"gourmands" poems
Just stick it in
Pull it out
Blow your load
Gag her mouth.
Bound and fist it,
Cut zip-tied wrist then,
Bathe her in warm blood bathwater.
Watch her bleed out as an oozing cow mother.
This is how we do it.
This is how we **** ****
Boiled **** and ***** nitrates,
Bonging buttchug, grease infesting.
This is how we ****
This our mental state.
Disgusting epoch,
The party *** phenomenon.
Drunk girls, drugged *******
Pearl necklace confection, gourmands,
in stitches
Plagued with itches,
Stemming from ****** abuse.
This is why I ****
This is how I crutch.
******* on the inside.
******* on the inside.
******* on the inside.
Mar 27, 2013
Mar 27, 2013 at 2:04 PM UTC
A small single apartment
That is all I really need.
The result of low ambition
And a paucity of greed.
A kitchen for cooking
A comfy place to sleep
Just great for meditation for
Thoughts that don’t go deep.
It was close to my buddies
That good old gang of mine
I go there, they come here,
As long as there was wine.
I was serving jug wine
And vintage it was not.
I had to switch to *** when
My stomach started to rot.
I also served cheap beer,
The cheapest I could find.
Between the wine and beer
It’s lucky today I’m not blind.
And food was also frugal
Mostly chips and salsa hot.
Stoners aren’t that choosy.
Gourmands we were not.
Of course we all had our own
Personal marijuana stash.
Its quality depended on
The amount of available cash.
But one of us was a dealer
Or sometimes there were two.
They always brought a supply
To sell, that’s what they do.
We laughed and roared and
Someone always had a guitar
It is nineteen seventy two
And that’s how conditions are.
Some of us had jobs back then
But most were floating around.
It’s hard to be a stable soul
With no feet on the ground.
Dec 18, 2015
Dec 18, 2015 at 5:54 PM UTC
Wall Street CEO's,
Gotta love those sociopaths,
Blood tastes like red wine.
Mar 30, 2013
Mar 30, 2013 at 12:43 AM UTC
1.
I started in the shadow of one of God’s many houses,
fat plums on common ground offered themselves,
taut, bruise-purple skin still pristine
for maybe two, three more weeks
Walking on, a burst fig signaled
something
fresh green torn
scandalously showing fleshy insides
that should be kept private
for lovers, gourmands, gluttons
All the while, intermittently,
the straight line train drones by,
keeping Presbyterian hold
on passing passengers
who through unopened windows
cannot smell, hear or taste the divine
All the while the crickets sang of being
2.
All the while the crickets scored my steps
until ahead, nettle and dog rose conversations
conspired to thwart this man’s,
any man’s,
attempts to walk straight and true
A detour took me from the soft lost chaos of grasses
to tight lawns, hard front doors,
dark-ish satanic mills making wheat biscuits
and the ever sad chorus of a million tyres
Nearing home, a young rabbit’s boldness held
until too close, melted away
in the managed parkland
dragonfly truths called, m’ ducks
dragonfly truths called
Aug 4, 2021
Aug 4, 2021 at 7:32 AM UTC
In a corner of splendid Somerset,
Off Junction 22 M5,
Is a fantastic foodfest,
Where gourmands will feel alive.
There are the finest morsels known to man,
And loads of nibbles free,
Cheese and ale and honey for sale,
From our local bumble bee.
You can saunter undercover,
Taste beef that melts in the mouth,
Take a speedy lesson from a chef,
Try all the best foods from the South.
Have your pic taken with a tractor,
Sample olives, chutneys, beers!
Spend a pound or two, come enjoy the sea view,
And wish them many successful years.
Oct 19, 2017
Oct 19, 2017 at 3:05 PM UTC
On voit dans les sombres écoles
Des petits qui pleurent toujours ;
Les autres font leurs cabrioles,
Eux, ils restent au fond des cours.
Leurs blouses sont très bien tirées,
Leurs pantalons en bon état,
Leurs chaussures toujours cirées ;
Ils ont l'air sage et délicat.
Les forts les appellent des filles,
Et les malins des innocents :
Ils sont doux, ils donnent leurs billes,
Ils ne seront pas commerçants.
Les plus poltrons leur font des niches,
Et les gourmands sont leurs copains ;
Leurs camarades les croient riches,
Parce qu'ils se lavent les mains.
Ils frissonnent sous l'œil du maître,
Son ombre les rend malheureux.
Ces enfants n'auraient pas dû naître,
L'enfance est trop dure pour eux !
Oh ! La leçon qui n'est pas sue,
Le devoir qui n'est pas fini !
Une réprimande reçue,
Le déshonneur d'être puni !
Tout leur est terreur et martyre :
Le jour, c'est la cloche, et, le soir,
Quand le maître enfin se retire,
C'est le désert du grand dortoir ;
La lueur des lampes y tremble
Sur les linceuls des lits de fer ;
Le sifflet des dormeurs ressemble
Au vent sur les tombes, l'hiver.
Pendant que les autres sommeillent,
Faits au coucher de la prison,
Ils pensent au dimanche, ils veillent
Pour se rappeler la maison ;
Ils songent qu'ils dormaient naguères
Douillettement ensevelis
Dans les berceaux, et que les mères
Les prenaient parfois dans leurs lits.
Ô mères, coupables absentes,
Qu'alors vous leur paraissez **** !
À ces créatures naissantes
Il manque un indicible soin ;
On leur a donné les chemises,
Les couvertures qu'il leur faut :
D'autres que vous les leur ont mises,
Elles ne leur tiennent pas chaud.
Mais, tout ingrates que vous êtes,
Ils ne peuvent vous oublier,
Et cachent leurs petites têtes,
En sanglotant, sous l'oreiller.
420
Connoisseur Of Ethnic Cuisine
Theme seems apropos during Holiday FancyFeasts despite the plethora of – in my opinion witching hunting - reputable male personalities suddenly accused of ****** harassment after substantial time. Yes granted so the unexpected name dropping felt like a bomb shell towards chaps, this baby boomer mwm would never suspect, point the finger, or accuse, especially one former Norwegian bachelor farmer from Lake Woebegone.
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
Though anonymous and hardly
a substantially sized mwm baby boomer
(which dual disadvantages partly explains
lack of ubiquity among claque of cooks, yet hoop full
to get attention from some well fed dame
many popular rotund gourmands l'chaim tame
their hungry beast – wa hood put me to shame
vis a vis consuming in their one meal,
what yours truly eats in a lifetime,
none of those celery buddies,
whom this non television watcher can name
seen on any selective cable channel,
I still revel in writing while
on the hunt
(during Red October) for a meme
poetry and prose, and decided
to introduce myself quite lame
with NON GMO marginal uptick
in any sudden fortune or fame,
yet t'would be pleasantly syrup prized
if interest
from potential mistress didst exclaim
desire to enjoy a repast, though
said hypothetical gal need
not be a high society dame,
and if perchance such just desserts
came via the kitchen maiden kitty,
versus kit chin middens
no boastful claim
would be uttered by me,
her intellectual company satisfactory aim.
Dec 9, 2017
Dec 9, 2017 at 6:02 PM UTC