"dumpling" poems - Hello Poetry

"dumpling" poems

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

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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My daughter fell in love with a potato, "A potato....... My mind was confused and my face was a picture... of why would someone ever love a potato? I asked this myself in my head then out loud. My darling how have you a fondness for a potato? *He is the only one for me he is so soft and never has a chip on his shoulder..* A chip? really, how did you meet my little lady. He was just mulling around in a mash pit, The music was the spud rock and he was my root. I will have to meet you new boyfriend, Dad, I love Barry, he even let me wear his jacket it was so fluffy inside... Fathers out there would have the same look on their face as I do now!!!!! "OK, as I was waiting impatiently to see this lad. She walked in hand in hand, I just gave the daddy look, hi Barry he stared in a starch looking gaze. my daughter spoke "I'll just get my bag, I spoke in my sternest voice, "Barry if you don't treat my daughter right, "Lets just say ill mash you up, understand.... And then they left not the gentlemen of before no jacket to lend her, just walking out the door like he had just been roasted by my words... Hours had past worry in my thoughts then my daughter came back, tears in her eyes. "What ever was the matter my darling? *"He had steamed off because I wanted to know why he never leant me his jacket,* "He said I was being a dumpling with him, *"So I told him you were right and that he had a chip on his shoulder, he replied I was fried,* I told her that potato's can be a little mashed, and a chip they will always have, because you cant change a potato they will always have a little starch inside...

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Nov 20, 2016

Nov 20, 2016 at 6:51 AM UTC

Barry The Potato

My daughter fell in love with a potato, "A potato....... My mind was confused and my face was a picture... of why would someone ever love a potato? I asked this myself in my head then out loud. My darling how have you a fondness for a potato? *He is the only one for me he is so soft and never has a chip on his shoulder..* A chip? really, how did you meet my little lady. He was just mulling around in a mash pit, The music was the spud rock and he was my root. I will have to meet you new boyfriend, Dad, I love Barry, he even let me wear his jacket it was so fluffy inside... Fathers out there would have the same look on their face as I do now!!!!! "OK, as I was waiting impatiently to see this lad. She walked in hand in hand, I just gave the daddy look, hi Barry he stared in a starch looking gaze. my daughter spoke "I'll just get my bag, I spoke in my sternest voice, "Barry if you don't treat my daughter right, "Lets just say ill mash you up, understand.... And then they left not the gentlemen of before no jacket to lend her, just walking out the door like he had just been roasted by my words... Hours had past worry in my thoughts then my daughter came back, tears in her eyes. "What ever was the matter my darling? *"He had steamed off because I wanted to know why he never leant me his jacket,* "He said I was being a dumpling with him, *"So I told him you were right and that he had a chip on his shoulder, he replied I was fried,* I told her that potato's can be a little mashed, and a chip they will always have, because you cant change a potato they will always have a little starch inside...

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Brown-Eyed Girl- they say she is the weakest link gone and sprung amuck through clouded fields of poppy seeds and cottony ****** they say she is a sprain of chortling pain in the dumpling maker's yeasting wrist. brown-eyed girl seeing powdered blues of glass-stained eyes, he wore a plaid shirt, nip-and-tucked, rat-a-tat-tat, and a silly looking bow-tie slopped slightly off-kilter and to the right, a frenchie little pear of a man. he said he liked her- tie-dye thighs. she said, he said, she liked his dumpling hands - and flakey chest. they say she is that button-down clad- sunflowers-printed kind-of, sad. memories tainted, she said, he said, she's the kind of girl you've got to love every night, my kind of a woman. my salted oils, fried and phat- brown-eyed girl.

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Nov 11, 2015

Nov 11, 2015 at 9:49 PM UTC

brown eyed girl

Brown-Eyed Girl- they say she is the weakest link gone and sprung amuck through clouded fields of poppy seeds and cottony ****** they say she is a sprain of chortling pain in the dumpling maker's yeasting wrist. brown-eyed girl seeing powdered blues of glass-stained eyes, he wore a plaid shirt, nip-and-tucked, rat-a-tat-tat, and a silly looking bow-tie slopped slightly off-kilter and to the right, a frenchie little pear of a man. he said he liked her- tie-dye thighs. she said, he said, she liked his dumpling hands - and flakey chest. they say she is that button-down clad- sunflowers-printed kind-of, sad. memories tainted, she said, he said, she's the kind of girl you've got to love every night, my kind of a woman. my salted oils, fried and phat- brown-eyed girl.

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1) see the yurei the ghost of Oyuki… hair free of the ornate pins and scattered over her shoulders she hovers in her white robe her hands loose and she’s covered in mist below her waist she has a smile, her eyes turned inward and you had better not wish she’d cast her glance on you just a look, just a glance 2) Oyuki was the sweet love of Maruyama Okyo Oyuki was as delicate as the plum blossoms outside her window she sang songs of love and covered Okyo with sweet kisses Ah, she was young and she played the shamisen and she had such pleasing arts and uttered such words they lingered days and nights in Okyo’s mind But she died young… beautiful, like the cherry blossoms in the morning and gone, faded in the evening 3) and at nights all Okyo could see in dreams and in the dark was gentle Oyuki, sweet Oyuki hovering in the mist floating, lingering, smiling in his dreams, and in the dark and he painted, Okyo painted the Ghost of Oyuki a portrait of his beloved Oyuki and that freed him into sleep and peace into quiet and calm 4) but at nights if you see in dreams and in the dark the form and beauty of Oyuki floating, lingering, smiling in your dreams and in the dark then you must offer a petal, a dumpling or what must please her so she will go, that gentle Oyuki, sweet Oyuki or you might offer her a poem, a soothing one as I did, and she might plant a cold kiss on your cheek a cold one as she flits past, gliding away in all the mist to see who she might catch with no love of art, with no skill to please

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Sep 20, 2012

Sep 20, 2012 at 8:29 AM UTC

the ghost of Oyuki

1) see the yurei the ghost of Oyuki… hair free of the ornate pins and scattered over her shoulders she hovers in her white robe her hands loose and she’s covered in mist below her waist she has a smile, her eyes turned inward and you had better not wish she’d cast her glance on you just a look, just a glance 2) Oyuki was the sweet love of Maruyama Okyo Oyuki was as delicate as the plum blossoms outside her window she sang songs of love and covered Okyo with sweet kisses Ah, she was young and she played the shamisen and she had such pleasing arts and uttered such words they lingered days and nights in Okyo’s mind But she died young… beautiful, like the cherry blossoms in the morning and gone, faded in the evening 3) and at nights all Okyo could see in dreams and in the dark was gentle Oyuki, sweet Oyuki hovering in the mist floating, lingering, smiling in his dreams, and in the dark and he painted, Okyo painted the Ghost of Oyuki a portrait of his beloved Oyuki and that freed him into sleep and peace into quiet and calm 4) but at nights if you see in dreams and in the dark the form and beauty of Oyuki floating, lingering, smiling in your dreams and in the dark then you must offer a petal, a dumpling or what must please her so she will go, that gentle Oyuki, sweet Oyuki or you might offer her a poem, a soothing one as I did, and she might plant a cold kiss on your cheek a cold one as she flits past, gliding away in all the mist to see who she might catch with no love of art, with no skill to please

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*common chilling sights-- i see humanity ungranted ice nucleators-- mutual lives underground buffered dots of heat Jupiter winds glow revivals there and then -- red swirls of lust twelve conquests past all creatures skyclad in that loose zodiac belt unconditional dark solstice deepest love festive thanks at dread allayed-- more roasted birds . the same sun, snowflake years uniquely melt . still Fall-ripe, matunda ya Kwanza nourish unity . only a nick, the green knight forgives saint sir Gawain . winter thin Shakyamuni trees entangle star rays . Dōngzhì recurs-- tangyuan and dumpling soup warm ears and hearts . Lucy brightens Advent's tidal frost sugar powder blind . strong eyelids-- holy corpses smile again . endyear eyelids pull open -- Summer's chain emails . i nightgaze here too-- Yalda Shab brightens birth night vermillion sweet eve . gelt to gifts-- sacred lights remembrance wonders burning yet . obstacles embraced powdered elephant dance ancient clouds of lore . of country dwellers gifted greatest gifts-- pentacles outshine . hot planets glint subtle light unseen and far -- night sky snow transaeonic squint textured sense illumes vast space light trails interweave evergreen bird womb coos beyond my porch-- fireplace ignites Februa nears-- thermals gather itch for one last indulgence Hubble vision melds an interspecies lens-- "home" descends anew integral trust-- grapes freeze by vintner's paths of future sweetness moss between toes Spring ooze effluvia giddy spine sky high*

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Dec 12, 2012

Dec 12, 2012 at 11:59 PM UTC

*common chilling sights-- i see humanity ungranted ice nucleators-- mutual lives underground buffered dots of heat Jupiter winds glow revivals there and then -- red swirls of lust twelve conquests past all creatures skyclad in that loose zodiac belt unconditional dark solstice deepest love festive thanks at dread allayed-- more roasted birds . the same sun, snowflake years uniquely melt . still Fall-ripe, matunda ya Kwanza nourish unity . only a nick, the green knight forgives saint sir Gawain . winter thin Shakyamuni trees entangle star rays . Dōngzhì recurs-- tangyuan and dumpling soup warm ears and hearts . Lucy brightens Advent's tidal frost sugar powder blind . strong eyelids-- holy corpses smile again . endyear eyelids pull open -- Summer's chain emails . i nightgaze here too-- Yalda Shab brightens birth night vermillion sweet eve . gelt to gifts-- sacred lights remembrance wonders burning yet . obstacles embraced powdered elephant dance ancient clouds of lore . of country dwellers gifted greatest gifts-- pentacles outshine . hot planets glint subtle light unseen and far -- night sky snow transaeonic squint textured sense illumes vast space light trails interweave evergreen bird womb coos beyond my porch-- fireplace ignites Februa nears-- thermals gather itch for one last indulgence Hubble vision melds an interspecies lens-- "home" descends anew integral trust-- grapes freeze by vintner's paths of future sweetness moss between toes Spring ooze effluvia giddy spine sky high*

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I like seeing pretty Korean girl, Miss Mina, putting things in her mouth so I watch and watch and watch wondering if she like to put me in her mouth too. I wonder am I a good texture spicy, salty maybe a little sweet? she said she likes cushy flexible does not like it to thick on the outside because it takes away the flavor of the inside Hoping she eat me all up like sea squirt and gogi mandu! Ouchy Ouchy Ouchy she's drooling on a slow riser the top is dry and the bottom wet but so soft feels like a pillow and a surprise inside like edible paint I love Korean food and Miss Mina look tasty too I like to put her in my mouth like spicy noodle taste like conditioned hair or just maybe desert but always moist on the inside cookie yakgwa mmmmmmmm very tasty treat! I want to eat her mommyoh too, eeeeek ok maybe a little stringy but still good enough :) I like chrysanthemum bread and kimchee dumpling @ KOREAN STREET FOOD on Jeju Island Market make me happy https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=TFAM2P1TX2I

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Jan 9, 2019

Jan 9, 2019 at 2:33 PM UTC

I Like Korean Food ....Manga

I like seeing pretty Korean girl, Miss Mina, putting things in her mouth so I watch and watch and watch wondering if she like to put me in her mouth too. I wonder am I a good texture spicy, salty maybe a little sweet? she said she likes cushy flexible does not like it to thick on the outside because it takes away the flavor of the inside Hoping she eat me all up like sea squirt and gogi mandu! Ouchy Ouchy Ouchy she's drooling on a slow riser the top is dry and the bottom wet but so soft feels like a pillow and a surprise inside like edible paint I love Korean food and Miss Mina look tasty too I like to put her in my mouth like spicy noodle taste like conditioned hair or just maybe desert but always moist on the inside cookie yakgwa mmmmmmmm very tasty treat! I want to eat her mommyoh too, eeeeek ok maybe a little stringy but still good enough :) I like chrysanthemum bread and kimchee dumpling @ KOREAN STREET FOOD on Jeju Island Market make me happy https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=TFAM2P1TX2I

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Unchained day beneath dumpling clouds in a baby boy broth I tumble from the snake's mouth into the belly of the bullfrog kicking across the river in fits and starts of sloshing and falling great mirror arms reach imploring asking the sky to see their brilliance as steel-grey bracelets encircle one wrist and then another and skyward we turn and vomited unceremoniously from the bullfrog's mouth I slog easterly through the setting concrete of the new-fettered day kicking across the avenues in fits and starts of staring and falling shiny electronic arms reach imploring and ask the stars to hear the cries as invisible chokers encircle one's throat and then nothing and skyward we turn and jostled and sweating as fresh popcorn into the gluttonous hall I ride the current past the kiosks and shuttered kitchens of boutique cafes kicking down the rapids in fits and starts of surfacing and falling a majestic and world-weary arm reaches defiantly and shakes a fist forever at one moment and then knows and northward we turn and the girl shared my Luna bar and the phones were passed around and the woman had no shoes and the conductor took no tickets and the women shared their seat and the man gave her cab fare and the woman went home with no purse, no keys, no shoes and the girl went back to Buffalo and still we turn and still we turn and our shackled arms raised against the sword reaches necessarily and blocks the blow as if we were one arm and then holds and still we turn

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Sep 7, 2011

Sep 7, 2011 at 8:08 PM UTC

suzanne-wilson-regalia

Emergent Slash: How It Happened To Me

Unchained day beneath dumpling clouds in a baby boy broth I tumble from the snake's mouth into the belly of the bullfrog kicking across the river in fits and starts of sloshing and falling great mirror arms reach imploring asking the sky to see their brilliance as steel-grey bracelets encircle one wrist and then another and skyward we turn and vomited unceremoniously from the bullfrog's mouth I slog easterly through the setting concrete of the new-fettered day kicking across the avenues in fits and starts of staring and falling shiny electronic arms reach imploring and ask the stars to hear the cries as invisible chokers encircle one's throat and then nothing and skyward we turn and jostled and sweating as fresh popcorn into the gluttonous hall I ride the current past the kiosks and shuttered kitchens of boutique cafes kicking down the rapids in fits and starts of surfacing and falling a majestic and world-weary arm reaches defiantly and shakes a fist forever at one moment and then knows and northward we turn and the girl shared my Luna bar and the phones were passed around and the woman had no shoes and the conductor took no tickets and the women shared their seat and the man gave her cab fare and the woman went home with no purse, no keys, no shoes and the girl went back to Buffalo and still we turn and still we turn and our shackled arms raised against the sword reaches necessarily and blocks the blow as if we were one arm and then holds and still we turn

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What do you call people endearingly? Sugar Honey Dumpling Lemon Meringue Pie I get hungry thinking of things to call her Love Babe Baby Darling Am I being old-fashioned? Do people still speak this way? My dark angel Mon cherie Deliciae meae Dove Doll What to say?

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Sep 17, 2013

Sep 17, 2013 at 6:44 PM UTC

I call her baby doll in my head but it's awkward coming out of my mouth

What do you call people endearingly? Sugar Honey Dumpling Lemon Meringue Pie I get hungry thinking of things to call her Love Babe Baby Darling Am I being old-fashioned? Do people still speak this way? My dark angel Mon cherie Deliciae meae Dove Doll What to say?

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Gather belongings Coffee, leftover Chinese food Reaching for the door Door opens... Dumplings fall Container breaking Dumpling sauce spills all over There goes lunch It’s going to be that kind of day... Don’t cry over spilled dumplings The end

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Dec 6, 2018

Dec 6, 2018 at 8:35 AM UTC

Spilled Dumplings

Gather belongings Coffee, leftover Chinese food Reaching for the door Door opens... Dumplings fall Container breaking Dumpling sauce spills all over There goes lunch It’s going to be that kind of day... Don’t cry over spilled dumplings The end

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\|/ @-@ ( -Q- ) <=> how I drool over obese girls with huge great cheeks of wobbly dimpled fat >========o======== no skinny birds for me!=======o========< absolutely no way yeeha i love to see wobbly fat girls waddling along with their tyres of white flab quivering in their size 88 jeans like a pack of rabid rabbits fighting in a rubber sack, and what do they need yessir, they are barking for a friendly ***** from moi, edna the chubby-chaser and lover of gorgeous female flesh body mass index forty (at an absolute total minimum i must emphasise) and preferable fifty so they look like a giant dumpling i know you know the sort of image i crave: dimpled, dappled acreages of heaving ********** wowee-yowee i am so excited please god lead me to the land where the extra supersize fatties live and let me exhaust my ***** gaze on their incredible buxom enormities let me get my paws on them let me wallow in their glories dear god oh yes indeedy when you come to think of it there's nothing like a huge billowing fatso to get my blood afire with testosterone and bottom-of-the-barrel-scraping loving lust so why not jump off a pier all you skinny minnies per-lease /\ / \ / \ @ @ / \ / \ +++ +++

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Jan 7, 2015

Jan 7, 2015 at 12:48 PM UTC

A Fat Girl for Me!

\|/ @-@ ( -Q- ) <=> how I drool over obese girls with huge great cheeks of wobbly dimpled fat >========o======== no skinny birds for me!=======o========< absolutely no way yeeha i love to see wobbly fat girls waddling along with their tyres of white flab quivering in their size 88 jeans like a pack of rabid rabbits fighting in a rubber sack, and what do they need yessir, they are barking for a friendly ***** from moi, edna the chubby-chaser and lover of gorgeous female flesh body mass index forty (at an absolute total minimum i must emphasise) and preferable fifty so they look like a giant dumpling i know you know the sort of image i crave: dimpled, dappled acreages of heaving ********** wowee-yowee i am so excited please god lead me to the land where the extra supersize fatties live and let me exhaust my ***** gaze on their incredible buxom enormities let me get my paws on them let me wallow in their glories dear god oh yes indeedy when you come to think of it there's nothing like a huge billowing fatso to get my blood afire with testosterone and bottom-of-the-barrel-scraping loving lust so why not jump off a pier all you skinny minnies per-lease /\ / \ / \ @ @ / \ / \ +++ +++

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^^^^^ Sizzle Sizzle Dumb-pling Sizzle sizzle dumb-pling, Lóg, lóng góne, zapped his head with electródes ón. Skull half fried made brain bóuillón Sizzle sizzle dumb-pling, Lóg, lóng góne! *CrE aka Trollminator (with apologies to John and the Dumpling)*

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Jan 31, 2015

Jan 31, 2015 at 4:24 PM UTC

clone-re-eatery

Artiste-ick Nursery Rhymes abóut Thee Póetically Challenged #10

^^^^^ Sizzle Sizzle Dumb-pling Sizzle sizzle dumb-pling, Lóg, lóng góne, zapped his head with electródes ón. Skull half fried made brain bóuillón Sizzle sizzle dumb-pling, Lóg, lóng góne! *CrE aka Trollminator (with apologies to John and the Dumpling)*

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I navigated a sea of dumplings in the heart of Japan but none of them came close to that perfect dumpling I shared with you in what now seems like a dream.

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Jul 22, 2019

Jul 22, 2019 at 9:28 AM UTC

I navigated a sea of dumplings in the heart of Japan but none of them came close to that perfect dumpling I shared with you in what now seems like a dream.

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Born to be a bumble bee, Bumbly more than acceptable, Bumbling opportunities, Dim at best, shh ghmm ack ole Friends we are You, we, bumblers Bumping things too far Until off with our bums In prison will write book "Bumbler Chronicles" I'll put that I bumbled first And that you bumbled Ever After

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Apr 16, 2014

Apr 16, 2014 at 10:36 AM UTC

sean-fitzpatrick

Bumbler Dumpling

Born to be a bumble bee, Bumbly more than acceptable, Bumbling opportunities, Dim at best, shh ghmm ack ole Friends we are You, we, bumblers Bumping things too far Until off with our bums In prison will write book "Bumbler Chronicles" I'll put that I bumbled first And that you bumbled Ever After

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I can't eat this mother the pearl barley has the constituency of snot Ok beat me around the head again, give me another but I swear from ever on..... no more stew mother From those days those dumpling filled days the ******** chasing me over hills and valleys in nightmares No I will not put that in my mouth ever if my life depended on it I tell you what you can do with your stew give it to another, no more stew mother By Christos Andreas Kourtis aka NeonSolaris

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Feb 3, 2014

Feb 3, 2014 at 1:27 PM UTC

christos-andreas-kourtis

No More Stew Mother

I can't eat this mother the pearl barley has the constituency of snot Ok beat me around the head again, give me another but I swear from ever on..... no more stew mother From those days those dumpling filled days the ******** chasing me over hills and valleys in nightmares No I will not put that in my mouth ever if my life depended on it I tell you what you can do with your stew give it to another, no more stew mother By Christos Andreas Kourtis aka NeonSolaris

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Poetry is not just a mess of words thrown together to tell a story about the boy you adore .Poetry is the letters that ****** a reader's sight, smell, touch, taste, and hearing. Poetry is supposed to make you feel something as deeply as you love the dark haired boy with knobby knees, as you love your grandmother on her deathbed, and as you much as you love the feel of someone else's dumpling lips against your own. Poetry holds your heart up among the angels or drags your sensitivity down below dark waves of pain.

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Oct 13, 2014

Oct 13, 2014 at 7:48 PM UTC

Poetry is not just a mess of words thrown together to tell a story about the boy you adore .Poetry is the letters that ****** a reader's sight, smell, touch, taste, and hearing. Poetry is supposed to make you feel something as deeply as you love the dark haired boy with knobby knees, as you love your grandmother on her deathbed, and as you much as you love the feel of someone else's dumpling lips against your own. Poetry holds your heart up among the angels or drags your sensitivity down below dark waves of pain.

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The music at the party is pumping. All the teenagers are jumping. But I only hear my heart thumping. Alone on the sofa and slumping. Stewing in solitude, a dumpling. Starting to disintegrate, crumbling. I feel a disturbance, a rumbling. I reach for my phone, I'm fumbling, For a text, a call, something, Anything to enhance the numbing. I rise from my perch, stumbling . I collidewithsomepeople, they're grumbling. Now I'm falling out the door, tumbling. People are laughing, tutting frowning. They see me on the ground, but I'm drowning.

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Feb 15, 2018

Feb 15, 2018 at 2:45 AM UTC

The music at the party is pumping. All the teenagers are jumping. But I only hear my heart thumping. Alone on the sofa and slumping. Stewing in solitude, a dumpling. Starting to disintegrate, crumbling. I feel a disturbance, a rumbling. I reach for my phone, I'm fumbling, For a text, a call, something, Anything to enhance the numbing. I rise from my perch, stumbling . I collidewithsomepeople, they're grumbling. Now I'm falling out the door, tumbling. People are laughing, tutting frowning. They see me on the ground, but I'm drowning.

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HITHERING AND TITHERING WATERS OF.. Aaw sure she's my own little Finnegans Wake. For my little skeowsha language is lava the mind is molten flowing. She catches tones and hones in on the last word. "pleaseyawannanicecupof...TEA?" She knows how to stick question marks on things like "...sweets?" The thunder scares her on Thursday & becomes Thundersday. The flies bother her on Friday... becomes Flieday. Not realising she is quoting Mr, Joyce following in his WAKE. Or she makes up her own "ONESDAY...TWOSDAY WEDDINGDAY...FATTERDAY SOMEDAY!" She my little trinketotes my dear ***** Dumpling. I read her to sleep. Not a peep when Anna Livia Plurabelle... tells her tale. Beside the tickling waters of. Beside the chuckling waters of. Beside the laughing waters of. She loves the music of it all. "Again!" she agains it! " Can't hear with the waters of. The chittering waters of. Night now. Tell me, tell me, tell me elm. Night night! Tellmetale of stem or stone. Beside the rivering waters of.. Hithering tithering waters of. Night."

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Jun 18, 2017

Jun 18, 2017 at 6:02 PM UTC

HITHERING AND TITHERING WATERS OF..

HITHERING AND TITHERING WATERS OF.. Aaw sure she's my own little Finnegans Wake. For my little skeowsha language is lava the mind is molten flowing. She catches tones and hones in on the last word. "pleaseyawannanicecupof...TEA?" She knows how to stick question marks on things like "...sweets?" The thunder scares her on Thursday & becomes Thundersday. The flies bother her on Friday... becomes Flieday. Not realising she is quoting Mr, Joyce following in his WAKE. Or she makes up her own "ONESDAY...TWOSDAY WEDDINGDAY...FATTERDAY SOMEDAY!" She my little trinketotes my dear ***** Dumpling. I read her to sleep. Not a peep when Anna Livia Plurabelle... tells her tale. Beside the tickling waters of. Beside the chuckling waters of. Beside the laughing waters of. She loves the music of it all. "Again!" she agains it! " Can't hear with the waters of. The chittering waters of. Night now. Tell me, tell me, tell me elm. Night night! Tellmetale of stem or stone. Beside the rivering waters of.. Hithering tithering waters of. Night."

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My Darling, my Child! My Little Baby Dumpling! May Your Child grow true!

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Sep 25, 2012

Sep 25, 2012 at 9:36 PM UTC

david-alexander-walker

My Darling, my Child! My Little Baby Dumpling! May Your Child grow true!

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early-morning apartment that smells of fresh laundry. not night yet, not day anymore — an outdoor coffeeshop with a string-light roof. making buttered grilled toast and eggs with cheese, garlic and parsley on a rainy mid-day. wet, salty hair from the seashore, fresh clothes, reggae music — in candle light, for dinner with friends. passing by a bakery smelling of freshly baked bread and cookies, and deciding to get some. sitting under lamplight in a living room, listening to a magnificent song just discovered. wandering in a secondhand furniture shop — finding the perfect white, wooden table with three legs pinned on a vision board. a long, warm shower on a very cold day. leftovers from the most delicious dinner, for today. lighting a vanilla scented candle in a clean, organized peaceful home. homemade cake with tea. walking along an uphill market — dumpling shops, man with the local spices, earrings, singing bowls. petrichor. things to imagine when lying in bed, anxious.

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Jul 2, 2019

Jul 2, 2019 at 10:38 PM UTC

things to imagine when lying in bed, anxious.

early-morning apartment that smells of fresh laundry. not night yet, not day anymore — an outdoor coffeeshop with a string-light roof. making buttered grilled toast and eggs with cheese, garlic and parsley on a rainy mid-day. wet, salty hair from the seashore, fresh clothes, reggae music — in candle light, for dinner with friends. passing by a bakery smelling of freshly baked bread and cookies, and deciding to get some. sitting under lamplight in a living room, listening to a magnificent song just discovered. wandering in a secondhand furniture shop — finding the perfect white, wooden table with three legs pinned on a vision board. a long, warm shower on a very cold day. leftovers from the most delicious dinner, for today. lighting a vanilla scented candle in a clean, organized peaceful home. homemade cake with tea. walking along an uphill market — dumpling shops, man with the local spices, earrings, singing bowls. petrichor. things to imagine when lying in bed, anxious.

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sleep curved miles of patched dead boys into me like a scythe. their quilts were not mine to sweat through, to drench nightly with my self. but i cried out anyway. said i needed stained warmth more than coffins ever could. bare as they were. prodigal as they were. i turn aside in bed. i sweat it out. sleep handed me its crowded city plots and boxes of one-way ticket disownment boiled down to an art exhibit of photographed bodies. black and white bodies. end of life bodies. i tore them into manageable halves. their varied human pieces quilted themselves together onto the floor. their eyes floated to land at my shoes. i stared. yet it was sleep who drew in the fluttering array of lost bandanas dyed with every coy color present on the rare days here that always smelled more like mornings, the colors peeking like barefoot children just around the corners of their smirking, drowsy city avenues after rain. sleep dreamt me an after hours carousel. the revelry of skintight garbage bags brimming over with ****** boys. lovely boys. boys with a gleam. faceless baby boys with sores like eyes, full of their junk they treasured, fondled, kissed the little pound of flesh that was theirs, they gave freely, bait and tackle to swallow whole. dust bowl dumpling soft. pulsing expectance. those skins underneath you’d discover pressed to an eternity of sorts between two slurs of the same brick, that its nightless club grime mumbled disco sickly to me & him. and i’d be on my knees. by a bed, a river, a quilt, a pew, an avenue, a grave. whatever useless dreams may come, i always find myself there. already knelt in every way i couldn’t possibly comprehend. gravely, maybe beautifully- beside another slumbering boy too distant from life not to reach for.

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Dec 9, 2019

Dec 9, 2019 at 12:42 AM UTC

for breathless boys, to sleep

sleep curved miles of patched dead boys into me like a scythe. their quilts were not mine to sweat through, to drench nightly with my self. but i cried out anyway. said i needed stained warmth more than coffins ever could. bare as they were. prodigal as they were. i turn aside in bed. i sweat it out. sleep handed me its crowded city plots and boxes of one-way ticket disownment boiled down to an art exhibit of photographed bodies. black and white bodies. end of life bodies. i tore them into manageable halves. their varied human pieces quilted themselves together onto the floor. their eyes floated to land at my shoes. i stared. yet it was sleep who drew in the fluttering array of lost bandanas dyed with every coy color present on the rare days here that always smelled more like mornings, the colors peeking like barefoot children just around the corners of their smirking, drowsy city avenues after rain. sleep dreamt me an after hours carousel. the revelry of skintight garbage bags brimming over with ****** boys. lovely boys. boys with a gleam. faceless baby boys with sores like eyes, full of their junk they treasured, fondled, kissed the little pound of flesh that was theirs, they gave freely, bait and tackle to swallow whole. dust bowl dumpling soft. pulsing expectance. those skins underneath you’d discover pressed to an eternity of sorts between two slurs of the same brick, that its nightless club grime mumbled disco sickly to me & him. and i’d be on my knees. by a bed, a river, a quilt, a pew, an avenue, a grave. whatever useless dreams may come, i always find myself there. already knelt in every way i couldn’t possibly comprehend. gravely, maybe beautifully- beside another slumbering boy too distant from life not to reach for.

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like ribbed-knit fabric, when we put the old ribbed La-Z-Boy out front, "FREE", and whoever picked it up has no idea my grandfather died in that chair. like holding my knees in the hot tub, quiet, wet, baking tiles, a certain safety in a room with only women, and crouching in the water like a boiling dumpling. shortbread cookies in bed. mac DeMarco on the way to the doctor's office, my love for you is so real, separating from my body in a goodwill, curly-haired boys and impossibly beautiful girls in the movie theater bathroom, whipped cream on her nose, the golden lights of applebee's, and then like it's all over again.

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Nov 25, 2017

Nov 25, 2017 at 3:48 PM UTC

it's the little things

like ribbed-knit fabric, when we put the old ribbed La-Z-Boy out front, "FREE", and whoever picked it up has no idea my grandfather died in that chair. like holding my knees in the hot tub, quiet, wet, baking tiles, a certain safety in a room with only women, and crouching in the water like a boiling dumpling. shortbread cookies in bed. mac DeMarco on the way to the doctor's office, my love for you is so real, separating from my body in a goodwill, curly-haired boys and impossibly beautiful girls in the movie theater bathroom, whipped cream on her nose, the golden lights of applebee's, and then like it's all over again.

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HITHERING AND TITHERING WATERS OF.. Ahhh sure she's my own little Finnegans Wake. For my little skeowsha language is lava the mind is molten forever flowing. She catches tones and hones in on the last word. "pleaseyawannanicecupof...TEA?" She knows how to stick question marks on the end of things like: "...sweets?" The thunder scares her on Thursday & becomes Thundersday. The flies bother her on Friday... becomes Flieday. Not realiasing she is quoting Mr, Joyce following in his WAKE. Or she makes up her own "ONESDAY...TWOSDAY WEDDINGSDAY...FATTERDAY SOMEDAY!" She my little trinketoes my dear ***** Dumpling. I read her to sleep. Not a peep when Anna Livia Plurabelle... tells her tale. Beside the tickling waters of. Beside the chuckling waters of. Beside the laughing waters of. She loves the music of it all. "Again!" she agains it! " Can't hear with the waters of. The chittering waters of. Night now. Tell me, tell me, tell me elm. Night night! Tellmetale of stem or stone. Beside the rivering waters of. Hithering tithering waters of. Night."

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Oct 19, 2017

Oct 19, 2017 at 3:38 PM UTC

HITHERING AND TITHERING WATERS OF..

HITHERING AND TITHERING WATERS OF.. Ahhh sure she's my own little Finnegans Wake. For my little skeowsha language is lava the mind is molten forever flowing. She catches tones and hones in on the last word. "pleaseyawannanicecupof...TEA?" She knows how to stick question marks on the end of things like: "...sweets?" The thunder scares her on Thursday & becomes Thundersday. The flies bother her on Friday... becomes Flieday. Not realiasing she is quoting Mr, Joyce following in his WAKE. Or she makes up her own "ONESDAY...TWOSDAY WEDDINGSDAY...FATTERDAY SOMEDAY!" She my little trinketoes my dear ***** Dumpling. I read her to sleep. Not a peep when Anna Livia Plurabelle... tells her tale. Beside the tickling waters of. Beside the chuckling waters of. Beside the laughing waters of. She loves the music of it all. "Again!" she agains it! " Can't hear with the waters of. The chittering waters of. Night now. Tell me, tell me, tell me elm. Night night! Tellmetale of stem or stone. Beside the rivering waters of. Hithering tithering waters of. Night."

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I am a hot little dumpling of a woman, fragrant pillows, dimples— I am a sweet and steamy comfort, silky victuals, spiced and biblical, for a man of pow'rful hunger.

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Apr 29, 2022

Apr 29, 2022 at 1:51 PM UTC

I am a hot little dumpling of a woman, fragrant pillows, dimples— I am a sweet and steamy comfort, silky victuals, spiced and biblical, for a man of pow'rful hunger.

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- We started to love One another Because, we both like dumpling That simple.

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Mar 17, 2018

Mar 17, 2018 at 1:52 AM UTC

mystic-ink-plus

- We started to love One another Because, we both like dumpling That simple.

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Magdalene sits opposite her father at the dining table, her mother is in the kitchen dishing up the food. Your ma says that Maguire girl was here? Her father says. Magdalene looks at him for a while. What was she doing here? He says. Listening to records, and talking, she replies. But why was she here? The reports from school from the nuns are not good, he says. What mine? Magdalene says. No hers, they've almost given up on her, he says. Shame on them, she says. He stares at her, no lip from you or you'll feel my hand, he says gruffly, stay away from her, she'll bring you no good. Magdalene looks away from him, looks at the Scared Heart of Jesus picture on the wall. Her da goes on, she listens to the music in her head, that Billy Fury song, thinking of her and Mary in the bed, kissing and touching. Her ma comes in with two plates of stew and puts them down in front of them both, then goes out again. Her da still yaks, Billy Fury still sings. Her ma comes in with her own plate of stew, and sits down at the table. I've told her to stay away from the Maguire girl, the father says to the mother. Make sure you do, her ma says. Magdalene gazes at her mother. Billy stops singing; her ma's voice has driven him away. I will, Magdalene says, beginning to fork in the dumpling. Make sure you do, I don't want her round here again, her da says. Billy Fury sings once more, Mary's hand touches her, brings her to a seventh heaven, and then she kisses neck, and shoulder. We'll run away, Mary said, when we get older.

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Jun 1, 2016

Jun 1, 2016 at 1:35 AM UTC

WHEN WE GET OLDER 1963.

Magdalene sits opposite her father at the dining table, her mother is in the kitchen dishing up the food. Your ma says that Maguire girl was here? Her father says. Magdalene looks at him for a while. What was she doing here? He says. Listening to records, and talking, she replies. But why was she here? The reports from school from the nuns are not good, he says. What mine? Magdalene says. No hers, they've almost given up on her, he says. Shame on them, she says. He stares at her, no lip from you or you'll feel my hand, he says gruffly, stay away from her, she'll bring you no good. Magdalene looks away from him, looks at the Scared Heart of Jesus picture on the wall. Her da goes on, she listens to the music in her head, that Billy Fury song, thinking of her and Mary in the bed, kissing and touching. Her ma comes in with two plates of stew and puts them down in front of them both, then goes out again. Her da still yaks, Billy Fury still sings. Her ma comes in with her own plate of stew, and sits down at the table. I've told her to stay away from the Maguire girl, the father says to the mother. Make sure you do, her ma says. Magdalene gazes at her mother. Billy stops singing; her ma's voice has driven him away. I will, Magdalene says, beginning to fork in the dumpling. Make sure you do, I don't want her round here again, her da says. Billy Fury sings once more, Mary's hand touches her, brings her to a seventh heaven, and then she kisses neck, and shoulder. We'll run away, Mary said, when we get older.

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