"fruitcake" poems
You can yank me out of Yorkshire but I still want Yorkshire pudding
You can send me south but I’ll still go bargain hunting
Even though it is that I live in the South
I still have a hint of the northern mouth
Well that’s what the southerners say
But I’m sure to you it doesn’t sound that way
Anyway regardless where I am at
I’m Yorkshire bred and that’s a fact
To present this case to you
Some traits of yours; I have a few
I chose cheese to partner fruitcake
And forever search for savings to make
I always speak what’s on my mind
Which at times southerners think unkind
Though they themselves aren’t so good
When it comes to small talk in moments stood
A stranger is a momentary friend to a northerner
Whilst the southerner stands awkwardly waiting
I know which I would rather be
Let’s just say it has its’ own tea
So I am most pleased to see
That so much of you has rubbed off on me
For you my northern family
Are in my thoughts more than you know
And without you I would not be so
Mar 11, 2014
Mar 11, 2014 at 8:49 AM UTC
We are groups of people
made to hate
because of who we love
not what we stand for.
Did no one listen to
your parents?
You treat others how you want to be treated
not
throwing beer bottles
and whining when it misses their head
not
coming at them with a knife
because a man is holding a man's hand.
We are taught as kids
being gay isn't okay.
You could be a murderer
but you can't love another man.
Why?
Why
can't I love who I love.
People would rather
have a man dying alone
in the hospital
because his boyfriend of 35 years
isn't his husband
than letting love flourish.
People would rather **** us off
than understand.
People would have broken homes
where kids come home to beatings
their head shoved in an oven
*****
molested
beaten to a pulp
cigars burned out on their arms
and hit with beer bottles to
the point of being broken
than to let a happily loving couple of two men
to have that child.
They would rather see
a red sea of bodies
than to allow us
to live.
People would rather say
******
"fruitcake"
***
"fairy"
and watch their child slit his wrist
for every time he looks at a man
and feels a twinge of love
than to let him be happy.
They would rather torcher and torment children to the point
of mental breakdowns
rushing blood
soar throats
living alone
on the streets
no love
pretending.
Than to let them be them.
People love purple
that it means freedom
but I like the rainbow.
Rainbows have a million colours
and not one colour is quite the same hue.
No one hates rainbows
or the gorgeous colours it has.
Not many notice the differences
of them so,
why can't everyone
treat other people
like we're rainbows?
Aug 29, 2014
Aug 29, 2014 at 11:16 PM UTC
Dear Daisy,, age 8, family fruitcake:
Keep at it, but don't feel proud about it.
Just keep going, because it's working.
Dear Daisy, age 11, addressed to boarding school:
You will learn something from this torture.
You will learn about forgiveness.
Dear Daisy, age 13, subject- your disappearing acts:
You are not ugly or undeserving or fat
or anything that she told you. I know you feel alone
but you could tell someone what's going and speak out
because you're not stupid if you open your mouth
and you ought to be more like what you want, not a clones.
Dear Daisy, age 15, congrats on the weight lost and gained!
You went through hell, and yes, you proved it
you can starve yourself, harm yourself, and tell lies very well
but you put the ones who love you through hell too
and you're lucky they love you anyways and for any whys
so just don't do it again.
Dear Daisy, age 17, subject: stop:
It is not your body that did this and you did say no.
Dear Daisy, age 19, to UCL halls:
He deserves better and he's not right for you
and you're not the girl for him, you're pretending to be her
and you know it too-
You love him so much, so let him go.
That would be the kindest thing to do.
Dear Daisy, age 21, to Amber Ward, High Mental Health Institution:
You've been losing your mind for more than a year now
but you have looked and seen it's actually been far longer.
This is real now, and you haven't a clue who you really are.
With these new eyes, you can see you've made yourself up
since you were younger,
and you believed your act until it became true.
Don't look back and don't pretend you have't realised
what you can't un-see now, even though it was easier
back then when you didn't have to care.
And who knows? Maybe you will always feel this-
anxious and confused and scared,
but at least you're not fictional. You can become fact
so don't look back. That's the cowardly thing to do.
Just keep at it, like you did when you were 8
because it will work, and it will this time too
but then you were doing it for everybody else
and now, who the hell are you?
Dear Daisy, received yesterday:
don't stress and lose sleep for worrying
because you've got a Masters waiting and you don't want to get ill
and don't worry because tomorrow may be unthinkable
but it's coming. It always does,
so calm down and sit still.
Aug 15, 2013
Aug 15, 2013 at 4:53 AM UTC
Crew cut kiss curl stood
above the goose steeping generals
with empty heads and olive green
jackets
dangling aluminium war medals
for shooting ducks across the border
flying over Seoul
“Nfeuirok2fmdfiwe384194u3ujriwejm"
crew-cut kiss curl yelled.
“I told you 091874874814729”
( his swedish education was now showing!)
The train pulled out of pyongyang
with two thousand dead
that fed the famine. Only the driver
was alive clutching a loaf of bread.
stacked with cardboard cutout missiles
atop 1920s tanks and
painted with bloodred honesty
the entire nation goose stepped
to crew cuts orders.
He was as nutty as a fruitcake
but nobody laughed when he loaded
his only nuclear missile to bring down
the last remaining duck heading to Siberia.
Ha ha!
Author Notes
This is not a joke. Or is it?
© Marshall Gass. All rights reserved, a month ago
Jun 24, 2014
Jun 24, 2014 at 3:58 PM UTC
It can’t be TOO hard- being a duck that is.
My stomach growled watching a tot feeding a duck in the castle garden,
then my famished gears started turning.
Right. That’d be nice- I could go for some bread and a swim.
Ducks don’t even have to work for food- not these ducks
-they get fed.
I have to shop for bread,
and that’s not the half of it.
First I have to get to the bread,
which means risking it in my tired van
or sitting on a bus with a perfect smelly stranger
or pushing my luck crossing a bustling street.
And then, if I’m not way-laid…BREAD!
But I can’t just stuff it down my gullet,
and sure as day nobody’s gonna feed it to me.
The worst that can happen to a duck
eating bread
is getting its head wet…or choking on fruitcake.
Just when I was feeling particularly underprivileged
on the food chain,
I thought of my great grandfather
and his wooden decoy duck bobs
still sitting on my hearth back in Indiana,
and I thought of the dogs he used to chase the felled birds
and I thought of the bullets and the sharp October air, and the teeth,
and I felt silly.
Aug 24, 2011
Aug 24, 2011 at 2:15 PM UTC
So Kevin kicked me off, he kicked me off his site
Says don't bash ****** Queers, so I'll do that just for spite
-
Hi-yea Kevin hi-yea, how's your ****** ***
Don't you like my poem? Don't you like my sass?
-
Why is that ****** Fruitcake? Because I tell you where you'll go?
You'll go to Hell and burn, and your poetry forgo
-
When's this going to be? Sooner than you think
The Lake of Fire awaits, you teeter on the brink
Mar 10, 2015
Mar 10, 2015 at 7:30 AM UTC
Biscuit and sorghum syrup happy faces with Georgia peach butter and blackberry muffins , childhood favorites that tickle the palette !
For a bag of Fall persimmons , a handful of roasted pecans I would gladly cross the Alcovy River naked as a jaybird !
Rutabagas , turnips and cracklin cornbread would be my staple of choice if marooned on an island , a Frosty Root beer and mothers egg custard !
Peach ice cream and scuppernong jelly , fig preserves and tomato gravy !
Columbus grits and Claxton fruitcake , Vidalia onion rings , Elijay apples !
In my next life I relish the very thought of becoming a Cardinal , turned loose in a muscadine arbor ! The most heart stopping , meanest scarecrow ever made would be no match for a wise old crow in a watermelon patch ! Mockingbird busy in a old plum tree , a honeybee in a clover field as far as the eye can see !
Nov 9, 2015
Nov 9, 2015 at 12:29 PM UTC
There's a Tale of hare
named Bugs, wisecracking
Brooklyn speedster
who raced against
a Tortoise green.
Mercedes grey speeding
along, distancing
a schlepping spect,
a North Face jacket
on fruitcake's trek.
4000 fast
and sleek.
8 slow
and green.
Neither racers strangely
notice that child
born on dented stripes,
warning bumps
by side road way.
Is life a sacred race?
Marriage sacrament
a finishing face?
Dying memories trace
a cove and net
lacing U and who?
What's up Doc?
Eating healthy,
eating carrots?
I hear your voice
who's love does bare.
False Saffron leiter
extort and retorts weiter!
Komisch verwaltung
Schwartz holzteer
baiting babies to finish fear.
A cartoon film
skipping and tear
telling a child's tale
reel ending here.
Feb 16, 2013
Feb 16, 2013 at 7:23 AM UTC
Despite impending loneliness threatening to suffocate me, one optimistic thought came my way as I strolled wearily homeward today from my work at the library.
Some compensations for isolation might prove as written in the following list.
1) I am not required to retire to bed or awaken at any given hour.
2) I possess the rare ability of being allowed the choice of my own meals and also the given time at which I prefer to eat, whether it be meager or hearty portion of vittles. Perhaps I may fast from breakfast altogether, and then again may feast upon indigestible dainties such as doughnuts or fruitcake upon retiring, accompanied by a novel of my given choice.
3) I am free to write poetry or from such to refrain according to my mood.
4) If I spill my tea or bread and butter falls onto the floor, who cares?
5) Nobody can demand me to clean the house even if it looks quite untidy.
6) If I sing or hum out of tune, there is no risk of anyone laughing at me.
7) If I fall into a trance of reverie and am out of touch with reality, who can upbraid me?
The list could go on and on interminably, but to sum the matter up, in short, I can most thoroughly indulge in all my whims be they ever so eccentric in tranquil solitude with no threat of a wife to nag or henpeck me. I am free to cry, laugh, sing, daydream, talk to myself, and every other foolish or wise thing a healthy man might crave to accomplish.
Thus musing upon these blessings, I strolled homeward with a lighter heart despite life's insurmountable obstacles.
Aug 11, 2014
Aug 11, 2014 at 8:21 PM UTC
Grandma’s table stood firm and square,
against her Irish charm.
She chopped the chicken and Friday cod
as though they'd done her wrong.
“Mother MacCree!” was her favorite curse,
when her cleaver missed the mark.
Grandma’s table could tell the tales
of shenanigans four stories down.
“There’s Jason O’Flannigan, drunk, poor soul,
and Marie, God love her, chasin’ the fool,
waving a fryin’ pan, can ya blame her?
And sure it’s a cryin’ shame, God forgive me.”
Grandma’s table repaired our clothing,
With motley findings carefully chosen
from handpainted fruitcake tins.
We eagerly sorted through buttons and snaps,
carefully snatched up the nearest match
she sewed on dresses, blouses and hats.
Grandma‘s table is with me now,
the center of daily life.
Stained and scarred on wobbly legs,
a journal of ten thousand days.
Her legacy softens each crevice and nick,
like a cloth of white Irish lace.
Sep 28, 2010
Sep 28, 2010 at 3:41 PM UTC
How "Gay" do you suppose, do you suppose you'll be
When In Hell you burn, for all eternity
-
Every ****** every Queer, every **** and ****
You're going to burn in Hell, while Satan ***** your ****
-
He'll tie you to a stump, barbed wire he will use
Sulfuric acid boiling hot, out his **** does ooze
-
Then there are the Demons...can't wait to get their turn
Pumping ******* pumping, in the place of no return
-
When they get tuckered out, a red-hot ***** they will use
They'll ram it up your *** while they put to you the screws
-
Yes-sir-ee you'll be so "Gay", while you burn forevermore
You ****** Queerass Fruitcake, God does you deplore
Feb 17, 2015
Feb 17, 2015 at 3:13 AM UTC
Trapped in the rabbit hole, forever a lifelong journey
To meet and greet the cards and paint the roses red.
Sipping tea from cups that look more like forks.
Where has the Hatter gone, along with his parter the Hare?
And what of Mr. Dormouse? He's gotta be in there.
The Queen of Hearts has faded away, like a palpitation.
The Cheshire cat has spent his nine, giggling in the dark.
Dare we speak of Tweedle-dum and Tweedle-dee?
They got a domestic partnership, and live forever as combs.
Then we come to the White Rabbit, who seemingly late
had to be eaten, and tasted rather great.
The most pleasing thing to my mind
Was that the flower bed, soft for chattering lilies and roses
Was now harder than fruitcake, severing their vocal chords.
Now they just stood there, silent and foreboding.
All the while, I was the hub of Wonderland.
That's what you get when an Amazon goes down the Rabbit hole.
(Inspired from Lewis Carroll's Alice in Wonderland and Through the Looking Glass)
Feb 9, 2013
Feb 9, 2013 at 11:39 AM UTC
I pulled out a scarf and pretended to be a fortune teller;
thick insense, marijuana. Lottery smile.
I'd never lie about my lucky document shredder, my broken down motorcycle.
Not like cheap wine poured over cellulite; a hog dripping blood; she hunter fed on leaves.
Should the basketball hoop fall at a different angle and spare your clavicle, you would
see smoke signals from the squatters place- their fruitcake is delicious.
Can't be sure about their dog though, their dog had rabies and a collar that says FREELANCE.
I put too much hot sauce in the hashbrowns. I was still drunk.
I told my boyfriend his fortune was insincere,
that I am [today] a dead pilot and a stripper and a jilted florist all before noon.
Dec 27, 2014
Dec 27, 2014 at 8:39 AM UTC
Hey everyone have you heard the news.
Someone has loosened all my screws.
Some might say I'm cuckoo for cocoa puffs.
I may be crazy but I need no cuffs.
Weird I am but in a good way.
When I talk, I always spray.
Mentally ill people call my strange.
My brain just needs an oil change.
Nothing wrong with being unusual.
My feelings of you are evenly mutual.
At times I can be very odd.
I can't help that I am God.
Not rich enough to be eccentric.
Not poor enough to be egocentric.
My elevator doesn't go to the top.
As a baby I must have been dropped.
Someone blew out my pilot light.
Never been accused of being bright.
No one on Earth is more flaky.
If I'm nervous, I become shaky.
Its fun being nutty as a fruitcake.
Leave me alone and give me a break.
You might say I'm off my rocker.
To all beautiful girls I am a stalker.
I have never played with a full deck.
Sometimes in my pants, I have a wreck.
Many of my marbles are still missing.
Kids in school were always hissing.
So what it my attic is a bit dusty.
All my brain cells have become rusty.
Even though on walls I like peeing.
I am still a human being.
Sep 19, 2013
Sep 19, 2013 at 4:37 PM UTC
Are you a fruitcake?
Are you all kinds of nuts?
Do you eat poultry
and
turn in-to chicken butts?
If we are what we eat
I guess I'll say moo!
Oink cluck, glub glub,
and
cock-a-doodle doo.
I do not eat crows
road runners,
or
turkey gizzards
monkey or elephants
or brown to green lizards.
So, guess what's for lunch?
Yum, fried Alligator,
with octopus legs,
bye bye
see ya later.
Nov 21, 2014
Nov 21, 2014 at 6:46 PM UTC
Your Damnation slumbers not, in Hell you're going to burn
EVERY Queerass ****** CONDEMNATION you did earn
-
So while your still alive, skip along your merry way
Soon you'll be in Hell, God your soul will slay
-
Pretend it isn't so, deny the Word of God
When you finally burn in Hell, then I will applaud
-
Tisk-tisk oh ****** Fruitcake, my poem you don't like?
Read it to your buddy, and every single ****
-
Read it ****** Fruitcake! Read the part where you will BURN
Read it Fruitcake Queer! Your DAMNITION you did earn
Feb 16, 2015
Feb 16, 2015 at 5:30 AM UTC
Darling was a fruit cake,
soft,
moist,
sweet,
always very fruity,
crunchy,
Demerera sprinkled on the top,
sat on the lawn,
had a picnic,
my darling fruitcake,
oh my beautiful fruitcake,
I left my fruitcake,
on a plate edged,
with gilt,
All of a sudden,
awe,
shock,
and horror,
all of a sudden,
a weird bird came,
she pecked away my lover,
she stole his eyes,
he could not see,
she fancied him as her ****
that bird!
(C) Livvi
May 23, 2014
May 23, 2014 at 4:00 AM UTC
Blowing a plume of toxic smoke. Into the nebulous reflection of a pallid wasted face He grinsfrom ear to ear. The blood painted vulpine smile of a lunatic clown. The mirror image confuses the conflicted. Yet it speaks rancorous truths This is a very special day indeed. Fruitcake Day. We have all been released from the cages The human zoo has opened the gates of hell. Party hats are donned by the very special people as they walk about doomed to mortality. Let them enjoy brief moments of light. Placid and placated. Walking in a daze. Give them Thorazine lollipops and free passes. The bat cages are lying in wait
Apr 1, 2014
Apr 1, 2014 at 7:38 PM UTC
Lisa and I played a round of frisbee-disc golf today—let’s reminisce.
I love the ‘live performance’ of sports, how you must physicalise
discipline. You get this instant feedback that you have to own and
lean hard into. The being present to adjust, the internalised mechanisms of performance—the ‘liveness’—is the most exciting thing about sports. And, of course, the one who does it best wins—there’s a simplicity to it.
Being Sunday, the course was crowded with guys. Most of the groups were college teams of five or six guys. Since there were only two of us, we were playing faster.
I don’t like going up to a group of guys and asking to play through.
They always let us but we get these appraising looks—not strictly golf related—that you can feel. So we skipped around the guys and played open holes—still playing 18—they just weren't contiguous and it took a bit longer.
It was great to get out in the sun. The course was all rolling fairways, there’s no grass greener and no sky bluer. I came in 14-under (straight brag). I’m a little competitive, my ego loves to be placed in a hierarchy, and winning seems to give form to me, it’s such a pleasant and coherent narrative.
As we were leaving our escort Charles stepped away for a minute and a couple of Yale looking guys offered us a ride back to campus—which was all very innocent and chivalrous—to save us waiting for an Uber or something—I'm sure (we were all sweaty and looked like drowned rats).
‘Sure,’ I thought, ‘let’s run off into the sunset.. not.’
But I said, “No, thanks, anyway.”
.
.
Songs for this:
Golden Boys by Res
Fruitcake by Subsonic Eye
Apr 14, 2025
Apr 14, 2025 at 12:34 AM UTC
She sends me snippets of her body in photographs. If I was meant to forget her then why would she torture me so? Her hands and her hair. Her eyes and neck and lips. So vivid in a glimpse, I can taste her. Not so innocent when she's unzipping her top in this shot. Not so sweet as she sends me her bare hips.
Photographs.
Are such.
A tease.
Jul 25, 2016
Jul 25, 2016 at 11:41 PM UTC
have you ever left your raincoat
and then
suddenly
the only cloud in your Kansas
finds you leaning into a black wind
like icing on a fruitcake
hat-less ?
your hands in your [ ragged empty ]
you call pockets
clutching threads and mending holes
with numb
prayers
faith-less
have you then ever found your raincoat
over shoulder just where you left it
only to stumble upon your hat
or one that looks
just like it ?
and then you put it on
and the ****
thing
fit ?
if you have then you know this is me
lending gently, you my coat.
hoping you take it for the love what comes from within
too busy sparkling in prisms, to regard a grain of doubt -
just something crazy twinkling
on the surface of whatever
you must have only
just finished.
Apr 11, 2013
Apr 11, 2013 at 8:38 PM UTC
i'm the cinnamon star-struck lotus-eating speck
on your windshield... driving out the demon
in your blind-spot
guess you can see me too... but you'd rather not yet
that'd be too real... diving like walking
is what 'other people' do
but we're not... anything less
at all the
parties
kiss me and i'll be fine.
but if i
know you -
and i think
i do
then this
don't mean i love you
( Love You )
it only means
i could
Eternal...like fruitcake and the sky
Feb 21, 2013
Feb 21, 2013 at 9:41 PM UTC
Tell me ****** Fruitcake, tell me Fruitcake Queer
Do you wipe the **** from off your **** after ******* your sweet dear?
-
Or does your partner lick it off, while you 69?
Yummy yummy chocolate! A flavor so sublime
-
Hey ****** Queerass Fruitcake, did it ever come to mind?
That you're going to burn in Hell, you'll be there for all time
Feb 16, 2015
Feb 16, 2015 at 12:19 PM UTC