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"cucumbers" poems
It was the time of my Auntie Bee summers    I was small then    She had a parakeet that landed on my head    and a bathtub too    with water so deep!    and legs and claws!    **** thing nearly chased me down the stairs! She lived in slumbery Windsor Locks    where bugs hung-out in the haze    of teenage August    I played in the tall weeds    with a shoeless Italian boy    who ate tomatoes like apples    and cucumbers right off the vine!    He was ***** free and foreign!    We played— reckless, abandoned    behind the gas pump, under the tractor, in the barn       and through the endless fields    I didn’t know....    His name was Tony    I ate pizza with him—the first time At Auntie Bee’s I had to go to bed at eight    but I could watch night flowers    bloom on wallpaper    She came in to say good night    slippered, shadowy, night dress slightly open    and I peeped her *******    like Tony’s cucumbers!    I had never seen my mother’s wonders.... Night spread its wings from the old fan—    a bird of tireless exhaustion    whipped, whipped, whipped to death in its cage    tireless exhaustion    tic-tocking in time to a wind-up clock    stretched out on the whine    of the overland trucks    Route Five through the night of an open window In the grape arbor below— tremulous incessant    crickets    crickets    crickets tremulous incessant—insides of a child    a summer child    not yet ready for the fall of answers Auntie Bee had a daughter—Maureen    I followed her everywhere I could    I was small then--        do anything for a stick of Juicy Fruit I followed Maureen through my dreams    of being sixteen    and woke to Peggy’s “Fever”    while she tied her sneakers    against the mattress by my head I followed Maureen (in my mind)    tanned and bandanned    to work in the fields of shade tobacco    with all those Puerto Rican boys!    She knew where she was going! I was small then ...do anything for a stick of  gum “Mauney! Mauney! Mauney!”    ...through the goldenrod of roadside    through the smell of oil that damped the dust     I followed Maureen’s white shorts    and chestnut hair...to the corner store I followed the way the boys smiled    the way the screen door slammed    on her bright behind    the way her lips taunted and took    the coke-bottle’s green I followed Maureen I swear, I tried for hours to get that right! Must have been Peggy Lee’s “Fever” Maureen ties her sneakers in my face Flaunts her years above my head She has that look— “We kids don’t know nothin” (Little turds” that we be) …followin’ Maureen through the goldenrod of roadside tic-tockin’, beboppin’ “Fever— in the morning Fever all through the night….”
0
Aug 24, 2016
Aug 24, 2016 at 11:30 PM UTC
I Follow Maureen
It was the time of my Auntie Bee summers    I was small then    She had a parakeet that landed on my head    and a bathtub too    with water so deep!    and legs and claws!    **** thing nearly chased me down the stairs! She lived in slumbery Windsor Locks    where bugs hung-out in the haze    of teenage August    I played in the tall weeds    with a shoeless Italian boy    who ate tomatoes like apples    and cucumbers right off the vine!    He was ***** free and foreign!    We played— reckless, abandoned    behind the gas pump, under the tractor, in the barn       and through the endless fields    I didn’t know....    His name was Tony    I ate pizza with him—the first time At Auntie Bee’s I had to go to bed at eight    but I could watch night flowers    bloom on wallpaper    She came in to say good night    slippered, shadowy, night dress slightly open    and I peeped her *******    like Tony’s cucumbers!    I had never seen my mother’s wonders.... Night spread its wings from the old fan—    a bird of tireless exhaustion    whipped, whipped, whipped to death in its cage    tireless exhaustion    tic-tocking in time to a wind-up clock    stretched out on the whine    of the overland trucks    Route Five through the night of an open window In the grape arbor below— tremulous incessant    crickets    crickets    crickets tremulous incessant—insides of a child    a summer child    not yet ready for the fall of answers Auntie Bee had a daughter—Maureen    I followed her everywhere I could    I was small then--        do anything for a stick of Juicy Fruit I followed Maureen through my dreams    of being sixteen    and woke to Peggy’s “Fever”    while she tied her sneakers    against the mattress by my head I followed Maureen (in my mind)    tanned and bandanned    to work in the fields of shade tobacco    with all those Puerto Rican boys!    She knew where she was going! I was small then ...do anything for a stick of  gum “Mauney! Mauney! Mauney!”    ...through the goldenrod of roadside    through the smell of oil that damped the dust     I followed Maureen’s white shorts    and chestnut hair...to the corner store I followed the way the boys smiled    the way the screen door slammed    on her bright behind    the way her lips taunted and took    the coke-bottle’s green I followed Maureen I swear, I tried for hours to get that right! Must have been Peggy Lee’s “Fever” Maureen ties her sneakers in my face Flaunts her years above my head She has that look— “We kids don’t know nothin” (Little turds” that we be) …followin’ Maureen through the goldenrod of roadside tic-tockin’, beboppin’ “Fever— in the morning Fever all through the night….”
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82
Slipping into my apron, Hungry in body and soul Humming as a song played... I grab my knife and chop-board Unsure of what to cook Strange inspirations possess me Filling me with ***** My kitchen becomes a stage In my hands- a plectrum and fretboard Silver utensils- my live audience!* As I play divine recipes Strumming master acoustic chords Chopping fresh, colorful vegetables. I dash to the remote, Punch "Repeat" and dash back on stage Landing on E♭ minor, Scaling impossible notes, I slice with razor-sharp plectrum, On onions and other root chords My fret arrayed with colors, Of spinach, lettuce, tomatoes Carrots, potatoes, olives Pepper, cabbage and cucumbers. I hear a thunder of applause As I ignite the cooker Butter sizzling in the hot pan A staccato of sharp notes, *Ready to modulate innocent vegetables Through spicy aromatic crescendos!* I fight hard to suppress a sneeze, No sneezing on-stage! Unprofessional! Multitudes of seconds rush by and… Voila!!! I stand for a moment Salivating, awed at my bravura! Wishing I could hang it on my wall Tis beautiful like art But I can’t eat this cake and have it! So I dig in… Heaven and earth kiss for a moment L U S C I O U S!!! Luckily, it didn’t taste nauseating Like my last attempt. No time for ceremonies I munch from pan to mouth Pausing for what may pass for a prayer, I relish every bite! Not that I’m a foodie or something, But nothing beats this combo- Of good food and soul music. And yes, *Music is indeed food to the soul!* I devour, in view- the next meal... © Raphael Uzor
0
Apr 4, 2014
Apr 4, 2014 at 2:42 PM UTC
Guitar Sauce
Slipping into my apron, Hungry in body and soul Humming as a song played... I grab my knife and chop-board Unsure of what to cook Strange inspirations possess me Filling me with ***** My kitchen becomes a stage In my hands- a plectrum and fretboard Silver utensils- my live audience!* As I play divine recipes Strumming master acoustic chords Chopping fresh, colorful vegetables. I dash to the remote, Punch "Repeat" and dash back on stage Landing on E♭ minor, Scaling impossible notes, I slice with razor-sharp plectrum, On onions and other root chords My fret arrayed with colors, Of spinach, lettuce, tomatoes Carrots, potatoes, olives Pepper, cabbage and cucumbers. I hear a thunder of applause As I ignite the cooker Butter sizzling in the hot pan A staccato of sharp notes, *Ready to modulate innocent vegetables Through spicy aromatic crescendos!* I fight hard to suppress a sneeze, No sneezing on-stage! Unprofessional! Multitudes of seconds rush by and… Voila!!! I stand for a moment Salivating, awed at my bravura! Wishing I could hang it on my wall Tis beautiful like art But I can’t eat this cake and have it! So I dig in… Heaven and earth kiss for a moment L U S C I O U S!!! Luckily, it didn’t taste nauseating Like my last attempt. No time for ceremonies I munch from pan to mouth Pausing for what may pass for a prayer, I relish every bite! Not that I’m a foodie or something, But nothing beats this combo- Of good food and soul music. And yes, *Music is indeed food to the soul!* I devour, in view- the next meal... © Raphael Uzor
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54
THE RETURN OF DUM MAARO DUM ( for Driftwood ) She dances upon her tippy toes upon my toes whirling 'bout the room to DUM MAARO DUM she my little Bollywood queen. "Again...again....again!" she squeals mad with childish delight. Asha sings to us and we...dance! Sunlight throws itself at our feet. We dance upon it. Summer gasps holds its breath. There is nothing but the music....and us! She is all of three screaming: "Bollywood me...Bollywood me!" "This...won't....get the dinner done!" screams Mum above the fun. The record screeches and scratches ...ouch...off! I cut cucumbers into tiny tiny pieces. Tilly washes spinach and lettuce. But when Mum goes to answer the phone it's her best chum she will be hours we sneak Asha back into the kitchen. The return of. . . "Dum maaro dum Mit jaaye gham Bolo subaha shaam Hare Krishna hare Krishna hare Krishna Hare Ram!"
0
Jan 20, 2019
Jan 20, 2019 at 2:41 PM UTC
THE RETURN OF DUM MAARO DUM ( for Driftwood )
you can hear the echo via Zizek the Slovak, well, attire me in slavic myths and i'll be mumbling purrs in mud too for a helium bubble to become a comedian, i know a jittery ******* addiction when i see one... if one thing the catholic schooling system taught me was how to avoid sniffing glue and how to recognise a Freudian apostle - still, with all the hippy **** you'd think sniffing glue was what Ukrainian existentialism prescribed with paracetamol, catholic education just said: no no. **** me it's the late 90s and we're talking post-Chernobyl antics... but that's how i see the left, leftist politics, the right                utilises prefixes and suffixes in the old stance of simple pre- pro-                                     anti-                                             qua-                                                                -so so... the left? oh they're right in there... their prefixes are                                 Marxist- liberal-                                          Hegelian-              whatnot...                                                 they don't use abstract prefixes,                                           their prefixes are concrete,                         they want the porridge in their mouth to ensure a slur that never comes, among a range of onomatopoeias they argue from the perspective of the hushed and ushered crowd, via one observation: Stalin clapped after a speech to enjoin with the crowd, a real big brother, ****** never clapped, a sitting-duck method; i'm not advocating, but by a proxy placebo dynamo experimenting, it's called experimenting with thought rather than practising with will, former no chance of footstep evaluation for cult status imitable -                                       the left intellectual has no rubric of thought concerning to and fro - it has to be concrete layered and a shut off perfect architecture without fault - it can't be what it is -                                       con- has to be conservative                                                   pro- has to be socialist                                      you once said legitimate transparency - but you didn't say legislation - well, the left understood it as legislation, the right too wanted legitimate transparency - the green party said we could have neither but could have the replanting of a thousand oak trees with a Robin Hood placard on the first oak tree replanted in Sherwood Forest... b. ~ d. ~... shot ~100 bent arrows into a bullseye - hurrah! hurrah! maid marian lost her virginity too! to a broomstick rather than maradona's fingernail toothpick! at an essex market the cockney shouts (out of place): *** yer courgettes! *** yer courgettes! ta fa a pudding! ta fa a pudding! *** yer cucumbers! tooth firth 'un!
0
Apr 20, 2016
Apr 20, 2016 at 9:50 PM UTC
i don't talk
you can hear the echo via Zizek the Slovak, well, attire me in slavic myths and i'll be mumbling purrs in mud too for a helium bubble to become a comedian, i know a jittery ******* addiction when i see one... if one thing the catholic schooling system taught me was how to avoid sniffing glue and how to recognise a Freudian apostle - still, with all the hippy **** you'd think sniffing glue was what Ukrainian existentialism prescribed with paracetamol, catholic education just said: no no. **** me it's the late 90s and we're talking post-Chernobyl antics... but that's how i see the left, leftist politics, the right                utilises prefixes and suffixes in the old stance of simple pre- pro-                                     anti-                                             qua-                                                                -so so... the left? oh they're right in there... their prefixes are                                 Marxist- liberal-                                          Hegelian-              whatnot...                                                 they don't use abstract prefixes,                                           their prefixes are concrete,                         they want the porridge in their mouth to ensure a slur that never comes, among a range of onomatopoeias they argue from the perspective of the hushed and ushered crowd, via one observation: Stalin clapped after a speech to enjoin with the crowd, a real big brother, ****** never clapped, a sitting-duck method; i'm not advocating, but by a proxy placebo dynamo experimenting, it's called experimenting with thought rather than practising with will, former no chance of footstep evaluation for cult status imitable -                                       the left intellectual has no rubric of thought concerning to and fro - it has to be concrete layered and a shut off perfect architecture without fault - it can't be what it is -                                       con- has to be conservative                                                   pro- has to be socialist                                      you once said legitimate transparency - but you didn't say legislation - well, the left understood it as legislation, the right too wanted legitimate transparency - the green party said we could have neither but could have the replanting of a thousand oak trees with a Robin Hood placard on the first oak tree replanted in Sherwood Forest... b. ~ d. ~... shot ~100 bent arrows into a bullseye - hurrah! hurrah! maid marian lost her virginity too! to a broomstick rather than maradona's fingernail toothpick! at an essex market the cockney shouts (out of place): *** yer courgettes! *** yer courgettes! ta fa a pudding! ta fa a pudding! *** yer cucumbers! tooth firth 'un!
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70
Wimbledon’s playing on the TV in the living room. Dad and I are watching on the sofa. In the kitchen, Mom cuts carrots and cucumbers with a long blade. She slices the vegetables one by one. Orange pieces. Green pieces. I glance over Mom chops up the carrots and cucumbers without a cutting board, taking each long carrot and cucumber and slices it with precision, as though she’s a professional like the film with Natalie Portman and Jean Reno. But she’s not a little girl and she’s not a Frenchman. She’s like a mix-in-between, like the asphalt in our driveway and the grass sprouting in between the cracks. Dad is a computer engineer. He used to be an artist. Used to study technical drawing in a university in Saigon. He met mom when he was working on a play. She was the lead actress. Shakespeare had said, “All the world’s a stage, and all the men and women merely players: they have their exits and their entrances; and one man in his time plays many parts, his acts being seven ages.” He’s right, but right now I can’t tell what act I’m in. Dad focuses on the TV. Watches Federer and Djokovic, his eyes, darting from left to right like the mood of a young boy that crosses back and forth from light to dark, and back again. Blade in hand, Mom makes longer and deeper cuts across the cucumber, cutting away the skin, leaving deep cuts in the vegetable. Dad turns his head towards her, his neck cracking like the forehand swung by Federer. He clears his throat, softly, soft as gas leaking out from a stovetop from a studio apartment, like the scene in Fight Club, a match about to be struck. Mom sets the blade down on the table, and bites her lip. Her nostrils flare. I press down on the couch arm, and stand up, my head bent, my eyes wandering to the doorway.
0
Apr 28, 2016
Apr 28, 2016 at 11:29 PM UTC
Blue Tennis Court
Wimbledon’s playing on the TV in the living room. Dad and I are watching on the sofa. In the kitchen, Mom cuts carrots and cucumbers with a long blade. She slices the vegetables one by one. Orange pieces. Green pieces. I glance over Mom chops up the carrots and cucumbers without a cutting board, taking each long carrot and cucumber and slices it with precision, as though she’s a professional like the film with Natalie Portman and Jean Reno. But she’s not a little girl and she’s not a Frenchman. She’s like a mix-in-between, like the asphalt in our driveway and the grass sprouting in between the cracks. Dad is a computer engineer. He used to be an artist. Used to study technical drawing in a university in Saigon. He met mom when he was working on a play. She was the lead actress. Shakespeare had said, “All the world’s a stage, and all the men and women merely players: they have their exits and their entrances; and one man in his time plays many parts, his acts being seven ages.” He’s right, but right now I can’t tell what act I’m in. Dad focuses on the TV. Watches Federer and Djokovic, his eyes, darting from left to right like the mood of a young boy that crosses back and forth from light to dark, and back again. Blade in hand, Mom makes longer and deeper cuts across the cucumber, cutting away the skin, leaving deep cuts in the vegetable. Dad turns his head towards her, his neck cracking like the forehand swung by Federer. He clears his throat, softly, soft as gas leaking out from a stovetop from a studio apartment, like the scene in Fight Club, a match about to be struck. Mom sets the blade down on the table, and bites her lip. Her nostrils flare. I press down on the couch arm, and stand up, my head bent, my eyes wandering to the doorway.
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10
What I managed to regrow, You stomped on. You waltzed into my garden Like you had grown the whole place yourself, Your nose in the air. You looked at my carrots and scoffed, My cucumbers you mocked And you thought my garden gnomes were ****** And I let you, Because you acted like you knew so much about gardening You said the caterpillars would help my leaves And the crows would **** out my rotten veggies But those cruel birds have just been eating away at my prize-winning squash, and the tomato worms....well, they ate all my ripe tomatoes. You said you'd help me tend to my garden But you rarely make it over And when you do, you throw a shovel in my face And tell me to get on my knees. You watch while I **** And talk about the grandeur of the flowers next door. And I wonder as I wipe my brow, What I ever thought I needed you for? And why you ever came over in the first place, Since you obviously prefer pretty colors to nutrition And you must have had some notion that I would one day realize, That you've never kept anything alive in your life, And you don't even have a yard.
0
Nov 9, 2010
Nov 9, 2010 at 6:55 PM UTC
Ok, so maybe the garden gnomes were a little ******
I hate pickles neon green colored cubes of sweet bitter vinegar fermented cucumbers that have lost their identity in green no. 3 and dealing with oblivion seems like (green pickles) ......disgusting and it makes me lose my identity. so please give me adrenaline for whenever my heart sinks so I don't fall into oblivion sans-identity like pickles
0
Apr 7, 2015
Apr 7, 2015 at 12:59 PM UTC
Pickles
I just tasted a memory. BANG . slapped me on the tongue like a freight train out of a rip in space and time, of garlic and peppercorn chicken with jasmine rice , a clear broth and fresh cucumbers, a wedge of lime and chrysanthemum tea. oh .. my mouth , how could you spring this on me .. when i'm so far from the motherland... then they come thick and fast - thai iced tea , thai iced coco , thai iced coffee , thai lime soda .. papaya salad with sticky rice , Mango and coconut sticky rice , Roti with condensed milk and banana , coconut ice cream in a white bread bun with coconut sticky rice and peanuts, fresh fruits of rambutan and mangosteen for 30 baht a kilo......oh.....oh...who could forget the fried flat noodles , or the fried pastry's called explosion ***** oh... oh my heart..... my heart...... my stomach... calls out to you , oh glorious green curry with roti , morning congee with little pork ***** and soy sauce..... come to me my dumpling and noodles let me lick the chillies and sugar off my lips , may i taste once more the conception of such marvelous treats , unfathomable to the western palate , little sweet corn and flour discs cooked on a special cooker over a real fire...dried squid sold on the back of a bicycle , fried garlic with sticky rice , a pink soup ! I just had a taste memory ****
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May 17, 2014
May 17, 2014 at 12:22 PM UTC
Taste Memory
If Little Debbie was real, I'd never be sad. Her very presence could rid this world of all things bad. Her perfect cakes drive away responsibility By forcing me to focus on my bowel irritability. If Little Debbie was real, I'd never feel lonely. I think her stuff makes any place more homely. With every bite I take, I gain a pound But that's alright because no one's around To see me for the lonely fat girl that I am Who often mixes cucumbers with bananas and jam Surely it's not just me who awakes and thinks "Forget the eagle! Little Debbie is our national link." For I believe there is nothing more patriotic Than relying on something that's abiotic.
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Jan 26, 2015
Jan 26, 2015 at 11:39 AM UTC
An Ode to Little Debbie
break the poem open like a pomegranate spill the seeds squeeze the juice and **** the flesh when we were kids we played in mother's garden: carrots, strawberries, rhubarb, tomatoes, plums, raspberries, cucumbers, pumpkins, green beans, watermelon, onions, potatoes and a goldfish named Pierre he died after my parents cleaned his tank and didn't rinse it properly done in by soap-- life can be such a fragile thing sometimes we buried him in the garden and marked his grave with a smooth river stone one summer we picked a great big watermelon from its dirt nap; heavy as a bowling ball and green as a cat's eye we heaved it onto the picnic table and carved it into smaller and smaller wedges until each one of us was holding our very own chunk of melon everyone dug in after admiring their piece for a moment; eating it with their eyes before their mouths but as I went to bite into mine I noticed a seed in the way so I peeled at it to free it and as I fingered the dripping flesh of the fruit the 'seed' revealed itself to be not a seed at all but the eye of a goldfish staring back at me lodged in the melon in its death throws gasping for breath in the open air its mouth opening and closing like it had a secret to tell I stood there in stupefaction when suddenly it slipped free of its womb and landed in the grass behind me but when I turned around to retrieve it I couldn't find it there was no goldfish anywhere in that yard I checked under my feet under the picnic table-- under other people's feet--nothing "what are you looking for?" someone asked "nothing," I said, because who would've believed it anyway?--I'm not even sure if I did-- "just thought I dropped something." I stood back up feeling different about the world-- like the mystery ran deeper than any of us realize-- looked at my hunk of fruit and discovered I wasn't hungry anymore so I put it down on the picnic table and walked over to Pierre's grave there, underneath that river stone, was a watermelon seed just beginning to sprout I smiled in bewilderment and gently covered it with fresh soil moving the stone a few centimeters off the sprouting seed 'Pierre, the watermelon fish,' I thought-- wiping the dirt from my hands-- 'I wonder what death has in store for me?'
0
Mar 13, 2021
Mar 13, 2021 at 9:45 AM UTC
watermelon fish
break the poem open like a pomegranate spill the seeds squeeze the juice and **** the flesh when we were kids we played in mother's garden: carrots, strawberries, rhubarb, tomatoes, plums, raspberries, cucumbers, pumpkins, green beans, watermelon, onions, potatoes and a goldfish named Pierre he died after my parents cleaned his tank and didn't rinse it properly done in by soap-- life can be such a fragile thing sometimes we buried him in the garden and marked his grave with a smooth river stone one summer we picked a great big watermelon from its dirt nap; heavy as a bowling ball and green as a cat's eye we heaved it onto the picnic table and carved it into smaller and smaller wedges until each one of us was holding our very own chunk of melon everyone dug in after admiring their piece for a moment; eating it with their eyes before their mouths but as I went to bite into mine I noticed a seed in the way so I peeled at it to free it and as I fingered the dripping flesh of the fruit the 'seed' revealed itself to be not a seed at all but the eye of a goldfish staring back at me lodged in the melon in its death throws gasping for breath in the open air its mouth opening and closing like it had a secret to tell I stood there in stupefaction when suddenly it slipped free of its womb and landed in the grass behind me but when I turned around to retrieve it I couldn't find it there was no goldfish anywhere in that yard I checked under my feet under the picnic table-- under other people's feet--nothing "what are you looking for?" someone asked "nothing," I said, because who would've believed it anyway?--I'm not even sure if I did-- "just thought I dropped something." I stood back up feeling different about the world-- like the mystery ran deeper than any of us realize-- looked at my hunk of fruit and discovered I wasn't hungry anymore so I put it down on the picnic table and walked over to Pierre's grave there, underneath that river stone, was a watermelon seed just beginning to sprout I smiled in bewilderment and gently covered it with fresh soil moving the stone a few centimeters off the sprouting seed 'Pierre, the watermelon fish,' I thought-- wiping the dirt from my hands-- 'I wonder what death has in store for me?'
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140
I. A louse in a house or a mouse on a blouse. A bell that goes **** or a gong that goes **** A gap on a map or a cap on your lap. A drink in the sink or an ink that stinks. A spleen on a screen or a queen who is green. A bow in the snow or a crow that glows. II. A wash or a whip, a lip or a lop, a top or a tip, a car or afar, a bar or a war, a door or a snore, a bore or a nail, a flail or a whale, a run or a bun, a sun or a moon, a spoon or a bus, a fuss or a sigh, a cry or a cheer, a fear or a smile, a while or a pen, a den or a cat, a mat or a hat, a bat or a glass, a vase or a weight, a mate or a fork, a cork or a mop, a cop or a stop. III. Apples and artichokes, ants and antelopes, bees and beers, books and brains, cucumbers and chimneys, ***** and coats, dogs and drains, dots and dominoes, ears and eejits, elephants and exams, flies and flutes, files and friends, grasses and guts, giants and gyms, horrors and hiccups, horses and hills, igloos and irons, irises and idiots, jumpers and jackets, jodhpurs and jellies, kings and kettles, kites and kittens, lions and lamps, lemons and lunches, mums and monsters, mosses and moths, noses and notes, nightmares and needles, oblongs and orang-utans, organs and oranges, paintings and pennies, ponds and pants, quiches and quizzes, questions and queues, rainbows and rings, rascals and rabbits, snakes and sprouts, sweets and salts, trumpets and trains, tables and toasters, umpires and ukuleles, umbrellas and uniforms, violets and vests, violins and vials, wheels and wings, windows and weeds, xylems and x-rays, xylophones and xysters, yachts and yoghurts, yards and yaks, zigzags and zephyrs, ziggurats and zombies.
0
Oct 29, 2013
Oct 29, 2013 at 5:03 PM UTC
Three Lots of Nonsense
I. A louse in a house or a mouse on a blouse. A bell that goes **** or a gong that goes **** A gap on a map or a cap on your lap. A drink in the sink or an ink that stinks. A spleen on a screen or a queen who is green. A bow in the snow or a crow that glows. II. A wash or a whip, a lip or a lop, a top or a tip, a car or afar, a bar or a war, a door or a snore, a bore or a nail, a flail or a whale, a run or a bun, a sun or a moon, a spoon or a bus, a fuss or a sigh, a cry or a cheer, a fear or a smile, a while or a pen, a den or a cat, a mat or a hat, a bat or a glass, a vase or a weight, a mate or a fork, a cork or a mop, a cop or a stop. III. Apples and artichokes, ants and antelopes, bees and beers, books and brains, cucumbers and chimneys, ***** and coats, dogs and drains, dots and dominoes, ears and eejits, elephants and exams, flies and flutes, files and friends, grasses and guts, giants and gyms, horrors and hiccups, horses and hills, igloos and irons, irises and idiots, jumpers and jackets, jodhpurs and jellies, kings and kettles, kites and kittens, lions and lamps, lemons and lunches, mums and monsters, mosses and moths, noses and notes, nightmares and needles, oblongs and orang-utans, organs and oranges, paintings and pennies, ponds and pants, quiches and quizzes, questions and queues, rainbows and rings, rascals and rabbits, snakes and sprouts, sweets and salts, trumpets and trains, tables and toasters, umpires and ukuleles, umbrellas and uniforms, violets and vests, violins and vials, wheels and wings, windows and weeds, xylems and x-rays, xylophones and xysters, yachts and yoghurts, yards and yaks, zigzags and zephyrs, ziggurats and zombies.
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63
No vices, no difference I have some things to do tomorrow, I think I’ll just take the wagon I’m just waiting for something to happen to help me make up my mind I always imagine tragic someone dies and they’re so close I don’t believe in fairy tales or souls, but I don’t even want to write their names for fear I’ll have a hand in why they lost life’s duel or maybe we’re all just an election away from anarchic warring states, where I must defend my beans and cucumbers from slugs and marauders If we hold it together, red China could invade so would I rather be a prisoner or dead? Perhaps, I’ll just meet some girl, where I’ll feel “some” as a description does her deep injustice, because the love will be enormous Now, I’m courting a chickadee that’s never dull, but her name doesn’t quite roll off the tongue Her name is Adventure and she rolls like hills and mountains, and speed popping truckers with their eyes and ecstatic smiles If I’m still seeing her, I might be a gat slinging ******* out west bumming around San Jose or Cambodiay Hearing all that talk, I think I just want to leave, and I guess the pay is better anyway My mind is made up it’s not something real It is, was, and is still fluffed up with schooling and the words of persuasive people their confidence in what their saying is like a lightning bolt ******* into my stem they jammed us into waiting rooms for something called progress they even separate the sick people I closed my eyes to see what was real, and saw nothing There is no waiting room at all
0
Dec 14, 2013
Dec 14, 2013 at 11:46 PM UTC
There is no Waiting Room at All
No vices, no difference I have some things to do tomorrow, I think I’ll just take the wagon I’m just waiting for something to happen to help me make up my mind I always imagine tragic someone dies and they’re so close I don’t believe in fairy tales or souls, but I don’t even want to write their names for fear I’ll have a hand in why they lost life’s duel or maybe we’re all just an election away from anarchic warring states, where I must defend my beans and cucumbers from slugs and marauders If we hold it together, red China could invade so would I rather be a prisoner or dead? Perhaps, I’ll just meet some girl, where I’ll feel “some” as a description does her deep injustice, because the love will be enormous Now, I’m courting a chickadee that’s never dull, but her name doesn’t quite roll off the tongue Her name is Adventure and she rolls like hills and mountains, and speed popping truckers with their eyes and ecstatic smiles If I’m still seeing her, I might be a gat slinging ******* out west bumming around San Jose or Cambodiay Hearing all that talk, I think I just want to leave, and I guess the pay is better anyway My mind is made up it’s not something real It is, was, and is still fluffed up with schooling and the words of persuasive people their confidence in what their saying is like a lightning bolt ******* into my stem they jammed us into waiting rooms for something called progress they even separate the sick people I closed my eyes to see what was real, and saw nothing There is no waiting room at all
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36
you cut the brown boy into two lines while i roll a dollar bill you're telling me about how i should let you shoot up just once so you can know what it's like. i loved the way ****** tasted, the way it felt sitting in my nose. unlike blow or pills, you don't let it drain into your throat it just sits there and pushes into you. you cut the brown boy and when we snort it it tastes like sugar sweeter than the coke cut with B12 that had me up all night and i can taste it all over my body like the sour sweet is pacing through my body to the beating of my heart i feel it in my arms i feel it in my nose i feel it between my legs. i felt so warm, and then i was on top of you. kissing on your neck and grinding on your lap, i can feel your heartbeat and it is so s l o w. the sun is setting outside and your skin is ignited with the orange flame. you taste like cherries and cucumbers and ****** the warmth is even brighter when you are inside of me, i am holding you so close that i'm scared if we go still we will just melt into each other. "i love you i love you i love you" we whisper back and forth; you grip my hands while i *** we're outside for a cigarette in your car we're going to go buy some molly in a city far away your eyelids are still sagging and everything is still so slow i can see the yellow of the nicotine in the smoke.
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Feb 10, 2016
Feb 10, 2016 at 11:07 AM UTC
we snorted ****** and made love
A child, not of speaking age, sat across me at tea time. The mother fed her cake and cucumber sandwiches, and the young girl screeched with a sour face staring at me as if I held the solution to erasing the taste of sweets and crunchy water. I feigned a smile. It occurred to me that even as old as she was, she had opinions on things she would forget. No one remembers not liking cucumbers that young.
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Jul 25, 2016
Jul 25, 2016 at 11:44 PM UTC
Untitled
All he could see were numbers that reached out and grabbed taxes and takes, invoices and expenditures. He could not see explanations of delight that little mistake I made with fringe benefits, those royalties that never came. In the end his only concern was to pay the taxes to build the roads, skyways and airports where he would travel and stay. I wondered how he slept at night cocooned in numbers just 1-9 with a hefty zero that made the difference between rich and poor I wondered how he could survive on numbers no cucumbers, sunshine salads, beach beauties, high waves of reckless living, low tides of penniless nights and endless days of counting little many times over. He said to me once: Save every cent, fortify yourself against depression and natural disasters, don't spend lavishly there's a price to pay cut up your credit card. Live austerely. Oh yeah?. That same day I got an extra CC, a nice Merc, some good looking sunglasses (to shield my eyes from the accountants glare) and a cruise to the Mediterranean where the blue waters beckoned. The accountant visited the GP twice more than me that year. I'm still working the fat off at the gym. ( I suspect petty poets do the same thing all the time?) Author Notes Anyone know this guy? Check this Novel out! The Chrysanthemum Trilogy: Transition Marshall E Gass ISBN 9781493137848
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Jul 2, 2014
Jul 2, 2014 at 5:21 PM UTC
The Accountant
Melting pots are for racists. The USA is a salad bowl. The student lounge features the veggies at their ripest, collecting oxygen amongst themselves, for the corn cannot exist with the broccoli, and so on and so forth. Don't even mention fruits to the potatoes. And the tomatoes, they're just weird, man, don't even know what they are. We are all at our most savory and nutritious, our youthful wisdom emanating through our concrete set of hues. The chili peppers emanate a color as red as the blood of their ancestral martyrdom, no other color, just red. Same for the cucumbers with hearts so coolly refrigerated, taking forest green, taking pastel green with just a few drops of ivory-scented beige tucked neatly behind walls of bamboo-level peels. The voices of the onions thud onto the floor as if being catapulted from cumulonimbus peaks, causing the Iceberg lettuce to almost drown in its own dressing. Lady Liberty, a series of produce section fragments sitting much too sternly with no regard for sprawling. In the same bowl, though!
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Apr 29, 2010
Apr 29, 2010 at 10:52 AM UTC
Salad Bar
Some people say cucumbers taste better pickled. They come out wrinkled and cold, their verdant skins hardened and crisp. One crushing bite reveals a soft yellow center, soured cells seeping embalming vinegar. Feathery dill disintegrates, bringing biting flavor to our cryogenic sandwich toppers But, some people say cucumbers taste better pickled.
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Nov 9, 2013
Nov 9, 2013 at 4:40 PM UTC
Cucumbers
Dear Angela, When was the last time the wind blew threw your hair or did it go through your body too? I didn’t know the last time we saw each other, the cat would stain on the wall with its **** and then you would miss your date. Your hair looked like a crown in the sun. Did you ever get the energy to come out of bed? Dear Angela, Soot collects in the hollows your cheekbones, the eyeliner you have rubbed off in your sleep. The last time I saw you, you were cleaning the cat’s **** from the walls and missed your date and we laughed it off and had pizza instead. Angela, I know you are exhausted from simply opening your eyes. Angela, do you still hold your body at night like it is something holy? Dear Angela, Do you remember when we had tea in the August heat in clear plastic cups with our pinkies up and your mother showed us her corrugated cucumbers? Angela do you remember when you were swimming in the Y with the ladies whose bodies could hold your body and mine and still have room for more. Dear Angela, Do you remember when we walked out of class during your first panic attack and how I told you to lay down on the plastic benches that littered the hallway and you said you suddenly felt calm again? Angela do you still lie down on your side sometimes and think about going back to your prime days? Did you know then? Dear Angela, I can tell you to stay strong but I don’t know what that means either. I can tell you that it is winter now and it is cold and campus is a dead white man’s tomb but there are still flowers that stay in the winter time. They call it a winter garden. Angela, maybe you are a winter garden, maybe you are the softest footprint in the snow.
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Jun 29, 2019
Jun 29, 2019 at 4:50 PM UTC
Dear Angela
Dear Angela, When was the last time the wind blew threw your hair or did it go through your body too? I didn’t know the last time we saw each other, the cat would stain on the wall with its **** and then you would miss your date. Your hair looked like a crown in the sun. Did you ever get the energy to come out of bed? Dear Angela, Soot collects in the hollows your cheekbones, the eyeliner you have rubbed off in your sleep. The last time I saw you, you were cleaning the cat’s **** from the walls and missed your date and we laughed it off and had pizza instead. Angela, I know you are exhausted from simply opening your eyes. Angela, do you still hold your body at night like it is something holy? Dear Angela, Do you remember when we had tea in the August heat in clear plastic cups with our pinkies up and your mother showed us her corrugated cucumbers? Angela do you remember when you were swimming in the Y with the ladies whose bodies could hold your body and mine and still have room for more. Dear Angela, Do you remember when we walked out of class during your first panic attack and how I told you to lay down on the plastic benches that littered the hallway and you said you suddenly felt calm again? Angela do you still lie down on your side sometimes and think about going back to your prime days? Did you know then? Dear Angela, I can tell you to stay strong but I don’t know what that means either. I can tell you that it is winter now and it is cold and campus is a dead white man’s tomb but there are still flowers that stay in the winter time. They call it a winter garden. Angela, maybe you are a winter garden, maybe you are the softest footprint in the snow.
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10
would you like to take a walk through my gardens now with me? with the loveliest of flower and the tiniest of pea? yes? good, well come along my darling now come along it's free, an let's go to the gardens to see what we can see well, I planted here some garlic from the garlic bulbs I had an the bok choy well it bolted and I lost it that's too bad but still it had some flowers though, so really not so sad, sigh, smile now, ; ) see the tomatoes look so happy lots to can, to cook an share the cucumbers are plenty see those guys are everywhere, those here are purple eggplant with soft delicate new flowers, an the weather has been perfect just so hot with scattered showers the chocolate mint like poetry WiLd and prolific dead head all the marigolds an boy they grow terrific, in lovely burning oranges and yellows you can eat, marigolds - nasturtiums are really such a treat and eating from my garden well really can't be beat, the kale is getting big, and my peppers hot an mild the pumpkins taking over like an ivy envy wild cosmos and green beans were started from a seed, radishes are too, look- I snuck 'em in between, basil and cilantro rosemary and sage, I could go on and on and write another page but really you should visit and come to see it now but thanks for reading this though vicarious somehow I'm still happy for to share my life and love today I hope you know I care an are soon here on your way even in grey skies for the growing I will pray, and I will be here waiting tending gardens come what may. Ma Cherie © 2017
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Jul 22, 2017
Jul 22, 2017 at 1:03 PM UTC
would you like to take a walk?
would you like to take a walk through my gardens now with me? with the loveliest of flower and the tiniest of pea? yes? good, well come along my darling now come along it's free, an let's go to the gardens to see what we can see well, I planted here some garlic from the garlic bulbs I had an the bok choy well it bolted and I lost it that's too bad but still it had some flowers though, so really not so sad, sigh, smile now, ; ) see the tomatoes look so happy lots to can, to cook an share the cucumbers are plenty see those guys are everywhere, those here are purple eggplant with soft delicate new flowers, an the weather has been perfect just so hot with scattered showers the chocolate mint like poetry WiLd and prolific dead head all the marigolds an boy they grow terrific, in lovely burning oranges and yellows you can eat, marigolds - nasturtiums are really such a treat and eating from my garden well really can't be beat, the kale is getting big, and my peppers hot an mild the pumpkins taking over like an ivy envy wild cosmos and green beans were started from a seed, radishes are too, look- I snuck 'em in between, basil and cilantro rosemary and sage, I could go on and on and write another page but really you should visit and come to see it now but thanks for reading this though vicarious somehow I'm still happy for to share my life and love today I hope you know I care an are soon here on your way even in grey skies for the growing I will pray, and I will be here waiting tending gardens come what may. Ma Cherie © 2017
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71
em...   what's the difference between refugees, economic migrants... and ex-pats?    not much...     esp.with regards the latter... who are ex-pats? immigrants, from a de- host nation... English women sipping tea with Mussolini...   ex-pats:       out of, what? patriotism? maybe my latin prefixing is a bit rusty...                      ginger amy adams... by god....   if a rose... that... that is a rose...    strawberry blonde... mmm mmm... kentucky fried chicken...                     f'now i wish for an *** i can ***** all day long in Manhattan...   and be like: yummy and **** me three ways sinister...    because? why not?!      ginger ninja...              nunchucks up the *** to replace the ****** or the cucumbers...                   bridegroom of Bruce ******* Lee...                makes up for a degenerate market...    slurp an oyster... bargain on clam economy...      point being?           self-harming of girls replaces    the tattoo industry... of girls...          and the world continues its carousel "enterprise"...        then the world dies...    and then the world revives itself...             self-harming text books... and then comes along... tattoo -                          the spiral, deficit woman -     her due, her, own, her: albatross swoon - dive into the curtailed unknown -      a woman hindered - a woman governed by the hinterland - a scrap of, what became the scoop of what later became - the crown of Poseidon's scavenger                           ushering in... the last, of what remained: a peeled onion.                        St. Basil -                   came the crow, came the cathedral,    came the gauged out eyes.. came the croak...          came... the span of wings... came...                the labors -         a mind, a lost digestion... came...              a vision of a future... without the fiction of an immovable past.
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Sep 3, 2018
Sep 3, 2018 at 8:17 PM UTC
an ode to amy adams
em...   what's the difference between refugees, economic migrants... and ex-pats?    not much...     esp.with regards the latter... who are ex-pats? immigrants, from a de- host nation... English women sipping tea with Mussolini...   ex-pats:       out of, what? patriotism? maybe my latin prefixing is a bit rusty...                      ginger amy adams... by god....   if a rose... that... that is a rose...    strawberry blonde... mmm mmm... kentucky fried chicken...                     f'now i wish for an *** i can ***** all day long in Manhattan...   and be like: yummy and **** me three ways sinister...    because? why not?!      ginger ninja...              nunchucks up the *** to replace the ****** or the cucumbers...                   bridegroom of Bruce ******* Lee...                makes up for a degenerate market...    slurp an oyster... bargain on clam economy...      point being?           self-harming of girls replaces    the tattoo industry... of girls...          and the world continues its carousel "enterprise"...        then the world dies...    and then the world revives itself...             self-harming text books... and then comes along... tattoo -                          the spiral, deficit woman -     her due, her, own, her: albatross swoon - dive into the curtailed unknown -      a woman hindered - a woman governed by the hinterland - a scrap of, what became the scoop of what later became - the crown of Poseidon's scavenger                           ushering in... the last, of what remained: a peeled onion.                        St. Basil -                   came the crow, came the cathedral,    came the gauged out eyes.. came the croak...          came... the span of wings... came...                the labors -         a mind, a lost digestion... came...              a vision of a future... without the fiction of an immovable past.
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80
I took Billy Collins to lunch with me today. He kept me company, Horoscopes of the Dead and new versions of Dante’s hellish sandwich. My pasta was dry, but I ate it between stanzas and between pages. You walked in, backpack and all, at the top of the stairs. I choked on some graded cheese, because of the way you looked in your khakis. I hate the taste of cucumbers but I would have kissed you anyway. Even though, I sometimes laugh a little too loud in the mornings you still make sanctuaries out of my sheets, covering us in a layer of polka dots, craving each other’s skin, listening the lullaby the ruffles of the duvet make. And even though I sometimes know that wanting you has its clumsy consequences, I still lose my breath when you walk up to the lunch line, or when you grab my face with both hands, or when you say my name backwards between sighs. Maybe Billy understands, and maybe I can just stay a poet. Maybe, you would look good on me. I’d love to try you on. But I lost my breath when you walked in this afternoon.
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Oct 27, 2014
Oct 27, 2014 at 10:50 PM UTC
It's Your Khaki's That Are the Problem
Here in the capitol of lowercase relations your drink is holding yard sales for you. Among headstones is a table, a lock, a plate of cucumbers and salamanders (which can be pickled), a bowl of raisins -- a handful -- skating the bowl's concavity, trying to become round. If a condition of space travel was one could nevermore return, how many astronauts do you think there'd have been? More stars in lawschool than the cosmos. Somewhere there's a story of Indians singing instead of pointing and laughing when the Pilgrims came and the Atlantic dropped off into the earth's crust behind them. You see pickles can't become cucumbers again. Everyone who died drunk driving in World War II knows that. But still ovens dream of one day being iceboxes, and the ice cubes all know this and it makes them sweat.
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Jul 4, 2015
Jul 4, 2015 at 3:38 PM UTC
Little Wane
(poem not for the modest) 1) Susan is envious about Mr Ron’s rich-red tomatoes just over the fence; and Susan asks how he does it “Oh,” says Mr Thorn, *“I expose myself twice daily to the tomatoes and they blush and so they are red Try it with your vegetables, Susan”* 2) It’s three weeks later and Mr Thorn asks over the fence: “Hey Susan, how are your veggies now?” “Well,” replies Susan, *“tomatoes are the same Oh but you should see the cucumbers – my, how they've grown!”*
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Jul 7, 2013
Jul 7, 2013 at 7:47 AM UTC
veggies grow better