"fastfood" poems
Danny drops his broad bottom
back on the seat
beside his wife
at the food court
with 3 donuts for himself
each soaked in oil and fat
and each thick with white sugar coat
*“Danny, why do you eat this stuff…?
That’s all fat, three donuts of fat,”*
moans his wife
“Not really,” says Danny to his wife
who eats lettuce and carrot
and who looks like a knitting needle
*“Fastfood donuts are healthy;
look at the air in the middle -
but no doubt
one has to get through rest of the donut
for sure
but the air in the middle
is pure life-giving health
when one gets there”*
Jan 13, 2014
Jan 13, 2014 at 5:53 AM UTC
I want something other than ****
with the short shorts showing
everything
the low-cut crop top
exploring eyes wander over
on countless evenings
my imagination having nothing
left
I want smokey flannel
a two-day-old pony tail
boots stained by the dirt and grass
a hole in your jeans
that wasn't there when you found them
I want hungover-fastfood-drive-throughs
with my shorts and your tank top
wrinkled from your floor
your hair still wet from the morning shower
I want leggings, a t-shirt
and a backwards ball cap
while we sing loudly out the open window
tapping the dashboard off-beat
hand raised fingers pointing at the moon
laughing at the man that sits watching us drive
Nov 3, 2015
Nov 3, 2015 at 5:11 PM UTC
julemusikken går i ring på mc D
Julen er musik på en fastfood restaurant
Platte pop numre blusser glæden frem i mig
Og selvom jeg ikke vil, nynner jeg med i mit hoved
Hvad er jul uden plastik og dårlig samvittighed?
Hvad får bjælder til at ringe hvis ikke de blev spillet i radioen?
Jeg sidder her på det falske lædersæde og drikker cola
Og venter på sne
For for mig og alle andre på mc D
er sne det eneste der mangler
Dec 10, 2014
Dec 10, 2014 at 3:00 AM UTC
I would like this life of endless
Greyhound time schedules to cease.
What self-inflicted alien abduction
tore me from the valley of my birth,
leaving me to wander empty streets,
each the branch of a coppiced maze?
I grow weary of quotidian fastfood buffets
downed with the aid of espresso baristas.
My legs have lost the muscle-memory
that strode the river cliffs with no regard.
Time to end the sleepwalk of forty years;
rejoin the forward guard of Iroquois.
Oct 18, 2012
Oct 18, 2012 at 10:47 AM UTC
Rocks know a lot more about time than clocks
Drive to the top of a mountain
Cinnamon gum
Noseblood
And rocks a lot older than clocks
Tell the older us we say hello
I am stuck between red rocks and a very hard place
Rockclimbing to rockbottom
I am a time hunter, rock hunter, pigeon hunter
(Let me tell you something about pigeon hunting:
Shooting clay pigeons isn’t as much fun when the pigeons aren’t clay
and their bodies shatter in midair like pomegranates in September
with red jewels sprinkling the sandstones
the sedimentary clouds and the fastfood signs)
Remember that time I tattooed the sky?
I wrote “time is a l.e.d. light” in a sacred heart
between the stars and the freckles and the ladybugs
none of their mothers were thrilled
Now I know time is a rock, a very heavy rock
A rock is a star, a star is a rock
And me? I am a rockstar
But I have all timers. Alzheimer's? No. ALL TIMERS
and a monolith growing on my sternum
Firecrackers. That’s what I wanted to talk about.
And when I say firecracker I mean fireworks
the way fire works his way between me, time and a rock
What is it with rocks?
Rock and roll
Rocked by doubt and rolled by time
Rock my world, please
Mar 23, 2016
Mar 23, 2016 at 11:45 AM UTC
livet passerer gennem spejlet
drager parallel
hudløs uærlighed, den halve sandhed
vi skriver uden at tænke os om, hvorfor
tidlig bustur, fastfood-køb; pludseligt indblik i en andens hverdag
forbløffelse er en mærkelig størrelse
en skikkelse personificerer tanken om en andens liv
at føle sig tiltrukket af ideen om, at have kendt dem i en anden sammenhæng
det magiske hvis
bearbejdet, gennemtænkt, finpudsning
et øde *** drænet for mennesker, lagt øde (ødelagt)
at kultivere kulturarven
ønskebarnets strabadser
et savnet ord
Dec 7, 2015
Dec 7, 2015 at 4:13 PM UTC
White beans.
Pinto beans.
Even turnip greens
Or lima beans with hot water country bread make from scratch.
Left an impression upon you as you reflects back.
With children's so picky about food they like.
They would have been thankful for , what they had to eat at night?
Wendy's, Mcdonald's, or any other fastfood.
You only saw it only Friday mostly.
It just wasn't a selected choice.
When you would rush home to see the meal being prepared.
Yes, the days of being young.
You look back and realize , how bless you was?
We all should salute our moms.
And in some cases back then.
Even our dads.
The days of being young.
Tri-cycles still are better then a Big Wheel.
Even the simple bicycles back in the day.
Stands out better then some of these high prices bikes today.
You use your imagination.
And mainly knew all your neighbors.
From the Postman to the Mother Patrol.
Who knew them that lived next door?
Not all was creeps.
Even if one of the house might have creeped you out.
You knew church.
Oh, how you knew church?
That's the one place mom made sure you knew.
And, if pushed by dad refusal to attend.
He made you know it too.
Gosh, the days of being young.
I wouldn't change them for anything.
But, why should I?
When they make up this poem.
Jan 30, 2013
Jan 30, 2013 at 9:57 AM UTC
Rain was pouring hard
when my cheap fastfood coffee was full,
my cold sweat does the same
as soon as I finished the cup.
Bringing an umbrella in Dapitan
is not necessary.
At least that's what I said
before I was all soaked and in dread.
Jul 17, 2019
Jul 17, 2019 at 5:04 AM UTC
**a fastfood
owner was happy
for record sales
his wife asked. "How?"
he replied, "there was hunger strike
by the opposition party in our area!!"**
Oct 17, 2016
Oct 17, 2016 at 10:47 AM UTC
Cholesterol has found a special place within my heart,
For nothing love I more then a chicken wing to part,
I never allow water to pass between my lips,
Unless it's full of corn syrup which flows straight to my hips,
And after I retire for my after breakfasts nap,
I dream I'm crunching bacon, in a hotdog mayonaise rap.
Then off to do a sit-up as I reach for the remote, and watch some brand new fastfood adds, of these I make a note.
Then well after the sun has set, I waddle to my bed,
And mid-afternoon the next day, they find my body dead. 😄
Mar 4, 2025
Mar 4, 2025 at 9:06 AM UTC