"flavoursome" poems
Forget the onion and all its layers
thats obvious
You are undeserving for such a cliché
So I invite a different perspective
Think of a base, flour and egg kneaded together like I need you,
so dense in identical morals
Folded with mirrored ideology of future fortuity
Dipped sensually with a sauce so thick,
Thicker than blood or water,
Blended as one to create a sea of red as deep as our hearts pumping vitality
Sprinkled softly with the most palatable, mouth watering mozzarella
Each placing full of utter affection,
Long lost stares while you sit innocent to me feasting my eyes upon your moreish persona.
The only quandry we must face is whose decision that day of toppings to showcase
Who gets the chance to tease additional flavours, delicious tasters
To open eyes to attributes unseen before,
Hopes set high to electrify taste buds
Wanting the other to crave more
Ingredients brought together for a flavoursome pizza
You are my hawaiian
As i,
Your meatfeast.
Opposing trimmings
Eachothers 1st choice
One anothers perfection to quench their dying hunger
Mar 2, 2019
Mar 2, 2019 at 12:05 PM UTC
as i said before, the real active ingredient in cigarettes is not nicotine, nicotine is the flavoursome bit, the real active ingredient is carbon monoxide, the thing that spins your head a little on the first cigarette of the day.
oh god my nicotine hangovers
are worse than my alcohol hangovers,
i get this cough when waking
that makes schnitzel from my lungs
on the cough up (you'd think
it was tuberculosis), but recedes
once enough active ingregient in
my addiction is inhaled...
but the odd thing is...
when by odd chance i do get the classical
hangover with a headache...
my nicotine hangover is not apparent,
i don't cough...
and i cure this hangover by not
trying to think, thinking and brain
pain don't work together...
so i lie in bed, sing some rammstein
and later drink enough coffee
for the caffeine cure of increasing
blood pressure / blood flow;
or the classical hangover could be due
to the fact that i was headbanging to
sepultura's ratamahatta...
any coin flip is just as good to explain
this scenario.
Dec 3, 2015
Dec 3, 2015 at 2:31 PM UTC
Love is not lust tho' lust may lead to love
As seedlings basked in sunlight spring to flowers,
Young blooms may make a golden treasured trove
Where tender tulips kiss in huddled bowers
Love ripens like straw-nested berry fields,
Plump, juicy, flavoursome, and blushing red
As nature's bounteous sweet harvest reveals
Her shapely form resplendent in her bed
Love is an acorn to the mighty oak,
Deep-rooted and unbounded by the sky;
Love ripples like a genteel puddled cloak
Laid bare to keep a silken petal dry
Love is but love and life is but to love:
So poets write and lovers seek to prove
Feb 14, 2016
Feb 14, 2016 at 9:49 AM UTC
Dearly departed,
Pray for me
In life I still need to excrete
Not only faeces but thoughts
Just like food in my mouth
I chew possible sounds
Until they are… reproduced
I think
What I thought was art
Is now a bit bitter on my tongue
The saliva must be tainted
With odours I’ve inhaled
Because this ******* I taste
Is too flavoursome
I know this isn’t appealing
But neither is the finished product
Unwrap what you can
Of what we toss down to you
And swallow what you think is sweetest
You know it will all be… sour
I think
What I thought was lasting flavour
Turned out to be flesh
And even as I write this
I feel the unpicked hair in my teeth
So that when I create
I am secretly painting in words
From the inside out
I am closer to you in this way
But in that way-
Not so much.
Dearly departed,
Pray for us
In life we must run to you
But in living we must wait
Amongst the rotting peels
We left in our backpacks
For too long
We’ve learned to speak
About the smell
But in doing so our breaths
Stink up the air
And our legs are getting stiff
Sitting cross legged and festering thoughts
Bubbling images we wanted
To forget
God, this is a witch’s ***
But she forgets to stir it on hot days
And we decay
Faster than you do, I swear
The curses don’t become me
I know, the curses
Must be me and them.
Dearly, Departed,
Pray, and still listening
I’m sorry about the foulness of everything.
Mar 12, 2017
Mar 12, 2017 at 4:12 AM UTC
Men are like chocolates
some to soft, some to hard
some sweet and tasty
some dark and nasty
I’ve tried a few in my time
on some I wouldn’t spend a dime
I like the ones that melt in my mouth not in my hand
add a few nuts, yummm, that’s grand
men are like chocolates
some flavoursome, some not
Jun 17, 2013
Jun 17, 2013 at 9:51 AM UTC
You deserve to wake up and smile because of your beautiful, bright, bold soul.
You deserve to laugh loudy and feel fusion of fluttering in your tummy.
You deserve to shy away and cover your rose-pink face.
You deserve to feel raw, ruddy, real emotion only with positive and pure intentions.
You deserve success due to your persevering, powerful power house.
You deserve sincere care due to your pious purity.
You deserve to be fed with flavoursome fruits and nourished emotionally and physically.
You deserve to be put on a pedestal like a clear celestial body.
You deserve the truth and not to be fooled by equivocation from three weird sisters.
You deserve someone to pump oxygen into your heart and not deprive it of tenderness.
You're worth more than millions upon billions.
If anyone can't see the love you deserve, remove them you're an
Oscar Award.
You deserve it all-
But I'm not good or the best.
I am the worst.
-Nuha Alli
Apr 7, 2018
Apr 7, 2018 at 3:38 PM UTC
I can hear the baby quail,
they’re telling me, from in the hay bales
and chirping like little frogs.
While they themselves
**** back their bog pockets,
bloom, press the weak wood, and leak to me.
The trickle-slap pipistrelle
in subito notes, that hit and fall,
that explain to me so frantically.
crooning to me so mutually
and between themselves,
like organs pumping air into each other.
The birds sail on it over fields
relying on the attitude of the night,
feeling out its hot rushes.
In sensory geography,
dependent on a mood of its own.
In an ocean, emancipated from the moon.
The sky-lung, plays its shivering reeds
Where the spores, the sycamore, shattering
in crochets, quavers, in minims,
on any mistral score
are mooring till but a touch of direction.
It hears all of what my fingers feel.
It tastes all of which my eyes are witless.
The asp in the verge tasting me
with undulating flick of forked tongue
in aromatic echolocation,
both received and given by all.
The curious noses of foxes
between the furious foxglove
sifting out the berries of effort,
of strain and sweat in fur
haunting out from the stems.
There they find the scared,
shouting in the language of the animal.
And when the colours leave the flowers with the day
the night is painted in flavoursome air.
The night which licks at your ear,
the night that chatters amongst itself,
sonic charybdis,
whirling in the moth-light.
The dark side of the earth
is facing me.
Dec 11, 2015
Dec 11, 2015 at 11:38 AM UTC
*and how many times did a drag of a
cigarette after a few drinks
make the drinks more potent?
countless times, each time i got
hit by a carousel.*
i started smoking cigarettes after all
the joints of half tobacco half
marijuana, that was when i was 21,
now i'm 29 pushing two months into
30, and i'm suddenly quitting...
no, not the nicotine addict, or
the prime active ingredient (carbon monoxide)
ingredient addict, as sold by big pharma
companies that give quitting smokers
the rattling tick itch, ready to pop
a synthetic analogue of the thing you once
did... yes, did, because what's missing
with that therapy of quitting is the actual
aesthetic of blowing out smoke,
my hands weren't ready to quit the
'the devil makes work for idle hands'
popping a nicotine pill or chewing a nicotine
gum will not work, you might as well
compare smoking a cigarette to injecting
a needle & syringe into your hand,
the cold turkey aesthetic of chewing gum,
patch of "cough nicotinemint" will really
bother you, i tried the chewing gum once,
very peppery, itched my tongue...
now i'm the bishop's fat (that's φατ),
because i'm drinking whiskey, carrying
a portable hookah pipe and the auburn whiskey
the amber whiskey flavour, cutting through
with chocolate mint, i ordered more flavours,
10ml bottles of coconut, tobacco, apple, strawberry,
you name it! but i needed a time frame,
smoke my last cigarette by throwing imaginary dice
(putting felt-tip dots on a napkin), drew:
. . .
.
. . . (5, 2)
and
. .
. .
. . (5, 1),
that's thirteen drags of a cigarette,
clocked it with my last one, under 5 minutes,
roughly four and a bit, after all, the cigarette
burns automatically once lit, so you have to hurry,
and the flavoursome vapour 13 drags?
well into 15 minutes... apart from the aesthetics
of the whole experience... no coughing,
no phlegmatic residue in the throat,
no tar numbing of the palette...
and economically speaking, i'm going to be
saving in a range of £30 - 50 a week not
buying cigarettes.
Feb 24, 2016
Feb 24, 2016 at 6:48 PM UTC
memories flavoursome deep
a scent of lovely reminder
some intangible happening
but experienced all the same
comes upon the silence
of listening wait
a wholeness harnessed
within the eternal mix
gladdens the heart of creatures
Jan 7, 2015
Jan 7, 2015 at 8:31 AM UTC
On my 26 x 39 (inches) bed
lies a pillow –
mushy and white –
named ‘Desire’
on which my head sinks
once a day or night,
sometimes twice when you
shed your eyes of negligence at me.
The pillow cover –
17 x 26 (inches) –
made of wrinkled cotton has small,
three-petal purple flowers printed on it,
that droop when you
let your well-crafted features
not sink into my sight –
a tease that you are;
only salty tears to revive them at night?
You are a post-midnight snack
dipped in vinegar –
a little of soya-sauce and sesame oil
to coat you up;
would you not let me have a bite
of your flavoursome existence –
only then would I be able to
sleep well –
my head sunk into oblivion on my
17 x 26 (inches) pillow named ‘Desire’.
My 26 x 39 (inches) bed may not have
enough space for you,
but I have learnt to live in
a compromising manner –
I would crawl up a bit
and make space for you
so that we both can lie-down
and let the seasons pass –
monsoon to autumn,
autumn to winter,
winter to spring,
and spring to summer.
When summer comes next year,
we shall get up from my 26 x 39 (inches) bed
and comb our hair,
have a light breakfast;
I may perhaps smoke a cigarette
or two,
and then we shall part our ways.
And when you leave my house,
it shall become a shrine for lovers
who walk hand-in-hand,
stop by in mornings,
afternoons,
and evenings,
to offer freshly-bloomed daisies
to my pillow named ‘Desire’
which has the shape of our heads imprinted –
seasons of love well-spent.
Aug 20, 2017
Aug 20, 2017 at 6:00 AM UTC