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The Good Pussy May 2015
.
                                1 can diced
                           mangos, drained•
                          1 can diced tomato
                         es, drained • 1\4 cup
                           diced red onion •
                           1\4 cup  chopped
                            fresh  cilantro or
                            mint• 1\2 jalapeñ
                            o, seeded and fin
                            ely chopped  or 2
                            tbsp. canned dice
                            d jalapeño. • 2 tb.
                            p.   fresh  lime or
                            lemon juice **
                 stir together     all ingredients
          in medium bowl  Serve as a dip with
          tortilla or pita ch ips or as a topping
             for quesadillas   or grilled chicken
                   fish  or                  pork
First,   consume  mangos directly from can.

* Use fresh mangos and fresh tomatoes. (do not eat mangos before using them in recipe)
Ashley Chapman Oct 2017
Feel empty in your post apocalyptic City of Angels,
Where not even your pets are real!
An electric android, a sheep or a frog,
The whir-flutter of micro-electrical wings of a butterfly.

Good, and so you ought.

Now grab the handles of your empathy box,
And in a shared virtual hallucination –
Feel: empathy, depression, pain, delusion and despair,
The outré myriad gifts of consciousness.

Millions of discombobulated and disconnected wrecks:
Adam's sons; Eve's daughters,
And among them simulations too,
Fakes! androids!
A phony circuit of semi-conscious memories,
A hive of neural malaise!
Welcome to our world; know how dead, inside, I feel.

You, yes, you:

Need a pet to make you more complete?
Maybe you can afford
A Fake Fakir Flake like me who looks like Jude Law,
Sounds like Richard Burton,
And silently romances you like Rudolph Valentino.
Come and stick what’s left of your mind in here,
In hair, hear her: har, har, har…

A box of lies...

A voice, Mercer's,
With texture from an age you neither lived in nor dared in:
Al Jerry's, a TV actor,
Droning on in pre-selected tones.

The real thing, the men, the women, their animals,
Made in the wild, wild desert, in the green pulsing savannah,
On the open crusted sea; now too, washed, choked, and drained,
Too many spliced and diced mutations,
Iterating your image:
The thing that was my heart,
My Child, now its imitation.
This comes from my fascination with Philip K. **** and Do Androids Dream of Electric Sheep. In this, his future dystopian vision, androids are retired, a euphemism for terminated, when they have passed their legal age limit after four years. Humans, us, have by now ruined our environment and become enthralled to a false religion, Mercerism , a fabricated make belief, spun by an actor, Al Jerry. The empathy boxes plunge the followers of Mercerism into a shared virtual hallucination. I was also enthralled by Jude Law in AI by Steven Spielberg who gave what I thought was a mesmerising portrait of a *** robot, the ultimate Lothario and so tragically programmed to flaw.

Earlier this year Mercerism was the theme of The Tunnel, an art collective to which I am a participator, through poetry.

Blade Runner, the film, now Blade Runner 49, is based on this dark interpretation of where we could all be headed.
I. Song of the Beggars
"O for doors to be open and an invite with gilded edges
To dine with Lord Lobcock and Count Asthma on the platinum benches
With somersaults and fireworks, the roast and the smacking kisses"

Cried the cripples to the silent statue,
The six beggared cripples.
"And Garbo's and Cleopatra's wits to go astraying,
In a feather ocean with me to go fishing and playing,
Still jolly when the **** has burst himself with crowing"

Cried the cripples to the silent statue,
The six beggared cripples.
"And to stand on green turf among the craning yellow faces
Dependent on the chestnut, the sable, the Arabian horses,
And me with a magic crystal to foresee their places"

Cried the cripples to the silent statue,
The six beggared cripples.
"And this square to be a deck and these pigeons canvas to rig,
And to follow the delicious breeze like a tantony pig
To the shaded feverless islands where the melons are big"

Cried the cripples to the silent statue,
The six beggared cripples.
"And these shops to be turned to tulips in a garden bed,
And me with my crutch to thrash each merchant dead
As he pokes from a flower his bald and wicked head"

Cried the cripples to the silent statue,
The six beggared cripples.
"And a hole in the bottom of heaven, and Peter and Paul
And each smug surprised saint like parachutes to fall,
And every one-legged beggar to have no legs at all"

Cried the cripples to the silent statue,
The six beggared cripples.

Spring 1935

II.
O lurcher-loving collier, black as night,
Follow your love across the smokeless hill;
Your lamp is out, the cages are all still;
Course for heart and do not miss,
For Sunday soon is past and, Kate, fly not so fast,
For Monday comes when none may kiss:
Be marble to his soot, and to his black be white.

June 1935

III.
Let a florid music praise,
The flute and the trumpet,
Beauty's conquest of your face:
In that land of flesh and bone,
Where from citadels on high
Her imperial standards fly,
Let the hot sun
Shine on, shine on.

O but the unloved have had power,
The weeping and striking,
Always: time will bring their hour;
Their secretive children walk
Through your vigilance of breath
To unpardonable Death,
And my vows break
Before his look.

February 1936

IV.
Dear, though the night is gone,
Its dream still haunts today,
That brought us to a room
Cavernous, lofty as
A railway terminus,
And crowded in that gloom
Were beds, and we in one
In a far corner lay.

Our whisper woke no clocks,
We kissed and I was glad
At everything you did,
Indifferent to those
Who sat with hostile eyes
In pairs on every bed,
Arms round each other's necks
Inert and vaguely sad.

What hidden worm of guilt
Or what malignant doubt
Am I the victim of,
That you then, unabashed,
Did what I never wished,
Confessed another love;
And I, submissive, felt
Unwanted and went out.

March 1936

V.
Fish in the unruffled lakes
Their swarming colors wear,
Swans in the winter air
A white perfection have,
And the great lion walks
Through his innocent grove;
Lion, fish and swan
Act, and are gone
Upon Time's toppling wave.

We, till shadowed days are done,
We must weep and sing
Duty's conscious wrong,
The Devil in the clock,
The goodness carefully worn
For atonement or for luck;
We must lose our loves,
On each beast and bird that moves
Turn an envious look.

Sighs for folly done and said
Twist our narrow days,
But I must bless, I must praise
That you, my swan, who have
All the gifts that to the swan
Impulsive Nature gave,
The majesty and pride,
Last night should add
Your voluntary love.

March 1936

VI. Autumn Song
Now the leaves are falling fast,
Nurse's flowers will not last,
Nurses to their graves are gone,
But the prams go rolling on.

Whispering neighbors left and right
Daunt us from our true delight,
Able hands are forced to freeze
Derelict on lonely knees.

Close behind us on our track,
Dead in hundreds cry Alack,
Arms raised stiffly to reprove
In false attitudes of love.

Scrawny through a plundered wood,
Trolls run scolding for their food,
Owl and nightingale are dumb,
And the angel will not come.

Clear, unscalable, ahead
Rise the Mountains of Instead,
From whose cold, cascading streams
None may drink except in dreams.

March 1936

VII.
Underneath an abject willow,
Lover, sulk no more:
Act from thought should quickly follow.
What is thinking for?
Your unique and moping station
Proves you cold;
Stand up and fold
Your map of desolation.

Bells that toll across the meadows
From the sombre spire
Toll for these unloving shadows
Love does not require.
All that lives may love; why longer
Bow to loss
With arms across?
Strike and you shall conquer.

Geese in flocks above you flying.
Their direction know,
Icy brooks beneath you flowing,
To their ocean go.
Dark and dull is your distraction:
Walk then, come,
No longer numb
Into your satisfaction.

March 1936

VIII.
At last the secret is out, as it always must come in the end,
The delicious story is ripe to tell the intimate friend;
Over the tea-cups and in the square the tongue has its desire;
Still waters run deep, my friend, there's never smoke without fire.

Behind the corpse in the reservoir, behind the ghost on the links,
Behind the lady who dances and the man who madly drinks,
Under the look of fatigue, the attack of the migraine and the sigh
There is always another story, there is more than meets the eye.

For the clear voice suddenly singing, high up in the convent wall,
The scent of the elder bushes, the sporting prints in the hall,
The croquet matches in summer, the handshake, the cough, the kiss,
There is always a wicked secret, a private reason for this.

April 1936

IX.
Stop all the clocks, cut off the telephone,
Prevent the dog from barking with a juicy bone,
Silence the pianos and with muffled drum
Bring out the coffin, let the mourners come.

Let aeroplanes circle moaning overhead
Scribbling on the sky the message He Is Dead,
Put crêpe bows round the white necks of the public doves,
Let the traffic policemen wear black cotton gloves.

He was my North, my South, my East and West,
My working week and Sunday rest,
My noon, my midnight, my talk, my song;
I thought that love would last forever: I was wrong.

The stars are not wanted now: put out every one;
Pack up the moon and dismantle the sun;
Pour away the ocean and sweep up the wood;
For nothing now can ever come to any good.

April 1936

X.
O the valley in the summer where I and my John
Beside the deep river would walk on and on
While the flowers at our feet and the birds up above
Argued so sweetly on reciprocal love,
And I leaned on his shoulder; "O Johnny, let's play":
But he frowned like thunder and he went away.

O that Friday near Christmas as I well recall
When we went to the Matinee Charity Ball,
The floor was so smooth and the band was so loud
And Johnny so handsome I felt so proud;
"Squeeze me tighter, dear Johnny, let's dance till it's day":
But he frowned like thunder and he went away.

Shall I ever forget at the Grand Opera
When music poured out of each wonderful star?
Diamonds and pearls they hung dazzling down
Over each silver or golden silk gown;
"O John I'm in heaven," I whispered to say:
But he frowned like thunder and he went away.

O but he was fair as a garden in flower,
As slender and tall as the great Eiffel Tower,
When the waltz throbbed out on the long promenade
O his eyes and his smile they went straight to my heart;
"O marry me, Johnny, I'll love and obey":
But he frowned like thunder and he went away.

O last night I dreamed of you, Johnny, my lover,
You'd the sun on one arm and the moon on the other,
The sea it was blue and the grass it was green,
Every star rattled a round tambourine;
Ten thousand miles deep in a pit there I lay:
But you frowned like thunder and you went away.

April 1937

XI. Roman Wall Blues
Over the heather the wet wind blows,
I've lice in my tunic and a cold in my nose.

The rain comes pattering out of the sky,
I'm a Wall soldier, I don't know why.

The mist creeps over the hard grey stone,
My girl's in Tungria; I sleep alone.

Aulus goes hanging around her place,
I don't like his manners, I don't like his face.

Piso's a Christian, he worships a fish;
There'd be no kissing if he had his wish.

She gave me a ring but I diced it away;
I want my girl and I want my pay.

When I'm a veteran with only one eye
I shall do nothing but look at the sky.

October 1937

XII.
Some say that love's a little boy,
And some say it's a bird,
Some say it makes the world round,
And some say that's absurd,
And when I asked the man next-door,
Who looked as if he knew,
His wife got very cross indeed,
And said it wouldn't do.

Does it look like a pair of pyjamas,
Or the ham in a temperance hotel?
Does its odour remind one of llamas,
Or has it a comforting smell?
Is it prickly to touch as a hedge is,
Or soft as eiderdown fluff?
Is it sharp or quite smooth at the edges?
O tell me the truth about love.

Our history books refer to it
In cryptic little notes,
It's quite a common topic on
The Transatlantic boats;
I've found the subject mentioned in
Accounts of suicides,
And even seen it scribbled on
The backs of railway-guides.

Does it howl like a hungry Alsatian,
Or boom like a military band?
Could one give a first-rate imitation
On a saw or a Steinway Grand?
Is its singing at parties a riot?
Does it only like classical stuff?
Does it stop when one wants to quiet?
O tell me the truth about love.

I looked inside the summer-house;
It wasn't ever there:
I tried the Thames at Maidenhead,
And Brighton's bracing air.
I don't know what the blackbird sang,
Or what the tulip said;
But it wasn' in the chicken-run,
Or underneath the bed.

Can it pull extraordinary faces?
Is it usually sick on a swing?
Does it spend all its time at the races,
Or fiddling with pieces of string?
Has it views of its own about money?
Does it think Patriotism enough?
Are its stories ****** but funny?
O tell me the truth about love.

When it comes, will it come without warning
Just as I'm picking my nose?
Will it knock on the door in the morning,
Or tread in the bus on my toes?
Will it come like a change in the weather?
Will its greeting be courteous or rough?
Will it alter my life altogether?
O tell me the truth about love.

January 1938
Lady Bird Sep 2016
satisfying, slightly sweet
an orange spindle shape
something enjoyable to eat  
very good for your health
crunchy in every bite
yet full of robust wealth
to improve your eyesight
with a hard and rough texture
it's green bloomed leafy top
helps balance out its flavor
such a great nutrient to savor
diced, grated, wild or raw
shredded even sliced when fresh
in any cookbook there are so may
ways to prepare this delicious and
enjoyable golden orange vegetable
Infamous one Nov 2013
My jobs not great but its money
I don't need a girl but wish someone would love me
Tough love hard thoughts to cope with
Bad choice tough decisions
Part of taking control had enough
The rain is my weather makes things better
Thankful and overall growing  up
Even if life is more than showing up
Not caring staring off in the distant
Feeling numb being resistant
Consumed by anxiety hard to breathe
I know dreams shared them
Even if no one cared for them
Life lesson learned time already served
You chose less that's what you deserve
Space Apr 2013
3-14-13

I felt my skin
Running through the spaces that I call between
And I listened in, from the places where I had been
I wrote down, the lyrics that came between
And I powered through, until a drop rang out
I noticed it was raining bullets, but I guess you can't always get what you want
Out from under the awning, I stuck my young, wrinkled arms out in the autumn
Eyes flew back as if the rope used to tie them down was chewed down to a nibble by some rats
I guess, you can never be too sure
My wrinkle was gone, almost based on the book
But it only shared a fragment of the sentence I was trying to reach in for
My hand was dismembered, vacant to a normal eye
But I knew what it had been through
Twisting crevices from blood spray and broken legs
Scarred underarms all the way up to penetrating collarbones
****** up thoughts teleporting away
Desensitization is something that is meant for prey
A coping with death, and a dealing with where you're at
In a tumbling food chain
I bring my imaginary hand back to my body
The bullet spray from outside the awning misted me really well
Maybe the rain is sexist or racist
Because I can see that the usher over there is untouched by the led
His arm wasn't turned into memories of all the things that he had accomplished with that hand
Not like a food for thought
Because all the food is meat
And that meat is diced to perfection
Diced to chance, a robust dance of sparking and harming
No weatherman can ask for so much misery to rain on that one guy
He couldn't sew up the stitches
Because there's nothing left
It's all on the sidewalk and the sides of the sidewalk
The under belly of the concrete I step on
Stepped on
I won't use the paths of limbs anymore
Because ya know what is really on the underside of a sidewalk?


A side of a place to sit, boiling in a melting ***
Grounded fine herbs make the best tea, a little piece of you
A little piece of me
You stir them together regardless of bullets, limbs, legs, amphetamines
Even race
Good old race
And ******* ***
...
Like, as in gender
Even though the bend of her back compliments the questions I feed her
Breaking down, she delves into her own habits, a glimpse at trying to save her
Maybe later
It might all be gone, or she might be hiding it on her tongue to savor
But I'm not the kind to wait on this conveyor belt.
So, just maybe, there's no cliche breakup
Or getting back at each other for how we treated ourselves
I just get my arm back. Instead of this red dangling flesh
Lisa Voutsikakis Jul 2019
Christmas present? Ham. Mom's gift - no spiral
Just sliced it, diced it, multiply, divide - nothing left by the wayside
Bone broth made
Compound interest
Cut it up three... maybe 4 ways
Skyline chili and a...
Splash!  head above...
Relax dad, I can swim, I'm still YOUR daughter
Your wife, though, she said...
Forget what she said
People talk. Hush, shh! It's true  - she's wild
Mild and indifferent
when the meek inherits the Earth
but as long as evil spawns from birth
bound are not my wrists with worry or fear
every time someone whispers my name in another's ear
Blood on my tongue before I sob
Self reliant, I found another job
Over
time
always
No Sleep Quality In(n) daylight hours
Florescent lights
8 to 8
No time to sit around and...
Wait!
Where's my soup?!
That's all I have
One hundred and eighty food stamps
One hundred and eighty blessings each month
But not enough for you to take my lunch.
Part of a spoken word representing a dream, hard work w/ little reprieve.  Willingness to stand up to whosoever tells you "you can't do it" and those who think they can profit off of the young, vulnerable or those without social support.
All words are true.
svdgrl Jan 2015
Chop. Chop. Chop.
The colors of the pepper
scatter on woodgrain.
They sit next to the diced onion
that I cut blind-
Chop
with my face turned to the door.
Those are next to the once big trees of broccoli-
Chop
now small flowers,
and there's a potent pile of garlic-
Chop
ready to be thrown into a shallow pit of heat-
the olive oil is sizzling.
Stop.
Listen to sound of produce.
Go!
Don't let the smoke rise too far-
the noses will come visit
and take your dinner away.
That's okay...
**I wasn't hungry anyway.
Over the heather the wet wind blows,
I've lice in my tunic and a cold in my nose.

The rain comes pattering out of the sky,
I'm a Wall soldier, I don't know why.

The mist creeps over the hard grey stone,
My girl's in Tungria; I sleep alone.

Aulus goes hanging around her place,
I don't like his manners, I don't like his face.

Piso's a Christian, he worships a fish;
There'd be no kissing if he had his wish.

She gave me a ring but I diced it away;
I want my girl and I want my pay.

When I'm a veteran with only one eye
I shall do nothing but look at the sky.
The Peppered Pickle Clown
(Peppered Pickle Day)

This is a story you may not know
And it's banned in pickle town
It's about a peppered pickle
That became a circus clown

He started out his short life
Looking through a stained glass jar
Watching his sweet pickled brother
Become a kosher star

Although his peppered pickled life was sweet
This peppered pickle wanted more
He would join the circus as a clown
And be a smash that fans adored

At first it started slowly
No fans would call his name
But a peppered pickle as a clown
Well thats funny just the same

As time went on he made them laugh
They started yelling for him more
Then a show was given just to him
And a peppered pickle day was born

All the fans they ordered pickles
On peppered pickles they would gorge
Then one day there came a time
When peppered pickles they ran short

The peppered pickle clown knew right then
That it was time to make his mark
So he made a deal with Vlasic corp.
To put peppered pickles in their jars

Well Vlasic corp. invited him
To come take a private tour
They said that he would relish it
And be a cut up in the stores

They put the peppered pickle clown
In a clown chair and tied him down
They said it was for safety
As the belt showed him all around

The belt went slow when starting out
Picked up speed as it went along
The peppered pickle clown was sliced and diced
Vlasic didn't clown around

So remember the peppered pickle clown
When you shop at your home store
He gave his life for stardom
And thats why you now pay more

Today is peppered pickle day
And should be known the world around
Made famous by a sweet delight
The peppered pickle clown

Carl J. Roberts
I know, I Know this is no where near my normal. No life lesson, memory from the past or make you cry poem. These past several weeks I have written those touching heart felt poems and well I just needed a break. So if you were looking for a life lesson today just shake your head and say, Joe, Joe, Joe..Really, Really. ..lol
liza Oct 2013
On Sundays, we'd eat lunch with your mom and then watch a movie. But you never really watched the movie; you were too busy kissing my neck and playing with my hands. And plus, there was never a movie we could watch that you hadn't already seen at least twice.

It was a Sunday that we sat on your red sofa and really kissed for the fist time. It was my first real passionate kiss with anyone. At first, you had no clue where to put your hands, and we were sitting kind of awkward like we didn't know where to start. You put your hand on my cheek, then my thigh, then my cheek again. And then, as if with a burst of confidence, you lifted me off the couch and onto your lap, and didn't hesitate to touch every inch of bare skin you could find.

It was a Sunday evening that I first met your family. You invited me for dinner and then we decorated the Christmas tree. I wore my coat the entire time, as if I were ready to run out of your back door at any given moment. And honestly, I was. It didn't matter how many jokes your dad told, I never felt like i belonged. I'm positive they both hated me, and even more now. But I wasn't stealing kisses from your mother in the kitchen. I was stealing them from you and that's what kept me coming back.

It was a Sunday that I wore a pink t-shirt to your neighborhood craw fish boil. And we snuck off mid-afternoon. And when your mother found us in your bedroom, (noticing my frazzled state and messy hair)  I could see the disgust through her smile as she politely asked us to "please spend some time with the family."

It was a Sunday that you picked me up and took me for frozen yogurt. Our first date that felt forced. We sat and stared at the diced fruit toppings behind the glass window, and wished we were anywhere but there. And when I began to get ready to leave, you asked me to wait. "lets just stay a while longer?" Your eyes looked sad, and I knew why you had made the request. We tried as hard as we could.

It was a Sunday that I'd asked to see you. I hadn't seen you all week. You told me you were busy. You were busy. You were busy. You were busy.

It was a Sunday that we watched a movie on your red sofa and you watched the entire thing. The entire ******* movie who's dialogue you had completely memorized. I knew you weren't interested, but I guess it was more interesting that my neck or my hands, which stayed untouched our entire visit.

And It was a Sunday that you drove down my driveway and I was waiting for you in your parking spot crying. You got out and looked at me. You just looked at me for a second as if taking in that this was it. Then you held me while I cried. And apologized a million times. When I pulled away, I looked you in the eye and said "I can't do this anymore. I need you to get in your car and leave." Then I kissed you very hard and pulled away. I wrapped my arms around myself and watched you get in your silver car for the last time.

And today it's Sunday and I wish it were any other day.
Because the only thing I hate more than you, is a Sunday spent off of your red sofa, and the spaces between you fingers, filled with someone else.
Wrote this sunday. Just getting around to posting
unnamed Nov 2014
Breaths hasten as he clasps his parachute,
His hands tremble as he adjusts his suit.
Shuffling the cards, he gloats at death’s blank face,
And lays them before him without refute.

He’s untouchable, immortal… he jumps;
Wind’s screams echo in his ears as he flips.
Dripping arrogance, he studies his cards;
With a half smile he bets all his chips.

With tangled string and limp synthetic cloth,
Panic seizes and bravado is lost.
Victory unfolds in Death’s haunting eyes
As his royal flush spells the fool’s demise.

His chips are gone, it was rigged from the start;
He knows he’s diced with a cheater at heart.
Liz Anne Jan 2014
I am the sort
whose love will perch
cross-legged
on a kitchen counter top and
watch
the snake-tongue sizzle
of my heart
diced and flying
in your un-greased
frying
pan while you so innocently
sautee
the thick skin of what could
once have made you
cry
and run so easily
and only then will you look up
as if to say
"are you up for a little stir
fry
tonight?"
Nat Lipstadt Nov 2013
There are metallic, life-like statues of human figures scattered through my city, often on park benches.  You must look twice the first time you spot them, and sometimes, each time, as they are so nat-ural, that they fool the retina image of man.*

The traffic light,
red to green,
yet my limbs,
froze fruit solid,
release catch stuck,
unflippable,
somehow plastic freezes,
mobility skills rusted
by December's hampering
cheeky cheeks,
a seasonal reddish copper
discoloration of the extremities,
a harmony of no sensation

A comet stuck in
pedestrian neutral,
collided/jostled by
starry eyed
Fifth Avenue
street walkers and tourists.

my presence sensed,
touched, yet avoided,
unnoticed,
like streetlight,
lamppost, mailbox,
I am, a body,
at rest,
unseen
but on display
in the art gallery of
Manhattan's Lost and Found

In the section of the paper
where the
unimportant local news is
sliced n' diced
into single paragraphs,
of human interest,
tidbits, amuse bouche,
items of
major minor interest,
The New York Times
reported the discovery of an
unauthorized lifelike
bronze n' copper sculpture.

eyes of polished nickel,
heart of stained steel,
rendition of a man
so lifelike y'all do a
triple take, smile,
take a cell photo,
phone a friend

his embodiment can be found
on the rounded corner of
Columbus Circle, @59th St.,
where you enter Central Park.

upon a bench,
man clutching Sunday newspapers,
a pair of scissors,
coupons cut,
scattered at his feet.
a homely but comely,
****** expression,
one of bewilderment.

A tiny plaque on a brass plate,
at his feet,
hints of his progenitor and human origins.

Artist: Unknown,
Materials: Organic Metals
Title: A Living Finish
Colten Sorrells Apr 2016
a third-pound of ground beef
and a pile of diced ramp bulbs
I laced it with steak seasoning
rolled in about a handful

ain't got no time for fancy buns
so I thought that instead
of dressing up a masterpiece
I'd put it on some bread

**...and it was good
Ma Cherie Sep 2016
I love you onion
I'll tell you why
in part because
you make me sigh,
you are everything to me
the song my Mother sang...
a whimsical, sad
and poignant little tale
I hear you crooning
& the radio tuning
my Mother knew me better
than I'd like to think,
singing ...
Lonely 'Lil petunia in an onion patch
a bittersweet memory
of all the saddest words
that I have ever heard
the saddest is the story
told me by a bird
tears fall from a pungent smell
when I cannot forgive,
say you'll never tell
and in tears of laughter  
when I'm tickled
seeing the inchworm
in the shape of a finger
a moment comes,
  I stay
and linger
climbing like a spider
singing me a verse
Spent about an hour
chatting with a flower
and here's the tale he told
as you're peeling layers,
& hearing prayers
revealing honesty
and depth of flavor
intoxicating waifs
I sniff and savor
kept safe
by a sturdy skin
cooking you
I start, begin
chopped fresh
and finely diced
or maybe
even thinly sliced
for summertime
franks, not the
Ballpark kind
these I doubt
you'll ever find
homemade baked beans
that you adorn and grace
a smiling sweet,
lil' onion face
everything made
from scratch
gleaning my
lil' onion patch
in toasted rolls,
whole grain mustard
potato salad...
best I can recall
my Mother
took the time to make
in everything
she cooked and baked
you're in all my memories
though you're in so much more
I've never shared with you
this love I have before
Onions are adaptation at its finest
fresh, sauteed with butter
translucent sweetness
Elevating anything you touch
they cry, and laugh
and give so much
dried, grated..slightly dated...
even hated, chopped up..
or roasted, grilled...
so very skilled
any way you slice it
even if you dice it
differently delightful
and delicious
smart for recipes,
even onion haters
appreciate the graters
sometimes your in  disguise
a lovely found
& welcome surprise
must be
I have something
in my eyes
as the flower
continues to sing
a joyful gift
my onion brings
familiar sounds
songs I sing
petunia continues
who put me in this bed
I'll bet his face is red
I call him down
with every teardrop that I shed
  then she said
if only I had him here
I would take him by his ear
and make him share my misery
I'm cooking homemade
onion chips,
rewound on old-time family clips
recall the fresh-squeezed lemonade
while we're sittin' in
the cooling shade
a memory of you replayed
so very glad you came & stayed
  sippin' slow brewed iced tea
my lil' onion friend and me.

Cherie Nolan© 2016
For my Mother - used to sing me lonely little petunia inan onion patch https://youtu.be/PtMQa1sSW_g
Smile everyone! Beautiful here!
My Claudia, it is long since we have met,
So kissed, so held each other heart to heart!
I thought to greet thee as a conqueror comes,
Bearing the trophies of his prowess home,
But Jove hath willed it should be otherwise­
Jove, say I? Nay, some mightier stranger-god
Who thus hath laid his heavy hand on me,
No victor, Claudia, but a broken man
Who seeks to hide his weakness in thy love.

How beautiful thou art! The years have brought
An added splendor to thy loveliness,
With passion of dark eye and lip rose-red
Struggling between its dimple and its pride.
And yet there is somewhat that glooms between
Thy love and mine; come, girdle me about
With thy true arms, and pillow on thy breast
This aching and bewildered head of mine;
Here, where the fountain glitters in the sun
Among the saffron lilies, I will tell­
If so that words will answer my desire­
The shameful fate that hath befallen me.

Down in Jerusalem they slew a man,
Or god­it may be that he was a god­
Those mad, wild Jews whom Pontius Pilate rules.
Thou knowest Pilate, Claudia­ -- a vain man,
Too weak to govern such a howling horde
As those same Jews. This man they crucified.
I knew nought of him­had not heard his name
Until the day they dragged him to his death;
Then all tongues wagged about him and his deeds;
Some said that he had claimed to be their King,
Some that he had blasphemed their deity
'Twas certain he was poor and meanly born,
No warrior he, nor hero; and he taught
Doctrines that surely would upset the world;
And so they killed him to be rid of him­
Wise, very wise, if he were only man,
Not quite so wise if he were half a god!

I know that strange things happened when he died­
There was a darkness and an agony,
And some were vastly frightened­not so I!
What cared I if that mob of reeking Jews
Had brought a nameless curse upon their heads ?
I had no part in that blood-guiltiness.
At least he died; and some few friends of his­
I think he had not very many friends­
Took him and laid him in a garden tomb.
A watch was set about the sepulchre,
Lest these, his friends, should hide him and proclaim
That he had risen as he had fore-told.
Laugh not, my Claudia. I laughed when I heard
The prophecy. I would I had not laughed!

I, Maximus, was chosen for the guard
With all my trusty fellows. Pilate knew
I was a man who had no foolish heart
Of softness all unworthy of a man!
My eyes had looked upon a tortured slave
As on a beetle crushed beneath my tread;
I gloried in the splendid strife of war,
Lusting for conquest; I had won the praise
Of our stern general on a scarlet field;
Red in my veins the warrior passion ran,
For I had sprung from heroes, Roman born!

That second night we watched before the tomb;
My men were merry; on the velvet turf,
Bestarred with early blossoms of the Spring,
They diced with jest and laughter; all around
The moonlight washed us like a silver lake,
Save where that silent, sealed sepulchre
Was hung with shadow as a purple pall.
A faint wind stirred among the olive boughs­
Methinks I hear the sighing of that wind
In all sounds since, it was so dumbly sad;
But as the night wore on it died away
And all was deadly stillness; Claudia,
That stillness was most awful, as if some
Great heart had broken and so ceased to beat!
I thought of many things, but found no joy
In any thought, even the thought of thee;
The moon waned in the west and sickly grew
Her light ****** from her in the breaking dawn­
Never was dawn so welcome as that pale,
Faint glimmer in the cloudless, brooding sky!

Claudia, how may I tell what came to pass?
I have been mocked at when I told the tale
For a crazed dreamer punished by the gods
Because he slept on guard; but mock not thou!
I could not bear it if thy lips should mock
The vision dread of that Judean morn.

Sudden the pallid east was all aflame
With radiance that beat upon our eyes
As from noonday sun; and then we saw
Two shapes that were as the immortal gods
Standing before the tomb; around me fell
My men as dead; but I, though through my veins
Ran a cold tremor never known before,
Withstood the shock and saw one shining shape
Roll back the stone; the whole world seemed ablaze,
And through the garden came a rushing wind
Thundering a paeon as of victory.

Then that dead man came forth! Oh, Claudia,
If thou coulds't but have seen the face of him!
Never was such a conqueror! Yet no pride
Was in it­nought but love and tenderness,
Such as we Romans scoff at; and his eyes
Bespake him royal. Oh, my Claudia,
Surely he was no Jew but very god!

Then he looked full upon me. I had borne
Much staunchly, but that look I could not bear!
What man may front a god and live? I fell
Prone, as if stricken by a thunderbolt;
And, though I died not, somewhat of me died
That made me man. When my long stupor passed
I was no longer Maximus­I was
A weakling with a piteous woman-soul,
All strength and pride, joy and ambition gone­
My Claudia, dare I tell thee what foul curse
Is mine because I looked upon a god?

I care no more for glory; all desire
For conquest and for strife is gone from me,
All eagerness for war; I only care
To help and heal bruised beings, and to give
Some comfort to the weak and suffering.
I cannot even hate those Jews; my lips
Speak harshly of them, but within my heart
I feel a strange compassion; and I love
All creatures, to the vilest of the slaves
Who seem to me as brothers! Claudia,
Scorn me not for this weakness; it will pass­
Surely 'twill pass in time and I shall be
Maximus strong and valiant once again,
Forgetting that slain god! and yet­and yet­
He looked as one who could not be forgot!
Paul Roberts Apr 2012
Bloodshot eyes and a case of laughter,
a Waffle House fix is what we are after.
Find a booth and all pile in,
waitress comes up and the mayhem begins.
Oh but she is a pro,
done this a time or two,
pretty soon here comes our food.
Scraping of the forks and clatter of the plates,
we look like it's been weeks since we ate.
We got scattered, chunked, covered and diced,
heartburn on a plate and don't even think twice.
Well no more thumping head and eyes cleared up a bit,
all we needed was a Waffle House fix!
Micheal Wolf Feb 2013
Why the sudden alarm I ask?
Because you've eaten a horses ***
For years we've eaten all kinds of meat
Mixed with things you find in paint
A list of E numbers a sentence long
Who knew if they where doing wrong
Colouring from crushed beetles shells
Or other insects as well
Artificial raspberry sounds yum yum
Yeah it's made from beavers ***!
So here's a tip to help you shop
Look under the bar code at numbers lots
This may stop you getting cross
If it starts with 5 sling it out !
Its Asian chicken bleached and vile
From roadside **** or any source
boiled in salt of course
So we now protest at a bit of horse
Years to late we've eaten worse.
On holiday you eat bulls *****
Your hotdogs could be his other smalls!
Sweetbreads eyeballs hooves the lot
So diced, reclaimed or added in
You've no idea what's gone in
Mad cow mad horse or confused pig
I wonder if I've eaten each
The veggie options just as bad
With GM foods Monsanto's bag
MSG enhancers to to stop the food from tasting goo
So wine or beer for me tonight
As foods now a depressing sight

Bacon butty anyone?
Joe Cole May 2014
Yes tis just a simple stew cooked six hours in the pan
But a hearty filling meal and I hope you find it grand
Diced beef, lentils, pasta to mention ingredients but a few
All of them do have their place when I cook up a stew
Tomatoes in abundance I have placed in there
Carrot and potatoes diced with precision and care
Sliced green beans, leeks and onions play their part
Its lucky I was trained a chef so I knew where to start
All slowly cooked in a succulent gravy with added rich beef stock
As well as button mushrooms simmering in the ***
This stew to be served with a crusty roll, food so very fair
I invite you to my table,  and I will serve you there
My kind of food and its cooking right now
Samuel Hesed Dec 2015
It stood on a throne,
Made out of lime stone.

It was clothed,
In colorless gold.

It wore a shadeless crown,
Above its brow.

Its heart was frozen-
From winters night.

Its soul was diced,
by Jack Frost's knife.

It stood alone,
In its quite abyss.
Dismissing my stare.

Though it was free,
It looked lost at sea.

For, I waited to hear a plea,
But it was silent as a willow tree.

Time passed-
And it started to bow

To the brown earth beneath its feet,
To the blue sky above its crown.

Though, the journey was over,
And the final Goodbyes were made.

I could never forget the pride in its eyes,
Or why it stood so still.

For to this day,
I question if I'll every discover,
If the White Rose knew,
Of its wonder?
Copyright © 2015 Paul Forbes All Rights Reserved
Stephen Parker Aug 2011
Little Red Riding Hood's Last Stroll

Twas the darkest of nights in the prarie woodland
Little Red Riding Hood walked the raven strand
Her beaten path was strewn with briar and thistle band
Losing her way, she stumbled into the murky lowland
   
A steamy fog cut through the bleary bog
The rancid odor of vaporous springs did the air clog
A venomous frog full of spite sat on a jagged log
Vampire bats with their ebony capes the putrid air did flog

A Hoot owl from overhead bellowed out a dolesome refrain
Sprightly shadows followed forming a loathsome train
Every few seconds, an eery howl filled the air with a portentous strain
Creepy, crawling insects fiddled a tune of disdain

Little Red Riding Hood's heels became mired in the porous, sandy soil
Discarding her sandals, she screeched; slimy leeches clasped each, bleached sole
Thirsty, Vampire bats veered all about seeking her ****** blood to spoil
Frightened to her wits' end, she sat down on a log to weigh her dreary toll

Unbeknownst to her, the spiteful toad for a wary companion did troll
Taking aim, that malicious toad took a gleeful caper landing on her ****** mole
Discharging his vitriolic potion, Little Red Riding Hood screamed as the pain through her blanched tissue did roll
A minute later, her callous mole was transformed into a pusy, seething boil

Leaping from her bartered stool, she ran into the foreboding wood
Her homely cape snagged on an extended limb and from her fragile arm  spilt blood
The whiff of fresh, warm blood was immediately sensed by a wolf pack brood
Hearing the howling pack approaching, she froze right where she stood

Remembering Grandmother's wise advice, she climbed the nearest tree
Not realizing therein lay a poisonous snake perched so sprightly
Arriving on the scene first, the Druid lapped up the trail of blood that gushed from her wound so freely
To placate the menacing brood, she tossed down some of grandmother's crumpets briskly

A second later, the coiled up snake lunged at its helpless target with lightning speed 
Alarmed, Little Red Riding Hood whirled about wrapping around her the flailing snake like a nimble reed
Losing her balance, she fell headlong into the hungry jaws of gluttonous greed
That ravenous brood lapped up the crumpets, diced up the snake, and did the nimble limbs of Little Red Riding Hood knead

A word of caution to every rambling, ambling tite
If ever you venture into the perilous copse at night
Beware of the spiteful vermin that scour and stalk with stealthy might
And never from the beaten trail stray or malicious malcontents will your innocence spite
After the whipping he crawled into bed,
Accepting the harsh fact with no great weeping.
How funny uncle's hat had looked striped red!
He chuckled silently. The moon came, sweeping
A black, frayed rag of tattered cloud before
In scorning; very pure and pale she seemed,
Flooding his bed with radiance. On the floor
Fat motes danced. He sobbed, closed his eyes and dreamed.

Warm sand flowed round him. Blurts of crimson light
Splashed the white grains like blood. Past the cave's mouth
Shone with a large, fierce splendor, wildly bright,
The crooked constellations of the South;
Here the Cross swung; and there, affronting Mars,
The Centaur stormed aside a froth of stars.
Within, great casks, like wattled aldermen,
Sighed of enormous feasts, and cloth of gold
Glowed on the walls like hot desire. Again,
Beside webbed purples from some galleon's hold,
A black chest bore the skull and bones in white
Above a scrawled "Gunpowder!" By the flames,
Decked out in crimson, gemmed with syenite,
Hailing their fellows with outrageous names,
The pirates sat and diced. Their eyes were moons.
"Doubloons!" they said. The words crashed gold. "Doubloons!"
Irate Watcher Nov 2014
You three believe in creating scarcity,
NOT union.
You build HOV lanes for your luxury cars,
caring less how efficient they are.
They roll royce cross your game board,
fuming trails of money.
Bell Atlantic bought Madison Avenue,
you bought all the properties.
Now tenants can't avoid
the traffic or the noise
of an internet rolled in palms
and diced
spiraling
to speed limits
...
...
...
...
and red highways
...
...
...
...
and orange traffic cones that
block hybrid cars,
already swerving
to avoid bankruptcy.
We
STOP
the
STOP
people
STOP
moving,
our preamble crumbles to a
STOP,
becoming a eulogy —
an ideal dumb to power trippery,
after Time Warner and Comcast merged,
allies on opposite sides of the game board.

Verizon, Comcast, AT&T;
together you own pretty much
everyone but Fox and Disney,
(yet have invested in them heavily).

Verizon, Comcast, AT&T;
your oligarchy is
NBC, Universal, CNN, Warner Brothers,
and now FullScreen,
family-friendly nepotism
that inbreeds bearing
deaf drones bored of flying,
over
Why Beyonce is a Feminist.
or
Why Ferguson was racist,
media's offspring
just keep clicking,
the headline genocide victims
basking in concentrated lamps
for a sliver of attention.

Verizon, Comcast, AT&T;
Now you want the backend buffering,
bulging eyes and emptying pockets
of those Spocked into believing,
hyperspeed was ever necessary.
No choice when the exits are slow
and there are no backroads.

Verizon, Comcast, AT&T;,
offspring of the
Bell Atlantic Company,
we will not let your
****** populate the internet.
Call it Capitalism,
but your playing Monopoly,
yanking the carpet underneath
to the wood of Tyranny.
You shamed
Bell's invention
by stringing together
telephone
internet,
and
entertainment companies
until you could be lazy.
Monkeys who spent millions
to shriek at government parties
about the communication machine,
a system downloaded so slowly,
we
did
not
act
on
cons
piracy
theories,
when Amazon made online shopping so easy.

Dear Internet Service Providers,
so called ISP's,
WE ARE DONE playing Monopoly.
Our collective voice
will shout blasphemy
on your streets,
hashtagged
net neutrality,
till you're counting pennies.
So empty your Washington banks
cause it's 3 a.m. and
no ONE is winning.
This is it. The FCC's plan to slow down the internet is going to hurt the sites we love like HP. Join the emergency protests around the U.S. and show Obama that we will accept nothing less than a free internet.
https://www.battleforthenet.com/#protest?t=dXNlcmlkPTU1MzE3MTkyLGVtYWlsaWQ9OTI2NA==

Why is net neutrality important, you say?
This recent article offers a brief summary:  http://www.entrepreneur.com/article/239251
Bailey Martin Jun 2016
Shoe fries, JoJos
Scalloped potatoes, Mashed potatoes
Baked potatoes, Hashbrowns, Tatertots
Latkas, Potato soup, French fries, Home fries
Diced potatoes, Potato chips, Curly fries
Potato pies, Riced potatoes, Spudnuts
Potato salad, Poutine
Jonathan Howard Feb 2015
The amber bottle rested on the cozy
while you tossed back *****. Crackling
over ice, popping to the warm quake
tumbling down your throat. Voices
to the right bounced, shot *****
into pockets, towards the corner
sulking after being hit. You've sipped
your dignity, having an allergic reaction,
your eyes cursed, blood stained
glasses diced palms, attached
with glass in hope of feeling numb.
Jonny Angel Sep 2014
Twelve days on the isthmus,
trudging through the gap,
we sliced & diced
vines along the trail,
through a world all its own.

Iguanas & butterflies
accompanied us,
along with the tarantulas,
toucans & monkeys.
Everything was in tune,
nature at its finest.

But the bearded-dudes
we encountered
seeemed way out of place,
different from the nature
that was around us.

They were unusually
focused, out of touch
with their long line
of saddlebagged-mulas
& fully-packed mochilas.

The automatic weapons
& machetes finished
off the picture
of these serious hombres,
the runners of the jungle.

We traded Marlboro's
& Johnny Walker Red
for some tea & sugar
& they waved us on by,
gave us safe passage
into Colombia.
Darkly Oct 2016
Patron: "...And can you add the diced Hamlet to that omelette?"

Waiter: "Jolly good sir, and do you know if you'll be having dessert?"

Patron: "Oh yes, I'll have a strawberry Shakespeare."

Waiter: "Brilliant, your omelette will be out before you can say 'Ides of marshmallow'."

Patron: "That was dreadful and you know it."

Waiter: "Deary me, sir."

END SCENE
What the flippity flop. Who in the pooty comes up with this... oh. That would be me.
Peppy Miller Oct 2013
We took everything off the shelf
opened each can to look inside our self
diced the onion until we had tears in our eyes
skinned the potato until the rough skin subsides
chopped the carrot so only sweetness remained;
rotten lost, flavor gained
turned the knobs to the highest setting
combined our ingredients to avoid forgetting
heated well and tried for taste
we added spices until the right ones were placed
you said you wanted a cinnamon girl
we grabbed it from the lazy Susan and gave it a whirl
it was just what we needed but we were too blind to see
I burned my tongue when you were feeding me
it still needed work but we never lost patience
we just kept trying; most things require maintenance
the finished product was reached after a while
you poured in cheese as I flashed a cornbread smile
Mateuš Conrad Mar 2016
on today's menu? a leek and granny smith apple salad (crème fraîche instead of mayonnaise, a bit of lemon juice and a bit of sugar, salt and pepper of course; diced tomatoes with onion, white vinegar / an acetic acid concoction, salt and pepper; cucumbers and tomatoes with onions likewise as the diced tomatoes extras; mashed potatoes with a dash of milk and crème fraîche and dill; and of course, the pièce de résistance - a slowly fried schnitzel (dabbled in a sprinkle of plain flower, egg, and breadcrumbs); apropos, don't you find middle-class english people slightly paranoid about using white vinegar as if they've seen a martian? i've seen it, what a comedy, with one line the entire theatrical play played out, and nothing was said, just eye contact!*

actually the only fun i have from
certain bad palette recipes
is throwing raw meat to my cats,
beef is met with full approval,
pork too, chicken not so much,
prawns are approved, even a fish
eye; indeed if i'm working on a dish
from inexperience reciting each
ingredient into the cauldron i never
know what to expect, and if the dish
is written by a badly experienced palette,
throwing raw meat to my cats
is the most enjoyable part of cooking,
it almost feels like a scene from
a coliseum.
Misgivings
taught,

fallacies
absorbed,

perceptions
formed,

lies
endorsed,

pain
enamoured,

hope
dormant,

meaning­
strife,

decisions
diced,

aimlessness
concise
jimmy tee Jan 2014
the rain never ended yesterday
the thick ice that covered the world
was obstinate and refused to melt
on any condition but its own
the ingredients were on hand
in pantry, kitchen and desire
for Peanut Soup Senegalese
but melancholy was as  stubborn
as the ice out doors

three sweet potatoes peeled and chopped
one onion peeled and chopped
one can diced tomatoes with liquid
one and a half cup crunchy peanut butter
half teaspoon cumin, cinnamon, allspice, salt, black pepper
three tablespoons olive oil
water
desire

over medium heat roast the spices in the olive oil
add onion and stir to coat; cook a couple of minutes
add sweet potatoes, tomatoes, salt and pepper
add water to barely cover
bring to soft boil and simmer for forty five minutes
or until potatoes are soft
remove from heat and let cool  for ten minutes
with a hand blender, blend until smooth [careful]
add peanut butter, blend by hand until smooth
simmer over low heat for fifteen minutes
serve

recognize that the melancholy of the day still persists
but is much more flavorful
Poetoftheway Jan 2018
this one, this one poem,
this old birth, renascent,
is not in the file

the file place where the
half started, nearly done,
but never truly satisfactory
fester, marinate, awaiting confrontation,
some kind of contentment of a sort,
final solution of annihation or completion

many a bare-***** title,
that the lords of hosts of
itinerant peddlers seeded,
notions await coating, stroking,
full flesh embodiment,
awaiting perhaps peepholes
for a someday poem

but not this one

this one I possessed,
better said, better reflected,
it possessed me,
rooted so deep, thick limbed,  
it, larger than my life,
though of my life,
cut, diced, sliced amd muddled

no confession of the cheapside here,
this, more a rescission, breaking of a contract,
annulment of a reputation in ten thousand words earned,
now comes, the longest day apology

why now,why ever?
there was a trigger that flipped the lock,
to open and accursed,
keys that filled the keyholes,
opened them peepholes,
that prior asked to kindly be
left let to rust in peace

this one composed itself,
asking no permission,
in the sense that I am more
recorder of the disorder,
than author

don't beg to differ, do not countenance opposition to
what here exposed, as the only witness,
I yam the guilty poet party, the jury, the prosecutor,
the fool client, all one and the same
who must perforce defend himself,
for no counsel needed for one
who guilty pleads
to charges of high crimes and misdemeanors, that
he himself created, so numerous,
no ear could tolerate the hear,
the alphabet of sins committed against
man and God*

of course you want details,
you wish enablement, the *** of the
simple syrup of satisfaction of the
titillation of the knowing

pick a letter any letter
and I will supply the action, or worse,
the inaction


for the greatest pockmarks that Cain marked this man,
were the failure to be brave,
be there when needed,
the shaming of thinking
instead of instinct reacting,
tiny inconsequential fears
that work word whisper
why you? not you?  somebody else?
when so clearly you
were the anointed one,
but stayed behind as
the one who disappointed

each grass blade censures,
each water sun sparkle accuses,
our prior direct line connection,
now ******
the winds voice shocked unto summer stultifying stillness
and you, still here, still reading?


cheated lied even murdered,

told to crank away the cranky somber,
unmistakeable,
but this shaming don't know no quitting time,
having surfaced, it is
my burnishment, the polished gloss
of rubbing off the now vanished varnish


who knew truths so foul could gleam,
my side listing, so angular lengthy,
that I walk unrighted,
signed below as,
this is the poet of the way, the who l am
June 6, 2017
I captained logs lovingly across
a musky pond
to hang stars on this date
when so much happened.
Let’s wake in the missed-me morrow
and I’ll try to recapture it.

6am

My aroused heart pounds with the eager
pecks of new world sparrows
feasting on a found pile of saltine *******
crumbs.

With these easier pickings, they can gloss
over hypothetical seeds lost
and the unfortunate insects
still trapped in their tightly wrapped buds
while emitting
a silky trickle of pollen sweetened tears
I might have once confused as joy.

8am

My mouth is a cast iron bell
robbed of its moistness
and the service of a tongue that would rather be
surgically cut without
the requisite anesthesia
than extol with slithering anticipation
the downfall of cold-blooded prey.

A grubby grimace can’t
switch off the cockle-less warmth
gazed by an elegantly impolite swan,
but amazingly cottony soft escapes can
be ginned with the bait of a choirboy’s tender
“Have mercy!”

10am

My nutmeg brown irises are diced
fresh and tossed into a ***
where spiced hot they’re shown
the urgency this yet-to-be plucked rose feels
when the mid-morning light
accumulates with enough heat
to bake the earth chocolate.

The tattered edges of her puckered lips
glow an ardent shade of pink and make
a beacon, signaling kingly butterflies to abdicate
their aimless flutters and jet
directly toward her alluring realm.

Noon

My usually cool tips can’t maintain
their aloof trance and they trip
red with sudden blushes over the damaged
clasp on a school girl’s lunch box
crayoned with lemonade kittens,
their wordless greetings.

It’s unlatched to reveal no magic
pressed in the chunks of pickle loaf,
but the foetid and desperate
fruits of a wish for can’t-stay-at-home mothers
to be released from the wages of others’
drudgery.

A squirrel drags her white bread
and dappled meat onto the play lot
where the child’s storm-cloud stare
breaks with the flash
and low rumble of laughter.

2pm

My soles crave the touch of loose-dirt
roads, but it’s my ankles that meet
brambles and are torn by their tiny kisses
from which a rubbery
beauty of sappy drips trails back
to grow pastel primavera blooms.

Their long, tapered necks
and delicate, glassy horns blow
the modulated notes of an icy hymn.

Its diamante flecks freckle
the hovering blue before falling
to press these young,
painted plants into a frieze
and free them from wilting.

4pm

My nape aches for the subtle
weight on not supple joints
between thick fig branches
powdered with a maquillage of snowy dust.

No one care can snap them
or keep them from sheltering
the grazes of constantly bleating sheep.

Candy floss wool is tinted
jonquil then apricot then cherry
as the distant and fiery ball of a sun
slowly descends to the quenching
splash in its night-deposit bucket.

6pm

My unencumbered back gently rolls with a raft
adrift on ripples raised
when unknown aquatic creatures
stir in a shallowly cupped liquid.

Their pleasant plunks and gleeful gurgles
are carried on the crisply creeping evening
air to wash away
the unsavory wafts of salty rumors.

Here I can’t scent the far-removed
oceans racked by hunger’s
chilling frissons and the pundit’s
raging rants to at all-costs maintain
the elevation of market-priced pap.

And I drifted off...
This work is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution 3.0 License.
Giant portions of tender beef; bring me a field of cattle.

Large helpings of diced pork; hunt down the fattest sow.

Unlimited gallons of alcohol; brew the strongest in the land.

Ten times the amount of cheeses; let ever mouse envy me.

Tempt me with exotic women; from every corner of the world.

Order another kilogram of cigarettes; block out the blue of the sky.

Never let the chocolates run out; richer than the sweetest syrup.

You think this is too much?
Greig M Jul 2012
Every night I go to bed,
Stuck with what he said.
My mind is just the same,
I'm dreaming he's in pain.

Paid with public money,
The ****** isn't funny,
If I could have my way,
He'd be sliced and diced today.

I'd collect together all his cash,
Every penny of his stash,
And spend it all on sausage skins,
To wrap him up and cover him.

I'd have him put in sausage form,
And eat him up to keep me warm.
I'd have him smoked and vacuum packed,
And placed upon the market rack.

Folk would come from everywhere,
Even those who didn't care,
All they'd need is just one joke,
To make them wish he'd never spoke.

What pleasure there would be,
In watching my TV,
No channel'd be a stranger,
For there would be no danger.

So I'd make myself a nightcap,
And a big fat sausage bap.
And I'd thank the BBC,
For football's finally free.
:)
Robin Carretti May 2017
“Quite a piece this doesn’t come along every day”He was tapped into her forever mores or heretofore reservoirs of passion.The creme de la creme her pursed mouth prim. She couldn’t wait to lick him higher watering his rim. But after he breaststroked with her he has taken a bite fresh ****** fruit she broke. He spends all his time extolling her virtues, what’s left the first virtue ****** painting feast. For his eyes *** all day. Planting her nest.Lay Lady lay. He made this avocado melting ***-her fondue smelling hot what’s next to pursue such charm. His ears pierced like a fire alarm. blazing the fireplace. Her blush deepened like she was diced. To the *******. Asking for so much more.You were wearing your erotically to die for **** me shoes.He was the Hollywood *******. I was going to *** crave you knock you down.

Like the colonel of **** mustard spicy so **** hot.His hair deep brown. He lengthened got bigger what a shot. How the carpet just spread me to bounce my buttocks.She tried so hard to lay everything out from his bowl his manly sword like a dual. He steamed out like Maddocks  Taurus bedroom eyes of the bull. So much to roll her feet heated so penetrated him to the floor.The rain was heavy and thick dripping with your creamy avocado puddle
Joe Cole Jun 2015
Take a simple packet of minced beef
Add a drop of water to the pan
Finely diced an onion and 3 chopped garlic cloves
Oh! Don't forget the fine cut celery
Now cook gently with a touch of love
Until the mince is brown
This now is the time to add just a pinch of dry mixed herbs
A liberal splash of soya sauce followed by a gentle stir
Important now please don't forget
A large pinch of marsala spice
For this will be the beating heart before you add the rice
RICE! Did I say rice?
For the amount of minced now in the ***
Cook an equal amount of rice until soft
Of course in another pan
Now just before the rice is done add mixed veg to the mince
In the other pan, frozen veg will do
Now strain the mince but save the sauce
Worth its weight in gold
Now, yes now's the time to strain the pan and add the rice
To the mince so savoury and brown
Mix the rice and mince with love until well combined
Place into a baking dish and set the oven high(160)
20 minutes will be enough so now the dish is done

Thicken the sauce you strained from the mince and bring to a gentle boil
Serve the mince/rice with new boiled potatoes and the sauce
sara Sep 2013
my barricade has become a prison
4 walls that shrink every day and slowly cut off my oxygen
they worked too well i sing to them in a melancholy tone
more often heard in the mouths of whales
there's a sea of bones and they’re pricking at stray scraps
look out there, past where the sky meets the earth
if you look hard enough you’ll see it
cold and empty and sloshing it calls to me now
“leave me now” i say to the space beside me
before you go pre-heat the oven to 950
i need a warm place to rest and that sounds about right
skeletal hands grip around my expanding skin and pull me down
tight tight tight they sew me a corset of my own rough skin
teeth flood my throat and scratch at my collarbone
self-inflicted sorrow
heart disease in a can
barreling through my system, how much longer do i got, doc? 
my bones are unknitting and my brain is unraveling
pink tendrils sinking to the bottom of my skull, goodbye little ones, i never did use that much anyways
my skin peels beneath my fingers and my light won't turn out
5 am and i'm a halfway alcoholic all i need is the *****
my capillaries have frozen and i'm an ice rink now
sliced and diced and punched into shape
ready to ride over 
no words left no line gaps no punctuation 
who has time for that when they're doing nothing?
i haven't eaten in a week
and i'm still spewing everywhere
pressure points and muscle strands oozing against my frame
i can feel all my ribs beneath my hands
and the jelly will vaporize and i’ll just soften
maybe if i push hard enough the skin around them will shatter and i’ll collapse inward

well now
it appears that i’ve undone myself
old

— The End —