Hello Poetry
Submit your work and get some sparkles! Create free account
Words
"haggis" poems
*i think, you should stop going to italy, for one, oh **** me, keep going on hedonist piss-fuck fests to places like mallorca, but stop going to italy, you're making my stomach ache from laughter, with what you come back with, the so-called "innovations"; somehow i'd just poach my cauliflower, and drizzle it with fried breadcrumbs, and serve it as a side-dish to fried eggs (2), and some tatties; for goodness sake, even cauliflower cream soup makes more sense, garnished with some fried chorizo!* first it was avocado on toast...           who the **** puts avocado on bread? i can imagine putting it in pasta... but on bread?                 hey, what the **** does the acronym f.a.d. mean?              i don't know, and i won't google it... o.k. avocado on toast...               nothing near guacamole,   but fair enough...            but what i discovered... pushes the button where i turn into a fox laughter (fuchslachen) -            i couldn't stop...                       you can find it in the weekend section of the saturday times newspaper... written by nicola m.           cauliflower and mozzarella pizza... you have to be ******** me...                 cauliflower? on pizza? one of my housemates at university told me an anecdote:     i was in a restaurant once,           and asked for a pizza with no cheese... he continued:       and then the head chef came out and asked me... are you, insane?!        a bit like: bread...    but no butter? and i thought i was insane eating a watermelon today, whole, the red pulp, and the outer layers including the skin included, allowing myself a gorilla imitation cameo gimmick...       but i thought i was mad... but there's avocado on toast...    and now... cauliflower on pizza...                               it's a ******* side-dish! wait, don't tell me... you're going to put some potatoes onto the pizza the next frizz comes along... right?                       how about beetroot?                          thankfully, if i have some wacky ideas in terms of culinary escapades, they happen, drunk, after 12a.m., and i'm the scientist, and the experimental rabbit 2-in-1...                      a newspaper column? apparently, you get one, putting avocado on toast...                  or cauliflower on a pi-zzzzz-ah... to be honest, even though i haven't tried it, grilled aubergines on a pizza could work...    the toast?               marmite and cheddar... english people should stop glorifying holidays in italy... they're ****** cooks...                    an italian would just look at a pizza with cauliflower and say:          cosa? i'd suggest heading to scotland first, and picking up the vibes from some haggis. **** me...    avocado on toast...                 caulifower on a pizza?!                            now i can die happy, 'appy, clapping: encore!
0
Jun 10, 2017
Jun 10, 2017 at 2:54 PM UTC
removed.polaroid-scrabble
english culinary experiments
*i think, you should stop going to italy, for one, oh **** me, keep going on hedonist piss-fuck fests to places like mallorca, but stop going to italy, you're making my stomach ache from laughter, with what you come back with, the so-called "innovations"; somehow i'd just poach my cauliflower, and drizzle it with fried breadcrumbs, and serve it as a side-dish to fried eggs (2), and some tatties; for goodness sake, even cauliflower cream soup makes more sense, garnished with some fried chorizo!* first it was avocado on toast...           who the **** puts avocado on bread? i can imagine putting it in pasta... but on bread?                 hey, what the **** does the acronym f.a.d. mean?              i don't know, and i won't google it... o.k. avocado on toast...               nothing near guacamole,   but fair enough...            but what i discovered... pushes the button where i turn into a fox laughter (fuchslachen) -            i couldn't stop...                       you can find it in the weekend section of the saturday times newspaper... written by nicola m.           cauliflower and mozzarella pizza... you have to be ******** me...                 cauliflower? on pizza? one of my housemates at university told me an anecdote:     i was in a restaurant once,           and asked for a pizza with no cheese... he continued:       and then the head chef came out and asked me... are you, insane?!        a bit like: bread...    but no butter? and i thought i was insane eating a watermelon today, whole, the red pulp, and the outer layers including the skin included, allowing myself a gorilla imitation cameo gimmick...       but i thought i was mad... but there's avocado on toast...    and now... cauliflower on pizza...                               it's a ******* side-dish! wait, don't tell me... you're going to put some potatoes onto the pizza the next frizz comes along... right?                       how about beetroot?                          thankfully, if i have some wacky ideas in terms of culinary escapades, they happen, drunk, after 12a.m., and i'm the scientist, and the experimental rabbit 2-in-1...                      a newspaper column? apparently, you get one, putting avocado on toast...                  or cauliflower on a pi-zzzzz-ah... to be honest, even though i haven't tried it, grilled aubergines on a pizza could work...    the toast?               marmite and cheddar... english people should stop glorifying holidays in italy... they're ****** cooks...                    an italian would just look at a pizza with cauliflower and say:          cosa? i'd suggest heading to scotland first, and picking up the vibes from some haggis. **** me...    avocado on toast...                 caulifower on a pizza?!                            now i can die happy, 'appy, clapping: encore!
Continue reading...
65
Fair fa' your honest, sonsie face, Great chieftain o the puddin'-race! Aboon them a' ye tak your place, Painch, tripe, or thairm: Weel are ye worthy o' a grace As lang's my arm. The groaning trencher there ye fill, Your hurdies like a distant hill, Your pin *** help to mend a mill In time o need, While thro your pores the dews distil Like amber bead. His knife see rustic Labour dight, An cut you up wi ready slight, Trenching your gushing entrails bright, Like onie ditch; And then, O what a glorious sight, Warm-reekin, rich! Then, horn for horn, they stretch an strive: Deil tak the hindmost, on they drive, Till a' their weel-swall'd kytes belyve Are bent like drums; The auld Guidman, maist like to rive, 'Bethankit' hums. Is there that owre his French ragout, Or olio that *** staw a sow, Or fricassee *** mak her spew Wi perfect scunner, Looks down wi sneering, scornfu view On sic a dinner? Poor devil! see him owre his trash, As feckless as a wither'd rash, His spindle shank a guid whip-lash, His nieve a nit; Thro ****** flood or field to dash, O how unfit! But mark the Rustic, haggis-fed, The trembling earth resounds his tread, Clap in his walie nieve a blade, He'll make it whissle; An legs an arms, an heads will sned, Like taps o thrissle. Ye Pow'rs, wha mak mankind your care, And dish them out their bill o fare, Auld Scotland wants nae skinking ware That jaups in luggies: But, if ye wish her gratefu prayer, Gie her a Haggis
0
Jan 25, 2015
Jan 25, 2015 at 9:37 AM UTC
RosieDee
Address to a Haggis (By Rabbie Burns)
Fair fa' your honest, sonsie face, Great chieftain o the puddin'-race! Aboon them a' ye tak your place, Painch, tripe, or thairm: Weel are ye worthy o' a grace As lang's my arm. The groaning trencher there ye fill, Your hurdies like a distant hill, Your pin *** help to mend a mill In time o need, While thro your pores the dews distil Like amber bead. His knife see rustic Labour dight, An cut you up wi ready slight, Trenching your gushing entrails bright, Like onie ditch; And then, O what a glorious sight, Warm-reekin, rich! Then, horn for horn, they stretch an strive: Deil tak the hindmost, on they drive, Till a' their weel-swall'd kytes belyve Are bent like drums; The auld Guidman, maist like to rive, 'Bethankit' hums. Is there that owre his French ragout, Or olio that *** staw a sow, Or fricassee *** mak her spew Wi perfect scunner, Looks down wi sneering, scornfu view On sic a dinner? Poor devil! see him owre his trash, As feckless as a wither'd rash, His spindle shank a guid whip-lash, His nieve a nit; Thro ****** flood or field to dash, O how unfit! But mark the Rustic, haggis-fed, The trembling earth resounds his tread, Clap in his walie nieve a blade, He'll make it whissle; An legs an arms, an heads will sned, Like taps o thrissle. Ye Pow'rs, wha mak mankind your care, And dish them out their bill o fare, Auld Scotland wants nae skinking ware That jaups in luggies: But, if ye wish her gratefu prayer, Gie her a Haggis
Continue reading...
48
An ither Burns night, Has finally come alang, If you've got an invite, You'll hae to sing a song, You'll soon be reciting poems, Wi a whisky in one hand, A haggis in the ither, You'll be feeling mighty grand, Daein wan o Rabbies, Or wan you've writ yersel, Gie it public airing, You'll hae us in a spell, Once the night's ower, Poems spinning round yer heid, Burns night is for aw body, It's a pity that he's deid.
0
Jan 25, 2015
Jan 25, 2015 at 10:44 AM UTC
raymond-dickson
An ither Burns night
An ither Burns night, Has finally come alang, If you've got an invite, You'll hae to sing a song, You'll soon be reciting poems, Wi a whisky in one hand, A haggis in the ither, You'll be feeling mighty grand, Daein wan o Rabbies, Or wan you've writ yersel, Gie it public airing, You'll hae us in a spell, Once the night's ower, Poems spinning round yer heid, Burns night is for aw body, It's a pity that he's deid.
Continue reading...
16
The first enchilada was created in the summer of 1968 In a small house near Seal Beach In Southern California. The house was owned by a friend of my dad's Or my mom's And we had gone over for dinner I was eight I would like to say that it was a cool beach pad With wood paneling, all the rage back then And an Eames recliner in the corner of the living room I only remember the paneling but since I am writing this The Eames piece stays We had gone for dinner And the owner of the house had made enchiladas Beef ones as I recall with sauce from a series of Old El Paso cans I can still smell and taste them They were the first world food I had ever had Besides canned Chinese food from the supermarket which doesn't count And because I loved them with their ground beef and sauce Their hot oil softened corn tortillas, sour cream, cheese and green onion And little tiny bits of black olive They became the prison guards Throwing open the gates of my suburban Connecticut upbringing Letting me leave the confines and walk freely in the sunshine for the first time They were followed by many other firsts Sushi, Crepes, haggis,  tiki masala and sea urchin to name a few All of which owe their very existence in my life To that first enchilada.
0
Aug 7, 2012
Aug 7, 2012 at 7:29 AM UTC
skip-ploss-1
The First Enchilada
The first enchilada was created in the summer of 1968 In a small house near Seal Beach In Southern California. The house was owned by a friend of my dad's Or my mom's And we had gone over for dinner I was eight I would like to say that it was a cool beach pad With wood paneling, all the rage back then And an Eames recliner in the corner of the living room I only remember the paneling but since I am writing this The Eames piece stays We had gone for dinner And the owner of the house had made enchiladas Beef ones as I recall with sauce from a series of Old El Paso cans I can still smell and taste them They were the first world food I had ever had Besides canned Chinese food from the supermarket which doesn't count And because I loved them with their ground beef and sauce Their hot oil softened corn tortillas, sour cream, cheese and green onion And little tiny bits of black olive They became the prison guards Throwing open the gates of my suburban Connecticut upbringing Letting me leave the confines and walk freely in the sunshine for the first time They were followed by many other firsts Sushi, Crepes, haggis,  tiki masala and sea urchin to name a few All of which owe their very existence in my life To that first enchilada.
Continue reading...
29
in Scotland fair you must beware the weathered moor at night For it is said a thing of dread hunts neath it's pale moon light It's small and stout and loves to shout and scare the tiny mice It kicks the trees to wake the bees because it is not nice it runs amok through herd and flock and makes the chickens fly Then opens gates and shakes lose slates and takes pigs from the sty It up roots crops and spills the hops and dances in the flour Though rarely seen its really mean and turns the fresh milk sour It squashes flat each butter pat and mixers wheat with grain then ups and screams to spoil your dreams and runs away again The Haggis see is wild and free and likes to cause such fun Breaks traps and snares and frees the hares and helps them to their run The hunting hound that sniffs the ground Will never find his scent because he sweats sweet Vi-o-lets to cover where he went The Heathered moor and rains that pour wash away his tracks and he's not scared he is prepared for haggis run in packs With teeth and claws and snapping jaws they are a sight to see So think before you seek that moor where they run wild and free
0
Sep 30, 2013
Sep 30, 2013 at 7:39 AM UTC
soul-in-torment
wild haggis
in Scotland fair you must beware the weathered moor at night For it is said a thing of dread hunts neath it's pale moon light It's small and stout and loves to shout and scare the tiny mice It kicks the trees to wake the bees because it is not nice it runs amok through herd and flock and makes the chickens fly Then opens gates and shakes lose slates and takes pigs from the sty It up roots crops and spills the hops and dances in the flour Though rarely seen its really mean and turns the fresh milk sour It squashes flat each butter pat and mixers wheat with grain then ups and screams to spoil your dreams and runs away again The Haggis see is wild and free and likes to cause such fun Breaks traps and snares and frees the hares and helps them to their run The hunting hound that sniffs the ground Will never find his scent because he sweats sweet Vi-o-lets to cover where he went The Heathered moor and rains that pour wash away his tracks and he's not scared he is prepared for haggis run in packs With teeth and claws and snapping jaws they are a sight to see So think before you seek that moor where they run wild and free
Continue reading...
36
Haggis the cat is quiet and gentle hang on! No he is ****** mental if you speak or touch he strikes, and that's just people Haggis likes. Fights with Vincent all day long even when he's done no wrong. Lets me stroke him when he's mellow made a streak in me thats yellow the other day he pinched my dinner boxed my face like I'm a sinner. Fought over my piece of lamb one each end then Haggis WHAM! Let me kiss him the other day but I know soon he'll make me pay. Yes, now I've crossed the Scottish border I've found my place in the pecking order.. BOTTOM......
0
Jan 13, 2011
Jan 13, 2011 at 3:35 AM UTC
jeremy-wyatt
Haggis The Cat
Haggis the cat is quiet and gentle hang on! No he is ****** mental if you speak or touch he strikes, and that's just people Haggis likes. Fights with Vincent all day long even when he's done no wrong. Lets me stroke him when he's mellow made a streak in me thats yellow the other day he pinched my dinner boxed my face like I'm a sinner. Fought over my piece of lamb one each end then Haggis WHAM! Let me kiss him the other day but I know soon he'll make me pay. Yes, now I've crossed the Scottish border I've found my place in the pecking order.. BOTTOM......
Continue reading...
17
Often alone I think of you rolling mountains covered in a purple haze both in highlands and lowlands too running water so pure sparkling bright making our whisky a natural delight Caledonia - the land of my dreams I hear music played from the heart oh' the sound of pipes and drums heart racing hairs standing on end poetry filling my eyes with tears recited at suppers year after year in celebration of bards no longer here Caledonia - the land of my dreams Men wearing tartan skirts with nothing underneath dancing between swords at highland gatherings playing games testing their manhood eating haggis a pudding often misunderstood porridge,shortbread, salmon and oatcakes quality food that is for sure Caledonia - the land of my dreams History remembered with pride Mary Stuart, Bonnie Prince Charlie Wallace, Culloden and Nessie too some myths, some true castles, lochs, bridges and glens places where lassies are called hen where houses are often **** un bens people answering with ah' ken Celtic blood running through my veins makes me glad I am alive and living here Caledonia - the land of my dreams
0
Nov 30, 2010
Nov 30, 2010 at 5:44 AM UTC
andrew-penman
CALEDONIA - THE LAND OF MY DREAMS!!!!!
Often alone I think of you rolling mountains covered in a purple haze both in highlands and lowlands too running water so pure sparkling bright making our whisky a natural delight Caledonia - the land of my dreams I hear music played from the heart oh' the sound of pipes and drums heart racing hairs standing on end poetry filling my eyes with tears recited at suppers year after year in celebration of bards no longer here Caledonia - the land of my dreams Men wearing tartan skirts with nothing underneath dancing between swords at highland gatherings playing games testing their manhood eating haggis a pudding often misunderstood porridge,shortbread, salmon and oatcakes quality food that is for sure Caledonia - the land of my dreams History remembered with pride Mary Stuart, Bonnie Prince Charlie Wallace, Culloden and Nessie too some myths, some true castles, lochs, bridges and glens places where lassies are called hen where houses are often **** un bens people answering with ah' ken Celtic blood running through my veins makes me glad I am alive and living here Caledonia - the land of my dreams
Continue reading...
31
They chase them down through field and town intending then to eat em' with plastic forks and champagne corks they wallop and they beat em' They chase by day and most the night though I can't understand em' through thistle grass and snowy pass with knives they roughly brand em' With Caber tossed and y-fronts lost these skirted men assault em' big burly men with beards yer ken you really cannot fault em' With claymore sharp and Scottish harp they catch and set to roast em' with whiskey ryes And blood shot eyes these hunters fair do toast em'
0
Sep 28, 2012
Sep 28, 2012 at 6:19 AM UTC
dieingembers
The Haggis Hunters
They chase them down through field and town intending then to eat em' with plastic forks and champagne corks they wallop and they beat em' They chase by day and most the night though I can't understand em' through thistle grass and snowy pass with knives they roughly brand em' With Caber tossed and y-fronts lost these skirted men assault em' big burly men with beards yer ken you really cannot fault em' With claymore sharp and Scottish harp they catch and set to roast em' with whiskey ryes And blood shot eyes these hunters fair do toast em'
Continue reading...
24
A truce was declared last night we all saw a remarkable sight the dogged bruiser sleeping sweet then rubbing all around my feet his eyes were saying come on mate no stared disdain, no smoldering hate so carefully I lifted Haggis scared he might take it amiss I wanted so long, I did it at last I cuddles Haggis the King of the Cats!
0
Jan 29, 2011
Jan 29, 2011 at 1:06 AM UTC
jeremy-wyatt
Truce
A truce was declared last night we all saw a remarkable sight the dogged bruiser sleeping sweet then rubbing all around my feet his eyes were saying come on mate no stared disdain, no smoldering hate so carefully I lifted Haggis scared he might take it amiss I wanted so long, I did it at last I cuddles Haggis the King of the Cats!
Continue reading...
10
It happened tonight I dare not clap Haggis the cat slept on my lap watching a film on the settee Denise was sitting next to me he strolled along looked at my pants though "oh well, I'll take a chance." A stroke and a pat I doff you my cap Haggis the cat slept on my lap
0
Feb 6, 2011
Feb 6, 2011 at 4:17 PM UTC
jeremy-wyatt
Haggis the Cat Slept on My Lap
It happened tonight I dare not clap Haggis the cat slept on my lap watching a film on the settee Denise was sitting next to me he strolled along looked at my pants though "oh well, I'll take a chance." A stroke and a pat I doff you my cap Haggis the cat slept on my lap
Continue reading...
16
A cat came into my dreams last night a great big ginger beauty but instead of curling up he lashed his tail all snooty "I saw you thursday night" he said, with a tear-stained muzzle he wasn't pleased at all with me but why? Wow what an awkward puzzle "Haggis in your arms, that's what! How dare you do this to me? there's only space for one of us upon your boney knee. That lad is such a fighter he chases me all day he bites my **** till it is plucked I try to run away! Ok I sometimes taunt him push my **** into his face but understand you silly man your lap is Vincents place! Room for us both? That is not true! Remember my huge belly. Balancing me upon those legs Is like juggling a jelly! I know I snuggle up with him when it's cold and mum's not there but already Haggis is snuggling dad I almost have to swear. So keep away my skinny pal from my naughty feline rival 'cos the battle to keep your lap for me is like the struggle for survival!" Hmmm..he has a point I guess he was a wee bit worried that Haggis causes him so much stress I think he'd have him curried! I  see them snuggle on the bed and butter wouldn't melt I know if Haggis comes to me Vin will give me a belt!
0
Jan 30, 2011
Jan 30, 2011 at 9:58 AM UTC
jeremy-wyatt
Vincents Plea...
A cat came into my dreams last night a great big ginger beauty but instead of curling up he lashed his tail all snooty "I saw you thursday night" he said, with a tear-stained muzzle he wasn't pleased at all with me but why? Wow what an awkward puzzle "Haggis in your arms, that's what! How dare you do this to me? there's only space for one of us upon your boney knee. That lad is such a fighter he chases me all day he bites my **** till it is plucked I try to run away! Ok I sometimes taunt him push my **** into his face but understand you silly man your lap is Vincents place! Room for us both? That is not true! Remember my huge belly. Balancing me upon those legs Is like juggling a jelly! I know I snuggle up with him when it's cold and mum's not there but already Haggis is snuggling dad I almost have to swear. So keep away my skinny pal from my naughty feline rival 'cos the battle to keep your lap for me is like the struggle for survival!" Hmmm..he has a point I guess he was a wee bit worried that Haggis causes him so much stress I think he'd have him curried! I  see them snuggle on the bed and butter wouldn't melt I know if Haggis comes to me Vin will give me a belt!
Continue reading...
40
.*of course i dream i fame, who doesn't dream of either fame or fortune... but... i'm sane enough to want to achieve that sort of stature, postmortem... what? with all the celebrity culture big brother ******** who the hell seeks fame while still alive? oh... well... there are the countless examples...* and why would i take an ancestry test of my D.N.A. make-up? i remember the first conversation i had with the father of my first girlfriend... how many famous Poles (Polaks... do i look like something akin to an anorexic waving a ******* flag?) there were... i forgot Copernicus... i forgot Marie Curie... i forgot Chopin... **** i forgot my own name when i saw my first girlfriend's sister walk down the stairs... why would i do D.N.A. testing? i just looked at what we eat... and i mean we, truly, it's called haggis in Scotland, it's called black pudding in England, and it's also called czarna kiszka (black intestines) in Poland... the Vikings founded Kiev after all... i like Nordic music, take a guess... take a while... my maternal surname is Batuk... which is a Bohemian variant of the Polak Batóg... so a mix of Czech and...   Viking? the Goths... if i had the time, and also the time reference to reply to my first girlfriend's father... while i was rudely interrupted by the nymph that was her sister... it's still a dream to me... or what's called an arranged marriage in India... well... i would reply... and how many Nobel literature laureates... came from... England? deathly silence... you're right... you're importing all this ****** post empire post colonial perspectives and you have... 0 Nobel laureates in the category of literature... none! zero! nil! oh! yeah...        oh... really?                                    yes! zilch... so zip-it-up, shrimpy. i take certain words to heart... sharpens my memory, i'm not offended... i just remember better... you sometimes require certain rubrics that are exclusive and do not include the rubrics of formal education... this memory? oh...       2003.
0
Nov 12, 2018
Nov 12, 2018 at 7:26 PM UTC
removed.polaroid-scrabble
a dream of a nymph
.*of course i dream i fame, who doesn't dream of either fame or fortune... but... i'm sane enough to want to achieve that sort of stature, postmortem... what? with all the celebrity culture big brother ******** who the hell seeks fame while still alive? oh... well... there are the countless examples...* and why would i take an ancestry test of my D.N.A. make-up? i remember the first conversation i had with the father of my first girlfriend... how many famous Poles (Polaks... do i look like something akin to an anorexic waving a ******* flag?) there were... i forgot Copernicus... i forgot Marie Curie... i forgot Chopin... **** i forgot my own name when i saw my first girlfriend's sister walk down the stairs... why would i do D.N.A. testing? i just looked at what we eat... and i mean we, truly, it's called haggis in Scotland, it's called black pudding in England, and it's also called czarna kiszka (black intestines) in Poland... the Vikings founded Kiev after all... i like Nordic music, take a guess... take a while... my maternal surname is Batuk... which is a Bohemian variant of the Polak Batóg... so a mix of Czech and...   Viking? the Goths... if i had the time, and also the time reference to reply to my first girlfriend's father... while i was rudely interrupted by the nymph that was her sister... it's still a dream to me... or what's called an arranged marriage in India... well... i would reply... and how many Nobel literature laureates... came from... England? deathly silence... you're right... you're importing all this ****** post empire post colonial perspectives and you have... 0 Nobel laureates in the category of literature... none! zero! nil! oh! yeah...        oh... really?                                    yes! zilch... so zip-it-up, shrimpy. i take certain words to heart... sharpens my memory, i'm not offended... i just remember better... you sometimes require certain rubrics that are exclusive and do not include the rubrics of formal education... this memory? oh...       2003.
Continue reading...
68
i sometimes watch a cooking show and feed myself, finding old italians very funny with everything simple being a milanese delicacy, ambrosia of a doubly baked bread, sprinkled with water, a juicy tomato and some olive oil... mmm, yeah, am bro sia... where’s the salt? if this is ambrosia please give me a haggis in a bagpipe. by the way... the best sarcasm is found in a hangover. i still don’t know how a cat managed to knock on my bedroom door while slayer’s seasons in the abyss stopped me munching on violins and cellos: i got paranoid being the only person in the house with that eerie sound of knock knock... but i guess greeting him in the morning with a head-butt utilised his head for the ‘being human’ initiation... only yesterday he managed to open the door to the kitchen using the handle - and like any man with his middle finger outstretched in defiance... he did the same, but with a thumb. p.s. poetry and collage have a lot in common, as does poetry and music, i still don't know why philosophy started the fight, poetry has nothing in common with philosophy to be even remotely related for a boxing match, it's poetry as music and collage, the classical stances of philosophy are becoming more and more obsolete; i guess someone had to point that out and side with plato rather than socrates, but i have to add one blatant innovation i'm working on, no not the plagiarism of tristan tzara by william burroughs of the famed 'cut up' method of writing poetry, i'm talking Bach, yes, BACH, polyphony, multilayering, spontaneity, and everything that tzara attempted picking out bingo ball snippets of newspaper articles from a bag like some ****** doing the same, writing a abduction-ransom letter to a rich girl's family enigmatically... also enclosing a portrait of the girl done with crude pointillism in cartoon shock colours with a signature that ræd: antoinette warhol - yep, and some people will be famous for 15minutes in a repetitive loop.
0
Oct 17, 2015
Oct 17, 2015 at 7:06 AM UTC
removed.polaroid-scrabble
haggis in a bagpipe and p.s.
i sometimes watch a cooking show and feed myself, finding old italians very funny with everything simple being a milanese delicacy, ambrosia of a doubly baked bread, sprinkled with water, a juicy tomato and some olive oil... mmm, yeah, am bro sia... where’s the salt? if this is ambrosia please give me a haggis in a bagpipe. by the way... the best sarcasm is found in a hangover. i still don’t know how a cat managed to knock on my bedroom door while slayer’s seasons in the abyss stopped me munching on violins and cellos: i got paranoid being the only person in the house with that eerie sound of knock knock... but i guess greeting him in the morning with a head-butt utilised his head for the ‘being human’ initiation... only yesterday he managed to open the door to the kitchen using the handle - and like any man with his middle finger outstretched in defiance... he did the same, but with a thumb. p.s. poetry and collage have a lot in common, as does poetry and music, i still don't know why philosophy started the fight, poetry has nothing in common with philosophy to be even remotely related for a boxing match, it's poetry as music and collage, the classical stances of philosophy are becoming more and more obsolete; i guess someone had to point that out and side with plato rather than socrates, but i have to add one blatant innovation i'm working on, no not the plagiarism of tristan tzara by william burroughs of the famed 'cut up' method of writing poetry, i'm talking Bach, yes, BACH, polyphony, multilayering, spontaneity, and everything that tzara attempted picking out bingo ball snippets of newspaper articles from a bag like some ****** doing the same, writing a abduction-ransom letter to a rich girl's family enigmatically... also enclosing a portrait of the girl done with crude pointillism in cartoon shock colours with a signature that ræd: antoinette warhol - yep, and some people will be famous for 15minutes in a repetitive loop.
Continue reading...
35
i simply exercised my vocabulary in tantra-yoga... you mistook poetry for its expression of freedom curtailed... and while i did my tantra-yoga bending and pointing at unseen geometries... you simply ran a 100 metre sprint, elongating the hyphen into a boa eating itself with avarice the pepper & salt. 0i preferred the haggis / czarna kiszka than my retrospective - i'm doing mine early, for reasons not necessarily true, or for that matter worthwhile... but nonetheless assuring - had i too the gift for painting, and the nerve to keep a young girl captive i'd too succumb to fathom a Grimm's tale... live the secluded live, secluded to the point of incubation - i'd lived it like an Arctic explorer, by the fireplace talking drunk tales of escaping polar bear hunts - within a pentagram of limbs intact, greasy Glasgow my farthest stone throw of heart... furthest the Føroyar Øer - if only i kept my heart as stern of the body to mind as the atom of ego in my mind to be lost among the carousel of weathered abstracts known as the four winds and the thrice winding clockwork - what abstractions to bear from now on? a memorial service? only in poseur marginalising tomorrow as only a change of attire for today; so too the semi-clad conservatives of supposed workmanship English? takes two to a woad; whatever Argentinian *** did to you in tango... takes two to a woad! but there's you apish and impish entwined for coerced blue of some other Newtonian prefect of argument, when the painting screams far from Norway the distinction between azure and aquamarine is very far between suggestion of marriage... i've ate my liver as if it were a heart by drinking salute! to a marble stone all hopes to have my life back! i mistook my liver for a heart! i did that! you mistook more than i care to remember having been forced a forgetting... those 3 years in Edinburgh meant nothing... nothing! spend them in South America, in Antarctica! i will not swallow another breath with a vowel coupled to a consonant.... until the remnants of me believe the words: Europe united, only when Scotland is free.
0
Jun 30, 2016
Jun 30, 2016 at 10:01 PM UTC
removed.polaroid-scrabble
i preferred the haggis / czarna kiszka
i simply exercised my vocabulary in tantra-yoga... you mistook poetry for its expression of freedom curtailed... and while i did my tantra-yoga bending and pointing at unseen geometries... you simply ran a 100 metre sprint, elongating the hyphen into a boa eating itself with avarice the pepper & salt. 0i preferred the haggis / czarna kiszka than my retrospective - i'm doing mine early, for reasons not necessarily true, or for that matter worthwhile... but nonetheless assuring - had i too the gift for painting, and the nerve to keep a young girl captive i'd too succumb to fathom a Grimm's tale... live the secluded live, secluded to the point of incubation - i'd lived it like an Arctic explorer, by the fireplace talking drunk tales of escaping polar bear hunts - within a pentagram of limbs intact, greasy Glasgow my farthest stone throw of heart... furthest the Føroyar Øer - if only i kept my heart as stern of the body to mind as the atom of ego in my mind to be lost among the carousel of weathered abstracts known as the four winds and the thrice winding clockwork - what abstractions to bear from now on? a memorial service? only in poseur marginalising tomorrow as only a change of attire for today; so too the semi-clad conservatives of supposed workmanship English? takes two to a woad; whatever Argentinian *** did to you in tango... takes two to a woad! but there's you apish and impish entwined for coerced blue of some other Newtonian prefect of argument, when the painting screams far from Norway the distinction between azure and aquamarine is very far between suggestion of marriage... i've ate my liver as if it were a heart by drinking salute! to a marble stone all hopes to have my life back! i mistook my liver for a heart! i did that! you mistook more than i care to remember having been forced a forgetting... those 3 years in Edinburgh meant nothing... nothing! spend them in South America, in Antarctica! i will not swallow another breath with a vowel coupled to a consonant.... until the remnants of me believe the words: Europe united, only when Scotland is free.
Continue reading...
43
In the bain marie of life The boiling, evaporated water underneath, Scolds untrained fingers and hands. Unscathed are the extremities of workers who serve: Little Hitlers and Maos, awaiting to have their egos inflated, and their endowments stroked. All so they can perpetrate atrocities in a world craving for more, entertainment. All so they can penetrate their animosity towards girls craving for more containment. Prepare ingredients in metal tray, made from Futuristic technology. Erected steel, carved and shaved, moulded to perfection. Finesse in Postmodern civilisation, Allowing hungry Delinquent to stuff cake holes with garbage. Gruel, bangers, tripe and trotters, spotted **** black pudding, haggis, bulls testicles. Plastic. Gum, and wrapper. Thrown, in bin. Mess and stink. Perforating orifices and permeating nasal passageways. Kitchen sink, The end of day arrives Sanitation process occurs. The end of shift awaits. She takes off sweat filled hair cap, Takes off juice stained chef pants. Kicks off steel capped boots. Pulls out Smelly, Sock. Rest in bed, to awake for new day. Gravity raises the sun. Rinse and repeat bain marie reheat.
0
May 23, 2016
May 23, 2016 at 11:03 AM UTC
miguel-diaz
Canteen Claustrophobe
In the bain marie of life The boiling, evaporated water underneath, Scolds untrained fingers and hands. Unscathed are the extremities of workers who serve: Little Hitlers and Maos, awaiting to have their egos inflated, and their endowments stroked. All so they can perpetrate atrocities in a world craving for more, entertainment. All so they can penetrate their animosity towards girls craving for more containment. Prepare ingredients in metal tray, made from Futuristic technology. Erected steel, carved and shaved, moulded to perfection. Finesse in Postmodern civilisation, Allowing hungry Delinquent to stuff cake holes with garbage. Gruel, bangers, tripe and trotters, spotted **** black pudding, haggis, bulls testicles. Plastic. Gum, and wrapper. Thrown, in bin. Mess and stink. Perforating orifices and permeating nasal passageways. Kitchen sink, The end of day arrives Sanitation process occurs. The end of shift awaits. She takes off sweat filled hair cap, Takes off juice stained chef pants. Kicks off steel capped boots. Pulls out Smelly, Sock. Rest in bed, to awake for new day. Gravity raises the sun. Rinse and repeat bain marie reheat.
Continue reading...
44