"lard" poems
Shrek is wreck
Wreck is deck
Deck is beck
Black rack
In the back
Of the knick-knack
Zipppity bow
How is how?
In the luau
I only eat lard
Poems are hard
cancer
May 12, 2015
May 12, 2015 at 8:55 AM UTC
An upright abutment in the mouth
of the Willis Avenue bridge
a beige Honda leaps the divider
like a steel gazelle inescapable
sleek leather boots on the pavement
rat-a-tat-tat best intentions
going down for the third time
stuck in the particular
You cannot make love to concrete
if you care about being
non-essential wrong or worn thin
if you fear ever becoming
diamonds or lard
you cannot make love to concrete
if you cannot pretend
concrete needs your loving
To make love to concrete
you need an indelible feather
white dresses before you are ten
a confirmation lace veil milk-large bones
and air raid drills in your nightmares
no stars till you go to the country
and one summer when you are twelve
Con Edison pulls the plug
on the street-corner moons Walpurgisnacht
and there are sudden new lights in the sky
stone chips that forget you need
to become a light rope a hammer
a repeatable bridge
garden-fresh broccoli two dozen dropped eggs
and a hint of you
caught up between my fingers
the lesson of a wooden beam
propped up on barrels
across a mined terrain
between forgiving too easily
and never giving at all.
8.7k
Call yourself a friend of mine,
Forcing me to “neck” beer and wine?
Lovingly mixed with ***** and gin,
And dash of ketchup added in,
Wasabi for that extra kick -
The whole thing just makes me sick!
It’s not fun or cool or clever,
But a study in peer pressure,
Present in the world we live in,
Where for a guy or girl to “give in”,
Is expected for their reputation.
But what kind of expectation,
Is encouraged sado-masochism?
A concept likely to cause a schism,
For those who didn’t use their head,
And unsurprisingly now are dead.
I am sure as you will surely see,
And the poet Dylan would agree,
That as long as you ignore
The deaths of one, two three and four
How many, many, many more,
Are needed til we scream and cry?
“We caused too many youths to die!”
And for what cause? Acceptance.
Whose loss is needed for our repentance?
It’s all well acting free and wild,
But each of us is someone’s child -
Whose loss would surely cause sadness,
Hurt and pain and grief and madness?
And stomaching death is much harder
Than soap or dirt or grease or lard or
Whatever miscellaneous things
This activity inevitably brings.
Just saying “no” might make you quiver
But trust me; it’s better for your liver -
And living x years sans hurt or maim
Is worth > than 15 minutes of fame.
So do the maths before you do it -
Or else I bet you’ll likely rue it!
Feb 6, 2014
Feb 6, 2014 at 10:34 AM UTC
the trouble lies
in your thighs
plump skin, of pink, apricot, nutmeg
fresh flesh fetched far
taught to knee, cuffed at ankle
red carpet to round hips
they ripple, as you stomp
as they should
you're a peach bottomed girl of pear tree house
she is a willow girl
her legs, they wind
country lanes that slim and thin
less lard, longer length
one music note to pink, apricot, nutmeg toes
pillars under sacred, upholding
the light twist of hips
is there the same problem
does it there lie
in that girl's thighs?
your thighs are equally moulded
pink, apricot, nutmeg
soft and plump and trembling, still
in mountains, or molehills
you're a peach bottomed girl of pear house
she is a willow tree girl of birch place
together, women
you have thighs
and neither of
those thighs
lies
Oct 16, 2015
Oct 16, 2015 at 10:13 AM UTC
Babe you are worse than late night ****
Sinful like fried chocolate cake
Ironic like chicken and waffles with a diet coke
Or using lard based dressing on a salad
You bad
Like menudo without lime
Like hot cheetos to my kidneys
My desire for you is like:
That nostalgia you feel like a lump in your chest
The first time you smoked ****
The first time you came
The first time you fell in love
I’m sad cuz you ain’t here
And glad you’re far away.
Jan 21, 2014
Jan 21, 2014 at 11:48 AM UTC
6% alcohol content
In the bathroom binge drinking
Again Beer,
Cigarettes have always been a vice and
Bourbon Blitzkrieg!
My friend once ****** on a statue
of The ****** Mary but
Blood is not suitable for children cause
Macaulay Culkin scares the living ****
outta me and I
Desperately want another kiss
from that baphomet I met in Brooklyn
SHADABOOM!
“English ************ do you speak it?!”
Marsellus’s soul was in that briefcase but
He don’t look like a ***** praying to
birthday cake, Praise the Lard!
Whiskey tastes sweeter with honey and
another night down, another **** in my mouth
In case of flame(er), beat him.
Off with the good book because
GodisdeadandsoamI
Jan 7, 2014
Jan 7, 2014 at 5:41 AM UTC
WHAT AM I DOING
rhyming is hard
just like rhubarb
pie
sly pie
why are you sly, pie?
the frog is on a log
with the hard rhubarb pie
I’M SO NOT DIGGING THIS
i kind of just want to fling
myself off a bridge
this is really hard
lard
there is NO POINT TO THIS “POEM”
NO WORDS RHYME WITH POEM
have you ever noticed how teenagers are SO ******* SAD
TEENAGERS ARE SO SAD
THEY ARE SO SAD
AND FOR WHAT
SAD BECAUSE YOU WERE CALLED A ****
ITS SO HARSH BUT ITS TRUE
PUSH YOUR BACK AGAINST THE WALL AND BE BLUE
IF YOU CHOOSE
nope not happening
down to the important stuff
trying your luck // the strokes
old yellow bricks // arctic monkeys
electric feel // mgmt
alone, together // the strokes
stray away // the colourist
games // the strokes
SLY PIE
rhubarb pie
Dec 2, 2014
Dec 2, 2014 at 12:10 PM UTC
I entered the display case
of people educators
subsidizing snobs
the multirich and companies
among tourists and inhabitants
who want to be seen
in the museum café and
with sophisticated pastry lard
the conversation with careless clauses
they quote from an authority
whom nobody has to understand
to get the intention
of the praised artists
The shop was crowded
Spotlights on show-pieces
fancy coffee table books
and chic presents
for the season and the next holidays
Especially the past
is on sale, postcards
of the attractions
and sights of the city
interchangeable
like the collections
which graduated stylists
cast in international moulds
to magnets for visitors
Nov 18, 2018
Nov 18, 2018 at 2:48 AM UTC
first the eyes, then the cheeks goes too;
**** Too much gloss, do it again!*
this pants seems to be a little tight;
Look at that fleshy lard filled stomach!
look down, you begin to see the said horror;
They steal you bit by bit, the voice ---
Static, from Magazines and Expectations.
you are getting confused, your thoughts and theirs
*No! that is too much for lunch--*
breakfast, snack, dinner, everything!
the words becomes ruthless and unrelenting
**** in that FAT stomach!**
Don't Rest! More! More Sit-ups! More Time!
your mind, your own, no more;
a personal torture chamber.
all the time -- Listen to Me.
Listen to The Static.
Dec 3, 2013
Dec 3, 2013 at 11:19 PM UTC
The hippos are boiled alive when the curious circus caught aflame.
Who is to blame? The drunkard clowns or the tightrope walkers and their ineffable fear of heights?
Maybe the ringmaster and all his lion taunting, crowd cheering, crowd antagonizing ways,
maybe he's to blame for releasing the bearded lady in a room full of kerosene and unseen wicker flames...
Or...just maybe, it was an accident and could not be prevented under the extraordinary circumstances
which took place on that fateful day where hippos became a poached soup of meat, teeth, and lard.
Apr 29, 2012
Apr 29, 2012 at 9:51 AM UTC
Cases of old records sat
Waiting for someone to buy
Along with mismatched tea cups
And plates as blue as sky
Vultures jumped at everything
Leaving cars running in park
Picking through the yard sale scraps
Like a raccoon in the dark
Bickering for savings
Saying a quarter is too much
I'll only pay a nickel
To buy a broken crutch
Ice skates, ball gloves, baseball hats
tossed and thrown around the yard
To watch these jackals fighting
Over a half pound piece of lard
It's amazing that one's treasures
Are reduced to blobs of crap
By bargain hunters set to pay
For unused Christmas wrap
They jostle and they tussle
To get close for a deal
They try to bundle things together
To them....it is a steal
You smile, take their money
Tell them thank you, as they shriek
Over deals they think that they have got
On stuff...they'll sell next week!!
May 26, 2013
May 26, 2013 at 10:03 PM UTC
Feeling crazier each day.
Schitzoid, Bulimic, anorexic of thinking.
Theories of being an egoist calm my nerves,
But a breakdown is sure to occur.
I am the hero, i own my own brain.
You can jail me. You can stone me, but I'll always be free.
I am not guilty you fat lard ****
cut off your man ****
Mar 27, 2013
Mar 27, 2013 at 1:57 PM UTC
(Sing along to tune of 'Strangers in the Night!"
TUMMIES IN THE NIGHT...
Tummies in the night, is this a romance,
Tummies in the night, what does enhance,
All our fat sharing love, would the air be blue?
Fatness in our thighs, was so enticing,
Fat double chins, were so exciting,
Fat around your guts, told me I must love you,
Tummies in the night,
Teletubbies ,we looked such a fright,
Two naked tubbies, we were tummies in the night,
up to the moment, when we ate our first jello,
Did our fatness grow,
Fat was just a dance away, a fat embracing lard away,
and ever since that night, we've been fat together,
Tummies at first sight, in fat forever,
It turned out so fat, for tummies in the night!!!!
Oct 1, 2016
Oct 1, 2016 at 10:30 PM UTC
rhythms en trance
***** princess dance
come **** me cruel
eat me like ants
wont you hurt me sir
out comes the dagger
her eyes get so large
she wants me to bag her
she knows im in charge
wont you rip me sir
foot arched **** puffed
where are the whips
she moves like fire
and slink-ally strips
my ******* bleed love sir
howls like the wind
for **** and the blade
begs for it now
***** **** in the shade
the knife between my legs sir
*** shakes and prance
to the congas beat
eyes flirt wild
as she whips her own feet
won't you cut my toes sir
***** *** aches
whirling dervish
break me my love
as she dances the curvish
use my mouth sir
her ankles clamped
legs spread wide
arms pulled back
theres no where to hide
smother me sir
head *****
gut ***** spleen
eat it all
devour the queen
my belly is yours sir
she looks in my eyes
says thank you for my fate
spreads her legs wide
i take the bate
disembowel me sir
oh lover bleed
im up deep inside
i work you down
and cruel is the ride
my ****** sir
she cries and writhes
and she **** so hard
she wants to burn
and is slathered with lard
my rose **** sir
i break her in half
and lick up her ***
she cries and she squeals
as she starts to pass
pluck my eyes sir
i crush my love
to finish her off
she begs for more
and starts to cough
take my ******* sir
face to the the floor
the music turned down
baby death dance
in water to drown
remove my head sir
I did the dance
i love to be slain
stretched flat by a roller
i loved the pain
dinner is served sir
thank you sir
may i **** you **** sir
drink your **** sir
lick the toilet clean sir
you've crushed me to nothing sir
beaten me dead sir
****** me a thousand times sir
is there anything else sir
yes sir
thank you sir
what ever you say sir
your so good to me sir
ill be right back from the dead sir
i love you sir
Jun 29, 2016
Jun 29, 2016 at 6:03 AM UTC
I'm done it's over
No more no less
I'm done with this touture, distress
Stomach so nauseous
My mind so vicious
I can't do much more
It really won't be long before
I'm out that door
Or is that a metaphor
I really dont care anymore
My life's a *****
Lending my heart
My life my part
And nothing but pain
Nothing remains
My core is all gone
No strength to take on
This world
My head spins it's twirled
I'm weak a dieing clover
I'm done its over
Inside me was beleif
But was destroyed my mischief
I'm all gone from this life
Would I take it with a knife
To my throat
Maybe if I drowned I might float
Who cares anymore
I'm down on the floor
No more helping hands
All I can see is empty lands
Hurt so hard
A fat piece of lard
A waste of space
A complete disgrace
To the whole human race
Time to find a new place
Who am I, what am I
A monster meant to die?
So hurt inside
I tried to hide
But is death the key
Maybe then I can be free
May 28, 2014
May 28, 2014 at 11:39 PM UTC
It's September; cold in the copses,
Feverish in the kitchen.
The sink clinks and exorcises
The china like an Italian sonata.
My lips merge into ether
At the sky, a periwinkle parallax
With the pork lard carbon monoxide
Clouds, at drive with suicide.
My Buddha hisses at the window,
Ripping the tentacles off weedy carrots.
The knives are clever & precise
Hiding in their handled shoals
Like luminescent Jackanapes
Out for the thrill of the ****
The **** of the stake of steak,
A 'Cow'ardly act.
I wrap the red & dead
Into a Beef Wellington.
It is not pretty at all;
But neither am I.
I'll drink tea to keep my peace,
Swallow my spirituality like a pain killer.
The teabag sags its straggled string,
Scolding me.
The pillbox is dead on the edge
Of the ornamented kitchen sill
A lot like me; sullen and teasing.
I wanted to roast my head like a potato
If the pudding *** over boiled,
A cauldron of sugar and cream
Fattening me ugly and crazy.
The weather is miserable; I mustn't lie,
It's enough to make any young woman want to die.
Stirring my thoughts with the dishes,
Trashing potato peels like my wishes.
And the stacks and stacks of kill-me pills
Surround like troops in their barricade cupboards.
I have no allies,
Everyone is asleep;
I curl up like a fat snail and weep
Blackening the words of the miracle-working Priest.
Feb 3, 2014
Feb 3, 2014 at 8:56 PM UTC
Nostalgic hypochondriac,
psychopathic goddess--we pray to your weekends.
Sunday night industries hold lunch breaks,
starting with a red bear,
a crude blue-eyed, red bear
by the hands of a child.
Soft steps. Physical form.
Its eyes suddenly gleam
as it moves,
red colors run
forming waving arms that swim into river canals.
Dripping rain forming acid that eats away at the sides of the darkroom. Winding staircase
trees rooted and spiraled like broken porcupine barbs existing off the wall. Each leaf made
of copper, tips of yellow
floating just as drops from the beginning,
expanding to the form
of hot air balloons.
Some of them supernova'd
--momentarily spreading themselves thin
--layers of butter coating this world.
each puddle of lard echoes with the voice
and memory of silver-eyed Alice
and her children.
Irises of cut granite,
wine-stained pupils,
she breaths like Jesus on the cross
--inhales of his bear pelt.
Mar 5, 2013
Mar 5, 2013 at 2:38 PM UTC
Mrs Merkel, fair and sturdy
Dour and doughty
High and mighty
Saviour of the sinking Euro
Female icon, Teuton hero
Stand up for our rights!.
Daughter of the old Republic
Proud and plumptious
Rarely bumptious
Quantum spousal and mechanics
Scourge of Grecian's and Hispanics
Onward from Berlin!
Lean upon the sturdy lectern
Softly spoken
Never broken
Deliver to the gathered masses
Words of warning and molasses
Deliver us from evil!
Target of the shocking Silvio
Chauvinistic
Almost mystic
While all things must come to pass
She's most certainly not a *******
Gott mit Uns!
Nov 4, 2012
Nov 4, 2012 at 1:16 AM UTC
THE FINE cloth of your love might be a fabric of Egypt,
Something Sinbad, the sailor, took away from robbers,
Something a traveler with plenty of money might pick up
And bring home and stick on the walls and say:
"There's a little thing made a hit with me
When I was in Cairo-I think I must see Cairo again some day."
So there are cornice manufacturers, chewing gum kings,
Young Napoleons who corner eggs or corner cheese,
Phenoms looking for more worlds to corner,
And still other phenoms who lard themselves in
And make a killing in steel, copper, permanganese,
And they say to random friends in for a call:
"Have you had a look at my wife? Here she is.
Haven't I got her dolled up for fair?"
O-ee! the fine cloth of your love might be a fabric of Egypt.
1.6k
You park your lard *** **** on the skin of a cow and call it your new leather settee,
strap your feet into hide worked boots and stride across the Earth, all at the height of fabulous fashion.
Slap another slab of flesh on the barbecue and call it steak
(rare please) right next to the rack of ribs sizzling,
another brimming mooing cattle truck pulls into the abattoir,
and they say all the farts,of all the cattle, we keep eating, is destroying the climate all by themselves, but you wont find that information on the menu in a fast food shop serving burgers by the millions, or the main discussion at a barbecue, because lets face it, the meat in front of your nose has done all its farting, and its far too late to help save the World by some form of self-denial.
May 22, 2016
May 22, 2016 at 2:11 PM UTC
I'll stain my wrist cherry red,
I'll hang myself with angel hair [1]
I'll jump off a choco cliff
And smell bacon in the air.
Drown myself in sea of grease;
In lard or melted butter
Get lost in a Balck Forest,
Eat fondant rocks for dinner.
Stick Butterfinger down my throat
Until I can no longer breathe
Peel off my caramel skin
And run through a pile of wheat.
I'll fly my way to Sweetzerland
And then I will jump off the plane;
Railroad trip with Willie Wonka
Then get myself crushed by a train.
I'll put the gun on my temples,
Pull the trigger, out the whip cream
Roll on hot coal with Tootsie [2]
Up in the skies you'll see our steam.
I'll grate my fingers just like cheese
And dice my arms like tomatoes;
Chop the onions, hold your tears
Mash my head like potatoes.
I'd stuff myself just like turkey
A big, fat one on Thanksgiving
I'd eat to death ruthlessly
So full that I'll be choking.
Fillet myself, eat my own meat
Or not, 'cause that would be so gross
I'll poison myself instead
A drop on my wine - let's toast!
I'd overdoze on sedatives
Each pill the size of Jellybeans
Or cross the road with closed eyes
Or live in a garbage bin.
Get under attacked by hornets
As I steal their precious honey
Huge marshmallows in my mouth
Die playing Chubby Bunny.
Ride a ship on a raging sea
Of milk or strawberry smoothie
And I'll let my boat be wrecked
Then feed a whale with cookie.
Get free popcorn with your ticket
As you watch me die, sit back
Don't stand 'til it is over,
Enjoy the show and relax.
This is what you always wanted -
See me lying on my coffin
I'll make you watch in total dread
As I **** myself with muffins.
And when I die, donut tell her -
My sweetest darling - Baby Ruth
She might slap you out of shock,
You might lose not just one tooth.
From the grave, I'll send you Kisses
My dear old Cad, bury me [3]
Give this body a Reese's [4]
From food that is it's enemy.
I have here a cake for you
Open your mouth, gently chew,
Close your eyes and hold your breath,
Savor now the taste of death.
Feb 1, 2014
Feb 1, 2014 at 2:32 AM UTC
* dedicated to Rene Magritte *
An image of my grandmother
her head appearing upside-down upon a cloud
the cloud transfixed on the steeple
of a deserted railway-station
far away
An image of an aqueduct
with a dead crow hanging from the first arch
a modern-style chair from the second
a fir-tree lodged in the third
and the whole scene sprinkled with snow
An image of a piano-tuner
with a basket of prawns on his shoulder
and a firescreen under his arm
his moustache made of clay-clotted twigs
and his cheeks daubed with wine
An image of an aeroplane
the propellor is rashers of bacon
the wings are of reinforced lard
the tail is made of paper-clips
the pilot is a wasp
An image of the painter
with his left hand in a bucket
and his right hand stroking a cat
as he lies in bed
with a stone beneath his head
And all these images
and many others
are arranged like waxworks
in model bird-cages
about six inches high.
Apr 27, 2010
Apr 27, 2010 at 9:19 PM UTC
Your eyes cataracts - fogged over, with a hint of blue
Still you saw more than most anyone I've known
I thought you a sorcerer, a mystic man
with lightening speeds you spun tales in thunder clapping rooms
A modern day chief, good will ambassador of Hope
you were the glue of an entire village,
sticking your heart on everyone like that
The Discovery Cafe, your story telling room, disguised as a restaurant,
a place you opened years ago
Many came hungry only for your stories
One could not easily eat and run or have a cup of joe and go, just not possible
when Tito had the floor
Tales of fishing, gold panning, black and brown bears, one with his head stuck in a lard bucket,
or the one that chased some lady up a tree.
The way your hands moved, while you went into a trance was a sight to behold
Though you never confessed it, I'm pretty sure you were a hypnotist
How many times I went for coffee at 9AM never leaving til' noon,
completely bowled over, ****** in by the fantastic rip tide of you!
I saw you just months before you passed
Though you had gone deaf and blind, your love was ever present, it's been felt everyday since,
in a world that has changed a darker shade of blue,
Tito how can I ever thank you?
Jul 23, 2012
Jul 23, 2012 at 12:00 PM UTC