"fritos" poems - Hello Poetry

A burrito is like a Dorito A burrito is like a Dorito but it doesn't even Fritos but is a Frito even free tho like man I wanna be tho the one who can eat toe like that ain't me tho no foot fetish is in me yo like you know how I be bro like u know the beat tho therefore a burrito isn't like a Dorito unless it does the free tho frito txt me m8 248 880 2231

0

Nov 27, 2015

Nov 27, 2015 at 3:42 PM UTC

kolby-cortis

Is it free tho

A burrito is like a Dorito A burrito is like a Dorito but it doesn't even Fritos but is a Frito even free tho like man I wanna be tho the one who can eat toe like that ain't me tho no foot fetish is in me yo like you know how I be bro like u know the beat tho therefore a burrito isn't like a Dorito unless it does the free tho frito txt me m8 248 880 2231

1

Everywhere, on the sidewalks, in the gutters, right outside my door. Flourishing in the streets of Tegucigalpa, like leftover confetti from Mardi Gras. Lining the paths, nestled in the gravel, the broken concrete, and overgrown weeds. Coloring the landscape with orange and green. Proliferating around garbage cans, discarded bottles, tires, and take out boxes, liberated to the acrid landscape around. Men, cutting back the peels, devouring the tropical flesh, delectable, united to pits. Dark skin and eyes, their accents singing, so different from my own. I stepped carefully, but always underneath, a sweet stickness, clinging to my soles. A bond to the red dirt, platanos fritos, and cattle roaming the street. When I returned to the wide boulevards, pristine and meticulously clean, I stopped watching my feet, looking for mango peels underneath.

0

Jan 17, 2019

Jan 17, 2019 at 3:04 PM UTC

Roses79

Mango peels

Everywhere, on the sidewalks, in the gutters, right outside my door. Flourishing in the streets of Tegucigalpa, like leftover confetti from Mardi Gras. Lining the paths, nestled in the gravel, the broken concrete, and overgrown weeds. Coloring the landscape with orange and green. Proliferating around garbage cans, discarded bottles, tires, and take out boxes, liberated to the acrid landscape around. Men, cutting back the peels, devouring the tropical flesh, delectable, united to pits. Dark skin and eyes, their accents singing, so different from my own. I stepped carefully, but always underneath, a sweet stickness, clinging to my soles. A bond to the red dirt, platanos fritos, and cattle roaming the street. When I returned to the wide boulevards, pristine and meticulously clean, I stopped watching my feet, looking for mango peels underneath.

5

The milk man died last week. I didn't know him well, just enough to know his favorite chew and how much he hated Fritos. I knew his lover and her worn-out windbreaker, her frizzled hair as gold as her Marlboros. I sold her a pack of silvers once and she nearly snapped my neck. They take (took?) their tobacco dead seriously. She hasn't come back to work yet, though her five allotted days of grief are over. The empty milk crates just aren't empty anymore.

0

May 31, 2016

May 31, 2016 at 9:44 PM UTC

featherfingers

The Milk Man Died Last Week

The milk man died last week. I didn't know him well, just enough to know his favorite chew and how much he hated Fritos. I knew his lover and her worn-out windbreaker, her frizzled hair as gold as her Marlboros. I sold her a pack of silvers once and she nearly snapped my neck. They take (took?) their tobacco dead seriously. She hasn't come back to work yet, though her five allotted days of grief are over. The empty milk crates just aren't empty anymore.

12

You lay with stagnation A sterling object effortlessly within your reach. It is food, a bag of Doritos. Open, beckoning for you. Like a blind beast you stuff yourself into the snackly relive, Reaching far for any crumb. The bag is empty, the joy begins to be ripped-- Another bag, Fritos, a repetition, You immersed yourself into the instant reward of joy and bliss, then, the second your comfort is complete the hand reaches inside of you pulling out all your joy and replacing it with guilt, sadness, grief, and finally emptiness. Making you lust for a way to put the planet in reverse, or at least just make it all go away. Disappear. Or cloak either it or you in a black more thick than oil. An epiphany. Fuel yourself and find that in getting up, walking across the room Opening doors, Going up and down stairs, cleaning the self. A seed will find you. Plant it, with true and pure care, Water it, with true and pure care, Pour your life into it. And if it is pure Then when the olive tree is full, You will lust no more, need no more, want no more. For what the complex joins you with will not allow anything into its holy trinity. If it, you, an the other are pure. Not as silver, And all will fail and the blind beastly actions of the past exists as if never gone. For it was simply hiding.

0

Jun 29, 2010

Jun 29, 2010 at 10:40 PM UTC

michael-havlin

Purity

You lay with stagnation A sterling object effortlessly within your reach. It is food, a bag of Doritos. Open, beckoning for you. Like a blind beast you stuff yourself into the snackly relive, Reaching far for any crumb. The bag is empty, the joy begins to be ripped-- Another bag, Fritos, a repetition, You immersed yourself into the instant reward of joy and bliss, then, the second your comfort is complete the hand reaches inside of you pulling out all your joy and replacing it with guilt, sadness, grief, and finally emptiness. Making you lust for a way to put the planet in reverse, or at least just make it all go away. Disappear. Or cloak either it or you in a black more thick than oil. An epiphany. Fuel yourself and find that in getting up, walking across the room Opening doors, Going up and down stairs, cleaning the self. A seed will find you. Plant it, with true and pure care, Water it, with true and pure care, Pour your life into it. And if it is pure Then when the olive tree is full, You will lust no more, need no more, want no more. For what the complex joins you with will not allow anything into its holy trinity. If it, you, an the other are pure. Not as silver, And all will fail and the blind beastly actions of the past exists as if never gone. For it was simply hiding.

29

shiver'd awake, no rain-guard on your tent. beautiful to see the stars when that drunk sends you spinning, but it got cold. real cold. the two of you went for cigarettes. necessary, after a blur'd night with raiding raccoons. piss'd the night before, piss'd the morning after; you were right hungover. while gone, i built the fire to cook. (that fire, that fire was my baby) rations were raid'd by wildlife in the night, left were a can of chili and some fritos. knifed the top off can, began breakfast. your return brought cigarettes, hair of the dog, excitement at the day beginning. mention'd dog hair, available only after raccoon raids and sinking cans. night prior we weren't as drunk as i think. i remember. i guess. it fix'd us up, though, as our immoderate breakfast hit home.

0

Jan 13, 2013

Jan 13, 2013 at 7:48 AM UTC

townsendfm

memories. pt2

shiver'd awake, no rain-guard on your tent. beautiful to see the stars when that drunk sends you spinning, but it got cold. real cold. the two of you went for cigarettes. necessary, after a blur'd night with raiding raccoons. piss'd the night before, piss'd the morning after; you were right hungover. while gone, i built the fire to cook. (that fire, that fire was my baby) rations were raid'd by wildlife in the night, left were a can of chili and some fritos. knifed the top off can, began breakfast. your return brought cigarettes, hair of the dog, excitement at the day beginning. mention'd dog hair, available only after raccoon raids and sinking cans. night prior we weren't as drunk as i think. i remember. i guess. it fix'd us up, though, as our immoderate breakfast hit home.

34

Slumping over their shopping carts like porpoises on parade. Baskets overflowing with fritos, doritos, and sugar-ade. Reckless the dream that changed what they couldn't, to swim through foil bars soaring from cash to vein. Girl with scissors, cutting hair, to reach a new brain. Sofa-living, so much thwarting thoughts of inadequacy. Streams of image, money -- and American Honey, I think you are fine the way you hurt.

0

Jun 12, 2016

Jun 12, 2016 at 10:12 PM UTC

joshua-haines

Girl With Scissors

Slumping over their shopping carts like porpoises on parade. Baskets overflowing with fritos, doritos, and sugar-ade. Reckless the dream that changed what they couldn't, to swim through foil bars soaring from cash to vein. Girl with scissors, cutting hair, to reach a new brain. Sofa-living, so much thwarting thoughts of inadequacy. Streams of image, money -- and American Honey, I think you are fine the way you hurt.

16

went to the bar that night, had a few shots, stumbled back to his place. i ended up giving him a BJ. a ****** jaw. he tried to kiss me. all i wanted were some cheetos or even fritos. from what i remember, he said he had a variety of chips and dip. i didnt think he wanted to attack my lip with his lip.

0

Feb 19, 2011

Feb 19, 2011 at 5:25 PM UTC

ginamarie-engels

all i wanted were chips, not lips

went to the bar that night, had a few shots, stumbled back to his place. i ended up giving him a BJ. a ****** jaw. he tried to kiss me. all i wanted were some cheetos or even fritos. from what i remember, he said he had a variety of chips and dip. i didnt think he wanted to attack my lip with his lip.

5

¡Mecánica sincera y peruanísima la del cerro colorado! ¡Suelo teórico y práctico! ¡Surcos inteligentes; ejemplo: el monolito y su cortejo! ¡Papales, cebadales, alfalfares, cosa buena! ¡Cultivos que integra una asombrosa jerarquía de útiles y que integran con viento los mujidos, las aguas con su sorda antigüedad! ¡Cuaternarios maíces, de opuestos natalicios, los oigo por los pies cómo se alejan, los huelo retomar cuando la tierra tropieza con la técnica del cielo! ¡Molécula exabrupto! ¡Atomo terso! ¡Oh campos humanos! ¡Solar y nutricia ausencia de la mar, y sentimiento oceánico de todo! ¡Oh climas encontrados dentro del oro, listos! ¡Oh campo intelectual de cordillera, con religión, con campo, con patitos! ¡Paquidermos en prosa cuando pasan y en verso cuando páranse! ¡Roedores que miran con sentimiento judicial en torno! ¡Oh patrióticos asnos de mi vida! ¡Vicuña, descendiente nacional y graciosa de mi mono! ¡Oh luz que dista apenas un espejo de la sombra, que es vida con el punto y, con la línea, polvo y que por eso acato, subiendo por la idea a mi osamenta! ¡Siega en época del dilatado molle, del farol que colgaron de la sien y del que descolgaron de la barreta espléndida! ¡Angeles de corral, aves por un descuido de la cresta! ¡Cuya o cuy para comerlos fritos con el bravo rocoto de los temples! (¿Cóndores? ¡Me friegan los cóndores!) ¡Leños cristianos en gracia al tronco feliz y al tallo competente! ¡Familia de los líquenes, especies en formación basáltica que yo respeto desde este modestísimo papel! ¡Cuatro operaciones, os sustraigo para salvar al roble y hundirlo en buena ley! ¡Cuestas in infraganti! ¡Auquénidos llorosos, almas mías! ¡Sierra de mi Perú, Perú del mundo, y Perú al pie del orbe; yo me adhiero! ¡Estrellas matutinas si os aromo quemando hojas de coca en este cráneo, y cenitales, si destapo, de un solo sombrerazo, mis diez templos! ¡Brazo de siembra, bájate, y a pie! ¡Lluvia a base del mediodía, bajo el techo de tejas donde muerde la infatigable altura y la tórtola corta en tres su trino! ¡Rotación de tardes modernas y finas madrugadas arqueológicas! ¡Indio después del hombre y antes de él! ¡Lo entiendo todo en dos flautas y me doy a entender en una quena! ¡Y lo demás, me las pelan!...

0

1.2k

César Vallejo

Telúrica y magnética

¡Mecánica sincera y peruanísima la del cerro colorado! ¡Suelo teórico y práctico! ¡Surcos inteligentes; ejemplo: el monolito y su cortejo! ¡Papales, cebadales, alfalfares, cosa buena! ¡Cultivos que integra una asombrosa jerarquía de útiles y que integran con viento los mujidos, las aguas con su sorda antigüedad! ¡Cuaternarios maíces, de opuestos natalicios, los oigo por los pies cómo se alejan, los huelo retomar cuando la tierra tropieza con la técnica del cielo! ¡Molécula exabrupto! ¡Atomo terso! ¡Oh campos humanos! ¡Solar y nutricia ausencia de la mar, y sentimiento oceánico de todo! ¡Oh climas encontrados dentro del oro, listos! ¡Oh campo intelectual de cordillera, con religión, con campo, con patitos! ¡Paquidermos en prosa cuando pasan y en verso cuando páranse! ¡Roedores que miran con sentimiento judicial en torno! ¡Oh patrióticos asnos de mi vida! ¡Vicuña, descendiente nacional y graciosa de mi mono! ¡Oh luz que dista apenas un espejo de la sombra, que es vida con el punto y, con la línea, polvo y que por eso acato, subiendo por la idea a mi osamenta! ¡Siega en época del dilatado molle, del farol que colgaron de la sien y del que descolgaron de la barreta espléndida! ¡Angeles de corral, aves por un descuido de la cresta! ¡Cuya o cuy para comerlos fritos con el bravo rocoto de los temples! (¿Cóndores? ¡Me friegan los cóndores!) ¡Leños cristianos en gracia al tronco feliz y al tallo competente! ¡Familia de los líquenes, especies en formación basáltica que yo respeto desde este modestísimo papel! ¡Cuatro operaciones, os sustraigo para salvar al roble y hundirlo en buena ley! ¡Cuestas in infraganti! ¡Auquénidos llorosos, almas mías! ¡Sierra de mi Perú, Perú del mundo, y Perú al pie del orbe; yo me adhiero! ¡Estrellas matutinas si os aromo quemando hojas de coca en este cráneo, y cenitales, si destapo, de un solo sombrerazo, mis diez templos! ¡Brazo de siembra, bájate, y a pie! ¡Lluvia a base del mediodía, bajo el techo de tejas donde muerde la infatigable altura y la tórtola corta en tres su trino! ¡Rotación de tardes modernas y finas madrugadas arqueológicas! ¡Indio después del hombre y antes de él! ¡Lo entiendo todo en dos flautas y me doy a entender en una quena! ¡Y lo demás, me las pelan!...

64

Tacos fritos oil's drip drop by drop skin by skin i eat the flesh of my own taste their blood drink their sweat i become the piece of glass that cuts their knees as they kneel i am the extra chili on the sauce i'm the rock in the beans the high pressure in their veins the cents of their paychecks dry cement on their boots in their hands: i'm the most hurtful cut i am a sign in their thoughts i'm a moment in time small piece of their soul the beggar's ***** clothes oil stains in the streets i am the memories of dirt floors jalapeños pork skins and sour cream the pains of poverty... xtp

0

Jul 31, 2014

Jul 31, 2014 at 6:41 PM UTC

xuanito-de-la-puente

Pork Skins and Sour Cream

Tacos fritos oil's drip drop by drop skin by skin i eat the flesh of my own taste their blood drink their sweat i become the piece of glass that cuts their knees as they kneel i am the extra chili on the sauce i'm the rock in the beans the high pressure in their veins the cents of their paychecks dry cement on their boots in their hands: i'm the most hurtful cut i am a sign in their thoughts i'm a moment in time small piece of their soul the beggar's ***** clothes oil stains in the streets i am the memories of dirt floors jalapeños pork skins and sour cream the pains of poverty... xtp

27

Sitting around stories told Talking about days of old Hunting, fishing and good times Busting bottles. Stealing signs Starry night is made of gold Warm Campfires and Coors lite Makes for a fabulous night Crispy Fritos and bean dip Great ideas and good tips All relaxed, no ones up tight Pack of coyotes begin to sing Who knows what the dark night might bring My wife gives me a sly wink Mountains blue, I get a drink feel just like a sitting king Shining stars in the night sky Satellites that fast fly by Meteorites trailing fast They just never ever last Hell of a time that's no lie

0

Sep 17, 2016

Sep 17, 2016 at 10:45 PM UTC

jed-johnson

Campfires and Coors Lite

Sitting around stories told Talking about days of old Hunting, fishing and good times Busting bottles. Stealing signs Starry night is made of gold Warm Campfires and Coors lite Makes for a fabulous night Crispy Fritos and bean dip Great ideas and good tips All relaxed, no ones up tight Pack of coyotes begin to sing Who knows what the dark night might bring My wife gives me a sly wink Mountains blue, I get a drink feel just like a sitting king Shining stars in the night sky Satellites that fast fly by Meteorites trailing fast They just never ever last Hell of a time that's no lie

20

Buckets of love, every day Their feet smell like Fritos, in a good way But they come with a problem, a heartbreak alas Their clocks run too fast

0

Jul 13, 2018

Jul 13, 2018 at 11:40 AM UTC

zeeb

Marvelous Dogs

Buckets of love, every day Their feet smell like Fritos, in a good way But they come with a problem, a heartbreak alas Their clocks run too fast

4

When I stand in the bathroom with these girls it is 4am and I see them as ghosts and my stomach is churning with too much salt (too many fritos), churning like the fields from back home that carry more wind than they can burden. My head feels like too much heavy space and all I can think about is a bathroom stall with a toilet bowl like a burial ground. Lately it’s been getting haircuts and eating too much in a desperate attempt to keep the boys away, then food becoming the graveyard in a desperate attempt to draw them back. But my body still smells of ***** and my hands are still teethed and I wonder how many people know what I’ve done. I wonder how many people I can get away with telling. Later when I sleep there are dreams of a mother dying with flies and the girl from camp hanging herself and the boy from down the street only 21 and dying in his sleep (and missing the memorial service). Every January it’s tallying up the deaths and every January it’s my brother asking me how many people will have to die in my poems before I’ll finally be able to make up my mind. I can’t stop seeing blue faces against white lakes; a father who yells and then asks what’s wrong; a mother who takes baths with her daughter just to compare the way in which their bodies wrinkle like water. Somewhere hanging up is a picture of us taken by some boy, in it we are singing songs to graves about breaking bones and bruising nail beds and now we wonder why we no longer speak to each other.

0

Jan 25, 2015

Jan 25, 2015 at 5:50 PM UTC

loisa-f

Untitled

When I stand in the bathroom with these girls it is 4am and I see them as ghosts and my stomach is churning with too much salt (too many fritos), churning like the fields from back home that carry more wind than they can burden. My head feels like too much heavy space and all I can think about is a bathroom stall with a toilet bowl like a burial ground. Lately it’s been getting haircuts and eating too much in a desperate attempt to keep the boys away, then food becoming the graveyard in a desperate attempt to draw them back. But my body still smells of ***** and my hands are still teethed and I wonder how many people know what I’ve done. I wonder how many people I can get away with telling. Later when I sleep there are dreams of a mother dying with flies and the girl from camp hanging herself and the boy from down the street only 21 and dying in his sleep (and missing the memorial service). Every January it’s tallying up the deaths and every January it’s my brother asking me how many people will have to die in my poems before I’ll finally be able to make up my mind. I can’t stop seeing blue faces against white lakes; a father who yells and then asks what’s wrong; a mother who takes baths with her daughter just to compare the way in which their bodies wrinkle like water. Somewhere hanging up is a picture of us taken by some boy, in it we are singing songs to graves about breaking bones and bruising nail beds and now we wonder why we no longer speak to each other.

5

Roll around in a field of dandelions and **** on everything she loves, I wish for the sky to consume thou, up my eyes, nose, and waist Swallow fur Swallow fur Swallow fur The scents of Fritos Melanin and lead paint

0

Apr 21, 2017

Apr 21, 2017 at 11:41 AM UTC

Medicine-Noose

Cheeklord

Roll around in a field of dandelions and **** on everything she loves, I wish for the sky to consume thou, up my eyes, nose, and waist Swallow fur Swallow fur Swallow fur The scents of Fritos Melanin and lead paint

6