"delicatessen" poems
kisses on your warm sweet mouth
tender lips caressed
exploring your ******* and raised ******* ..
belly and thighs enveloped
those eager dark delicious places that i covet so
your musk erogenous
the path to your hungry soul
eater of the poison apple
your eyes widen bright with delight
a strange synesthesia you say
your smile a hypnotic alter
you prone
back arched
belly willing
as i drag a curved blade slowly across your winsome flesh
worshiping you
breathing your warm breath into my mouth and nostrils
come now
you coo
i am sheildless
then little strangles that excite
to see how you do
will you love it
adorations twisted mind
she demon
a wizened dizzy Venus
please yes
her **** drenches the bed
a warm viscosity
legs widen
feet piqued
*****
exotic delicatessen
Heralded
i enter with long sweet butter strokes
the sabbath of desire
I swear
i wont let you suffer...
never !
why you say?
because i love you
lovely scythe you call
as if lulled to sleep
whispering dreadful incantations .
i ache to close the curtain
to lifes scalding chatter
wrap me
in a raggy shawl
impale the throat
like ive alway dreamed
a last exhalation
flood gates pour forth
as deaths dark fold
dissolves all
i rock you drugged
absinthe and wormwood
a last ***** of candles flame
white gauze cinched
lips on a lost mouth
eyes a static pyre
i linger
wishing you still plush
an animated glow
so that i could feel your arms,
now milky white relics
only to take you all over again and again and again
dreamer of the abyss
yet you stand
aberrations, smoke ghost
sacrificially swaying your hips
calling from Hades
dancer of ritual copulation
i melt like wax in the sun
wither
and die myself
marriage Italian style
dead bells in love
blotted out by the Sirens of Mara
Apr 19, 2017
Apr 19, 2017 at 4:45 PM UTC
Someone stole the last piece of my turkey sandwich.
I bet the ************ put some pepper on it.
I hope it was pepper from that
***** *** pepper-shaker that is no longer see-through.
That ******* left me with one poker-chip pickle slice and
Those pieces of potato chips that you
Have to spear with a fingertip to eat.
That son-of-a-bitch!
I am sure he put mustard on that last piece of turkey sandwich;
In that delicate delicatessen squiggly pattern that is all in the wrist.
-And, speaking of wrist, that ******* forged my signature perfectly.
He even put another Lone Star bottle on my tab then
Neatly arranged the bottle caps next to four toothpicks.
*That suave ************
To honor him, when I get home
I am going to smoke his ****
**** his girlfriend and take his ****
Oct 14, 2014
Oct 14, 2014 at 1:59 AM UTC
behind velvet cloth I saw your quail's eggs,
I saw your gentleman's relish too,
protruding as it was,
an Etonian slap to the face of the marmite jar which
it was reluctantly sat next to.
and although the relish would happily admit that
to sit next to marmite was certainly preferable
to finding oneself positioned next to Bovril or Cup-a-Soup,
it certainly was a far cry from the delicatessen counter
he was once accustomed to.
oh the delicatessen!
how the tear ducts performed with nostalgic aplomb
as memories of stuffed vine leaves and caramelised baby shallots
filtered back to the gentleman.
what he'd have given to be back there now,
to once again share the company of proper food,
of handmade chutneys and pickles,
not this common oafish tar.
this brutish black gunk.
'You may not have been factory made'
retorted Marmite,
'or contain E325,'
'but that isn't to say that your place on this shelf
is any more valid than mine.'
Oct 14, 2012
Oct 14, 2012 at 10:38 AM UTC
A satisfied appetite is a simply joy
Overlooked and simplified
Like a growing urge, a salivating need
That is entrancing and glorified.
Everlasting for moments we call meals
Forgotten in time, lingering above
But the taste, the lonesome lover pushed aside
Gazes afar and near wanting to be enjoyed again
The young lady with a tongue of raspberry delight
And the matured widow with darkened cacao lips
Ripening nectar of a sliced peach center
Halved and topped with mascarpone crème
The man with a skin of caramel glaze
Caressing and savoring
With a fragrance and scent
Of hazelnut coffee indulgence and sin
In the pursuit of a brief love affair
What oral sensation did my taste buds want?
My odyssey of gustatory endeavors await
Through the seas of lined people and waiting staff
Generous portions and humble pies
Decadent desserts so rich you’ll die
Vine cherry tomatoes sliced and sauté
Over al dente rigatoni in a roasted cashew sauce
A robust aroma and savory appeal
Basil leaves with garlic strips
Olive oil to top the surreal
Hubristic meatball aborigine
Elysian cuisine or many dreams
Teasing the senses, warming the pit
Of flowing pleasures
And tingling fingertips
Without moral measures
And succulent wines
Rotisserie lamb falling of the bone
Seasoned with Sicilian herbs
And paired with broiled asparagus
Drizzled with lemon juice
And a glass of Merlot
Spices I hardly know
Lachrymose apologies beside a bottle of faded sorrows
With love there is pain, passion endured through the names
Thin soups, flavorless and dull, feeding street-thrown bums
Breathing hard against the delicatessen glass
Hickory smoked hams, pepper-seasoned pastrami
Vinegar cultured pickles and hard dried salami
Unpleasured, without measure, at one's leisure.
Forever my endeavor
Blackcurrant tea laced with slivers of gooping honey
Layers of cinnamon hair atop olive skin
red-painted doors with cedar trim
crushed almonds mixed with hazelnut butter cream spread
devilish rounds of crumbling rum-swirl bread
Smells and wonders, tastes so ...
oh god
Divine and sublime.
Jul 22, 2013
Jul 22, 2013 at 5:42 PM UTC
I write words with passion, I write words learned from wisdom
I study the works from the greatest; I even study the stars in the sky
Look to the North West on a dark Southern Autumn‘s night
Hanging side by side with the king of the jungle and holding a *** of honey
A relative to the one in the deserts with stinger in its tail you will see
A Giant that walks on ocean floors with meat that is ever so sweet
Constellations that fill the sky all been given a specific name at an earlier time
Many a being read the wise man tales in the daily papers
They live there day to look to see if there predictions come true
Your visions can only come true if you search without looking
My journey today took me to the second floor I’m in a ward
Doors open exposing many smiles and many, many frowns
Team Poppy’s Ride for one dollar I bought into yes I did
Relay for life fight the silent killer and have fun doing it as well it says
A dozen silk roses pull me near to the table to touch them
Fur lined slippers; ports open on his body, one in his neck
Another in his arm with plunger attached I can see
Flush him clean and pure I pray aloud rid him of his pain
Give it to me I cry as I looked into his eye
Tapping red heels with anxiety she’s called in next
Chairs with wheels fill the room to capacity
All with hoses and green cylinders attached given a fresh breath of life to inhale
Delicatessen of food on a low cart is now delivered from the one with child in the womb
Smile she puts on my face for there’s another life to keep the circle of life going
Journeys not over for they have just begun
Stacks of Danielle Steele books are scattered all about
Comforting the mind, comforting the soul they do
Precious words are better than man’s medicine I believe
Come to me, my written words are stronger then the script you’re looking for
No ringing of the bells here to mark the toll
To the left I see a three leaf clover hanging in the window
On the Next there’s a hanging cross
Waiting is the master, to do your part
He welcomes you and your soul.
CELEBRATE, REMEMBER, AND FIGHT BACK! (CARSr. 5-21-12)
May 28, 2012
May 28, 2012 at 12:25 PM UTC
A midnight run for food,
Has not come to fruition,
Everywhere is closed,
Last stop: delicatessen.
My heart turns to a shade of roux
That mirrors the glowing closed sign,
"No food for you!"
It mocks at me,
As I peer inside.
I think I'll break a window,
Just for halva nibbles,
But is five to ten in jail,
Worth the Jewish kibbles?
Oh deli, you've forsaken me,
By not relieving my hunger,
So I grab a couple rocks,
And start some wicked thunder.
There's so much food to choose from,
And it's all free for me,
But wait, oh no, I didn't see,
The camera light has turned to green!
I've been spotted by the deli owners
I should've worn a hoodie,
Now I'm going straight to jail,
Just to nom on goodies.
There's no point in running,
The red and blue are here;
I may as well just sit and wait,
Maybe grab a beer.
They sent a squad that spewed laughter,
When they saw their guy,
Just a dame, small in stature,
Making a ham on rye.
Luckily I'd made enough,
To feed the seven men,
So they radioed to all their friends,
And laughter began again.
Now that we're all satiated.
And I've been let go free,
I wonder, had it been opened,
Would I have such a story to tell,
"My Big Night at the Deli"
Dec 4, 2014
Dec 4, 2014 at 11:34 PM UTC
Before we met
How many times did we pass by
Each other on the street?
How many times did we
Stop at the same stop light
Or wave the other on in traffic?
How many times had we
Ordered coffee from the same barista
Within minutes of the other?
How often did we ride
The same BART train
Or think the same thing
About a person we walked past
On our way to work?
How many friends did we share
If any at all?
Before we met
Did you ever notice me hailing a cab
Or search my bag for loose change?
Did I ever give you a ***** look
When you laughed grotesquely
With your friends
As my own guild slinked by?
Before we met
Had you ever considered
Renting an apartment in my building?
Did you ever pet my cat on the street
Or lazily glace through my
Living room window as you
Waited for the light to turn green?
Did I ever see you
At the delicatessen
Where I eat my lunch?
Before we met
Had we ever met before?
Dec 4, 2012
Dec 4, 2012 at 11:07 PM UTC
If you were to venture across the forceful shelf of societal direction, would you succumb to the currents of the majority? Right now, I need to take a step back into fresh perspective as I give consideration to my deceptive impulses.
A New York cheesecake is surely seductive in her decadent and caloric beckoning. However, English sausages are not dissimilar, my opinionated guide of presumed health and well-being. So, take a hike over endless moors of serial-killer familiarity, because I offer myself upon the altar of elocution.
Nov 17, 2013
Nov 17, 2013 at 11:39 PM UTC
Lilac moons still frolicking
In that meadow of your individuality
You smile to yourself your wolfish grin
Because no one else will ever get it...
That rainbow coursing through your veins...
The delicatessen within your mind
It doesn't matter Erin
Secrets for the privileged zombie muffins
Allow your splendid vortex to swirl
Don't keep the cubic wheels of your world from moving
Christmas tree cookie cutters...
Should only be used for baking
Not for defining the shape of humanity
Hatred should stay out of it
Indignation was called off today
You're too special...
And not in that little yellow bus way
You're always on that rocketship of wow
Don't fear the envy of all the others
For your soul burning so brightly within
It still shines throughout you
Just love it...
I watched you grow like a dandelion
But are you a flower or another garden ****
Make the decision on your own
It's all on you to choose your own adventure now
*Eines Tages wird die Welt dir zuhören...
Sep 23, 2011
Sep 23, 2011 at 6:51 PM UTC
Last night I witnessed the deterioration of our current generation. Talks of shots and girl's tight tops, which beats are sick, which beers have hops.
A dance floor full of bodies doing nothing more than rocking; simply swaying back and forth letting their bare skin do the talking.
Girls are laughing loudly, flirting dumbly without pride. Boys are softly grabbing, trying hard to get inside.
I'm not under the impression that a club is good for sessions of intensive conversation; but there's a line of crossed digression 'tween a dance or delicatessen and if these young kids don't lessen their completely bared obsession with finding a *** connection I fear loss of life, regression and required intercession so we may stop this great depression and procede with the progression of these young children's ascension to the spiritual dimension.
They owe it to themselves to see there's more to life than spells of boredom bleached by alcohol and music loud and dollar bills spent carelessly on swaying wills of little girls who get their thrills all fully spilled out of tight clothes and popping compact coloured pills.
And as I danced to pulsing beat, seeing all eyes know not discreet, feeling an overwhelming stream; an ocean trying to break free, behind the dammed up river beds all dried up in the drunken heads, I felt much higher, even hallowed, for while you're playing in the shallows, I know exactly where I'll be, diving into the open sea.
May 27, 2013
May 27, 2013 at 3:28 AM UTC
As the curtain dropped, the thin and tiny dancers spun, leaving shadows dancing on their own. With movement, the orchestra rumbled into existence like an old, but trusted engine, the story, if there was one to tell, came to life and extended to a peak.
Those in attendance, were mostly astonished by the playwrights sardonic ebb and flow. Jaws hung like meat from the ceiling of an old delicatessen as earth tone lights dodged about and around folks ears, gently tilting through a myriad of pleasant poses.
The now heavy and breathy air in the theater coalesced as the heat of the story changed the room. Hands were clenched and teeth were squeezed as purpose slowly but surely found the dimly lit theater, deep in the heart of the old, dark city.
At the top of that coaster that night, the leading gal crooned, wept and danced to the delight of many. Her savior and his foil, battled the war of children, the director beamed a sullen and mysterious glee as his creation came to life.
One gasp followed another that evening as notions simply chugged along like the underground train. All applause for the players in the end was loud, honest and ornery then after the show behind the deep red and dangling curtain laid the pats of many, on the backs of others.
No smile to big and no lid to low as the bubbly and fine foods found the lips of those aboard the dream. Then, at the exact moment the intrigue of the performance trickled into a thousand tomorrows, there was Joy, quite subtle, but existent, quietly dancing the pretty little dance, of the thin and tiny dancers.
Nov 24, 2009
Nov 24, 2009 at 4:59 AM UTC
I want to rip off your packaging.
I want to feast on you,
gobble you up,
pig out on you,
and wolf you down.
I want your nourishment.
I want your refreshment.
Give me sustenance.
I want to nibble on your appetizers
and sip your wine.
I want your snack.
I want to close my fingers around
your strawberries and partake of you.
I want to rummage your confections and
lay waste to your delicatessen.
This is not the time for delicate bites.
This is not the time to diet.
I want handfuls of you.
I want to play with my food
and lick the bowl
for dessert.
Feb 16, 2013
Feb 16, 2013 at 12:41 PM UTC
black-hole sun
cosmic sinkhole
the weight of a planet
choking ocean-
great eye of cheese in the sky
with asphyxiating hunger for novelty
carrion eye strip the meat from the meat
dress down every filet to the last
dressed to the nines in dead meat
dead meat
dead meat everything
the rainbow over the styx
the drowned souls aglow in the light
the iridescent broadcast
the love and peace proclaimant muting and disintegrated
the globular cacophony our delicatessen echoic plaints
the glutton is
the glutton belied is
is the glutton with eyes like saucer plates is
is is gobbling sausage links
cities of statues
patchworked fleshy kin
people-holes
the gullet ceases to churn
its cavernous ouroboros maw
swallowing eternally
vacuum destiny
Jan 30, 2016
Jan 30, 2016 at 2:07 AM UTC
The pungent smell of the delicatessen shop.
Smoked meat and garlic tinged the stillness of the silent store.
Townsfolk scurrying by in a mighty dash.
Nightly off to the supermarket, to buy their daily wares.
Remember that smell?
Times have changed a tad.
Italian odour fills the air.
Pastrami rolls dangle in the window.
Pots of plastic passion in fridge below the counter.
The proprietor nips out the back to have another smoke.
Smell the odour, a vacuum full of spices.
The deli fell out of flavour a while ago, but still I taste that smell.
(C) Livvi
Nov 13, 2014
Nov 13, 2014 at 4:52 PM UTC
says the neon sign gleamed,
refracted on your face
that sullen evening – I do not have
many nights to remember. If from a high
place I imagine you flailing,
what would call you back? What for?
You, coming toward the light – the subservience
of the next face
chauffeurs us. Unfazed, will me to pretend,
if not, then carry on the next meeting.
I will whisper to myself: this is how I sustain beatings
You have no use for poems.
Neither do I. You, dressed in your best,
I, submission refined by sartorial. Notice how my hand
continues to displace geographies. The thinning
horizon of a candle, almost a faultline.
Slumped on your back as if comfort were a burden
to say: keep this time together with its fever. These often times
the last moments seal them shut out of histories.
When we came into,
I had a falling out – there is a straight line we could
run into and this instance might enervate
into a single drop of honey into your mouth. I await that
prophecy like it was the final thing before I resign
to incompleteness. Delicate essence
the neon sign says, glaring through the
glib downpour outside. You laughed at our
unpreparedness, but the readiness that was obligation when
separate had no omen of rain.
I am watching myself again. Everything was slanted
by rain as the living err me. Even when together,
feels like emancipation. Going disparate places.
Outside it continues to rain. You asked if this rain washed
this city whole and gave it a new name, would I still remember.
It is June from time since then, the skies still attentive.
I will not come out until it rains.
Jun 1, 2016
Jun 1, 2016 at 5:03 AM UTC
table knife,
life’s
edge
forged
by fire’s
most orange lake.
from your mirrored-face
of steel
you still reflect
the paleolithic
prophecy
of your crude
ancestors
from which you
evolved:
the chipping
flint and the
hand axe,
both used by death
to sustain life,
both stained by the
blood of the hunt,
and by
the bloodletting
of rituals, to remind
and to remain
as spotted rust
on your shiny
smooth blade.
and now,
you hide
in silence
in our kitchen drawers,
and lay flat
and impassive
on our eating tables,
as though you were innocent.
table knife
in the hands
of a grandmother
you are
kind and deliberate.
you cut
to feed but
never to fatten,
in the hands
of a parent
you hang
like the sword
of Damocles
over uneaten peas
and threaten
like the sword
of Solomon
to halve everything
into equal shares,
disrupting
nature's, natural
imbalances,
in the hands
of a child
you cut quick,
and you scrape
and squeal
like a pig running
from a band
of hungry,
hunting
pygmies.
but
table knife
in the purple
hands of politics,
why must you
always cut life
so thinly sliced
and indelicate
like delicatessen
meat? can you
stay sharp and still
broaden your blade
enough to carve
more generous
portions
for the poor?
for without
food on our plates
to cut, you shall remain
flat and silent
in our drawers,
absent from our tables,
and as lifeless as
a silver bass,
rotting in the basin
of a dry lake, and
to us, you shall
remain forever
guilty.
Jan 3, 2018
Jan 3, 2018 at 2:57 PM UTC
price tags and delicatessen tickets
your number is up
it is time
you forgot to take your price tag off
so they're doing work on you
they will fix you
they will end you
Oct 28, 2013
Oct 28, 2013 at 3:39 PM UTC
Nothing like this assault.
In here you were gradually
introduced. The keen sense
for identity realized,
the distance that was a sullen
word for madness, a tender
perimeter established.
The calm wind as not-so-distant.
You in your plain clothes this afternoon,
lost in a commute of phases.
This weather schemes to be
your leitmotif. This is of no
identical ownership but breakage.
In here you were met with constant
delimitation, yet always you are
as you always were, perhaps,
quite unsure of the next face
dislimned past the delicatessen.
The barkeep yesterday wiped the glass
clean as I watched from the edge
of poor furnitures. You, sudden,
of no warning, no clear word
for objects, has objections for marvels
made clear still opaque in the eye of you.
That when you were brought
into the world, I had you coming as
soft blow in the wilderness
hardly tractable, all by yourself
as I witnessed everything, past dead
underfoot, being all necessary
to yourself, as you always were
in various settings and adjustments.
You were sure of the unsure and I
am in the middle of things
feeling the winding of it all, the breaking,
and the passing.
Nothing like this assault.
Apr 15, 2016
Apr 15, 2016 at 3:00 AM UTC