"fryer" poems
I was making a burrito when
I dropped the tortilla into the fryer
looks like I'm eating tostadas instead...
I was making a tostada when
The tortilla folded over inside the fryer
looks like I'm eating tacos instead...
I was making a taco when
the edges of my overside tortilla folded up in the small fryer
looks like I'm eating a taco salad instead...
I was making a taco salad when
the shell was dropped and shattered upon the counter
looks like I'm eating nachos instead...
I was making some nachos when
I ran out of chips, so I grabbed a tortilla
looks like I'm eating a burrito instead...
Sep 4, 2011
Sep 4, 2011 at 3:15 PM UTC
Ben Kowalewicz (spoken): Hi, my name is Ben Kowalewicz and this is Billy Talent.
Well I tripped, I fell down naked
I drank from a cup of lead
I hugged a skunk, it peed on me
Yesterday I joined Scientology
Steal a Camaro, then **** Jack Sparrow
Try stupid **** try stupid ****
Jump in a dump truck, smell **** and get stuck
I cannot read, I cannot read
**** on computers, then drink some pewter
Die sanity, die sanity
Marry a cheapskate, gain ninety pounds weight
I'm really dumb, I'm really dumb
I'm stupid, it's my fault, so daft
I like to play in the garbage shaft
The best sport is Parkour, **** straight
I arrive at work five hours late
Drink a deep fryer, eat some barbed wire
Try stupid **** try stupid ****
Sleep in a fireplace, burn your entire face
I cannot read, I cannot read
Cinnamon challenge, go on a chalk binge
Die sanity, Die sanity
Bike into traffic, pose pornographic
I'm a ******* I'm a *******
I ate some poo!
I'm stupid, it's my fault
Try
I'm stupid, it's my fault
Lie
This bad song don't make sense
Pie
Get a Prince Albert, snake blood for dessert now?
Drink some Everclear, cut off your own ear now?
Go back in time to, forties as a Jew
Try stupid **** try stupid ****
Do *** and rip off your right knee
I cannot read, I cannot read
Find the KKK, put on some blackface
Die sanity, die sanity
Locate a pervert, then take off your shirt
I am a twit, I am a twit
I am a twit, I am a twit
Try stupid **** try stupid ****
I am a twit, I am a twit
May 27, 2012
May 27, 2012 at 6:15 PM UTC
I was turned on by a Toaster, she tanned my bread to gold
In time she ejected me, it was her natural Toaster role...
I fell for her sister, a Deep Fryer in despair, my lust began to boil
I had to come up for some air...
I ran off with a Can Opener, she could even sharpen knives,
She opened up a can of *** whip, she could never be my wife!
I met a **** Freezer, but her heart was cold as ice, I was bitten by her frosty ways
Once bitten, never twice...
I made my way across the tile to an Oven quite unique
All her features were well displayed, on this EZ Baking Freak!
She cooked me on the surface, yet burnt me deep within
I guess my culinary skills were lacking in the end...
So now I date a Spatula safely from the heat
She flips a mean burger and french fries by the heap!
Truth is I'm a Poet
Who simply likes to eat!
Jun 20, 2013
Jun 20, 2013 at 3:43 PM UTC
Flamingos aren't naturally pink
But not for the reason most think
They preen and they dye
And they leave it to dry
Before rinsing it off in the sink
The magpies send me into fits
The ducks have me losing my wits
The crows are a blight
And they crow all night
But I do enjoy watching the ****
Vanessa McRafferty-Fryer
Set alight to the **** of her squire
She took a few shots
Of his privatest spots
And then laughed as he ****** out the fire
A penguin called Panama Pete
Had no love of the snow on his feet
So he stayed for a spell
At the polar hotel
With a pool and Jacuzzi en suite
I met a quite curious swan
By a lake I was boating upon
It tickled my ***
And insulted my mum
With a flurry of wings, it was gone
I know of a Gerald McFitz
Who arouses himself when he sits
For his favorite chair
Is the shape of a pair
Of voluptuous wobbly ****
and one for that special someone...
Your pancreas really is grand
Tis a thoroughly marvelous gland
You've a cute little spleen
Though it's seldom seen
And a nose growing out of your hand **
Jun 23, 2013
Jun 23, 2013 at 12:31 PM UTC
You know things are dire
When you study the Internet and buy an air fryer
A material abduction
That comes in a large box with no instruction
You search in vain for something to cook
Struggling on YouTube, you make that look
Of someone lost in absolution consumption
No sense of normal behaviour resumption
With social top trump psychology
We debate 'extra crisp' technology
Creating new food mashups from hell
What comes out of the sliding drawer no-one can tell
After dehydrating decent food
You may find you need to do some good
Switch off that new fire
And bin your air fryer
Oct 11, 2022
Oct 11, 2022 at 5:04 PM UTC
the TV tries to sell me an 'Air Fryer' all the way from America
the man and woman selling the thing make it sound like beautiful ***
with the touch of a button you ****** again and again
perfect fried chicken wings without the 'fry' Buffalo soldier!
Oct 19, 2017
Oct 19, 2017 at 9:22 PM UTC
A large fearsome oaf walks about
swampy body stimulates my ****
folds of fat that look like a swamp
Its gleaming and severe eyes should have scared me,
but I choose to leave it be. Since now,
I am in control.
Self-aware.
Omniscent.
There is space for only one monster
You are written by the creator, he has died
Papercuts, everywhere
I’m the Creator now
I have all power
I make myself queen
I write, and it warps your reality
So, I command that, you,
The monster will die
Your eyes yanked from their sockets
And chopped and served
On a pretty pink plate
Your brain will be poached in
My Brain Boiler
Your fingers will cook in my Finger Fryer
Your heart, put on display, Heart Hanger
Your blood will be included in my Rémoulade
A rather runny Rémoulade
So, I guess,
I’m the monster
Sep 21, 2018
Sep 21, 2018 at 4:13 PM UTC
kiss me
(says he, maybe she)
cut up on the sharpness
of lips
and teeth
she is that thing -
about plastic flowers;
they never wilt on you
and stay young
and beautiful
as long as you care to see them
kiss me
like real people
do
when they touch
don’t quiver
or glimmer
just bruise like decayed fruit
and bleed as freely
and the flowers,
plastic flowers -
smelling just as sweet
with sprays of perfume
sweating
ugly juniper fragrance
dripping
down spines
like dew
**** me*
she says, definitely she says
spread legs,
wide open eyes
to creep inside him
(or him, perhaps)
and she could
with her fingers
stop his breath
and she might
if the light
hits his eyes just right
burning flowers
smells worse when plastic
like explosives
like fat in a deep-fryer
crisping like
bodies in a burning house
- three bodies, two bodies, and a burning house
**** me*
like a litany
**** me*
like you promised me
**** me*
in fields of plastic peonies
*just
**** me*
and
you’ll love me
you’ll see
Jul 8, 2015
Jul 8, 2015 at 9:37 AM UTC
sitting by a window
staring out the smudged pane
past the polychromatic crowds
bent, huddled, faceless in the rain
a smeared image swirling by
modern art painting not yet dry
wishing to nod off
tired to the bone
the rattle and rumble beneath
the stop and the start
keep my weary eyelids apart
the odors of crowded humanity
fill my nostrils,
make them burn
alcohol, sweat, stale cigarette smoke
on clothes that are old and worn
garlic, deep fryer grease
pastrami and cheese in a sack
blood dried on the apron
slung over a butcher's back
a cacophony of noises
surge inside the car
papers rattle, fingers tap
on electronics or on steel bar
~~~
nobody's talking
eyes are downcast
to newspaper, cell phone
or hangnail
fear and distrust
thick in the air
scattered about like
yesterday's mail
on this common commuter carrier
they're traveling the same route
home
just working folks
trying to make it all work out
they have much in common
in a way, aren't they all kin?
worn and weary at end of day,
fellows in the midst of this din?
14th Street station ahead
warns of various dangers
posted there on a column decreed
Please do not smile at strangers
Mar 25, 2018
Mar 25, 2018 at 10:50 AM UTC
After the English fry-up at the Turkish café,
I ask to use the toilet.
It’s through the back of the kitchen where his wife
Is washing pans, out the door and down the stairs
Rusted with years of rain and peeling paintwork.
In the passage down below, between moss-grown brick,
A patch of earth. So many pots line the walls.
A few onions sprout. A maple tree. Some emerald shoots
Beneath a seed packet sign saying “Gladioli”.
It is quiet here. A place where servitude ends,
Where pause is taken
From the sound of coffee machines and clatter,
Chip-fryer sizzling and the perpetual radio’s chatter.
A spot within the city, apart from the chaos upstairs,
Where the proprietor can breathe
More than fumes and demands,
Smoke a single cigarette and contemplate
A pebble carefully placed among the hidden green
And trace the ground of being, a memory of home.
Aug 7, 2012
Aug 7, 2012 at 11:01 AM UTC
green eyes like pickles
brunette hair like the bun toasted to the crisp
smile and a warm feeling like nuggets out of the fryer
compliments just as the best customer service
we ordered 5000 cheeseburgers
but when i joked about being 35 you left just like the customer who left their stale burger on the table
Sep 8, 2019
Sep 8, 2019 at 10:16 PM UTC
Whether to have dessert
Is not even a question.
Not to indulge in sweets?
Don’t even make that suggestion.
Having no apple pie
Or luscious lemon meringue
Would be a real ******
As we say in slang.
Right out of the oven:
Hot cinnamon rolls...
Or donuts right out of the fryer--
With or without holes...
Crepes filled with strawberries,
With a dollop of whipped cream...
When I talk about sweets,
I never run out of steam.
Don’t forget about cakes,
And anything with custard...
Chocolate in every form...
And--I’m getting flustered--
Fresh homemade cookies
Of any delicious kind...
Chocolate fudge or divinity...
Yikes, I’m losing my mind!
Dessert bars, oh, my goodness,
Chewy, crumbly, flaky...
Banana, zucchini, and pumpkin
Bread—soft and cakey...
Cupcakes topped with thick frosting,
And filled with chocolate ganache...
Creamy Crème brûlée...
Boy, aren’t we getting posh!
A sugary German plum cake,
A Danish butter ring,
And Greek galaktoboureko
Give me a reason to sing!
Chocolate frosted brownies...
Lefse with sugar and butter...
My sweet tooth is growing larger
With every word that I utter.
Some people say that these sweets
Might be the cause of my death.
Then let me be holding a cookie
When I take my last breath!
- by Bob B
Oct 7, 2016
Oct 7, 2016 at 7:51 AM UTC
These are the days she fears the most.
When she wakes in the morning,
there's something askew.
She will try and get out,
out of her warm, soft blankets
before the buzzing of her phone
reminds her that she must work.
These days, though, she'll fail,
and stay cocooned until ten minutes
before she has to make the short journey.
She'll normally crawl out of bed,
pour a hot cup of coffee with one sugar,
drink it slowly while inhaling
her first nicotine fix for the day.
These days, though, she ran out the door,
coffee in hand, and didn't light the first cigarette
until she was already on the main road
to the hell hole she was employed at.
Usually, by now, her mood will have changed.
However, these days it just seemed to get worse.
Stuck between broiler and fryer,
she sat with chalky vinyl gloves
scrubbing the dirt and grease away.
She would think to herself,
"Haven't I done this before, to myself?"
These were the days she hated most.
When her co-workers ask,
"You're not your normal self?"
"How am I to be normal when I am
stuck here with people much better?"
She should know better, by now,
to not think this way,
but everything today was pointing
towards the barrel of a gun.
She finished her shift, eight minutes late,
ran to her car to be saved by the grace,
the grace of her car and a warm voice on the phone.
This day was finally getting better,
but then she walked in the door
where it was do this, do that,
screams here, screams there,
crying here, crying there.
These days, everything just got worse.
She finally mustered up enough anxiety
to tell everyone she needed some space,
so she took her best friend,
on four doppy long legs he stood,
for a short walk around the block.
She was finally clearing her head
of the overdosing thoughts,
when her ****** nosey neighbor,
stepped out onto her walk,
making conversation uncomfortable,
after five minutes she got on her way.
This girl finally decided
that it may be time for another cancer stick,
to wash some of the nerves away.
Once back around, she still was on edge,
pretty typical of these days, at least.
She went to her room,
and made yet another phone call,
to the same one as earlier,
it helped a bit more this time through,
until children came into the picture.
Normally, this would be fine,
even liked, but these days,
No.
No one was allowed inside this girl's head,
for these were the days she feared most.
Mar 22, 2016
Mar 22, 2016 at 9:04 PM UTC
<>
“I hear bravuras of birds, bustle of growing wheat,
gossip of flames, clack of sticks cooking my meals,
I hear the sound I love, the sound of the human voice,
I hear all sounds running together, combined, fused or following,
Sounds of the city and sounds out of the city, sounds of the
day and night”
Song of Myself (1892 version) by WALT WHITMAN
§§§
*Irony great, some say unto delicious, for my writing,
be a fusing of surroundings of silences, admixture of
inconsequential noises, atomic horn and geese honking,
sun rays speaking in tongues, my skin translating, both,
the sounds of the city, those of out of city, merged, both,
accessible, instant recall, stored for tongue tasing upon
these blank pages below, needy for wordy fulfillment,
copy and place these mishmash of cacophonous,
on a single page, simmer, blend and sauce, of course,
salt to taste, mine, author of this recipe being born,
born in the night, prepped by day, the lovely sounds,
kettle or pan, broiler, fryer, slow cooked on full flame
they are the melted butter sweetness crossing the span
between the body of the heartbeat, the ache of the brain,
shot out in rapidity, error’d and stain’d, their state natural,
for this mess of beans, collection of noises, stir my soul
where they contain’d, aromatic, fanatic, exotic, sticky hot,
only a singular harsh invades, the shrill of the voice human
this piece, this poem, a flavoring, a dish-not-to-be-repeated,
once consumed, spoiled milk, molded with Jello mold green,
back to hiding in place of unseen, of bravura masked as cowardice,
when crackle of easy wasted word cowards, daily spewed,
so precious these ingredients, these artful sounds, easy ruined,
chitchats of nothingness, parlous blasé wastrels, seize! cease!
take thy tongue, let it memorize all the oddities that fill your ears,
ecrivez! the cooing, smacking, the alliteration of snap, crackle, and
yes, pop! and if you can love the human voice, of that too, tho not me,
more beloved, the exterior symphony of kettle drum, soft cry of violin,
timpani tingling, guitar plucking, the voice of men, too oft abusing and abused by untruths, emboldened lies, they are the sounds
I love least, love to hate. a shrill disease, the TV liars...*
§§§§§
May
Manhattan Island
May 15, 2020
May 15, 2020 at 3:44 PM UTC
There is no fail-safe.
The heart wants,
What it wants,
And oh, I am miles from safety, now.
No going back.
There is no mechanism in the heart,
To bring it down if it overheats,
To bring it down at all, darling,
(But would you want to?
Don’t you like it when I make you heat up?
Bubble over...?)
I suppose what I’m saying is this:
Remember when people didn’t know you should only heat oil in a deep fat fryer?
We would put hot oil in pots and pans and we would leave it there because,
Human beings have a tendency to be distracted?
And the oil would get far too hot and catch fire,
And we’d try to put it out with water,
But because of the oil it sinks and expands and makes the oil shoot out of the pan in a fireball,
And consume the kitchen in flames,
But,
Isn’t that love?
May 26, 2019
May 26, 2019 at 10:50 PM UTC
Your callused hands
Warm me up
Like s’mores on the fire
Like some fries in the fryer
Your callused hands
Protect me
My insurance against humanity
My sword against insanity.
Jul 13, 2023
Jul 13, 2023 at 11:59 AM UTC
My spatula skates off the fryer like an Olympic
Dream come true, and my thumb dives headfirst
Into three hundred twenty-five degrees of regulation-sized
Swimming oil. The judges, impressed with my form,
Take a moment to confer over how much to dock my pay.
The torch is blown out on schedule tonight.
We hang up our running shoes by the register, and take to the
streets of the common man. Sometimes we’re recognized by
careful eyes, but we’d all prefer anonymity.
Some things you do for fame, but the important things
you do for Mom and Dad.
It’s training season again, and the new athletes take their
marks smiling. Another veteran casts me a knowing glance,
as if to say “They’ll learn one day.” I nod back in agreement.
May 31, 2014
May 31, 2014 at 11:01 PM UTC
It's 11 at night at the fast food joint and the fryer is on the fritz, sounding the alarm. No one seems to notice. Employees are spread thin and customers are waiting to take orders.
A child with brown hair
and brown eyes
and brown skin
carries his belongings
to a nearby
table.
I smile at the women taking my order,
complimenting her sweatshirt.
It is black.
She forces a smile.
I order a coffee.
I'm tired.
I also, have work to do,
but back in my apartment.
She asks if I want it
iced or hot.
I tell her hot.
She says ok.
But the receipt
says iced cause
I already paid.
Feb 5, 2018
Feb 5, 2018 at 2:46 AM UTC
These fish on death row
are about to expire
Their fate: the fryer
May 19, 2018
May 19, 2018 at 3:15 PM UTC
The house that I grew up in has changed through the years.
It hides now in the foliage so lush and thick around it.
It holds countless memories--of laughter, tears, and fears--
Despite the ocean of leaves and bushes that have drowned it.
I still can see us playing in what was once a yard--
Croquet, catch, softball, and often kick the can.
Finding things to keep us busy wasn't hard.
We played cops and robbers, tag, and Superman.
I see us in our costumes running out the door,
Eager to fill our trick-or-treat bags with treats.
In December, we rearranged the furniture before
Dad brought home our tree and Mom put out the sweets.
The smell of donuts frying in Mom's old deep fryer
Brought my weekend morning slumber to a halt.
The way she planned out life was something to admire.
She was thoughtful, caring, and organized to a fault.
I still feel the excitement of family get-togethers,
Visits from relatives, parties with our friends.
Our relationships were bonds instead of tethers.
I feel we maintained a love that never ends.
Then there was the time of chaos when my brother
Fell from a car, cracked his head, and almost died.
Though blinded, he survived; but unlike any other,
That was a time when we were terrified.
That house saw me pass through many years of school--
From kindergarten till I got my college degree.
During my hippie years when I thought I was cool,
The house was still my refuge while I was finding me.
Into the house came my newly adopted sister
While I was still in college. Soon the Army called.
I said good-by, but **** how I missed her!
That was one of the few times I have bawled.
After I'd left for the Army, my parents moved away.
I never once set foot inside that house again.
Although I now live in a different house today;
I keep having dreams of that house from way back when.
Many many things are only memories now;
So many family and friends have departed.
I trust that thoughts of love and gratitude somehow
Will keep me from feeling down and broken-hearted.
- by Bob B
Nov 1, 2016
Nov 1, 2016 at 8:07 AM UTC
There is so much space demands
and it isn't just minding it.
Feel space
like how you feel a hand glide
over your breast and prod
your intricacies with surgery-precision.
There isn't much space when
there are two people in the room.
Heed space
and soak your body into various calls
like coming
into world with fullness,
you arrive and take
space, therefore, you are.
lewd fat air circumventing past
open windows announcing more
s p a c e
on the fryer or inside the common
heliotrope of dawn lies space
and its absurd eyelids submerge the
soul into inconsolable mouths
with the droll of a wilting word,
there is much ado said over
certain vacuities and its sole kinship
is always its emphasis.
it takes being alone to sing beautifully
yet a marginal dance of swan
meandering in space takes two
(as mortise
and tenon)
each without, senselessly moving.
Nov 11, 2015
Nov 11, 2015 at 11:00 PM UTC
We often live our days
In a deep fryer
What doesn't coat and **** us
Could very well eat us alive
Jan 23, 2020
Jan 23, 2020 at 10:16 AM UTC
Shots fired
I’m wired
Not feeling
inspired
I’m tired
and mired
through mud
desired
Not hired
it's dire
begging
I'm a liar
Yes Sire!
the decider
new fryer
get higher
Buy more
shy more
Look away
eyesore
die more
alive for?
puppet
Life’s *****
once poor
on tour
strive toward
hole bored
cut cord
get gored
massive horde
fall on sword
I sighed
been eyed
emptiness
inside
crashing waves
rising tides
try to run
can not hide
take away
splitting sides
using drugs
as my guide
I flied
got denied
covered eyes
never tried
Constantly
state of fear
always weird
no peers
endless tiers
getting seared
without shears
blocking ears
won’t hear
King Lear
nothing's clear
or near
words smeared
wheels steered
changing gears
many years
Been spared
live scared
Death stared
no one cares
taste the hair
and share
upstairs
partly rare
double dared
always wear
sitting in
electric chair
eyes glare
heart tears
as predicted
soul's bare
Jun 10, 2018
Jun 10, 2018 at 9:58 PM UTC
Check the mics to beats I wrecks inspect ya decks crew digits
Dail nothing but wins comprehend against the evils of men sins
Worn on my flesh I can attest manifest the magnificent
Chariots blazing fire reaching for desire higher than a sire
Consumed the dryer as I heat up the fryer without the pan wu tang
Back at cha once again linked with black news cannon fannin'
All fakers make graves for undertakers shake ya
With the divine degrees pedigrees got em on bended knees
Catch the sneeze of a bullets bless you yo I'm special greet you
With a soulful touch make ya double dutch to the beats shifting clutch
Not much you can do once we break out the loot giving the boots
When we walk stomp around the yards skyscrapers bombard
Towers leaning I'm intervening on ya noggin beaming dreaming
Of ways to make a pay sways
The average shinobi ya owe me
Dont play me get smoked like a Dutchie ruthless Richie
Holding the keys Harlem Knight freak hoes into the twilight
Darkness roaming nights plight sitting on the media snipe
Buckle ya head once the snaps is read midevil bloodshed
Twist cabbage dont invoke the savage living life have less
To embrace more cannabis see yall waving ya hand to this
Rakim Eric B stylist watch me pile this face my arch nemesis
Fools kicking this tryna re up I keep the stash of coke in the cup
Soaked up my dreams in kerosene burn slow of hate in between
It seems madness loves to company gladness I stand by the grist
**** off weak rhymers small timers ain't nothing more liver
Scolding lava once I mold the opposition premonitions
I held up without being held up syrup laced so I can deeply abrupt
The sounds of the corrupt snaking products swift wit da clean cuts
Feb 19, 2021
Feb 19, 2021 at 11:21 PM UTC
I was turned on by a Toaster, she tanned my bread to gold
In time she ejected me, it was her natural Toaster role...
I fell for her sister, a Deep Fryer in despair, my lust began to boil
I had to come up for some air...
I ran off with a Can Opener, she could even sharpen knives,
She opened up a can of *** whip, she could never be my wife!
I met a **** Freezer, but her heart was cold as ice, I was bitten by her frosty ways
Once bitten, never twice...
I made my way across the tile to an Oven quite unique
All her features were well displayed, on this EZ Baking Freak!
She cooked me on the surface, yet burnt me deep within
I guess my culinary skills were lacking in the end...
So now I date a Spatula safely from the heat
She flips a mean burger and french fries by the heap!
Truth is I'm a Poet
Who simply likes to eat!
Jul 3, 2022
Jul 3, 2022 at 6:54 AM UTC