggle, in the arms of her mother.  Her mother is coping with the use of a blog.  Her story is at:
http://condemnedtodie2012.blogspot.com/
Mateuš Conrad Aug 2022
as ever, the English got something right! i adore sport... and what i adore most about these Commonwealth Games? the Olympians are competing at the same time with the Para-Olympians... that's brilliant! when the usual Olympics takes place... the abled bodied Olympians that have their games in the first two weeks... then there's a break... then the Para-Olympians have their games... ****'s sake! the two games should be coupled-up! what's that i hear? games for the "spezial kidz"?! what a load of *******... when i was completing my NVQ for crowd safety i was asked the question: what are British values? i replied... aren't they universal? i didn't even mention the details of the question: i thought the question was self-evident in that it was universal: British values are universal because they can be understood by anyone and anywhere... ergo? the Para-Olympics should take part at the same time as the able-bodied Olympics... why muddle-coddle these wheelchair bound ******* to a later date?! ****'s sake! they should compete at the same time... i'd probably run a slower time than some of these wheel-snuggling swimmers of the air... it's not fair that the Olympics is separate from the Para-Olympics... and the former Olympians turned media pundits wonder: why aren't the Para-Olympics getting the same coverage as the "original" Olympics... hell... if it would have to take 3 weeks rather than 2... so be it... these people should compete in the same time-frame! that's ******* discriminatory! what special status? no special status! they compete at the same time... they get to entertain the same crowd volume! i don't care! they should... how does it feel cycling past someone in a wheelchair? i forget to ask... i always forget to ask a question about the weather... or the taste of quails... silly me... well... it's slightly different when i see a: POKRAKA... "freak"... that's a result of the irresponsibility of a certain adults inter-breeding... cousin-*******... someone people should have learned a valuable lesson a long time, a long long time ago... i don't blame the half-witted eighth of a Forrest Gump... i just look at the "mother" and "brother" and think nothing but disgust... not even donkeys get their reproductive conduct so wrong... for a creature so highly evolved: we're stuck with cousin-******* and the "myth" of Oedipus... but at least Oedipus was an exception... i imagine that he didn't gauge his eyes out... instead became an ******... then again: what are myths? stories better than any journalistic affair... myths > history > journalism < fiction < poetry... but Para-Olympians should be competing on the same stage as the Olympians! take an extra week... but don't do what's already being done! done segregate the two camps of competitors! take an extra week! let both compete at the same time! it's not fair that once the original Olympics are finished: the crowd isn't there for the Para-Olympians! i know it will be harder to attract the same viewership for women's club football... female boxing... female rugby... i'm already baking my own cakes... cooking my own food... cleaning my own house... today i surprised myself... what herb is most abundant in my garden? beside rosemary? mint... i was cleaning the garden and i had to cut down an overgrowth of mint... well... how many ******* mojitos would i have to make? how much tzatziki? a lot... there's me: bloated... lying under a floating table: drunk but probably also hallucinating Aztecs ceremonies of human sacrifice... MINT ICE CREAM... wow... i'm getting good at this ice-cream business... i simply hate chocolate ice-cream... but mint ice cream? ooh... and chocolate chips... the crème anglaise is ready... just chilling overnight... i'll churn it tomorrow... by then the chocolate chips will be added... and i didn't even need to add any food flavourings... it's this pristine green... fit for ice... a bit like that Frank Zappa song: don't eat yellow snow... ha ha... because someone has ****** into it... i love green... pale green... then again... no wonder i dress up like a tree from time to time... my irises are green... gween boyo wonder(s)...

sometimes i have to admire thespians...
as much as i despise the whole lot of them:
esp. when they come together
and self-congratulate themselves...
mind you... there are actors and there are
"actors":
       most notably "actors" as depicted
in Singing in the Rain: prior to the talkies...
but at the same time...
actors like the fictional Gloria Swanson -
or i fail to tell her apart
from the very real Norma Desmond...
i can attest to two stand-out performances
in the past few years...
i wouldn't be wrong in calling them
their life-performances...
                     and it's not even in the medium
of movies...
movies have lost everything movies
once were...
i used to enjoy movies: i'm pretty sure
everyone used to enjoy movies...
in school we'd gather in packs of 7 guys
and sometimes 7 guys and 3 girls
and we'd go to the cinema to watch
a movie...
      then grab a bite to eat...
or we used to go on dates to the movies...
Troy... she wanted to see that...
because i guess she thought
i looked like Achilles or Brad Pitt...
but that wasn't a date: date...
it was an entire day... first to Tate Modern
for the Edward Hopper exhibition...
some minor strolling...
then back to Romford to see the movie...
and then some food at a sushi bar
and some sake...
but movies these days are unwatchable...
i'd rather watch the Godfather (no...
part II is not better than the original...
sure... Terminator II is better than
Terminator and the Empire Strikes
Back is better than New Hope...
no... not the Godfather)...
i'd rather re-watch that than any new movie...
i usually switch on for about
10 minutes before switching off...
i need a cigarette break... i need to water
the garden... i need to take a ****...
i need to scratch my *** in private...
- but that's how the story goes...
"back in the day": there was a profession
of a baby-sitter...
the parents would have a date-night...
they'd go to the cinema...
i once had a baby-sitter... i forget who...
it was probably a male if my memory
serves me correct... probably my now estranged uncle...
while my parents went to see the movie
SE7EN at the now "mythical" Odeon on
the Gants Hill roundabout...
these days? movies are comic books...
i prefer serious books...
          and in terms of comics...
oh man... the first time i had a *******
i think the two girls were having a *******
for the same time too...
threesomes are disappointingly
disorientating...
       they like the execution of Isaiah...
being cut in half... the upper body is twiddling
with ******* and lips...
the lower part of the body is being treated
along the lines of *******...
it being my first time: terribly disappointing...
i couldn't keep up...
we settled on the anti-pornographic
solution... hand-job and imitation ******
into the "other's" *****...
             i was limp on first take...
nicotine... better than caffeine and ******* combined
to give a man arousal...
i had to have a smoke...
               i was new to the arrangement:
they were new to the arrangement:
the three of us were N00BZ... literally...
it wasn't like in a pornographic flick...
hell! far from it!
   what put me off was the changing of condoms...
and... once knew what to do with the *******:
pull it back... while the other one
didn't know what to do with it:
i'd circumcise her... so she might get a better
picture...
hardly an ego boost...
she implored me to reply in the affirmative
when asking the question:
you must feel like a king...
eh... i'm not the one who suggested having
a *******...
i rejected you twice: *****! you butted in!
i never had a ******* on my palette...
i like the ******* where i'm
almost tentatively looking into the woman's eyes
while rubbing forehead against forehead
before quickly jumping down below
to perform the crab-bucket maestro tongue
twirl of imitating gulping oysters
and flowers of KAHUNT!
                ****... oral *** on a woman...
she's already readying her hands to pretend to rip
the hair on your hair out...
she does that specific roll of the eyes...
it's beautiful to watch...
peacocks courting is probably the nearest comparison...
thank the gods on my part for
reading Ovid... someone was necessarily
born to combat these exploits of *******...
of ugly ***...

i don't know when i'll have a ******* ever again:
i like the one on one intimacy...
threesomes feel so pedestrian...
there's always that unwanted third party...
i don't think i gained an ego-booster...
i think along the lines of "p.t.s.d."...
                              the unwanted girl orchestrated
the whole enterprise...
the girl i wanted was the one i was snuggling up
to trying to steal a kiss:
me: thief... trying to steal kisses from
prostitutes... the unwanted third-party...
fake milking cows
and duck lips... she was just a canvas
for my *******...
                    once is enough...
i don't care what ******* portrays...
they're a nuisance...
i like ******* while eating eyes... with eyes...
plus the hygienic approach doesn't help
for the fluidity of threesomes...
you can't be hygienic and irresponsible at the same
time...

stealing kisses from prostitutes is one thing...
but ******* them without any ****** protection...
come the zenith...
actually asking: can i?
   with agreement:
                    yes, you can...           oh wow...
well... i'm talking about Turkish women...
different culture, different tactic...
i live in England but by now:
i ****** well hope to never **** an English
girl...

girl, let me just water my garden...
admire the night for a while:
believe me... you can have your sway
in raising the next Oedipal myth in your
sisterhood motherhood of loneliness...
i'd love to teach the ******* some things...
the pleasures of the hammer...
the KANGO concrete drill...
the everywhere and everyone within
the confines of the loneliness
of walking in a forest...
         chemistry! English! i'd love to learn
vocal Deutsche with him!
but no... fair enough: no's a no...
back to the brothel i go...
               oh no no...
              
me and hook-up culture? nothing's for free!
- i sometimes wake up the next day:
mein gott! what damage i must have i cause:
it's a cruel addiction:
to drink and to write simultaneously:
Bukowski and Hemmingway
figured out this problem...
one in celebrating old age
the other in the shotgun...

                    tear skin, grow more skin...

mein gott! i became so carried away with myself
that i actually forgot my original theme
for this poo'em...
            literally: maybe that's why i inserted
the word BZDETA...
                 oh... it's an actual word... not in -ing-leash
of course... but i'm sure most English
speakers are familiar with African surnames:
M'Bepe Mgabe etc.
   that's hovering consonant...
        B'z'deta...
               i love how the English folk break their tongues
when speaking my mother's... tongue...
they would sooner learn Czech or Russian
than learn ******... such puritans of the tongue
we folk are... and now combine the fact
that i identify as an Anglo-Slav...
     listen: England or at least English is a playground
for me... i was implored by some deity
to come to these isles, given a ***** and bucket
and told: here! there's some wet sand over there...
go and play!

                 now: many a happy returns to the father
of the English tongue... i have to return and tease
at some Deutsche...
           Franz Friedrich: AHUND!

my original adoration for the Thespians... it... can...
happen... personally i'd rather not...
i don't see the point of these shadow-thieves...
these dopplegangers... yet artistically?
it's the most celebrated medium...
           sure... painters are celebrated... post-mortem...
poets had a weird spell of "conundrums"
in America in the the 1960s...
   but i'm not willing to write ******* for a "me"
that's either asthmatic or exasperated:
equally short on breath...

well: given the modern equivalent... everyone is going
to be the next Allen Ging-Sperg?
i don't think so... more of a composer: than an entertainer...

anyhoo...
  BZDETA... an actual word...
it's sort of in between the English equivalent of:
trivial (thing) and a pointless (thing) -
the actual "thing" is hidden within the pointlessness
of an implied "thing" / the triviality of
the implied "thing": ha! modern English grammaticians
and their hyped up focus on pronouns...
wait till they figure out that adjectives verbs
and nouns and conjunctions and adverbs and...
a- the-     -ism: the indefinite and the definite article...

- everything coming of America (culturally) is corrupt:
once the beacon for the world to admire...
i'm regressing to find alternatives...
i stopped listening to music with a tinge of
the English tongue... i've thrown my laurel wreath
toward German neo-folk...
**** it... i might be living, physically: in an anglo-sphere
but my mind is elsewhere...
i wouldn't go as far as Frank Zappa and adore
Bulgarian music... but certainly not anything
in the vein of modern-modern (post?) English...

- another word that's dear to me: akin to
   how Italians call a child a BAMBINO...
the Polacks call a child a BOBAS...
             English is so strict... rigid sometimes...
the mere fact that the ****** tongue employs
so much diminutive "accents" is amazing sometimes...
a mountain: (gurhau, no... sorry... guhrau!)
i.e. góra can become a little mountain
via incorporating the diminutive tense górka...

and although the word RZECZ denotes: things...
rzeka is river... while a small river?
rzeczka...
            i don't think there's the antonym for the diminutive
in ******... it's sort of boring in English:
there are only adjectives... actual nouns
do not incorporate a diminutive tense for something
being described:

KACZKA (duck) kaczuszka (small duck, duckling)
wow! that's actually a good example of
the English ZUNGE applying the diminutive
construct of a word...
young and youngling springs to mind...
but English is altogether a very rigid tongue...
so... i don't understand how these current
grammatical-magicians and their pronoun-hyper-focus
are trying: you can't trick an old dog
into learning new tricks... these aren't tricks:
this is equivalent to: a baboon...
smearing his naked plump pink *** with his
own ****... calling it woad...
raising it up in the air like a Muslim during prayer:
before battle... shaking it...
taunting the opponent... come fight me...
and then...
                       what? of the two kings of ancient
Israel... who would i like to be?
David or Solomon?    hmm... clueless question...
DAVID! he got to fight Goliath and enjoyed the lyre
and wrote pslams into ripe old age...
Solomon? who couldn't compete with
his father... resorted to "wisdom":
writing aphorisms / maxims is the worst genre of
literature... it's untested proofs...
just ask Srinivasa Ramanujan...
                                   he was always neglected by
the establishment for having no proofs...
great idea: 2 + 2 = 5... but how? where's your proof!
the same with Solomon's supposed wisdom:
no proof... the same with Nietzsche's aphorisms
or for that matter la Rochefoucauld...
it's all true... but it's most probably just perhaps true...
i've tasted a sample of both the lives
of Solomon and David...
            each time i return to David...
i just do what the Nazis did to the *******...
i turn it clockwise...
                 tilt it... what do i see?
i see a reading-mat and an open book...
              i peer in: i ignite out...

now i'm thinking: i still need to mop the floors of the house,
i need to shine my shoes and iron a white shirt...
and gear up to waking up at 6am...
as much as i love waking up at 11am
without needing to be awake any hour sooner...
i love waking up at 6am with a necessary:
i'm expected to be at X by the time Y...
algebra simplicity...

esp. since today i fell out of bed: too humid...
i fell out the bed at about 6:30am onto the floor...
how compact the floor feels...
i could feel my strained spine relax on the hard surface...
i even used my folded hand for a pillow
in and out of a coming day-dream...
what i wouldn't give to imitate David...
and scorn Solomon forever more...
no wisdom did i find...
   no man can speak wisdom to men when he has
an abundance of "thirst-quench" of ****...
          
              in a polygamous society... thank god i don't live
in one... but there have always been women that
aspired to the cult / altar of the phallus...
i'm content with the fact that i can bypass any thirst...
that i have hygienic standards in place
that make me disregard any satisfaction in the realm
of a *******... it's equivalent to:
running an 800m race... come the 400m mark...
you're told to change your socks and shoes...
and then run another lap...

                           it's nothing like in *******...
monkey-pox is a real thing...
you need standards... cleanliness is the greatest:
and only standard that must be constantly stressed
from one human to another...

only Michel de Montaigne can surpass both Nietzsche
and la Rochefoucauld:
well, at least by my "under-estimation"...

- now for the caveat... what i was originally to write
about...
two example where Thespians can be adored...

                                   Logan Roy i.e. Brian ***
Peter III i.e. Nicholas Hoult...

even they: themselves have figured out that films
are on the way out...
people have changed...
                               i know i have changed...
i don't have the mental capacity to watch movies:
and i'm not some senile old man...
strange... in ancient times old people
were never this senile...
   they still had intellectual rigour...
they accumulated "****": perhaps it wasn't intellectually
stimulating: but it was intellectually mesmerising...
it was called wisdom: once upon a time...

and when my father criticised me for
reading philosophy books in my youth...
expecting me to regress to the optometric notion
that only old people are wise:
no! nein! old people these days are like
children: there's nothing to learn from them!
that's why i'm thinking about going
into primary school teaching...
i can pour my ever more clear water into that pool...
of clear water...
i don't need to teach them chemistry...
i don't have to teach them the tongue:
i can watch ontology sprout out of seemingly "nothing"...
i adore children:
            like i could never adore women...
i adore children like i adore animals...
i don't know what sort of man one must become
to adore women in order to exploit them
in the way that they are exploited...

hypocrite? because i place my silver on the table
and expect what's expected by the meaning
of transaction, or...
rather... place the silver on the table...
receive a shared meal and then expect something
in return? such backward ways
of the American culture...
i hope that England will never become infested
with these practices... freakish: ghoulish...
of the four-eyed beast...
a desecration of Shiva: one winking eye on
the forehead... one blinking eye attached to the ****...
with the two eyes that are supposed to see:
stapled shut...

how marvelous to wake up...
with a want to make mint and dark-chocolate chip
ice-cream... surely the best ice-cream i have
ever made! to hell with chocolate ice-cream!
i hate chocolate... turning it into ice-cream is even worse!
mint! oh... that marvelous invention of
the gods... almost equivalent to ferns...
almost equivalent to nettles...
how the ancient Roman centurions used to cure
an itch... they would run and jump into
a bed of nettles ****-*******-naked...
i.e. fight fire with fire... fight an itch with an even
bigger itch... second to the nettle? the thistle...
i'd love to see those guys jump into a patch
of nettles...

Rome will never die... even with the crucifixion
of its supposed surrogate son of man...
nope...
    the alphabet it still here...
the coliseum has morphed into a raised
meteor crater of a football stadium...
               Rome is, Rome was, Rome will be...
even with the Arab "invasion" of Europe...;
Rome is, Rome was, Rome will be:
we'll just be soul-chasers... soul-thieves...
they'll enter the arena of this tongue...
neglect their heritage... and they will learn our ways...
somewhat... not always...
mind you: on a racial-bias...
skin-colouring dilutes during *******
with a 2nd generation...
  
you asked for a Latin man... a Latin man came...
what now?
you asked for a Latin man...
i'm forever employing myself to date a single
mom with a boy or a girl...
i'm not a Darwinist... genes are like atoms...
i don't care much for them...
but... i wouldn't date a single mother
for the ***... i'd be sneaking out
to the brothel on a whim...
i'd be there for the child...
                    i'd love to make him or her ingest
my psychology:
i'd make them ingest my soul...
i'd pass on my ontology...
     he or she would have to be bilingual
in the least... i'd learn Deutsche with him...
he would be a miracle of a Switzerland outside
of Switzerland!

i'm still bewildered why America is not a bilingual
quest (of a nation)...
  WASP pride? or ignorance?
the worst of the English went to America:
while the supposed "worst" of the English went
to Australia...
                 funny... really funny...

to wake up and have: i need to make mint &
chocolate ice-cream on one's mind...
that's how one wakes up to celebrate life!   LIFE!
LAíF!
Logan May 2018
Hey there,
It's been a while, hasn't it?
Well, I'm writing this, to tell you how I wish this could end,
How I wish I could make you feel,

I'm saying this, because I'm sorry,
Because what else is there to say?
I want to be able to tell you how I feel,
Over Coffee and Ice Cream,

Do you remember?
How we used to drink the Bittersweet, kiss of milk,
Top it off with crisp, creamy ice, chocolate syrup sifted ontop,
I remember,

I remember the excruciatingly warm feeling,
Such a bubbly, delicious emotion,
I remember how you'd smile and grin at me,
And the tempature would increase,

I remember how you'd cool me down,
With spoon fulls of ice cream,
I remember how you'd laugh through chattering teeth,
And a scalded throat,

You'd sometimes spill the Coffee onto your pale skin,
Stare at it, Giggle,
I remember the pitchy laugh,
All that I adored,

You'd giggle and say, "I'm perfectly fine,"
And I'd smile and giggle back,

I remember the day, when I became curious,
As to why you spilt it on yourself so much,
What it felt like,
Why it looked like you planned each step so precisely,

I remember the curiosity leading me into a clutsy state,
Spilling it on myself, Splashing it onto my skin,
Leaving behind a tingly feeling,

I remember you watching carefully,
Mimicked emotions, as if it wasn't fun anymore,
And you'd smile forcefully,
And giggle again

I remember how much I loved the time we spent together,
Those moments, Touches of ice cream, Sips of Coffee,
Your touch, Your laugh,

But then, I remember,
I had to leave,

I missed those cups of Coffee,
And those tubs of Ice Cream,

For, it was unhealthy,

But, please, one last time, can I see your face?
Reflecting off my steaming hot coffee?
And can I stare at you a while?

Because that'd be enough,

I'd raise my mug, shout, giggle,
An impolite action, but I don't mind,
Your smile would be enough,
I'd probably embarrass you,
My selfish desires taking away moments you dream of,

I'm afraid none of this can happen, My Dear,
Because I think you'd try to cool down my Coffee,
And I can't stare into your big brown eyes,
That's why I cannot share it with you,

For, this'll be my last cup of Coffee,
My last tub of Ice Cream,
Staring into the steamy abyss,

And then?

I'll pour it over my body completely,
Feel the burn, the warmth, the tingly feeling,
I'll let the stinging cascade over my body,
relieving chills, Coloring my body red,
Make me Evaporate,
And I'll think of you,
To comfort the end of my own fate.

So, I'm sorry I couldn't possibly share that last moment with you,
As you requested, Because I know it's unfair,
Because, even then, sharing that moment with myself wasn't fun,
I didn't giggle, or smile,
Because I couldn't move,

But, that doesn't matter now, does it?
Because, in the end, nothing is left, these actions do not exist,
There's nothing left,
But, an empty mug of Coffee,
And a half full melted tub of Ice Cream.
howard brace Jan 2013
Despite repeatedly shaking her pincer... much as a sprightly pensioner might brandish a furled umbrella at a grappling contestant, currently being boo'd at in the red corner... the baby crab stamped her foot in annoyance as she glowered at every passing wave that rolled along the shoreline.  In absolving herself of any guilt she may have felt over her prolonged excursion, she had become, even further marooned by a failure to catch a succession of tides back home, an oversight she later confessed, to observe local tide-tables in 'Old More's Almanac...' on sale in all discerning book shops and selected High Street newsagents, priced 10/6d... for unless fluent in the Russian vernacular, it was just about as articulate to the little crab as a map of the Moscow Metro during a blackout, only to have the Rouble finally drop with a throat gagging 'Gaaargh...' clunk, that you were currently standing on the down-line platform, when you should've been stood on the up... as the last train lurched unsteadily out of the station whistling a jubilant entente cordiale... 'wish me luck as you wave me dasvidaniya'.

     Still stamping her foot, only now in strict rotation with the other seven, the baby crustacean peered out from beneath the shade of the large pebble, rearing its bulk out of the rockpool like a lollypop-lady's 'STOP'!!! sign, her beady eyes twitching independently, first this way, then the other, cut withering swathes through every cardinal point of the compass that didn't duck quite fast enough, was rapidly coming to the conclusion that the rock-pool in which she found herself tapping her foot in today, would be no less aquatic as any other rockpool that she may find herself still tapping a foot in tomorrow and that the best course of action was simply to stay-put and take the matter up with the local town council, then petition for additional fare-stages to be implemented... and with the cost of shoe leather at current prices... well, with eight legs to consider it would make savings that weren't to be sneezed at.  

     It wasn't everyday of the week that a young and upwardly mobile baby crustacean had occasion to move both up-market and down the beach, all in the same mouthful... and into what could only be regarded as a desirable, detached beachfront property, a rock-pool of distinction with all available mod-cons.  She felt relieved that apart from the occasional day-tripper, who invariably dropped litter wherever they went, that a baby crab of distinction such as herself, was certain to be accepted socially and hob-*** with a new and discerning circle of acquaintances... you only had to take that nice lady earlier in the week, they both seemed to have so much in common... then she would roll up her sleeves and really show the neighbourhood what knitting was all about...  

     With as much enthusiasm as that of a three year old screaming for an ice-cream in the middle of an heat-wave, Red marched up the beach and as far from his wife's waspish tongue as a lame excuse would carry him, heading back towards the growing crush of holidaymaking fathers who were only there presumably, for the sake of their own children, laying siege to the mobile vendor... only this time, having already stood in the same queue ten minutes earlier, now had a sufficiency of funds to purchase that which he'd unsuccessfully queued for the first time.

      After an unspecified time which by his wife's reckoning was grounds for divorce... Red, now laden down with the iced confectionary picked his way through the same throng of fathers who moments earlier had been happily chatting in the queue together, were now enjoying the same berating as the one Red was looking forward to as he made his way back towards the rock pool, juggling more ice-cream than two manly hands could intelligently control... while in a bid for freedom, the rapidly thawing confectionary were hatching plans of their own, ones quite independent from those intended as they embarked upon their meandering exodus, known only to iced creamy desserts on hot sunny days... and into the unknown, roaming across Red's hands and trusting their fate to a far higher authority.

     "Did I mention that I was on a diet" snapped his significant other, as she sat licking pistachios from the melting cornet... "don't you ever listen," secretly smiling to herself... "and you did remember to bring Sockeye's water this morning.. didn't you..!" she continued "someone with half as much sense would've stood it in the rockpool to keep cool, I'm sure the little crab wouldn't have objected..!"   At the mention of his name, Sockeye with ears far too free-lance to ever consider gainful employment of their own, needed no further persuasion and charged straight through the rock-pool to his mistress's side, walloping the thermos flask for a tail whopping six... bringing his personal batting average so far this holiday to a self congratulatory forty not out... and found the baby crab spluttering flat on her back and having second thoughts on any immediate savings in shoe leather were she to stay. 

     Generous to a fault, Sockeye now thought to shower everyone's ice cream with liberal helpings of the seashore as several parasitic irritations had Sockeye hard at work serving eviction notices on some of the more exotic zoology that only a patent Bob Martin's would dare to muscle up to... the local wildlife, by the look on his face were having the time of their lives bivouacked behind his left ear, throwing wild parties and disturbing the peace.  Cross-eyed, it was only while launching a double pronged assault on the latest settlement of interlopers that Sockeye finally succumbed to his injuries and surrendered to a neighbouring sandcastle... it really didn't do to mention a certain name too loudly at times like these, especially when you just happened to be on the receiving end.

     For some strange reason he was undoubtedly in the dog house... they'd shouted at him, which made him sad, all except his little master who had pushed him away... which left him bereft.  Sockeye sat down on dads beach-towel and had a long, thoughtful scratch... where had all the fuss gone? he searched for appreciation their faces... his tail gave one disheartened thump before it stopped... and all those little pieces of ice-cream dipped wafer, which up until now had always appeared as if by magic.  

     Catching sight of one such treat, undoubtedly forgotten by the rock pool, a marauding seagull pulled out of a rolling dive and swooped, at the same instant as two gaping jaws launched themselves skywards... canine jowls quivering bravely in the light sea airs... and not too dissimilar to a heat seeking missile, rose gracefully from the ground to meet it... 'well intercepted..!' as both ears applauded in mid-air... no aerial freeloader was about to skip town with Sockeye's ice cream wafer without paying... leaving one solitary wing flapping its willingness to pay up.

     At least it kept her husband in useful employment Tina decided... and mercifully out from under her feet, as she brushed a fragment of affectionate pistachio from her bikini top... she'd have to  make sure he went for the ices in future... and without the means to pay for them... a mischievous smile turned the corners of her mouth as she leant towards the beach-bag and invested herself with several more juicy grapes... that everyone who fell within her sphere of influence had been warned well away from... under threat of dire consequence... and it would take a brave man indeed, or a very foolish one... she gave her husband who was sitting well within arms reach a caustic glance... and Tina's particular variety of justice had a very long arm indeed.

                                                        ­           ...   ...   ...**

a work in progress.                                                        ­                                                                 ­  1297
Lick all off until it's done.
Don't let none waste or fall to the ground.
Enjoy the ice-cream at the time it's cold.
I'm the ice-cream man with many flavors to behold.

Lick north, lick south, lick left, lick right.
Lick all through the day and through the night.
Eat the ice-cream quickly, don't let it waste.
I bet it will be the best you'll ever taste.

Don't let the ice-cream drip or run down the cone.
Eat until you get brain freeze and a cool touch on your bones.
The ice-cream gets soft so quickly, before it melts.
I'm not talking about any ****** activities,

I'm the ice-cream man, and it's only ice-cream I sell,
And the enjoying of all tasty flavors I meant.
Mateuš Conrad Mar 2018
-
I: tonight! at the Oscars!

i really had to watch the whole show
twice, to convince myself of
something;
    the first time i watched it i was
as any usual idiot aspiring to
wow!
                      you know the usual
finesse,
             a bunch of humble people
with diamonds that belong
                                     to hades,
or at least the j. r. r. tolkien dwarves,
       and the masked king
          under the dome of the theatre
or rather:
           when does an actor, not act?
and i thought the mob
    that went to see ballet clapped
too much...
                        boy i had it coming
with this crowd...
                  these one-legged actors
seem to clap more than
    your typical pleb like me at
                       a ballet performance;
but this was only upon first sitting.

2nd sitting? ooh - a cringe (show
a face of constipation with closed eyes
and skidding mouth trying
to usher in the crin-  with a floating
                    -dg         - the d being
subtle) show...
                     the majority of americans
are of german descent, although
they speak english, right?
      and i thought english humour
was bad...
                        upon watching highlights
a 2nd time,
      i started smelling a rat...
         weinstein...
               sure, sure...
                          but who's that young
girl sitting next to guillermo del toro?  
      holding his arm as if clinging
to daddy issues - but hey!
               there's the aqua god hidden
somewhere in that bag of meat
               finely, finely attired!  
yeah... and i have an easter bunny
shoved up my ***,
                    and mother goose too!  
and black, so much black,
                 well, khaki doesn't cut it
really...
              but by watching the highlights
the second time
           it just felt like
     quote from the phantom tailor,
i.e. you hurt my feelings!
   chic? what's chic?
          chick-chicky-poo-brains...
        crass, man, absolutely crass...
     the absolute german joke:
    regarding the best picture
            award from last year...
              it just so happened that
the academy made a mistake between
a BLACK movie, and a musical...
     and in this years "ceremony"
            the hurt feelings had to be
appeased and what: the barbarian horde
expected was - but not on the last
minute whim...
            well, bull in a china shop,
     the closest i can come to the grace
of a balerina, is to curl my toes inward,
  and then stand up and walk the crow
walk... the opposite of how a gorilla
does the same with its hands.

***** please, don't confuse hans zimmer
with: are you sure that
   john williams isn't plagiarising
himself all the time?
           so, i came up with a new category,
the sort of guys
    who choose the music for such
films like baby driver...
                          can't argue that that
film is the ******* purely on the basis
of what soundtrack was behind it...
how about there's an oscar for those
music nerds?

II: i never follow the exact recipe -
    this is my body (pepper),
                          this is my blood (salt)
.


just 'ave a look at this:

ingredient list from
     two different recipes
     (a) epicurius.com
                      (b) pekishme.com
   (c) ... the hybrid

  (no measurements are to be given
in the later revealed hybrid
   as in the following two recipe
sources for a reason...
        i'll admit... the only branch
of chemistry i was good was
       organic: or rather - the i see) -
i've seen too many english women
sticking to "guidelines"
  and have seen at least two
marriages where a woman didn't
understand the concept of
       al dente, that later had to be
cooked to a nice chew in the sauce
after having rested in a seive
   drizzled with oil, prior to being
cooled with cold water to stop cooking...

                   A                                              B
butter          ­                                       fettuccine
breadcrumbs                                    cutterf­ish
fresh basil                                         shrimps
chopped fresh thyme                      clams
mussel                          ­                     white wine
water                                                 double cream
olive oil                                            onions
zucchini   ­                                         garlic
yellow summer squash                  thyme
red bell pepper                                oregano
garlic             ­                                    olive oil
shrimps                                            parmesan cheese
scallops
fettuccine

                                     C      
butter                                                
br­eadcrumbs                                    
                   ­                                         shrimps
                ­                      
mussel                                               white wine
                                                           double cream
olive oil                                            onions
           ­                                                garlic
                                                          ­ thyme
                                                           oregano

                                                        ­   parmesan cheese

fettuccine

and there are problems with reading two
recipes...
         e.g. you can't exactly use wine
and cream and also add
  zucchinil, yellow summer squash                  
& red bell pepper with these mild
sensations that are not balanced
akin to cream and wine (esp. white),
fresh basil? doesn't go with cream...
fresh thyme does go along with meat,
notably, lamb?

    dried thyme & oregano are
a match made in heaven...

      point being,
            the crucial aspect of fusing
recipe (a) with recipe (b)
  is the butter and breadcrumbs...
    you melt the butter and brown
the breadcrumbs in it...
    let them cool, and then sprinkle
them on the dish...
    you can also infuse the addition
of cream with parmesan,
  as you might also add extra on
top...
                 but the point of
recipe (a) crux is the breadcrumbs
mingling with everything
   in recipe (b) - but also with
what's essential in recipe (a) rubric.

III: code.

    for a while i forgot where you begin
writing html...
            blanked man, blanked...
     oh... right... in the notepad
and then you save the file under
   under index.htm
             with a sub-heading ALL TEXT...
but at this point it's really caveman
talk to me, the ones using the language
proficiently have been taught
by pioneers in the field,
            and it's not about wealth
distribution, but about knowledge...
  
e.g.
      <!DOCTYPE html>
<html>                         but why not <\html>?
<body>                         but why not <\body>?

<h1>me being late</h1>
<p>the first word is spelled mama, or gaga?</p>

</body>
</html>

           with those questions in italics
  i can't see no gate opening, nor closing
     subsequently with <h1> and <p>,
               apparently the gates
    are always open and there needs
               to a constant flow through them.

sure, smart, but dumb at the same time;

because i can tell you,
i once had an "I.T" "teacher" in my youth,
charged 20 quid an hour,
and all he managed to "teach" me
was how to change the, ******* screenshot!

it's not exactly true what they say
about teachers... it's not that if you can't
do, you teach... the darker side is:
                       you scam.

IV: ✡.

       there is no such thing as a "secret"
among the rich,
    as there certainly isn't such a thing
as a "conspiracy" among the poor.

V: the croydon cat-killer.

this isn't even an urban myth told
in thailand by hippies...
        let me tell you,
          when you spot a decapitated
cat, lying on the street while
walking at night,
   and you've read about where
this story originated, i.e. croydon
you start to start looking
   for that pathetic sadist...
   thinking to yourself:
           well, and we met, would
you have the ***** to do that to me?
  i'm gagging for a chance encounter,
just to see the ****** breakdown
upon trying to move to an upper
tier of this depraved practice.
mark john junor Nov 2013
the dark ice cream man
floats up and down the empty streets
his truck weakly cranking out a warped sounding song
that leaves a trail of dogs objecting
the truck has the word pestilence painted on it
instead of ice cream
his dark form hunched over the steering wheel
his cheshire grin has aspects of his delirium
imprinted on its clean toothy shine
he only comes out at three am
and glides the cool pavement in search
of Delilah's phone number
she promised him that she would be his one true
and he meant to hold her to it
he would do anything to have her all to himself

Delilah walks barefoot along the train track
with one ear nailed acutely to the train whistle approaching
the other ear in her pocket
where she hums a **** version of
the battle hymn of the republic
all good girls love horses and shotgun weddings
she wants her shotgun wedding on the saddle
with the ice cream mans brother
who she thinks is just too nifty to be anything but heavenly
she always pictured him with angel wings
carrying a sword and riding a pale horse named death

there are echoes in the concrete parkland
the neatly trimmed grass glistens wetly in the darkness
a dew touched tree stands on a narrow hill
its leaves thrashed slowly by a whisper of wind
the sound of running feet
laughter
its an illusion
she is an illusion
i make matchstick men
watch them march in precision lines
i am a matchstick man
watch me scribble in precision lines

the ice cream man now sleeping
away the humid hot afternoon
stashed away in the back of his pestilence truck
while Delilah learns how to knit and make candles
that ice cream mans brother sells at flea markets
we all settle for what we think we want
and in the end we all get what we deserve
Delilah marries the brother and they live happily
while ice cream man spends his mid-life crisis as a
politician who leads a double life
making ice cream sandwichs out of his basement
and i am discovered 'neith the truck making
matchstick men out of twigs
from the tree of life
I got cakes;
On my menu,
I say baby;
There's nothing sweeter then you...
Cake,Cake
I like sweet cake
She make my heart pound;
At some wonderful speed rate.....

I'm very energetic;
So I love chocolate cake;
Eat it for breakfast;
Red cherry on top;
That's some blossom red lips;
I love rich cream, So baby
Bring me a whip....
You the number one on my menu....
Cake;Cake;
Chocolate Cake


Olivia Brown Vanilla Cake;
My spectacular lunch break;
With a nice cinnemon flake
Pound of cake;
She a dream cake
Cool me downn,
with some strawberry
milkshake;
She's second on my menu;
Cake;Cake;
Vanilla Cake


Supper time;
more like super time;
Everyday my birthday;
End it off with some cream cake;
I love cake;
look like dream cake;
Whip my cream,
with semi-sweet wine;
Cool me down
with ice cream
Cake;Cake;
Cream Cake....
This is a poem I've written after listening to Trey Songz Cakes.   well I then played round with my words(As I always do) and got this piece... #Peace

Dedicated to all the single ladies out there
Francie Lynch Mar 2015
I chose ice-cream
Over yogurt;
Strawberry, vanilla or chocolate.
Each equally without prejudice
Attracted.
The fifteen year old server
Was kinda short;
The vanilla tub had about three scoops
Remaining,
Stacked hidden like frozen snow-*****
As in war games.
His task would have been daunting
And embarassing,
And I, a humanitarian
From higher education,
An altruist from St. Joseph's,
Could not allow it.

The chocolate tub
Was yet covered,
And the sobbing child's cries
Were hardening in my ears
As Dad tried to allay
His chocolate tears,
Applying the five second rule.
I am an empath
By nature and poetry,
So, turning from chocolate,
Left me strawberrry.
Triple scoop too.
I believe
You thought through
Your choices
Like flavors of ice-cream.
Being imaginative,
I do.

— The End —