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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.
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
Eagle Poetry Nov 2014
Potatoes
Mashed
Frenched
Fried
Baked
Sauted
Whipped
Tatered
Boile­d
Hashed
Hasslebacked
Chipped
Roasted
Potatoes
made out of boredom and curiosity of how many way there are to prepare potatoes
Red Starr Jan 2013
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
Shofi Ahmed Aug 2019
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.
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

                * *
Nicole Jul 2017
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
This is the first poem in a collection I'm doing about an extremely hard topic that I've never wrote about before but I hope writing can help me face my demons. Because poetry has helped me through so many other problems, I hope it can with this too
Nick Strong Oct 2013
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
Alan S Bailey Aug 2016
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.
Terry O'Leary Aug 2013
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?’
Zachary Nov 2013
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?
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?
A simple note to someone who will never read it
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
When the Rapture
arrives
I wonder if
it
will trend.
F White Nov 2014
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.
copyright fhw, 2014
AE Sep 2023
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
Jonathan Witte Nov 2016
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.
neth jones Apr 2019
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
A Babal Tolls verse ?  Formaldyhyde Jar Baby
Kevin Theal Apr 2011
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.
SJPugsley Apr 2020
In the land of Coleridge and his Ancient Mariner,
    In a time of coal fires, wooden boats and horsepower,
There is a story of the Lynmouth Lifeboat Louisa
    And the night horse and man over 13 miles pulled her.

Two of the afternoon clock struck a chime,
    On January 12th, 1899.
The wind howled and the sea it roared,
    Flooding ports and railways, taking off windows and doors.
The ship, Forest Hall, with masts a three
    Was being towed up Bristol Channel with a crew of 15.
Bound for Liverpool, at St. David’s Head she cast off,
    But the wind, it blew stronger and the waters grew rough.
Suddenly the cable grew taught and then snapped,
    The tugboat immediately came about to get back.
For over an hour they tried to re-fix the line
    But the storm was upon them, they had run out of time.
Captain Uliss made haste to anchor at bay
    But another obstacle was thrown in their way.
The rudder of the Forest Hall was broken by a squall,
    To the mercy of Poseidon and ****** they were all.
The ships’ anchor dragged, no purchase it found
    The ship was headed for Exmoor’s rough ground
At 6:33pm a telegraph was sent
    From Porlock to Lynmouth the Postmaster went
“Large vessel. Distress. Offshore Porlock”
    Five minutes later the first signal rocket went off
Out into the pounding rain they ran
    Those lifeboatmen and locals to lend them a hand
The waves loomed over the watch tower on the pier,
    Then crashed down in fury which deafened the ear
“Tis hopeless” the Coxswain, Jack Crocombe, said he
    “ain’t a crew in the service who could launch safely”
“From a more sheltered station we’ll call a new boat”
    And to the post-office they went, to send a telegraph out
Tap, tap, tap on the Morse key he pressed
    But nothing was happening, there was no line left
Blown down by the storm, and all hope with it,
    “The duty is ours, but we cannot fulfil it”.


Part 2:
“The duty is ours, it’s us or nobody” he shouts
    “it can’t never be nobody, go we must”
The protests did start, and questions did fall,
    But the Coxswain had an answer to silence them all
“Now, I know that we can’t launch her from ‘ere”
    “but it’s thirteen miles to Porlock Weir”
The voices were shouting, no one knew what to do
    But the Second Coxswain’s voice carried on through
“Jack, we’ll need ‘osses, every ‘oss can be spared”
    “if we got enough power, we’ll get her there”
The choice had been made, the die had been cast,
    The crew had a plan, a solution at last
Around came the Lifeboat Louisa, so grand
    Standing 34ft long and 7ft wide on land
3.5 tonnes was her unladen mass
    The add thirteen crew, oars, rigging and two masts
The shafts had been fitted to the carriage with ease,
    Rarely used but kept in the boathouse for needs
The horses were hitched, the carriage coupled on.
    In total, the train was one hundred and thirty foot long
“Right then” said the Coxswain “let’s be off”
    “up Countisbury Hill!” but as soon as they started, they stopped.
The horses did not pull together as a team,
    The wheels were stuck in the parapet, of the bridge over the stream
In minutes it was fixed, and it started again
    This time all horses were pulling the same.
Up Countisbury hill, they walked on and on,
    Until they reached open ground, then the protection was gone
The rain thundered down; the wind raged again
    Still the team kept on going, the pace slow and same.
All of a sudden, the carriage plunged to the right,
    A four-foot wheel came off, then rolled out of sight
“There’s a wheel off!” the cry rang “get them scotches under!”
    It was the front offside wheel that was causing this blunder
Nearly forty minutes it took to replace the wheel
    Still the great storm refused to heel
But then they were off, nearly conquered the hill
    But many more challenges faced them still.
The Blue Ball Inn marks Countisbury Hill peak
    And hot cocoa and brandy helped restore the weak.
Now they pressed on, ten miles to go.
    They were making good progress but painfully slow.


Part 3:
The rain had stopped, the lamps shone bright,
    This brave crew continued through the night.
The party had by now reached Ashton Lane
    Where their troubles soon were to begin again
On this narrow road, the walls were strong and thick
    Impassable for the carriage, but Coxswain Jack had a trick
“We’ll pull the boat through the lane on the skids”
    “The carriage can go o’er the moors with the kids”
So once again horse and train were detached
    A new plan at work, only recently hatched
Eight horses pulled the carriage away,
    Leaving ten to continue to Porlock Bay.
The boat was pulled down Ashton Lane
    Later, all men agreed this was the worst part of the way.
Mud underneath, and walls closing in
    Barely inches to move and soaked to the skin
Boast, horses and carriage finally together again
    Made their way onwards, leaving the lane
Half past one, on that stormy black morn
    County Gate was passed, conversation was born
The crew started talking, spirits, they grew
    But a challenge was coming and this they all knew
Porlock Hill was coming their way,
    Navigating this death path was tricky even in the day.


Part 4:
Porlock Hill, as the locals say
    Is the devil incarnate come night or day
But the brave men from Lynmouth at the top they stopped
    Safety chains, drag ropes and skid pans were fitted against the clock
Four horses at the front to control the bends
    Ten at the back plus men to see this through to the end
Down the twists and turns the crawled
    On the drag ropes and harnesses, man and horse hauled
Round the last corner “We’ve done it!” “We’re down!”
    Sighs let out, smiles put on, it was an inspiring sound
Then all at once, morale took a plunge down,
    As they stared at the entrance to Porlock Town.
Old Widow Washford had a cottage this end,
    It would be impossible for the carriage to round the bend
The wall of the garden would have to come down
    So, the crew started trying to widen the ground
“What are ye thinking at this time o’ night?”
    “How dare ye start bangin! Gave me a fright”
Old Widow Washford’s head poked through the door
    Was there no end to the troubles faced on this moor?
Once again, the Coxswain had the answer and said
    “Don’t worry, we’re just widening the road dear. Go back to bed”
The old woman was dressed and out in a flash
    Shouting encouragement, soon the wall was hashed.
Six inches more, they needed to pass
    The corner of the cottage came off at last.
Five of the clock struck the morning chime,
    For most people here, that was rising time.
Out of the town, and past the Ship Inn
    The last part of their journey was soon to begin.


Part 5:
Half past five when they reached Porlock Weir
    They were soon stopped by people when drew near.
“You can’t go no further” the Anchor Hotel Landlord said
    “the road’s gone, Jack, to the beach, nothing’s left”
Only half a mile stood ‘tween the crew and their goal
    They would not let this stop them, oh no.
The top road they took, almost as narrow as Ashton Lane
    An exercise none of them wanted to repeat again.
The train drew on, till they reached a tree
    An old Laburnum standing between them and the sea.
Down it came and then back on their way
    The light was beginning to turn night to day.
The boat reached the beach, the flares had been lit,
    The ****** poised with their oars, ready to hit.
Holding the stop, Second Coxswain yelled “HAUL”
    And down shot the Louisa, into the squall
The oars struck together, through the roaring sea
    Sails hoisted, oars beating, wind blowing hatefully.

It was on the morning Friday 13th January,
    That Lifeboat Louisa of Lynmouth launched at Porlock from Countisbury.
Ten and a half hours, over thirteen miles
    This crew and their boat had endured many trails
The Forest Hall was reach, her crew all safe
    Back to the mainland they made at pace.


Jack Crocombe, George Richards, Charles Crick, Richard Burgess,
    Richard Ridler, David Crocombe, Bertram Pennicott, William Jarvis.
George Rawle, William Richards and John Ward
    John Riddler, E.J. Peddar and Richard Moore.

All of them crew members on that historic day
    And for this they are remembered in every way.


But I give my thanks to the crew mate who gave this story to me,
    My Great Great Grandfather, Lynmouth Lifeboatman
        William Sellick Pugsley.


Sophie J Pugsley
Great Great Granddaughter of crewmate William Pugsley of the Lynmouth Lifeboat Service.
sara burns May 2014
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.
Brianna Feb 2018
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.
Marshall Gass Nov 2014
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
t Apr 2016
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.
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 !
Judgson blessing Mar 2015
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 .
Congressman and senators forewent
all manner of civility, fidelity and integrity wii
hull ding broadswords, derringers
and exhibiting the right to bare firearms
as all hell broke loose as testimony
to the dire prognostication foretold

more than saber rattling and Gatling guns que
kind from lambastes, fisticuffs
and brickbats ratcheted up as agents provocateurs nee
said obedience to semper fidelis credo, coda and **** knee
stance when dire straits called for restraint

against excess versus raising cane old hickory
i.e. Andrew Jackson latched onto when opposing with energy
plus verve espoused by fellow delegates,
and his hologram ghost ******

from battle scars outside and/or inside
the halls of government where blows bashed
dovetailed elected legislators to officiate
as angry birds viz brouhaha clashed
Federalist against their nemesis

of the twenty first century
during the term of Donald Trump
who throve on the cutthroat frenzied
internecine lawlessness dashed
to and fro, hither and yon

any hopelessness for civilians to escape bloodshed
spilled from without vaunted halls of justice,
the approach of doomsday
writ large as anarchy and mayhem flashed
with uproarious coup d’etat,

when Democrats outliers gnashed
teeth, and nonestablishmentarian outlaws
pistol whipped and hashed
tagged traitors who roared America
went bankrupt at sold at fire sale price slashed

when Donald Trump ran the country
into the ground evidenced by Molotov Cocktails residue
in concert with the sulfuric odor of hand grenades trashed
like some sorority or fraternity house
left the sanctified righteous West Wing

with powder puffs sans canisters
of pepper spray, whereby
most docile, humble, and liberal took a page
from playbook of Pandora, and took an aimless swing
at the root cause of melee by hurling objet’s d’art

at the pompous trump ping
Septuagenarian, whose platoons of goons
rent asunder peoples against their king
the donnybrook heathen, whose remarks
against libertarian rubric that made America great

wantonly soup peer egg go whist tickly
reviving prejudices declared dead
from yesteryear and his attempt to bring
back the glory days, when Whistler Blowers
getting water boarded and aching

deigning to implement dictatorship
of the Proletariat as a capital idée fix
weaving together, the salient strengths
viz founding fathers credo gave licks
to King George, and now in an ironic

twist and shout of fate through eclectic mix
basket of deplorables further shamed
by being routed by the New York Nicks
sewed jaws, heads of state, and dignitaries

with limping bodies spent like derricks
Oil used up and no place to go except
to keep Alice in Chains and
Alice Cooper Company with toys in the attics.
Robertesque Feb 2014
i waited for you tonight
searched the corners of my room
searched inside my ink
on my walls
on my head, my hands
under and on my heart
i overwhelmed
blurred the ink on my face
yowled yowled
scrabbled the walls
hashed the map on the wall
country by country
destroyed it house by house
took my heart and hung it
on the wall
painted a new map
where I wait for you
in none of the houses
but
we are still strangers
Daniel Magner Oct 2014
when melodies I hashed up
in the past pass by my lips
sudden images surface
hips, finger tips
who I was, who I've become
since you made me your biggest
someone
then used your mouth like a gun
breath as bullets
for your Colt .45 breakup
I think my fingers were
on the trigger
I was the one who pulled it
so I lay down my guitar
with a sigh beggining deep inside
then rub my eyes
shove aside thoughts that make me die
hydrate my hate for change
by hitting play on songs
you listened to
it's true, though I'm blue
and still haven't a clue
wether I ever really
loved
you
Daniel Magner 2014
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

                * * *
longer than i could remember, this king (who still rules) invited excited spenders.

once drawbridge got let down, the floodgates of humanity poured into the city to snap up bargains.
  
no sooner than vendors set out merchandise, a swarm of fingers grabbed goodies.

wallets bulged with wads of cash itching to be spent by buyers swept up via mania.

like an organic being, a pandemonium prevailed infecting shoppers with feverish frenzy to stock bags with paraphernalia.

atop high perch, matthew felt ecstatic at what appeared as one swollen black shifting grounded cloud that swallowed shelves of wares.

Where can my family receive a little boost er shot of cash? just a small *** (about $1000.00) would be a welcome respite from my bankrupt account. 
-------------------------------------------------------­--

u fill in the expletive colorful bleep
per that i yam not a lurch ching Munster creep
juiced a harmless troll bait rent asunder tabula rasa
boot angst of penury doth penny tr8 real deep

dark cyber sea inundated with other earth-linked yahoos
lying amongst in a ur i ah heap
since bin ages since oye goot a peep
***** riotously footing ogling wealth to reap

wool lee ya be generous
fur shear lee Yukon give me legal tender
   ta help me sleep
oft times unable to suppress
   the unstoppable force to weep.
---------------------------------------------------------
P­OST SCRIPT NUMBER 891212:

hashed out about 123456789 hours ago
when i felt the bottom fell out - per no dough
helplessness ringing clangorously - no where 2 go
except...where many a G. I.

(which initials
  by the way mean galvanized iron) joe
so i rage against penurious
   dime men shuns of no mo'
- nope not even a red cent -

   filthy lucre, thus find ma self a po'
papa pressed withiN perdition of poverty,
where psyche under a ******>slash burn - argh - only i can rid this monetary
   impotence akin to TiVo
clearing application
   to blitz krieg commercials - thus woe....

angst begot from money woes.
ah...the glorious thought,
   whence never again
to cull demise and forever hibernate

feeling crushed by the egregious atrocious,
heinous, and nemesis, poor ring in of late
and thus this obituary epitaph of sorts
(no matter,
   he will opt for cremation) finds frenzied
strychnine, poison

   or hemlock appear savory to this pate
a chance pair of perusing eyes
may find this blurb unable 2 eke quate
this plea sprung

   from plethora of purse son hull wreck - i rate
anxiety sweeps across me
   mental nada so healthy state
which panic wrought from poverty
per prone nouns mints

   uber viz zit with undertaker tete a tete
of decades long bout with a psyche riddled
angst sh...us lee
   waiting for Godot - Becket ting

this papa, who **** courting escape from posse aye
misty eyed in midst of his own financial catastrophe
he loathes resorting to pan handling to help him get free
of pauperism, which haint no joke,

   and would find a scabrous reply
ample reason to still his life,
   though ma lovely daughters  
suffered psychic injury
and forever be psychologically marred

   if aye did merrily
row me figurative boat over the abyss prithee
and hope for instant death of mine aura,
charisma, and karma see?

tis probably pointless n frivolous
to expect presume salvation 4 this mw male
yet nothing ventured....
could do no worse as my psyche doth quail
for being nearly penniless

   (in this cornucopia of plenti), and rail
ling against fate may bring derision
   per an unpredictable scale
argh - doth hardly shed light
   on my penurious travail

cuz thy current checking account gasps
with a death rattle does wail...
boot juiced....maybe lady luck shall draw
the gaze of one philanthropic facebook peeper
(at least enough largesse

   to stave off self destruction of spouse)
welcome mat would willingly
   be laid out for grim reaper
to whisk me away -
  so i kin become an eternal sleeper
though each surviving loved one,
   would be inconsolable weeper.
Timothy Feb 2022
Us
We’ve resolved our relationship
Myself and I
We’ve hashed out our differences
We’ve reconciled our lies
Aligned our perceptions
Re-focussed our eyes
We’re a team now
Together
Sailing the calming waters inside
Destinations agreed
We dance upon the seas
Beneath star blanketed skies
Alone not lonely
A retreat, but homely
Free from the self directed slander of old.
Perspiration encompasses phalanges
     insinuating physiological absolute
     zero tolerance nuisance far and wide
across time space

     continuum the upside
incorporating various
     whereby sundry remedies tried,
     and yes obliteration

     of self (via Suez side ),
would constitute an
     extreme measure (NOT
     blithely NOR eagerly

     the path taken) to stop ride
ding slippery dripping
     surfaces wet when wet palms touch
     of hands incessantly, frustratingly,

     and chronically sweaty,
     yet every obvious remedy
     under the sun, moon,
     stars, et cetera ap plied,

yet no matter the central
     air condition set
     at sixty degrees Fahrenheit
     even when temperature colder outside

especially as twilight
     ushers cool nightside
crazy farfetched ideas
     for instance breathing carbon monoxide

races thru thine noggin,
     like so much cuz harmful
     odious bilge water
     (wicked yucky emotional effluvium)

     handily intent to cause landslide
thence posse sub billy reincarnating me
     into a shackled serf locked up
     inside a rat infested dungeon,

     nonetheless in earshot of hoi polloi,
     while lavish feast displayed kingside
which previous life
     found me taking joyride

with his highness until...
     these limp wet dishrag fleshy mitts
     angered royal majesty
damning yours truly,

     whose ins hide
sought refuse within
     thy inner poet as guide
which explains this

     hashed out rhyme
     from the farside,
per outer limits of the
     twilight zone eternally eventide.
Cannot Wall The Will Of Catapulting Mice

A titled unwritten poem requiring
little effort to dip and dive
I accidentally, inadvertently,
and unexpectedly scrolled up in digital archive
among various and sundry literary endeavors,
eh, maybe about a bajillion and five,

in various stages of completion kept alive
on life support, and one non entitled migrant idea,
that unwaveringly, incessantly, dost connive
clamorously, cetera doth buzz inside my head
(aswarm like angry bees in a hive)
constitutes how ("FAKE") president Trump

emits asynchronous vibe that dost not to jive
with best interests of American people even Ivy
League scholars found yours truly ruminating,
how mine "avid groupies",
would deem to warrant duct taping
me whole body, asper drive

ving figurative written wedge, sans
my blunt opinion against commander in chief,
subsequently finding me literally diced,
hashed, minced, et cetera as an endive
or more palatable onion's relative chive
into a million little pieces,

thus better angles with me strongly advised
(along with voice of Robert Mueller) best to arrive
at less controversial topic, hence I will strive
even if blindly chased by Farmer's wive
to express (with rhyme,
but no reason), and douse

or simply avoid trumpeting, scathing,
flickr ring potential conflagration
reject as acceptable carouse
zing which resultant virtual wildfire,
would most likely lack adequate Whitehouse
funds to extinguish, this phrase

e'en thee spouse
would elicit, and expect
no readers to grouse
finding your truly making
bee line to dormouse
which doubles up (at least

for this poem) as cathouse
captivated by entertaining antics
of common house mouse
(Mus musculus), a rather mundane
alternative fur this louse,
yet I (Stuart Little)

attest tubby powerhouse
as one athletic creature
among mice and men
able to leap over tall blocks of cheese
in a single bound, ease
zee as...app pull pie by jeeves,

or prayerfully taking wing
yup...even within the uber jungle of Belize
ideally on heels of strong breeze
even on command staying stock still
if asked to freeze
for a selfie while juggling...please

do not distract, no...no..no...
without question do not dangle keys
and if shivering with cold
avoid knocking knees

so me and nest of pestiferous pals
can earn opportunity to earn fame
and fortune nothing to sneeze
at...at...at...chew, and
contract deadly disease.

— The End —