"flaky" poems
In the mixing bowl
thou hast perfected praise.
Conforming to your mould,
your flaky crust begins to rise.
Steamy and buttery out of the oven,
you make my life chill,
when the morsel of butter enters the
blueberry canyon
to have its fill
Chemically inducing nirvana,
a world in the eye of God,
blueberry bursts of epic epicness
down my throat you trod.
In my stomach you swim, my friend.
"It is not good for muffin to be alone,"
pop goes the cherry muffin to join you,
and in swims a blueberry clone.
Nom nom nom.
Mar 24, 2014
Mar 24, 2014 at 5:54 PM UTC
The robotic surgeon didn't blink
Smoke, swear, or fool around;
He was the newest design of science
His metal feet firmly on the ground.
Robotic surgery was the latest
Improvement over the manual kind
There were no variations in technique;
No reliance on flaky mind.
He was diligent and precise
Cutting flesh to invisible templates;
He never erred and he never missed
Never once paused, to vacillate.
Trusted beyond the regular surgeon,
Using his fragile, shaking hands;
The robotic surgeon could do anything
Because he wasn't just a man.
The newest miracle of science was hailed
As the end, to the older style;
But one day the program blew a fuse-
And he cut her head off, by a mile.
Jun 30, 2010
Jun 30, 2010 at 8:20 AM UTC
**** men, guys, dudes, boys... in fact anything that walks on two legs and has a ***** between those two legs, or any other kind of elongated genitalia for that matter.
**** the simple ones who guzzle beer and scream at other men in a small box
**** the sensitive ones who weep at the intensity of their emotions to you
**** that cool ones who speak in a language of esoteric band and brand names
**** the intellectual ones who have their opinions shoved so far up their **** it bleeds out their mouth
**** the business types who's cool indifference is callous
**** the health-conscious gym-working-out ones who's 9pm bed time leaves you star gazing alone
**** the hippy ones who's lofty, hot air talk leaves you with a nasty feeling in your nose like you need to sneeze but it is stuck inside
**** the ones who are "different" but an trip on the bus is more entertaining than their recycled conversation
Last of all **** the decent, hard working, ones who have girlfriends that are non-flaky, pulled-together, skinny-organic-soy-latte-drinkers, only-wear-Karen-Walker, I-have-no-daddy-issues, law-majors
**** it all really
Feb 28, 2015
Feb 28, 2015 at 5:29 PM UTC
╰⊰✿´ℒ♡ⓥℯ '✿⊱╮
Golden, flaky, and so crisp
Layers of flavour
Lemon, honey, cinnamon,
tangy syrup drips
chopped walnuts, almonds,
whipped cream crown
Fork!
╰⊰✿⊱╮
Aug 12, 2018
Aug 12, 2018 at 3:08 PM UTC
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
She had her own signature scent,
A lasting aroma, that lingers in every corner of her home
As the strong winds picked up the scent,
and move it quite a distance.
She carefully prepare the mixture from the earth
Cuss ,kuss grass, Jasmine, rose buds and roots,
Before she prepare the mixtures with that special touch
Like a fine wine from the winery,
“One more drop of Rosemary oil, she would say
This would make the scent last for eternity,
Old Granddad he would make silly jokes,
His word usages, madam chemist, a witch with a spoon,
But in the end, she would always made a special potion for him
We would carefully select the flaky mahogany woods shaving,
with combinations of fresh vanilla leaves with extracting oil with oils
Those homemade perfumes from flowers had lots of potential.
Granddad hand craft the wooded bottle stoppers with his chisel,
It was a joy to watch, the old Irish typhoon working and smoking his pipe
Old Alan baffler was Nana nickname for him
She would scold and speak harshly to us
for touching the those colorful luring bottles
“Don’t open those bottles, you malicious children
Else a witch would appear: She would often say,
For me, my nana was an old chemist,
with old decade’s wooden sticks.
Preparing the mixtures like a fine wine,
I am forever grateful for those memories
I should have follow in her footsteps,
Her secret potions, her gift,
Is worth millions of dollars today
Looking back on yesteryears , good parenting
and good memories
Oct 6, 2015
Oct 6, 2015 at 8:48 AM UTC
*Apple pie is a wonderful treat, one of my favorite desserts.
With a warm, flaky crust, a scoop to make it à la mode,
Sweet with a spoonful of whipped cream.
But the pie by itself, doesn't make it my favorite treat.
It's where it takes my mind whenever I see it,
Smell it,
Taste it...
It was not your beauty that smote my heart, though you are beautiful.
It was not your illustrious eyes withholding a gorgeous soul.
It was not your delicate face that fills mirrors with joy when they reflect it.
All theses are parts of your magnificent, appealing body.
It was not your charm that smote my heart, though you are charming also.
It was not your gracious kindness and loving hugs as I cried into my pillow, broken by life's wicked games.
It was not your adorable bubblyness that cheered my spirits everyday.
All these are great parts of your stunning character.
It was you, only you, that stormed the keep of my frail and dying heart.
Seeing me as I was - broken like glass on a marbled floor - you gathered the shards and mended them with your own.
I sometimes wonder if there's something that reminds you of me, the way this apple pie reminds me of you.
Does a smile cross your beautiful face when I first say hello to you?
Do you stay awake tossing and turning because I won't leave your head or your heart?
Does your stomach tingle when we're separated from each other's company?
Did you cry alone at night when you and I thought we would never speak to each other again?
Do you love me?
Do you know I love you?
These are my thoughts, my questions,
After a slice of,
Apple pie.*
Apr 13, 2016
Apr 13, 2016 at 9:01 PM UTC
When biting Boreas, fell and doure,
Sharp shivers thro’ the leafless bow’r;
When Phœbus gies a short-liv’d glow’r,
Far south the lift,
Dim-dark’ning thro’ the flaky show’r,
Or whirling drift:
Ae night the storm the steeples rocked,
Poor Labour sweet in sleep was locked,
While burns, wi’ snawy wreeths upchoked,
Wild-eddying swirl,
Or thro’ the mining outlet bocked,
Down headlong hurl.
List’ning, the doors an’ winnocks rattle,
I thought me on the ourie cattle,
Or silly sheep, wha bide this brattle
O’ winter war,
And thro’ the drift, deep-lairing, sprattle,
Beneath a scar.
Ilk happing bird, wee, helpless thing!
That, in the merry months o’ spring,
Delighted me to hear thee sing,
What comes o’ thee?
Whare wilt thou cow’r thy chittering wing
An’ close thy e’e?
Ev’n you on murd’ring errands toil’d,
Lone from your savage homes exil’d,
The blood-stain’d roost, and sheep-cote spoil’d
My heart forgets,
While pityless the tempest wild
Sore on you beats.
2.6k
I have her legs.
Flaky skin-wood stove induced,
winter pricklies going wild,
and a little bit of mashed potatoes in the thighs.
I saw them hiding
underneath her house coat,
pale and untouched
like the snow covered hill.
Feb 3, 2011
Feb 3, 2011 at 4:16 PM UTC
Let me tell you a story
From a time gone by
The tale of a greedy butcher
And a pig that could fly
In the little village of Piddle Brook
There lived a butcher named Mr.Ham
He was bearded, bulky, and a belcher
And was rumored to eat his own toe jam
A lover of all meat
Pork,beef,duck,chicken, and mutton
All this gorger did was eat
He was a professional glutton
But Mr.Ham’s appetite was not satisfied
He longed for some thick greasy bacon
Just a few strips, nicely fried
Served with pickled daikon
He peeked through his window
And with one beady eye
Spotted his neighbors hog
And pictured a flaky pork pie
His mouth watered
"What a delicious midnight snack!"
"I will barbecue,braise and fry her"
"But first I will launch my attack"
"Oh but I shan’t become a thief!"
"T’was only a whim!"
But Mr.Ham’s thin scruples vanished
His growling belly got the better of him
He grabbed a pitchfork
And the hefty hooligan set out
He advanced on the sleeping hog
And grabbed her by the snout
Her piggy eyes shot open
And in a flash
She darted past the butcher
And ran past the fence in a dash
Mr.Ham bellowed in rage
And waddled after the beast
But the pig was too quick
Yet Mr.Ham never ceased
And so the chase continued
A wild game of cat and mouse
They ran through the streets
Row upon row,house after house
Finally the swine was cornered
The escaped pig let out a squeal
And great feathery wings sprouted from her back
Said the pig “Thou shalt not steal”
And with one final snort
Two leaps and a hop
The winged sow flew away
And Mr. Ham collapsed with a plop
"I suppose it was a sign from above"
Mr.Ham sighed with defeat
From then on the rotund carnivore
Gave up on eating meat
Jan 2, 2014
Jan 2, 2014 at 8:18 PM UTC
A girl sitting at the table next
restless, was slyly eyeing his pie,
kind of cute, like in childhood
it sure was, yet seemed a ploy
to gatecrash in to his privacy,
and give company, as it pleased her.
"The pie is blackberry if you fancy it ,
I''ll be glad, you can have it all,
I know there is no other left"
He played Mr.Nice guy,solicitous,
but behind that face of his,
was the arrows of light, hitting him,
from those sparkling eyes,
vying with each other, to build up
a halo chamber, almost visible around him!
Blackberry pie is no big deal, of course
he knows a whole hillside with
bushes full of ripe, succulent ones,
any day he could have his fill, raw
or as a flaky crusted pie backed by his mom.
But those sparkling eyes that in a moment
made him build castles in the air
had an electric appeal, he can't ignore.
The offer she said, was irresistible,
not a type she is who snatches,
dainty stuff from someone just bumped in to
"But the way your eyes did glint,
when you looked makes me ask
:haven't we met somewhere before?"
"There is a fickleness in this,love at first sight,
do you need to fall head over heels?"
a little voice within, that has a problem
in such things, kept raising a doubt.
"But without a first sight,there can't be love
may it be fickle, we'll tackle it the way it goes"
replies another,who seems to care for love.
Mar 3, 2016
Mar 3, 2016 at 7:38 AM UTC
porcupine, devil's receptionist,
your splinters are aching again.
manifested figure, you are alien.
more so are your actions.
I am thoroughly impressed
by the displays of your affections
boldly handing them to me,
so rudely beautiful, and my limbs
are too shocked for movement.
each layer within me shifts,
black goes grey, blue goes green,
brown goes red and gold, weeds
become sunflowers, the ground below
us begins to heave, volcanoes splinter
and split down their middles, ridges
of lava gasping for air, bubbling, black to grey to white
to blue and purple fire. sweat, we sweat but we don't catch flame.
sweat, and I am liquid at last.
sweet,
considering possibilities,
shuffling my vocabulary like cards in a deck,
preparing myself for the most difficult game life could offer,
preparing myself in tender fragments of flaky crystal.
words become thin glass in my mind, and I
begin to feel the cuts in my throat,
climbing up my tongue trying to create some movement,
even if that movement is pain.
movement has suddenly shook my bones out of their choke hold.
I gasp for air, grasp on to what you hold out.
your outline against my insides at last, your third eye cracked open
and I see behind and through the meshing that takes place. I see so
much that I am blind, torn with black and white.
I close my eyes with good intention:
I am black.
more dark than thorn roofed ships,
smashing against waves made of shadow.
I open my eyes with impression and find you white.
more white than the ghosts in my bones,
winter shivers back with thoughts of you.
I close my eyes with good intention.
I tire more and more
my head weighs down
with all the color.
I want no more black or white.
you tire more and more
your head weighed down
by holding your colors in.
we become tectonic
and all goes grey.
ashes of what we felt that day
aches of what we did
morning reaches my empty lids,
you've taken all I could say with
your silence. a plague. a bartenders keep.
I saw you again before the moon,
I even saw you standing beneath it's reflection,
staring.
Sep 5, 2013
Sep 5, 2013 at 10:45 AM UTC
I get excited when I see a cut start to heal
The old skin gets flaky and just falls off and you can see the progress your body made in healing itself
The layers of your wound start to change
Cells divide, span together and form sheets of new, tiny, improved parts
They get stronger
It is evidence my body is efficient, fighting infection and protecting itself
Sometimes I’ll try and pick away at the healing skin
To see how quickly I’m improving
I peel and pick and scratch to find the new skin underneath
The new me
The better me
But when I peel and pick and scratch to find the new skin underneath
I make a new wound.
Nov 14, 2012
Nov 14, 2012 at 12:53 AM UTC
Red,
Stinging,
Peeling,
Flaky,
Dry.
It’s skin reborn.
Hard,
Unmovable,
Hot,
Painful.
A curse from the sky.
Irritating blotches
And the itchiness within
Make me cranky
As if boiling my own skin.
Oct 4, 2013
Oct 4, 2013 at 8:38 AM UTC
The phone line dripped apologies
While I sat silently
All 3,000 miles north of me
Isolation froze solid on this moment
He had a heart attack they tell me
The room gift wrapped around me
Ripped open
Exposing a flaky rib cage
My arms wanted to stretch back home
Grab his heart
And palpitate his benevolence
Rewinding muscle memory
I have been told too many lies in hospitals
Watched a plethora of lives fall victim
Heard too many **** machines scream
Longing for the lost all too often
So I reprogrammed a code
For my Heart to beat overtime
To satiate the hearts
That no longer exist
Jan 17, 2015
Jan 17, 2015 at 12:33 PM UTC
Monday mornings are always easy.
Monday mornings bring a breeze South
Of The East,
North
Of The West.
Its caressing the exposed skin
of my flaky neck
like the lead cannon from Atlantis,
Flying for the grasp
Of the cactus from San Pedro
That provides mescaline to the tribes
Nearby, that pray to its being as The Messenger
From
The West. Beyond the horizon,
Like the jack rabbit, eroding, with a tube
Sock in the vestibule over The Dungeon That Sings,
Sideway neighbors to the uvula. If seen that way.
Beyond, the continual rings of Agorapho-
bia,
Challenging anxious mind,
With ideas
Of how it be the, not the seal in yestereen's heels.
Monday mornings
Are always easy.
Jun 30, 2022
Jun 30, 2022 at 5:00 PM UTC
Like a cathedral, I vaulted
my heart with bullets, torn
from my chest and
guts, blunt and melted,
wrapped my arms around
the word
**** praying
I was one of the strong girls, the kind
that wants not, wastes,
not one of the romantics, the “hopelessly
devoted to you”, hanging on
everyone’s every word like the last
line of a love letter:
goodbye. And so I forget
wishing for the briars in my throat
to grow
and hook our hearts
together, as though
your tongue could cut me
out of my coma. I know
not to trust
in prayers and fairytales: I find myself,
an ice queen, too cold and flaky
for a lover: drunk, disappointing
everyone (but most
of all, my mother).
Feb 18, 2014
Feb 18, 2014 at 9:58 PM UTC
enamored eyes, bulging with trust, lay me
down to sleep and keep me protected in
ten thousand layers of love
flaky biscuits and delicious, country-sausage
gravy, or the world's very best lasagna
smile warmly as I come home from work
soul-mate -- not just a quaint concept
Oct 27, 2014
Oct 27, 2014 at 6:43 PM UTC
i.
we stood our ground
among the deserted trees
with our arms outstretched,
fingertips pointing to
the dead and forgotten hills
like the bare branches,
and our naked bodies
firmly rooted down.
ii.
the bitter cold seeped into
our veins, making our tender
skin become dry and flaky,
crumbling with each blow of the wind;
making our hard-working heart
slow down and its beats
reverberating against the drums
in our ears until they become soft taps.
iii.
wilted plants and weeds learned
to grow around us, just as rocks
eroded under and between our toes,
along with vermin that quietly nibbled
on our emotionless eyes;
there we stood, very still like
scarecrows- except we were real beings
exiled from society for being different.
Aug 1, 2013
Aug 1, 2013 at 10:29 PM UTC
Around that time is when you told me
I prefer pale skinned women
as opposed to me, I'm a little bit too olive for
your tastes, atlas shrugged and geometric circle
tattoos
I would get a heart, right below my thumb
how juvenile, you're thinking
and you described your father's death behind your house,
how Wendy's voice broke your silence, but you
were so calm and that night you made Basil Palmiers, a little
too flaky, with a cigar amidst the coroner who spoke
hush hush
as if you couldn't take the news, a devastated son cooking dinner,
the wine,
magnificent.
May 3, 2012
May 3, 2012 at 3:27 PM UTC
It's the path to righteousness
Put a five dollar bill in the plate
Then be as iniquitous as you like
And your life will turn out great.
Put in a buck or two, maybe more
It's a method known since 1147
In an urchin's hand and you score.
Anyone can buy their way into heaven.
It's the fake as hell, flaky as well
Bend and stretch Holiness Twist.
Do what you like, namecall a ****
Cleanse with a twist of your wrist.
Donate a dime, go commit a crime
To church Sunday, be Jesus kissed
Suddenly resurrected, sins deflected
You're an ace at the Holiness Twist.
Appearances are most important
In the big holiness game of life.
You have to have the big house
The big car and flashy wife.
You have to have the perfect lawn
With the current rage of shrubs.
You have to wear the right clothes
And belong to the right clubs.
But the biggest thing to accomplish
To keep from seeming totally odd
Is you have to have the right and
Obvious choice for your god.
It has to be the right kind of stuff;
It can't be Eastern unless it started
Back when there were miracles
Like when the waters parted.
It's the fake as hell, flaky as well
Bend and stretch Holiness Twist.
Do want you like, namecall a ****
Cleanse with a twist of your wrist.
Donate a dime, go commit a crime;
In church Sunday, be Jesus kissed
Suddenly resurrected, sins deflected
You're an ace at the Holiness Twist.
Sep 25, 2016
Sep 25, 2016 at 8:25 PM UTC
The other day I told you about how I sometimes get the urge to eat tree bark
The flaky, papery kind that peels from the trunks of certain trees
Just a little, just to try it
You told me that was ******* weird
I'm more honest with you than I am with myself
You are my diary, a shoebox of secrets
And I tell you everything that runs through my head
You know me inside and out, like the back of your hand, like your favorite book
I want to be your hometown
I want you to find a place in me where you can be safe
And shed your skin, be as naked as I am
Let me be your shelter
Together, we can hide from the snow
Until the world thaws out
Jan 30, 2015
Jan 30, 2015 at 9:41 PM UTC
"You gon'a sleep all mornin', Bud?"
We get up for the day
Breakfast first, or else we're both wild animals
He walked over in such a way
An older version of my pal
An abandoned soul
A loyal, trusting friend
He makes me whole
He's a tired old ten
Was always horrible with words
Got homesick a lot, too
Always had to be with Ma and Pa
For me, there's nothing he wouldn't do
"You stop to smell the roses, Bud?"
I love long walks
On the beach
A flaky line, but it mocks
I want to teach
you about Meech
He lays down
Breathless, aching body
But oh man that was a great walk
His smile doesn't dare frown
A lonely soul
Last night I lost my best friend
In my heart, a sunken hole
At least now I won't have to pretend
"You just sleep in now, Bud."
Aug 8, 2011
Aug 8, 2011 at 2:41 PM UTC
╰⊰✿´ℒ♡ⓥℯ '✿⊱╮
Flaky sheets of puff pastry
glazed and golden brown
Fresh vanilla cream kisses
Topped with sliced berries
Sift icing sugar
Sprig of mint
Done!
╰⊰✿⊱╮
Aug 10, 2018
Aug 10, 2018 at 12:45 PM UTC
this sick, euphoric feeling
despite destortion is bold
gate to enchanted world unveiling
so intense and cold
that angel throughout the night I've been dreaming
am I oblivious of something?
since even in the limbo ; her mesmeric presence I had been feeling
hovering abruptly with its flaky wings
swooshing tepidly ; gradual and low
even the fragile of its touch stings
so disruptive and slow
showering illusionary dream ;
gentle whispers
kissing with the crimson lips;
firmly clustered
my shriveled face effervescent
her elated aura phosphorescent
sudating through the very pores
deluded ;
was this really a dream
had I not been in a state so worse
suffused
with the prismatic love stream
Jun 2, 2013
Jun 2, 2013 at 5:07 AM UTC