"hashed" poems
No sprouted wheat and soya shoots
And Brussels in a cake,
Carrot straw and spinach raw,
(Today, I need a steak).
Not thick brown rice and rice pilaw
Or mushrooms creamed on toast,
Turnips mashed and parsnips hashed,
(I'm dreaming of a roast).
Health-food folks around the world
Are thinned by anxious zeal,
They look for help in seafood kelp
(I count on breaded veal).
No smoking signs, raw mustard greens,
Zucchini by the ton,
Uncooked kale and bodies frail
Are sure to make me run
to
***** of pork and chicken thighs
And standing rib, so prime,
Pork chops brown and fresh ground round
(I crave them all the time).
Irish stews and boiled corned beef
and hot dogs by the scores,
or any place that saves a space
For smoking carnivores.
21.8k
light cursed falling in a singular block
her,rain-warm-naked
exquisitely hashed
(little careful hunks-of-lilac laughter splashed
from the world prettily upward,mock
us….)
and there was a clock. tac-tic. tac-toc.
Time and lilacs….minutes and love….do you?and
Always
(i simply understand
the gnashing petals of *** which lock
me seriously.
Dumb for a while.my
god—a patter of kisses,the chewed stump
of a mouth,huge dropping of a flesh from
hinging thighs
….merci….i want to die
nous sommes heureux
My soul a limp lump
of lymph
she kissed
and i
….chéri….nous sommes
6.3k
Potatoes
Mashed
Frenched
Fried
Baked
Sauted
Whipped
Tatered
Boiled
Hashed
Hasslebacked
Chipped
Roasted
Potatoes
Nov 19, 2014
Nov 19, 2014 at 2:55 PM UTC
Black spiderweb lashes
Drifting down
Red hashed vessels
Hidden from crowds
Pulsing lights
Heartbeat sounds
Arms and soul moving
Rhythm that pounds
Hands are grabbing
Wanting more
The soul says free me
Let me soar
It's about the beat
The ups and the downs
Feel the music
Hear the sound
Not just the sound
The hammering beat
The vibrating floor
The people heat
The sweat
The pain
The tears
The rain
The heat, hot liquid
Dripping through veins
New life given
To soulless names
Nameless faces
Passing through crowds
The beat is all that matters now
The beat, the heat. The bounce, the crowd
They all become one, somehow
You grind, you bend, you sit, you stand
You run the heat
Then you die with the band
Jan 19, 2013
Jan 19, 2013 at 1:41 AM UTC
The blue of my deep ocean
my sunrise at dawn
the red of my rose.
My fiery beauty in the gentle breeze
My evergreen earth and missing heaven
on the other side of the wood
My golden old, present of now
and future fairytale
The song of my nightingale.
The colours of my day
lapis lazuli hue of my sky.
My graceful white cloud
over the rainbow
My serene night in the shadow.
My golden ratio design
My solemn rise for the star
over the hashed twilight hill
when the day is done!
My love of life
My joy my patience
My secret made for heaven.
My Sun at the peak and my Moon
on the other side of the pool.
My homemaker above the storm
My fluid innermost.
Aug 28, 2019
Aug 28, 2019 at 10:38 AM UTC
no dead birds in the oven
no innards in the stuffing
nor fatty drippings to be scraped and poured
the smell of roasted veggies
wafts through the wintry air
pumpkin and sweet potatoes
marshmallows green beans lentils
turnips & collard greens
hashed browns & black-eyed peas
quinoa sorghum cuscus hummus
carrots leak broccoli Romanescu
gumbo in southern regions
wild rice dishes in the north
tastily spiced with turmeric
cumin and baked paprika
Indian curry soy sauce chipotle
as well as with the usual suspects
of garlic salt and pepper
and whatever fits the taste of hosts
in short
a venerable feast to demonstrate
how nature feeds us a large cornucopia
of plants for our delight and sustenance
in short
no need to **** a bird
* * *
Nov 27, 2015
Nov 27, 2015 at 4:46 PM UTC
As I drag through life on my knees, bleeding
I try to unlock the chains that pin my body down
And while I cannot find every key to free me from the weight
I have learned strength and endurance
and other tricks to ease my journey
Though the years I have hashed my blood onto paper
Smiling as my emotions bled into clean sheets
Forcing the purity of the page to match my damaged and ***** soul
Yet I have never thought to cut out my darkest experience
Instead, it swims within my stomach's acidic pool
Remaining dormant until a thought or melody claws at its bones
Until it can no longer be contained
So I begin ripping through my lungs and intestines
Simply trying to locate the source of the misery
As it torments both my body and mind
And by my own hands,
The acid spills into the crevasses of my muscle and bone
Sizzling through the structures on contact
Until I no longer recognize the dead stare reflecting off of metal and glass
And so I destroy them by using them
To **** whatever shambles of my body remain
As I sit in a puddle of blood and feel the air ticking away like seconds on a clock
I smell the familiar perfume of death, nestled with regret
I promised myself that,
if I somehow survive another night,
I will try to face the thickest chains that bind me tighter than ever before
Those that continue to stain the ground with my past and
Refuse to let me stand without fear
And so I begin
Jul 10, 2017
Jul 10, 2017 at 4:19 PM UTC
Earthy mottled brown,
Pomme de terre
The humble spud,
When not covered in mud;
Chipped, boiled or mashed,
Steamed roasted or hashed.
First the Incas of Peru,
Used them in a stew.
Now the tubers grown in space,
To further the human race.
Chopin, Mozart, and Vivaldi,
Can all be bought at Aldi.
(Other supermarkets are available.)
(More varieties are saleable.)
A versatile Maris Piper,
Couldn't be any riper,
When served perfectly baked.
© Nick Strong 2014
Oct 27, 2013
Oct 27, 2013 at 6:59 PM UTC
For all who read (or any who care)
I may somehow give up writing but no one
Would be aware.
After dozens of failed poems-sitting all alone,
"This is it!" I say and promise I won't write again,
There is much writers block so at least I come
Up with something NEW now and then.
But who cares about that?
Instead, we'll read re-hashed garbage
And praise it like it's priceless.
People make me sick, because they're
A vain sort that bring new meaning to the word
Foolishness.
Aug 23, 2016
Aug 23, 2016 at 12:54 AM UTC
Inhaling, hushed, from hashed cigars
my mind implodes in Malimar
where Naiads bathe in caviar -
I dream of dwarves and three-eyed tsars.
The captive kiss of Princess Mars
(who talks in tongues at seminars)
burns red beyond Her blue boudoir -
I writhe within Her pale peignoir.
Her Maids gloss lips with cinnabar,
bedizen cheeks in dusts that mar,
serve teas beside the reservoir -
I sip them from a samovar.
Disguised in smoke and lamps of spar
Her Genies gender gold dinars,
evoking flames in ginger jars -
I plea before the Commissar.
At Princess’ neighbourhood bazaar,
white shadows slip through doors ajar
to drape my dreams in ash and char -
I long await the Avatar.
Her Merchants (preening, proud Hussars)
paint pretty scenes on VCR’s
while sailing ships to Zanzibar -
I strum the strings of warped sitars.
Her Prophets sometimes cruise in cars
else while at each and every bar
to speak of space and time bizarre -
I pass my pride for small pourboires.
Her Necromancers trace in tar
tall tales of wisdom flung afar,
transported by the Registrars -
I hitchhike on their handlebars.
Her seers conjure repertoires
where She and I are on a par
in infinite surreal memoirs -
I sometimes sense the void is ours.
My Princess never sees the scars
cut by Her whispered “au revoirs” -
I often wake to ask ‘who are
these Gods that sail the distant stars?’
Aug 12, 2013
Aug 12, 2013 at 6:49 PM UTC
you took powerful women and made them powerless,
kissed each tongue as if she was a new flower sniffed
a treasured spelled question where its only found in bliss
a new girl for my hand now that's a cowards tisk tisks
spitting each one of there souls for your own self discovery
my menacing thoughts are hashed out as if each one was for her, you see
like i was a monster with an inner demon that counted our souls
that counted our souls as if i was the one stealing
right out of stock i rather fight then mock
im stronger then i look
most of mother ******* rather leave then look
you know leave comfort right outer your nook
its over booked
like a library over due
curse
each one of my demons that over see
my shoulder they sneeze
achoo
and i only flu they breeze
Jehovah
my god he sees.
id rather respect him
then fall into a snare of sleeze
you mother *******
barely got a grasp of life
and see more then only I can
sac
riff
ice
its a little watery for jam,
maybe you should open it
close most of those books
that never opened
or writ
or did i mean write
lets charge the read
not for the color
but only because
we seek for that lover
its or an
orange
melodies
that searched more then what i have to cover
or more then me just wanting to brother
sibling or not
i will fight and naught
breathy cadence of her warm children
most of you mother are just feel ins
they are some what still-in(steal?)
no use reuse
you dont think God
(God dont you think)
will choose?
Nov 17, 2013
Nov 17, 2013 at 6:05 AM UTC
This language, everblooming
It has so easily poisoned us
But you dust off those empty phrases
Washing stains out of rageful exchanges
This white flag is half in your hand
And half in mine
A haphazard grocery list
Stopped at tomatoes
Continued as a list of those “we would never go there" words
I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry,
Written like punctuation in the spills
Now I'm picking up dinner plates off the walls
So many weapons were thrown and old secrets hashed
A mess left with us drowning in the aftermath
I think the salad is now dressed in curses and ill wishes
But despite all that
I think it's your silence that will **** me
Sep 24, 2023
Sep 24, 2023 at 10:39 PM UTC
We never knew it
If you called
the phone was ringing
on a line that led nowhere
The pain didn't shake itself
to frothing fury
We merely spilled
an accidental ant
infestation
Could be ordered
by dripping maple syrup
out of pocket
Certificate On Demand
<>< <>< <><
Well they are also being trawled
Trolled, rolled, and hashed
Backwards into oblivion
Forwards we march to the void
With no uniform but the one
you made us pay for
With every ability but the one to accept
a bit of discipline
A lashing of the tongue
A rolling of the eyes
These we claim as ekstatic
empyrean
and lofty
Base and
belonging
We have never had much of a chance
or survived
Making time is the one operation that
computers are incapable of doing accurately
The slow movements of tektonik
A bit of spatial dejazz
Combines slyruping away at our self-gnawing
ganymede
Diana
sysysus
There are Bacchantic poems
Earth is playing slower
and heavier with us
Then then there them
We decided deicide was old
hats and new sweaters
path-dependencies
Llavanderias and futbol
gols for 2016
never score again
if winning tastes like the defeat
of all desire
than massage me back into a fashion
I need a sauna
and 3 bathing attendants
The stars need less light from us
and more humble pie
The pour poor por que por que no?
Jan 15, 2016
Jan 15, 2016 at 12:25 AM UTC
I feel the content
rolling about on my tongue
the same words
the same concepts
recycled feelings
that won't go away
no matter how many times
they’re hashed out
again and again
their delicate phrasing
varying in complexity
masked by deceiving themes
but all the same in the end
same organs, same bones
same blood, same flesh
and so as I sit
ready to write living words
I can taste the same content
I can hear the same feeling
I can see the same words
rolling about my tongue
Mar 18, 2015
Mar 18, 2015 at 4:34 PM UTC
I can make my voice strong
but the truth of that falsehood makes my throat burn
I am losing ground
slip-sliding over gravel
boots into wheels and I am back
and that control
is not over you
and it's not over me
it's just lost in space floating
between my pillows
and my quiet thoughts at night
the balm that I hope I can bring by turning off the light does
not quench
sleep does not smooth and
the jolt of decisions overly made
hashed and delayed
has my existence catching itself at the door
I don't want to be human anymore.
Nov 11, 2014
Nov 11, 2014 at 11:35 AM UTC
run revel, run **** and run riot
after the work week
thirsty work
hashed together venges
and business pleasures exceed
to mature into vigorous crime
with the rights
this fit night have given
the office population clamber up their fears
and violently
cram their senses
fist feast your mouther
raw-torn with surplus
a Wendigo playground
go beast upon this crown
this fawn
this chalking morgue
- a bellyful
Apr 22, 2019
Apr 22, 2019 at 12:18 AM UTC
Until you pulled
the trigger you
knew nothing
of wild boars
except tales
your father told
you as a child,
but suddenly
there it was
fierce and feral,
yellowed tusks
flying at you—
the tall novitiate.
So when you
raised the rifle
to your eye
and fired,
your mastery
of boars burst
over African
grassland,
splattered
in a grisly shower
of comprehension:
red words
splashed
on knee-high grass,
paragraphs hashed
out in final breaths,
until the depleted
subject of your study—
tumescent body
and stiff squat legs—
lay dead in African
savanna, the obsolete
entry you never read
in your Encyclopedia Britannica.
Nov 8, 2016
Nov 8, 2016 at 11:15 AM UTC
The come down comes in slow like the last dance.
So we grasp our hands and pray like were being let down into unknown liquids.
But mines perfect weather, in an overcast globe.
So I come down and look around, to recognize nothing.
The idea s that I tried to portray fell on deaf ears and eager hands.
So now I’m a sham and the rest of the worlds sitting on a pretty brass with a hollow carcass.
I can’t do anything but watch my words roll around like red carpets into newer venues.
And me
I’ll just take what was yours and call it mine
the me that is the thief
in the night.
10,000
Is the summarization
And the number is more important than the words
Because we’re all thinking to a minimum, life’s an assignment
And as every hinge comes undone
Down and down
Further down we must go.
Until I’m the truth
Until you’re right
Until I see what it is.
Becoming my exclamation points, overused.
Re-hashed, copy, print, stamp, autograph.
Till it’s passed around like a cheap drug
And my come down is a wakeup call .
To make me wise that I hadn’t created something for myself.
But a pamphlet to measure yourself. A standardized test.
I must have ****** up.
Until I crash into the ground.
Or I could deploy a parachute, but I need to see these ants. So I’m falling straight into the farm on my dresser.
And it’s not like an assassination.
I just fell on 100 bullets. Let the janitor clean me up.
I tried to do something great with clay.
And I did
And for that I can’t ever take myself seriously again.
The come down left shivers in my bones and every synapse sunk so deep into a dim pulse that I forgot how to breathe.
Apr 5, 2011
Apr 5, 2011 at 5:02 PM UTC
If I were her and she were me,
perhaps nothing would be different
about that time the two of us met.
We would each assume with a touch of pity
that the other was adorably naive
in her opinion of you and her together.
If I were her and she were me,
she would find three strands of my hair tangled in your sheets
and her chest would sting with regret as she hashed and rehashed
every imagined detail that began to crystallize.
If I were her and she were me,
she would not be able to look at you for very long at all
without the consuming thought of
you looking at me (in an identical or different fashion)
bleeding in.
If I were her and she were me,
she would never touch the subject,
never approach it, never cross it;
instead, she would let her heart fill up with you anyway,
and I would be smart.
May 21, 2014
May 21, 2014 at 12:42 AM UTC
There were nightmares about you and then there were dreams that made me cry with joy.
You had the most perfect smile.
You had the most perfect net to catch me in.
There were memories flooding my brain every night and then there was the moment I thought I could swim to the top of them only to drown.
You were making it hard to breathe.
You were making it hard to let you go.
I wanted so badly to run to the other side of the country and demand that you hashed things out with me.
I wanted to use a couple plays from your book of tricks but I knew that my plays would be flawed and we would lose the game.
My friends told me I was too angry to start discussing things right now.
My friends told me I was too impulsive and maybe they were right.
But, baby, love makes you do crazy things.
And, baby, I am crazy about you.
Feb 9, 2018
Feb 9, 2018 at 3:14 PM UTC
There were these poems
hashed together in haste
insipid limp and lifeless
devoid of dare, unable to stir the mind
into frenzied ecstasy
no sparkle no lustre
no meaning to extract.
daily fluff
They were enjoyable too
***** linen on a laundry line
unpegged and nonrhythmic
unmetaphoric, unnamed
first liners
homeless words with unhappy visuals
floating in a sea of ****
just sitting on a page
dead
so many of mine are exactly like that
unwanted, homeless little beasts
cooked up in a frenzy of haste
pompous and pretentious
lying like a cold corpse
on a concrete slab in some strange mortuary
name tag on a toe
waiting for a quick burial.
Ive decided to write better poems now
leave the fluff to be vacuumed away
and spend long hours thinking through
the magic that rises from mists
of intense thinking.
once a month
with twenty nine drafts.
no more mediocre for me.
goodbye readers
see you again next month
take care while i work up a froth.
© Marshall Gass. All rights reserved, 11 days ago
Nov 7, 2014
Nov 7, 2014 at 4:39 PM UTC
a blank slate
not even eroded by the toxic waste
pumping within my lungs and
cleansed across the record.
somewhat of an archetype
of a shattered specimen,
much like my illusions
that were made into dust
and spread as if they were my own ashes.
you are the warrior
and i'm just the battlefield,
deteriorating and decaying
just beneath your boot.
i am nothing more
than the back side of your penny.
you are a barbarian
gargling for a tad more than just
my one cent.
clawing through my skin
like the abominable creature you are,
possessing my soul
as you would rather do a dime.
a blank slate
is a room not created for recovery
instead it is hashed away
where it infuses into my ribs
penetrating every single breath.
a blank slate
much less relieved and ruptured
than the vacancy
that scatters within my gut.
Apr 19, 2016
Apr 19, 2016 at 7:01 PM UTC
no dead birds in the oven
no innards in the stuffing
nor fatty drippings to be scraped and poured
the smell of roasted veggies
wafts through the wintry air
pumpkin and sweet potatoes
marshmallows green beans lentils
turnips & collard greens
hashed browns & black-eyed peas
quinoa sorghum cuscus hummus
carrots leak broccoli Romanescu
gumbo in southern regions
wild rice dishes in the north
tastily spiced with turmeric
cumin and baked paprika
Indian curry soy sauce chipotle
as well as with the usual suspects
of garlic salt and pepper
and whatever fits the taste of hosts
in short
a venerable feast to demonstrate
how nature feeds us a large cornucopia
of plants for our delight and sustenance
in short
no need to **** a bird
* * * *
Nov 24, 2020
Nov 24, 2020 at 10:46 AM UTC
War, war , war !
war injustice for justice .
what justice within your scout race .
you behold ,but ethereal sigh of justice .
whereas ,thy fingers that grasp iron.
to hit cant glide as Pompeii larva.
your fostering heart imbued of victim ban.
innocent progeny with bashful face and hashed bowel .
hunger stoke fellows though giant as Sirius ,hail hell.
irony of justice that cant bid patience.
drip more blood ,cause phantasm rule the race.
hate me for justice cause im an awkward moor.
dark sadist heart you can only dance with swords.
avenging maniac ,such is the end of your resort.
much more blood cause Helen is for Trojan war.
then hot tears for remnant to clean you blood shed.
we can only count more sepulchres to quench our taste of liberty.
our crisped and stupor face dread your preaching .
our hope deepen down for long ,in nights of lamentation.
is the prayer to stop your ****** justice ,such a modest redemption .
Mar 3, 2015
Mar 3, 2015 at 5:28 AM UTC
Black coffee and waffles , hashed potatoes , catsup , country music and cigarettes ... It's sad for the memories we could have made but you are too beautiful for a man like me !
Sep 14, 2015
Sep 14, 2015 at 11:28 AM UTC