"fermentation" poems
Practicality is the reality
of ignominious totality
the devices of all sizes
and the grammatical mentality
of systematic duality.
Punctuation is the **********
the *********** of every generation
the permutation and saturation
of wordsmith temptation for re-calibration
the aberration and consternation
that leads to misinformation
and condemnation and annihilation
of the constellation colloquial conversation
the abomination of language urbanization
the fermentation and ionization
of linguistic complications
the desolation of commas and semi-colons
the affirmation of their vs they're
the augmentation of amalgamation
is just the lyrical ************
of a hooded basketball top nation
the culmination of devastation
the gestation and interpolation
that leads to appreciation isolation
and justification acceleration
the modification and assimilation
of poorly-worded implementation
and the contamination of myriad exploration
alienation in illumination
punctuation is the salvation of documentation
against the tides of violation
and the extermination of regurgitation
the classification of discrimination
and last but not least
the liberation of misrepresentation.
Jul 3, 2014
Jul 3, 2014 at 10:49 AM UTC
Electrons, making me feel like a *****
Where the heck did ADP come from?
I don't even want to wonder why there suddenly is a phosphate group.
How come G3P wasn't a nickname when I was a sophomore?
Glycolysis was not a crisis,
And I understood Miss Minnie's drawings.
Now I have a book with 3D figures,
But cellular respiration was not who it was four years ago,
And I swear I've encountered all of them before,
But where did they all go?
I know their names but not who they are.
Honestly, I'd rather think fermentation occurs in a bar.
Jun 26, 2013
Jun 26, 2013 at 11:24 PM UTC
Nearing great compost pile,
that steamy heap,
insatiable hunger hits guts.
And I know fortitude for journey
is contained in wealth of
centipedes, predatory mites,
rove beetles, ants,
nematodes, protozoa,
and **** of wriggly worms.
Virgil waits for me, as he did Dante.
He takes form of a sowbug,
but with whole of worldly wisdom.
Shows me circles to which I will fall:
organic residues,
primary consumers,
secondary consumers
and further tertiary consumers.
An ancient pyramid decompositional
processes the scaling down
before the rising up. Each eating
excrement of another before them.
One I become with slugs and snails.
Invertebrates shred meat from bone.
Flies make airborne my bacteria,
carrying me off to feed birth of
future fungi.
I am reborn over and over.
Never more have I known
anything more Godly.
Intestinal juices of earth, enzymes
and other fermentation
taking me down,
pushing me out,
transforming trash of my existence
back to Eden.
Mar 25, 2016
Mar 25, 2016 at 6:49 PM UTC
To make wine,
Grapes are crushed then poured into fermentation tanks.
Once fermentation begins, the grape skins are pushed to the surface by carbon dioxide gases released in the fermentation process.
I am the only fruit who has the necessary acids to make natural, stable wine.
My tannins add a bitterness and astringency,
But I must be picked at the right time.
My acidity and sweetness must be zen in balance.
The right ones are sorted through, but not all of us make the cut.
Unable to be served as sweet wine, too bitter.
Some more sweet, not bitter enough.
Simply picked at the wrong time, their peak unwanted, forgotten.
After being sorted we are destemmed and crushed.
Our roots ripped from us, dignity stomped upon.
For years, it was done manually, by foot.
Now, preformed mechanically, systematically.
But hey!
"Mechanical pressing has brought tremendous sanitary gains as well as increased the longevity and quality of wine."
Grape abuse continues, white wine grapes are quickly crushed.
Why do you ask?
To keep unwanted "color" from leeching into the wine.
But red wine,
Red wine is left in contact with it's skin, forced to acquire more color, more flavor and additional tannins.
After being sorted and crushed, I naturally ferment with in six to twelve hours.
This continues until all my sugar,
Is converted to alcohol.
To produce dry, wine.
The final stage is aging.
I am bottled with a cork,
Put on a shelf.
And ironically,
await my optimal fruitfulness.
Dec 6, 2016
Dec 6, 2016 at 2:30 PM UTC
From a tiny seed,
Cultivated on the vine.
You fed hedonistic need,
Turning grapes into wine.
Sun-ripened botanicals,
Coated with white snow,
Reactive chemicals,
Delicious moscato.
Metabolic complexity,
Antioxidant neveau,
Oxygenic activity,
Bubbly pinot grigio.
Crisp and refreshing,
Cheeks become sanguine.
Acidic and effervescing,
Behold, fruit into wine
1/17/2016
Jan 17, 2016
Jan 17, 2016 at 4:25 PM UTC
It stuck to her lips- ethanol;
Seeping through those crevices-
wax-painted , yet supple, soft;
Like the rest of her.
Those droplets still dangled,
Wavering- clenching;
the bitter doses
and their vibgyor spirals- spun;
these voices needed to be hushed-
so we decided to use a cigarette,
to burn our souls
…and hide behind the smoke;
Now it was just us,
those anaerobic strings of air,-spinning,
the shadows slipping, across the walls-
those rays of light softly reflecting
…from her thighs;
Her fingers trembled,
Skin on skin- and fermentation-
She stung; like vinegar,
that promise of toxic sweetness still lingered;
So we drove on, like empty vessels-
Trying.
Yet it didn’t exist.
Oct 13, 2009
Oct 13, 2009 at 11:48 PM UTC
you who swayed on stoop-steps and picked bits of teeth
from your knuckles, your fantasies, your crouched in blood
giggles; monologues.
you who wrapped knives around tree hides and in carvings
found your way back to days of love
& dead wet leaves.
you who rattled in hate of sweaty girls but
smeared out on the boulevard for girls anyways
& made those girls sweat.
you who ****** in the snow and wrote out all the names
of your far-fallen friends and sisters in just one stream.
pacific coast highway.
you who soaked back in the trans-fat pools of employment
to grip at tips and taste at *****
in this fine phase we call fermentation.
you who came hurdling down from hills and hallways
with navajo sidekicks,
your battle-axes sweetened with sugar powder flecks; for flavor
while dying.
you who peeled skin from your fingertips in protest
of the war on whales, warping you irrevocably
down the path
of a whisky avocado diet.
Apr 5, 2014
Apr 5, 2014 at 6:23 AM UTC
a voltage feeds my mind
like that of a brief rainfall
where there is an asterisks
of insignificant social commentary
whose reality pertains
to disproportionate events
whose commission
makes a profession out of trivia
which is no more ******* durable
than accumulated dispersion of adrenalin
that of a psychophysical explorative
exploitation of unrealized
perpetual fermentation
that seethes with the singeing smell
that accompanies its lie
those demanding untruths
that lock each and everyone
in a burning prison of panic
a prism of unfocused
visionary liberation perhaps to some
the realization of the cosmos
that lives within the poets interior
a mighty roar of space
waiting to be filled
with visions of future worlds
of future social commentary
Jun 10, 2013
Jun 10, 2013 at 2:54 PM UTC
These harsh evenings have us all turned to jacks
Tonight, we are not but walking puffs...
Hot with split tongues, hard feelings, and morbid musings
Littered on the curb along side blazing eyes and coffee stains
The stars are fading and morning glow consumes them
In gulps
Early morning hours are rushed with nicotine
And infused with rich fermentation
Which churns deep in our guts
Spilling and twisting them for our eyes to see
We are all there, or have been...
Rotting in the space where geometry leaves us without proofs
Roaches we hit
But what a drag it is
To sit street-side with friends
Whose hearts and minds are spinning on a compass
With no magnetic pull
Whatsoever
Jun 15, 2014
Jun 15, 2014 at 3:33 AM UTC
I'm a mixed drink
Half desperation
Half infatuation
Drink me
I want to taste me on your lips when we kiss
I'll become intoxicated
The fermentation
A bittersweet sensation
Love me
Allow yourself to be susceptible to alcoholism
Because I'm a mixed drink
Half desperation
Half infatuation
And nobody likes to drink alone
Oct 9, 2016
Oct 9, 2016 at 12:44 PM UTC
Run from suffering
and from pain.
Say Goodbye to the clouds,
if they will not bring rain.
No salt without saltiness.
No love without caress.
Fight for what is,
gone be what is not.
If you spend your life waiting,
you’re going to rot.
So keep on moving
and keep your head cool.
A rock that keeps rolling
makes moss it’s fool.
Jun 4, 2012
Jun 4, 2012 at 5:42 PM UTC
During fermentation,
Yeast organisms
Consume sugars &
Produce alcohol, i.e.,
Yeast eats sugar &
***** alcohol.
Makes you want to go
Right out and get drunk,
Don’t it?
Donut?
Doh!
May 23, 2015
May 23, 2015 at 2:36 PM UTC
Slander wears no muzzle
Fragmentation
Void of couth
Shove born from a nuzzle
Insinuation
Shoddy sleuth
Guilt turns into guzzle
Fermentation
Robbing youth
Scattered jigsaw puzzle
Imagination
Pseudo truth
No lies can bind the hearts of all
No anger heals the scars of all
No ale can hide the shame of all
No eye can see the truth of all
May 3, 2012
May 3, 2012 at 12:15 AM UTC
Sad, pathetic mess, I'm a wreck.
I've got nothing left, there's nothing left.
Life's a hollow shell and I've gone flat.
Not like that mattered since the wheel fell off.
Colors are gone, even the browns and beige.
All that's left for me is black and white,
And none of that is clear to me.
What I need to see is up on the big screen,
But in this shame, I can't stop looking at my feet.
Tears roll down my nose and obscure them from view,
Dropping to stain the ground in front of me.
Life has lost meaning as I stagnate.
Life is only a dreaming,
Watching me wait and pray for something else.
Pain, regret, and emotion lost in sympathy
As my life is wasting away,
Being crushed inside of me,
Unwilling to see the darker side of me.
My heart is bleeding -
Fingers vice-like -
Each tip labeled with my vice,
Drilling and boring, until as I am,
Nothing's left.
Apr 19, 2011
Apr 19, 2011 at 10:02 PM UTC
oh but what you are doesn't necessarily remain,
we already know what you are,
you are a masquerade of excuses,
and your favourite subject of expressing
the masquerade is philosophy -
by it you find yourself excused,
but because the english undermined
a philosophical expression we've found
a weak spot, a diaphragm sort of speak;
indeed oh, what you are doesn't necessarily remain,
what you create and leave behind is necessary -
i just hope you find the heart to entomb in your
heart those in the modern era you found
pleasure in entertaining you grasping such
a vain effort of your frivolous maintenance
of the easily accessed numbers of similar examples -
sunglasses in the night - a ghost in the machine -
a soul extracted from the body in that lonely
cataract of flooding applause with one actor
and one member of the audience scared to applaud -
your creation... your immediate loss of identity -
but of course you were anticipating the organic
form of what would become a cohesive inorganic
entity - of the example that a mother even speaks
of regarding a robot - now why would a mother
speak of a robot? hmm? guess... it's a test for
a.s.i., i.e. analytically synthetic intelligence -
history repeats itself -
history repeats itself -
you analyse no difference -
hence you synthesise replication - and you call
it intelligence of avoidance yet waste it on
a test for intelligence quantified, rearing in politicians
to craft a chiral representation of intelligence
quantified - in the recycling bin -
so much intelligence wasted, quantified,
leaving so much stupidity qualified to fake it,
instead of the recycling bin, thrown into the pigs'
through...
indeed, you are not what necessarily remains,
all the fabulous discoveries of science, and yet
the burning existential questions - thrown at you
by the pyramidal scheme of the non-inventors,
the once proud aristocrats languishing beneath
the weight of new-money barons...
indeed you are not what necessarily remains,
you are what necessarily remains in what you
are already... in such great number,
as in the liturgy of history... an anonymity...
perhaps all you ever were was a method statement
of creating a soufflé, the fermentation process of grapes...
how foolish you look now, readied for slaughter,
attempting to clarify a famous person syndrome,
grovelling like a cunt-politician slurping attention
in Orwell's house - i know my stance -
by the machine being fed exponentials -
once only deluded if i be found prophetic on the street,
but with a house bound to a value
a suicide rate is worth in Switzerland (£10,000),
you think i'd pleasure myself with your tabloid
philosophy and wait for sympathy or disgrace?
guess...
it's free; a guess is free,
your little birdcage houses no sing-along.
Apr 14, 2016
Apr 14, 2016 at 10:46 PM UTC
Foot fungus and fermentation.
Easy yeast.Piss down your leg for a bouquet.
Throw a monkey wrench in the cogs
Rage against the machine.
I'm mad as hell and I'm not taking it anymore.
Jun 7, 2013
Jun 7, 2013 at 2:21 AM UTC
An uneventful car ride from the misty foothills to the flat highways of the city. Not a word passed between the two other travelers and I.
Silent infection spreading through organs. Unknowing.
Pallid skin, sunken eyes. Something's not right with this picture.
We arrived at the hospital before the muggy heat had warmed the sidewalk. A building too tall and too clean to be holding any good news inside its walls.
You walked through the doors with a heavy air of confidence, head up and shoulders squared. After every vial of blood tested, every swelling ***** inspected, every heart beat recorded, and question asked- that air remained the same, while mine was quickly disappearing.
I would gladly trade places with you in a heart beat.
Hell, I'd even give my heart to you.
Aug 31, 2010
Aug 31, 2010 at 7:23 AM UTC
With your programmed morality
And persecuting isolation,
You sit quite solemnly
Quiet with your permentaion,
Morbid savagery
While the blood draws to fermentation,
Awaiting gallantly,
For your front page execution.
-
This is the last thing you saw before death,
Before arrival of the faithful guillotine;
My face crooked into a smile,
And my eyes that backed the Devil down,
Sinister and cynical,
I wiped the earth of you before,
And now, alas, a chance for history to repeat...
Penance of your grievences
Are worth their weight in sequences
And **** the corruptable fallicies,
I only pray that I see your eyes lose all soul,
And of that, I only believe in me,
In Nothing.
Nov 20, 2013
Nov 20, 2013 at 3:06 PM UTC
left, sinistral, left sided, left out,
left behind,
gastropod sea shells,
coiling counterclockwise,
when viewed from the apex
when that all alone,
left-out feeling pervades,
to the party uninvited,
for the team, unchosen,
stand out for not standing in,
invisible moat surrounds and suppresses,
life's outward bound sounds,
vision best,
when only looking inward,
remember this too well..
this world, this work,
was created by an
ambidextrous soulbeing
his soul,
favoring neither right or left,
favoring doing right,
and no one
left behind
cognizant that both sides now
are necessaries
for human and seashell existence
proof be that
the creator,
his perfection, at the very least,
in his design motifs,
unquestioned,
made us all
sinistral shells
and sinistral poets
those apex corkscrewing left poets,
the leaven of human fermentation,
you and your sinistral tidbits
are the influencing spice
of an average world,
keeping the world tilting
on its proper axis
make us and
our daily bread rise,
sinistral yeast,
vive la difference,
you are
the best of us
Jan 10, 2015
Jan 10, 2015 at 2:08 PM UTC
Harvesting
Feeding your mind with knowledge,
quenches opportunity to inhale wisdom.
Pressing
Squeezing wisdom into a humble reflection, ripens your mind.
Fermentation
A mind connected to growth,
provokes insightful sophistication.
Clarification
The abundance of one's progress becomes obvious to the cultivated mind.
Aging
A clear open mind inspires your full aging potential.
Jl 2016
May 24, 2016
May 24, 2016 at 6:04 AM UTC
stuck onto a rock with sticky glue
to live an uncertain life
two feet with one in front of the other
wobbling on the spot
wishing for the wings of a bird
never materialised
trust in your gut and make sense of it all
is it a wonder fermentation is so popular
Jan 22, 2015
Jan 22, 2015 at 10:14 AM UTC
I cannot hate you
though only God knows how hard i try
It's not our songs that make me cry
it was the dance we shared
I rework the steps in head
trace the thread from end to start
yet the filaments fray under touch
observation, physics, shift
and the memories are never clear
the only thing I know
is i fell in a trap
deceived by my better half
my better half
no longer whole
bitter fermentation of the fruits of love
drown again in the bottle
of aged oak drink
hop and barley
they said I was ****** but can't recall
yet there's a picture of me unconscious
***** sprayed upon painted brick walls
Jul 1, 2016
Jul 1, 2016 at 12:26 AM UTC
in my mind
all i really
wanted
was mind enough
to say no...
and yet
as i had knelt...
and as i had pleaded..
all i could ask for
was ignorance
and all i could say
was thank you
for all the venom---
still
it
feels just
a little bit sad
i couldn't
ask for more...
more drops
by
drops
wishing
wanting
waiting
washing down
falling
even deeper
ever faster
intoxicating
sating myself more and more in this
scrumptouos feast of more and more
and with every single mouthful
i take in
my appetite begs for more and more
yes
i am a wolf.
the lowest of the low
in a tripartite soul.
and i can't help
but fill myself up
no matter how much
i weigh myself down.
i just want more.
more of bullets
for every single word you say
more of icicles
for every single awkward touch
more of daggers
*for every single glare you look me
down with*
more of poison
*for every single lie you make me swallow
forcefully down my own throat saying
that you've always been true*
more of you...
*for every single night i waste
away lying wide awake lying
to myself about not regretting
every sound i taught, trained
my tongue to incarcerate until
you were no longer there to listen*
more of flames.
*the feeling i get whenever you
quench my burning aching hunger.*
more of flames
*that blazing glimmer i become
when everyone looks at all my
scars with disappointment.*
i want more of flames.
and i just want to burn it all down
along with you.
and then
i'd happily engulf myself
engorge myself
on all our
shared
pain
and
misery
knowing that no one will ever
knowingly share anything else with me...
let me bask
at least one last supper
in the blissful toxin
of our cannibalism
and one last time
we'll cast a miracle and
burn
in the gluttony
of our lustful intersuffering
drowning drunk
from the deathly fermentation
of our own flowing blood
knowing
we'll never again
have to wake up
with a killer of a hangover tomorrow.
Mar 7, 2019
Mar 7, 2019 at 6:43 AM UTC
**it's one of those nippy nasty days
but i like my town nevertheless
Even with its infamous cold
numbing my senses and cramping my jaw
there's an unfailing antidote to all that:
a wood fire with smoke going up the chimney
and warmth radiating around the room
add a steaming cup of tea to that and a voice on the radio
or a glass of opaque beer brewed the indigenous way
seven days of fermentation like the story of creation
the dog has its tail between its legs and whimpers speechless tears
baby lizards dart to spots where the sun sometimes rests
and i sit in my armchair dreaming about warmer days
but happy that there is a contrast that enhances the pleasure
thus we must always be grateful for this little thing, this treasure
the smile from a loved one that melts all the ice
makes the sun come shining through
and makes us whole again**
Jul 6, 2016
Jul 6, 2016 at 7:22 AM UTC