"crumbly" poems
My country is an old book with a crumbly, dusty cover;
original and valuable
Like a book, you don't judge it by its cover.
What's inside it is what defines it.
Gently open it;
Read each word with heart,
Uncover its uniqueness
till it brings delight.
Find the book enjoying,
You'll never wish for it to end.
You'll read it one more time,
You'll show loftiness to it.
Oh, fellowmen, we're proud of our country
Even if we're not;
Our mouths say we are, but our hearts deny.
Oh beloved country,
We discerned ourselves
through judging you
because of our own fault.
© Frank Lloyd Manalang, 2014
Dec 6, 2014
Dec 6, 2014 at 5:10 AM UTC
Are you sound of mind?
Addicted to dandelions
like the ocean is to ice.
Wait outside the blood bank,
learn how to write dialogue
and make saccharin spines.
My journal is a tangle of spines,
keep an open mind
help me box up my ****** dialogue.
I’ve always been a fan of dandelions
etching paths along the river bank,
streams within the winter ice.
Buckets of camphor ice
relax the notches in spines
as we wait in line at the food bank.
Thoughts of jawbones on my mind,
the taste of dandelions
and organized pre-scripted dialogue.
Backhanded blue dialogue,
counting the vanilla crystals of ice
blowing the smell of cinnamon into floating dandelions.
My hands handle happiness spines
with the peace of mind
of money in the piggy bank.
Let's rob a bank
shooting quiet malleable dialogue
through an altered state of mind.
Your ribs are two sheets of ice
ivy wrapping around our intertwined spines
crumbly blowing breaths of dandelions.
Second hand dandelions
build up in the river bank
muddy trenches around spines
whisper outspoken blue green dialogue.
Three pounds of dry ice,
warm water vapour at the back of my mind
Store buy your dandelions, bear in mind
that the West Bank is covered in ice
and that spines speak their own muted dialogue.
Dec 9, 2014
Dec 9, 2014 at 1:08 AM UTC
I'm a very cheesy fella
and i love a tasty platter
from stretchy mozzarella
through to cubes of feta
i like them very old
like Camembert and brie
i wait until they turn to mold
to be inside of me
i like them very smelly
crumbly soft or squeaking
at the supermarket deli
my lips already licking
then tasting can begin
with a few red wines
which release my cheesy grin
and cheesy pick up lines
Oct 12, 2019
Oct 12, 2019 at 2:03 AM UTC
she whispered to me
while bodies lay asleep
under the cool crumbly dirt
"I sharpened my knife
especially for your back.
I hope you appreciate it,
my dear."
Jun 15, 2014
Jun 15, 2014 at 7:09 PM UTC
sat in your lap
jealousy builds
like pressure
once a fissure
it now inches
its way across
my soiled soul
lather it on my body
like blood -
thick and treacly
dark, sticky
ever so sickly
tell me your lies
tell me your truths
trace them into my flesh
mark me
cast the runes
now they have spoken
clatter on the rocks
like my pride has
broken
my rage glowing
all I can see
forever growing
I embody entropy
A rule of disorder
hatred rises
through the flames
let it burn me
to ashes
like your touch
sizzles my skins frame
it's a crime scene
of blood swirling like ink
pills scattered
around me
like a ritual
I wonder what
my mother would think
you're a dream thief
knife in my
heavy heart
you've stripped me bare
and I stand
as you depart
with nothing but
at your mercy
I'm you're experiment V
the looking glass shows me
what's left
a withered mess
existing
for you to thrive
tired pile of crumbly bones and
shrivelling rotting insides
tossed aside
burn me to
oblivion
I want the skin
to stop sticking to my bones
melt it off
let the blood pool onto stone
let the fat droop and distend
mocking me, me mocking
never ever stopping
wretch and stretch
till I break
rip my organs out
serenade my limp body
with the liquid lava that drips
as you extract
my black heart
take a sip of my sublimity
I am all you will never be
because I don't think I ever was
do what you will to my material
never to extinguish my fire
that does
never
cease
limitlessly
increase
the
entropy
KG
Apr 9, 2017
Apr 9, 2017 at 4:13 PM UTC
I take a bite
of a ginger and chocolate
cookie
and chew
pungent ginger
and sweet chocolate;
soft crumbly cookie pieces
roll over my tongue
as I chew;
my mouth waters
and the flavours
of spicy ginger and delectable chocolate
mix in my mouth.
Aug 25, 2019
Aug 25, 2019 at 3:21 PM UTC
Where I’m From
I am from mosquito lotion
From Burt’s Bees and soft jazz.
I am from dancing with my grandfather on the wooden floor
(My feet, bare, pink with tiny toes
Stepping on his shiny shoes as we twirled.)
I am from the rainy mornings
The hiding places
Where no one thinks to look,
And I sit and wait - alone but not lonely.
I am from the indecisiveness and good humour
From the boy who owned only wooden shoes and the lady with the diamonds
I’m from forget me nots,
And the kiss me goodnights.
I’m from the hurt knees and Starry Starry Nights
With a special dedication to you
And I’ll believe in what I want to, thank you very much.
I am from the middle seat to the left of the dinner table,
Second-is-best and Jollibee.
From the comfortable silence
To the “authentic” family ghost stories.
The childhood my father gave up to be able to grow up
And support his family.
I am from the crumbly track,
Fastening sharp spikes on the bottom of my shoes,
The jumpy nerves as I approach my starting block.
From the thump of my heart, my shoes slapping the ground in a rhythm I know so well.
From the rush, the thrill of crossing that finish line.
Watching the day surrender to night, my team stands beside me.
And still I am running
On my shelf I keep a blank notebook
Waiting to be filled with secret fears, adventures and bigger-than-life dreams.
No one knows it exists.
If they find it, they’ll know I want to escape.
I am from these fitful nights,
The toss and turn but don’t wake me ups.
The wanting to be a dream catcher, not just a dream passerby.
In dreams I find no one molding me for a legacy, for a perfect GPA, for a successful future;
Complete control.
Jul 19, 2012
Jul 19, 2012 at 11:14 AM UTC
There's a Quazooy on the loosey!
In my roomy there is. No fooey.
No fooey a Quazooy, loosey, really?
What's the Quazooy do-y?
Silly Quazooy dancey on deskies.
Dancey, Nancy, fancy pantsies!
Quazooy, want somey Tutti fruity?
Snooty Quazooy no eaty fruity.
What do-y Quazooy wanty?
"No eaty," said droopy Quazooy.
Quazooy sicky? Have the fluy?
"Quazooy no more fancy Dancey.
Quazooey needy tummy rubby."
Awe-y, cutie Quazooy no more dancey,
no eaty fruity, likey tummy rubby.
Now Quazooey tummy grumbly,
Facey lookies redy and crumbly.
Few wee! Quazooey now I knowy!
No more desky fancy dacey,
Not Tutti fruity, 'cause youy
wenty tooty in your pantsies!
Now Quazooy once morey dancey.
Fancy Nacey pantsy dancey.
Luvy Quazooy nowy not ooyie!
May 14, 2013
May 14, 2013 at 1:27 PM UTC
Come,
Find me by the sea
Look prudently,
For I'm not what you perceive..
Am I the wave,
Distant
Ruffled,
A captive of the wind
Or
Am I
Tender,
Rapture,
Eloping with the wind tonight..
Come,
Find me by dawn
Look prudently
For I'm not what you believe
Am I
The distant weary traveller tale
The Tale of endless starry nights..
Or
Am I,
Cupid
Sensuous
Consummating the tangerine sky
Until sunrise..
Come,
Find me by the park.
Look meticulously my love,
For I'm not what I reveal
Am I
The crumbly undusted forgotten bench,
Stained, left to scar.
Or
Am I the blowing leaf
Scaled mountains,
And the parks..
Alluring,
Telling everyone,
How lovable we truly are.
Apr 13, 2015
Apr 13, 2015 at 12:34 PM UTC
SIMPLY YEATS
My verse under Yeats’ carved door
he merrily chuckled at white
envelope, sketched butterfly
said he preferred to receive
verses this way rather
than reading them across
post-modern websites
a languid phantom
He invited me to an idyllic tea
we savoured small
cheese squares, crumbly
scones watching a squirrel
chomp a cheerful chestnut
LOST AND FOUND
What word can describe
fleeting images, dreams of poets graduated, yet living on ?
V A C A N T
….a vacancy that awaits a letter
wandering ethereal
a word manifesting ____on old desk
a Lover expecting his
Beloved with cherries and hat
a shadow across
poetic spaces
Yeats, gone
ye t, HERE
~~~
Sep 9, 2025
Sep 9, 2025 at 6:19 AM UTC
Her sneaky way of stretching your ear
And silently one stepping herself inside your head
Completely unaware of the puzzle she's building like castle walls around your brain
No matter the combination to your safe of hidden secrets
There she is
Surrounding you like a thousand knights to one thief in the dark eerie woods
Prying even more secretively behind the red scene
Twisting the rope of war right out from under your feet
Because your hands are already tied
No matter how determined you are
About keeping your hot hair balloon afloat
She'll squeeze you like a lemon to get your acidic confession
Her blood hound senses will sniff 'em out no matter what
And then lick up the floor to judge your statements
No chance of over looking the oder of guilt gushing outta your pores
Or the bashful heat boiling through your veins
And the shameful twitch starting in your left eye
But of course
Your attempt to stuff those emotions inside the false confidence of your jeans
Is only a clean wiped window for her to look through
She'll ease herself on you at this point
Knowing the mouse in the trap has nowhere to scurry
Her approach will stare deep into your soul
Very painfully silent
After a crucially long moment
The silence shatters with her first question of interrogation
And the weight of your balloon comes crashing down to the crumbly ground
Feeling broken and hopeless in the rubble
Laying limp in the muck like a wet noodle that has escaped the spaghetti plate
Drained of emotions
And exhausted by shock
The final announcement says the war is over
And the opponent has won
Jan 10, 2013
Jan 10, 2013 at 9:14 PM UTC
i cannot seem to write anymore.
gone, the days of furious penning
that delivered a trail of thoughts
to your door.
now, my inkwell is full of air
and dried crumbly scrapings
of purple berried residue.
and this paper? yellowed onion-skinned
husk of memory, too flimsy to withstand
the heavy strokes of my pen.
no, i cannot seem to write anymore.
here, thought floats through my head.
i play ****** and grab, clutch at nothing.
swimming, swimming words,
a wispy film before my eyes.
Nov 17, 2011
Nov 17, 2011 at 10:45 AM UTC
I can not shake the almost-memory
of your warring skin, or the depth
of that moment in meaning,
never the slow silence bleeding
out of you in waves, your pulse,
your years falling out like baby
teeth, and the inside of you in grey,
clipped and dim lit dreams dashed
into shards.
Your all-too-silent night.
I think of you and I think of you,
in different lights, bathed in other colors,
all your faces, your expressions melting
into one another. I've found every you.
I've kept them here, together, like a roll
of film, and sometimes, when I'm sad,
I pull them out and look for my face too.
The moon says, *It will save you
so much pain if you let me take your
wisdom teeth now.* Lovely moon,
silky-voice moon, moon like chalk,
so soft and crumbly on your hands,
hands that rake through my hair like
a yard of fallen leaves.
Remember, darling?
I do. A night like the sweetest peaches,
and in the morning, only left with the
pits, counting the mistakes, measuring
the loss like scientists study black holes.
I won big. I scratched your name out of
a lottery ticket and told everyone but you
how lucky I was.
Heart of hearts, dark of darks, heart of darks,
how it all flows, the music changing the words,
making them understand each other, connecting
them like we connect them in language. The
music has its own language. We call it poetry.
We call it song. Sometimes I recognize it when
she speaks. Sometimes words leave us, but
the music is still there.
Apr 23, 2017
Apr 23, 2017 at 10:28 PM UTC
Today was the day
I decided to clear out--
no real reason to keep
the junk that has began to rot.
Smelly like moss on a crumbly tree,
or the fashionable nonsmokers room
smelling like there's been quite a few
rebels striking back at a budget motel--
probably because they didn't have enough
television channels, to pacify these poor souls.
The inanimate fixtures are posed for display--
once complex industry
were personified to a fleeting idea of 'purpose',
instead smothers its surroundings
with the validity of indifference;
the forgotten hallows that
truly signify my closing hours.
Inside me now
are the cooing sounds
and the beating wings of fragile pigeons
that seek shelter from a world
trying to forget them;
beginning to call them pest
even though they are snow,
so they must hide within me
and survive with my blood orchids
that begin to bloom--
spilling out of me.
Sep 6, 2016
Sep 6, 2016 at 2:25 AM UTC
Once upon a time,
There was a little girl with a mouth too wide
She complained with a face as sour as lime
One day she was eating a bowl of hot rice
With fried crumbly meat
Cut up in tender slices
So there was nothing to complain about there
Until she felt a strand of hair
Inside the chewed rice-and-pork
In her mouth
Her shaking hands clenched the fork
Working up a quick furious indignation
With the flick of her tongue
She removed it from the side of her cheek
And pulled it out with her fingers
With a most ferocious shriek
Pulling
Pulling
Kept pulling
An increasing disgust as she kept pulling
For the hair was very long
Until something happened
Something went wrong
Suddenly she felt a tear in her mouth
On her pink inner cheek
Blood that leaked
And dribbled down her chin
Mixing with her tears
Ran home to her exasperated mother
Who gladly sewed the cut
And for some good measure sewed
The corner of her mouth shut
Tight.
So that now when she spoke
Only good words came out
And the Cloth Mouth girl
Never complained again.
They all lived happily ever after.
Sep 7, 2010
Sep 7, 2010 at 4:49 PM UTC
As I lay on my back, I think of myself as dirt—
Not in a bad way, but like how some soil is soft, like cake.
I am soft and loose. My bones are gone; I am only flesh,
My skeleton stops protecting my heart and mind.
All this anxiety, all this stress, leaves my head
And my heart is just buried loosely under my chest.
If I don’t have any bones for a ribcage, do I have a chest?
I only know that I have my heart and mind buried in myself, my dirt.
“Do geese see God?” not a scenario, but a palindrome, a light thought, in my head.
Scenarios are the foundation of my agitation. Who cares, I guess? Let me eat cake.
(I make due with my mental health, in my mind.)
Anyways, I’m going to continue being with myself, my thoughts, my flesh.
I’m okay that my bones have disintegrated into my flesh.
I’m okay that my ribs no longer enclose my heart in my chest.
Later I will be aware that this is a meditation; it’s all in my mind
But right now, my reality is that I am dirt.
I am a soft, crumbly cake.
And this is all at once going through my head.
Another element arouses in my head:
Nails poke through the ceiling, aiming towards my flesh—
Or sharp prongs fixed on this beautiful mess of crumbly cake.
I am still, motionless, an open target, my broad chest.
I have no problem with this, because right now I am dirt.
(Death never crossed my mind.)
The sharp nails in the ceiling are now loosening, in my mind.
Now the nails fall, and drop into my chest and head
They pin me down to the ground, to the earth, to the dirt
With ease through the soft, rich, flesh
Of mine. It softly punctures my chest
I am being devoured, my body of cake.
Since my skeleton is gone, and my body is soft as cake,
I embrace the nails—a therapeutic acupuncture, I think in my mind.
My heart is heavy but happy in my chest.
And these nails keep sinking deeper in my head.
I am content being alone, by myself, a pile of flesh
I am one with the earth, with the dirt.
Nails in my chest, or prongs in the cake
I am dirt, I like to think in my mind
I am my heart, my head, my flesh.
Oct 27, 2011
Oct 27, 2011 at 1:37 AM UTC
She brings me coffee in bed.
I propose a violin accompaniment.
Some babka, with nice-crumbly-in-bed
Streusel topping,
A concerto we could make!
Her derision snorted so loud,
The mollusks on the beach
From their shells come out.
"Good luck with that,
Put that fantasy on
Your **** poetry site,
Cause that is the closest you will ever get!"
Jul 5, 2013
Jul 5, 2013 at 7:31 AM UTC
Keyboard, implement of catharsis
Punch you out, pa-pow, pa-pow-pow
Requisitioning my power
I’m your rough digit dancer
Tapping it every hour
Covered with my spit and juice
Snack scraps all crumbly loose
Betwixt your buttons of alpha bits
Numbers and shift bar hits
Massaged pain through my fingertips
Into you and yes I have not been true
Scribbling at bus stop with pens
Jottings on journals or lunch bags
But I love you Keyboard
You must understand
Can’t help myself when you’re not near
All my fear pushed into you
You have been so good to me
Setting me free
But Honey
That “E” key
It’s a little quirky
And not wishing to be as jerky
As I usually am
Brought you some flowers
Which I’ll sit right here next to you
While I rub you down with
Cotton swabs and sweet lavender soap
Paying special attention to your “E” zone
For you are my Keyboard Extraordinaire
And yes, I care
May 29, 2016
May 29, 2016 at 12:07 PM UTC
i wake up.
the room around me is earth; red, radiating, crumbly.
i sift the bedcovers through my fingers next to my cheek.
an arm, heavy over my waist, shifts with the warmth behind me.
carrots sprout from between knuckles; purple, white, gold.
i wake up.
the piles of leather tomes as if dust was blown away just a moment ago.
warm skin behind me just a little more solid; the smell of carrots and earth a little less sharp.
i wake up.
the walls have receded and sun is pouring over my legs.
only a couple feathery green tops remain and the arm is held tighter to my body.
dusty rectangular outlines on the dresser and floor.
i wake up... and open my eyes
Sep 26, 2017
Sep 26, 2017 at 1:35 AM UTC
I hate the day and O, I hate the night,
I hate myself for ev'rything is wrong,
the day no longer gladd'ning to mine sight
and worse the night with downy owlet song
full-shrieking from some dark and crumbly place
to welcome his false dawn of silver'd beams
as the bright moon its well-worn path doth trace
with its own bright shadow on darken'd streams.
O, happy he for he has his white sun
to burn full-cold upon his full-dark day,
when in both days such comfort I have none
when his gold moon doth rise with warming ray.
The moon a sun and lo, the sun a moon —
I swear, one kiss from thee — I swoon, I swoon!
Sep 27, 2014
Sep 27, 2014 at 1:41 AM UTC
Just that has left.
The dust of words.
The crumbly August.
The tears.
The rose among the leaves.
And my life,
that you didn't read...
Само това остана.
Прахта на думи.
Ронливият август.
Сълзите.
Розата между листите.
И животът ми,
който не прочете. ...
Translator Bulgarian-English: Vessislava Savova
rarebird
© bogpan - all rights reserved
Aug 3, 2011
Aug 3, 2011 at 9:57 PM UTC
You are not and can now be totally independent; a vile, tiny worm is making its way into your flesh, like some infectious disease, a desperate, hypocritical attempt to change anything in a dignified way, a completely meaningless, pitiful series of wild instincts that have lost their wings; sooner or later, with quiet indifference, the crumbly lump that obstructs the network of blood vessels with its heavy Sisyphean rocks will just fall off your heart, so that you can prolong your life for at least twenty or thirty seconds.
Every minute, the permanent, indestructible Maya veil of transience floats over your head. Timelessness makes life uninteresting, which cannot be started anew every single day, because secretly everything remains a reflex of your selfish body, an everyday simultaneous. Like a faded, lifeless donkey skin, the pores of your skin also feel the template, the cancer of superficial exhibitionism.
As if not only the Hangman's death, but also the consciousness of loneliness, that you can count on no one but yourself, has been breathing down your neck for a thin life. Knee pain, torturing hemorrhoids, a hearty cholesterol bomb that have taken over your life; from the medium of Time that separates you, perhaps a helping hand will bend down to you, to help you up early, because a gray, old eternal child looks back at you from shop windows.
From the echoing darkness of the underworld, some secret, inner fall will begin, which perhaps only you yourself can understand; existence itself is a jungle, a withered Nirvana-desert, a riddle, which it would be good to finally solve, so that you can know and understand what your task and business is here!
Sep 5, 2025
Sep 5, 2025 at 12:44 AM UTC