"marzipan" poems
Listerine fountains are falling,
breaking through the roof,
shingles like helicopter blades,
scratching up my face.
Your mouth is making violent motions
and I can see mirages between your teeth.
It took me a long time to master,
but I can't here the news on repeat;
I don't want to anymore.
I don't know what you thought
mismatched socks would accomplish,
but those mixed with an heated face
sorta make my scull feel like
marzipan.
5, 4, 3, frozen in the moment,
right before a scream.
2, my iPod crumbles in hand,
just like the game I always lose.
1...one, one, one...
I blocked that out too.
Jan 29, 2015
Jan 29, 2015 at 9:32 PM UTC
*I unload your god in that laissez-faire way
where the bandages mend and have no need to be placed,
formidably, regret to admit the moonshine in my hair
looking Gothic, but beautiful:
sober the men’s breath as it falls, falls, falls
not more mild than a snowstorm in its final lapse.
Sat there to be dreamt. He put his hand to his beard,
and I would have kissed if had I believed
that he was not merely trying to haunt my body,
the hair I kneaded into air.
It flowers, and flowing these marzipan sands
where God lays man next to his wife,
she bears the peaches: juicy, ripened, but not to eat
expecting us to swallow ourselves in turn, spin the bottle.
I could not care less for the braces in his lips –
or their fur, but gums beneath like peaches.
**** it out until the pulps mirror,
you have the skin of a four fruit, or an eighty,
flames high as kites. But suffering for each flicker-knob
and dating a girl who smokes cigarettes in bed,
I know he could not support that, your god.
Morning comes with a glare, now eating her hair
the involvement of some odd raconteurs. I beat them
and they beat my ******* for their heat –
God is a cabin boy with genitals in his palms,
said he would love the women as long as they are gone;
if he does not see me, the flames, I cannot exist
not more than falling falling falling hair.*
Nov 6, 2012
Nov 6, 2012 at 11:07 AM UTC
"You tempt in me…so much…
a sparrow...a lamb… a tenderness… and the captive heart… that beats against my palm…
the bonds…. of trust.. surrendered"
to the silver nepenthe of your voice,
stricken upon the thick red heart
I've pinned to a map,
See, it emits grace
beneath the molten glass,
strung through harp strings and stretched
as sutures ,the solemn musculature of ecstasy
bound in golden ropes and belladonna dreams,
Let the white darts fall
where they may
This silence belies the song
in my throat, hovering
like a silver bauble, your face
is dark, back-lit, harbouring
the terror of words that burn...
My heart
holds the cinder of secrets,
and little poison idols of hematite
and gooseflesh...
Our dream box collects its damp light
from the dark corners of our prison,
as you coax a banyan tree
from its arousal...
A totem filled with marzipan,
and trembling, but to split
its lip upon glass cages,
wrought with jade...
Hold the sparrow face-up,
let the furrow of its wings, tempt
the fates, as it sings to the same scythe
that chimes against the dead angles of the soul's crucified geography....
Jan 20, 2013
Jan 20, 2013 at 12:28 PM UTC
Those silver ***** were my favourite
Placed sequentially on piped scrolls
Round the circumference, sparkling;
With Robin and Snowman greetings.
Tied, two inch wide, red satin ribbon
Around decorated cake on silver base
Marzipan and apricot coating under a
Stage of shimmer hardened royal ice.
Love Mary xxxx
Dec 7, 2018
Dec 7, 2018 at 7:38 AM UTC
_You ask of which I am most afeart, the rumbling tumblings of the troll beneath the bridge or the tinkering favours of an eccentric fairy godmother. Alas, it is the marzipan crumbs of inspiration leading me down the brambled garden path which most unsettle me; the ink that does not write; the unpainted page with not a gingerbread house...in sight._
Sep 5, 2020
Sep 5, 2020 at 3:33 AM UTC
Meritoral fingers
Priceless faces
Like 'marzipan' food
Reminisce joy that caused vent
All mouths equivocated threat
Lad and lass groan
Like bouts era
~~Adam u
Garko~~~
Apr 15, 2017
Apr 15, 2017 at 3:10 AM UTC
Like a small bird
gathering bright objects for her nest,
I am gathering life.
Hands which reached out to me lead me on,
so I left at their bidding
for an ocean in the East.
Traveling through the night
as if lost in a waking dream,
I came at last to her proximity
and slept in an unknown room.
In the morning light,
beyond the highways,
I suddenly saw her, all April morning
blue and still.
Ocean water bathed my feet,
rinsed the crystal beads and pearls
I had worn to greet her.
Deep in the woods now, I see temples everywhere.
In the woodland light, some churches are.
Pagodas of bark and moss in the filtered light,
Ice caverns blue and still begin to melt
beside the waterfall that thunders down,
breathing mist in our faces, garlanding itself
in rainbow light.
In the small city airport
I am folded into the arms of my mother-of-pearl.
Salt water flows easily from my eyes -
like the sweet nectar filling my mouth.
"E facile per le farfalle di volare, sai."
I walk out into the grey-wet airfield,
screaming sounds of engines.
Walking forward, I close my eyes,
and the world is only light.
Now, I have come back to you,
with marzipan, and peacock feathers,
and stories of my adventures.
The light blazes, and the stars
send down their song.
The Universe is singing.
Aug 17, 2015
Aug 17, 2015 at 10:05 PM UTC
I had always wanted to buy Martha Marzipan
and to see her encased Vermilion diary
so she could heal beneath.
But she only succeeded
in filling her emptiness
with joyful Psalm songs
at a daffodil festival
I always had envisaged lying with her
in fields of oxeye daises
under the cerulean blue of an early summer sky.
My seeming wishes were granted,
until she proceeded to purloin such paradise
by cutting her hair
and daubing ash on her wrist.
For she had previously lit a candle
for her years made wise,
believing only women suffered pain
and I now realised, no one could buy her.
May 5, 2012
May 5, 2012 at 2:16 PM UTC
Avast yer hearty where's the party
where be the festive cheer
no Yule tide log nor mug of grog
to toast this time of year
Shiver me mate an empty plate
where is the fine roast bird
with golden veg around the edge
and gravy thickly stirred
Where be the cake for Davies sake
packed full of fruit and nuts
and marzipan with icing grand
to stuff this pirates guts
No double cream is this a dream
and figgy pudding... None
no sausage rolls or sweet filled bowls
where as your spirit gone
It's times like this I really miss
the indies and the tropics
let's go the pub I'm sure they've grub
and *** from clear optics
We'll make this night happy and bright
we'll share our love with friends
and toast for peace and wars to cease
and suffering to end
Let's do our parts open our hearts
let's share with folks our smile
and day by day in our own way
be happy for awhile
Dec 21, 2012
Dec 21, 2012 at 8:16 AM UTC
I paid for the two coffees and brought
them back to the table, swear they
chinkled in my hands like the music
in my teeth jouncing around when I
see you. You wrote letters in your
bright notebook and as I sipped you
asked me to discover them. High task.
Could barely read your cursive boughs
and sinewy slippery esses, slip slip
sliding off the page as you smiled
with a pixieish shrug—see, can’t do it.
But I sipped a little more deliberately,
slitted my eyes back to you, wrote
you some mischief on a napkin and
you laughed. It was buoyant and I
floated for a second above the wooden
bench, sustained by other voices like
cushions of marzipan I could dip in
your coffee and you would love it.
And back then you were really in
front of me, I should have limned your
lines and ridges onto your notebook,
just to show you. Should have taken
out my camera in a way you wouldn’t
have seen and taken a picture of those
eyes, the way you looked right there,
right then. Maybe you’d have seen
mine being created then—suddenly
rushing, flushing blood to a created
thing, made out of thin air, substantive.
Seen how you gave me my flesh, how
you made me an unknown drinker of
all life’s subtle blessings, peacefully,
even while within the mist of its
peaceless ecstasy and fury.
Mar 27, 2012
Mar 27, 2012 at 7:14 PM UTC
You tasted marzipan on her lips
but you wanted the steadfast of Marchepan,
a fuller denser taste
already the deceit ran through your veins.
The Night keepers have moments
with their concubines,
and there lay the rub.
Your betrothed only smiled
in half uncertainty.
The Grapes you feasted on
swelled your eyes,
receding hopes
chasten powers,
having played with grief
to shore some unrequited resentment
you withdrew.
The beast of envy has scorned sanity
to improve his venture.
Dec 31, 2012
Dec 31, 2012 at 3:33 PM UTC
*eating breakfast in a long time,
half a teaspoon of sugar,
coffee black, three marzipan
nuggets coated in chocolate,
two cigarettes...*
and wondering where did the time
go since silverchair
released their debut frogstomp (1995),
or what happened to the offspring
after americana (the song *pay the
man* still wasn't a commercial song),
or the sudden thrill of red hot chilli
pepper's reunion with john and
californication, deftone's white pony,
or when buying the mortal kombat
soundtrack, and someone nice enough
at our price putting a different c.d.,
not the score, but the soundtrack
with actual songs: type o negative
(subsequently ****** kisses),
monster magnet, k.m.f.d.m., and beside,
days with cassettes (m.o.d.'s mr. oofus
ha ha) - and gigs, tool in glasgow
with that awesome german girl
who i gave water to in exchange for a kiss,
wolfmother in edinburgh, a few gigs
in london (papa roach, disturbed,
type o negative, iron maiden, the offspring,
american head charge, rammstein,
slipknot, korn, red hot chilli peppers -
when that arena at canary wharf was still open)...
but then there was verdi's la traviata in st. petersburg,
and aerosmith in hyde park, and boy
did depeche mode rock hyde park too...
i mean, most these influences came from
my uncle, but i can't give him credit
for king crimson, jethro tull and other
prog bands (early genesis, for example)...
or the jazz...
but it's just annoying to not have seen
the holy wood tour by m.m.,
or not seeing slayer when jeff hanneman
was still alive - after all i pledged the
tribulation of growing long hair in school
to him, one day, looking at the band's poster,
i was 15 then and became known as chewbacca
for a while.
Mar 10, 2016
Mar 10, 2016 at 5:36 AM UTC
**Let me sprinkle fairy dust
upon the thoughts you keep**
iside your head
Let me hold the magic
Bells wake me
from a dream so real
Let me roll marzipan between my fingers
And cherish the special moments we share
Remember when we thouught
The world was beautiful
When tears were only for happiness
When was that I wonder?
I know not how to capture
This feeling
I would bottle it
And keep it forever
Hold my hand
*I wish to share
With all of creation*
Be not scared
I am here to empower you
Not distroy all you have
Your pain is yours
Keep it
But wrap it in love and move freely
Within the darkness
A light has been offered
Will you distroy
The friend you created
You asked and it was given
You recieve and distroy
**Fairy dust finds it hard to create
When you don't believe in me**
I will sit awhile over looking
The time you spend wishing
Then you will once again pack me away
In the box next to the tree
Will you see me again next year?
Will you wish the same wish
*The magic is there
Feel free to banish me*
Feel free to sprinkle fairy dust on all that you see
Dec 12, 2010
Dec 12, 2010 at 7:24 AM UTC
Didn’t know,
there were so,
many people our there,
I thank you,
you’re welcome,
now we can drink,
incredibly perfect,
choice present,
5D HDTV
actions with intent,
hello,
it’s the man in the mirror again,
what does it mean does it mean anything,
just relax take a seat have a drink,
try some marzipan or better yet try again,
but wait what about marscopone,
catching the time watching it go by on the mirror clock,
“Are you okay,
you look a little tired.”,
“yeah I’m fine.”,
I reply,
never wanted to **** a man,
even if he had it coming,
and he did,
bring out the dogs and get the cats to quit complaining,
it’s raining cats and dogs,
open the box don’t wake up on your death bed with regrets,
I’ve killed men in service of my country,
God bless the USA stars and stripes promises and threats,
and I’d say there’s a conspiracy,
at least that’s my guess,
and I almost know what I’m doing here,
but I don’t quite know yet,
didn’t know,
there were so,
many people our there,
I thank you,
you’re welcome,
now we can drink…
∆ LaLux ∆
Apr 3, 2019
Apr 3, 2019 at 8:33 PM UTC
the morning had no coffee. just had 98 degrees by 10 am
and a barn on the lean in the distance.
where time never cuts the grass and nothing happens.
dirt roads pray for death or slow traffic. and clouds like smoke
from a bellicose pipe… on the lips of a medicine man
who became a woman when a cloud called him “ medicine man “
while the peyote was barking without dogs, was unleashed
to prairie in the marsh where the bogs agog
with summer candy in its peat moss.
no dowsing rod to spare a child the ridicule of finding god’s pond
with a stick obeying a cop.
the morning had no mirrors. just broken glass and aspartame
and very minor miracles. no part of a red sea. only dust mites
and last night’s ***** the trucks won’t stop complaining
about the radio. because you have no radio.
and when you sing on those long trips to the corner store…
your truck is like “ what the **** “
and “ this guy must hate trucks….” and all sundry regalia of suffering
from a hole in the muffler and a tone-deaf pilgrim
on half a tank of sunshine and vermouth.
with a dent
in a twist.
Jul 12, 2018
Jul 12, 2018 at 5:36 PM UTC
Marzipan from orifices tastes like ***
Gross.
Fin.
Like a dolphin.
Apr 4, 2015
Apr 4, 2015 at 2:38 AM UTC
A rabbit taps my foot
with his paw as white as snow
He has a smile on his little face
and soon it will be Easter.
A can smell the aroma of chocolate
Melting in the midday sun
A hunt for eggs appears to be under way
and soon it will be Easter.
The fragrance rich spice lingers
Orange peel, raisins and vanilla.
Jelly beans of all flavours are promised
and soon it will be Easter.
Little yellow fluffy things with wings
crack their way clear with a sharp beak.
Lambs spring into action on cue
and soon it will be Easter.
The baker up to his elbows in yeast
Hot Cross Buns and Simnel cake are made
Marzipan, golden sweet adorn the top
and soon it will be Easter.
There is a green hill far away
is etched upon the good shelves of my mind
and the Beatles singing "I wanna hold your hand"
and soon it will be Easter.
Chocolate eggs, good spirits, kindness and love
Learn to love not hate, give not take
Put your hands around those you adore
Keep them there, this Easter show you care.
Mar 26, 2015
Mar 26, 2015 at 10:13 PM UTC
I had a daydream that your lips tasted like marzipan,
Sweet and rich like almond, sugar,
After the thought I had to take a sip of water to cool myself down,
But then I thought,
Perhaps not marzipan,
Maybe more peppermint,
Sweet and hot,
Like taking a ball of fire into your mouth,
But somehow at once hot and ice cold,
And I have imagined you smell earthy, intense,
Like cedar or pine trees,
Like you have a forest under your skin.
Jul 30, 2019
Jul 30, 2019 at 8:24 PM UTC
Meritoral fingers
Priceless faces
Like 'marzipan' food
Reminisce joy that caused vent
All mouths equivocated threat
Lad and lass groan
Like bouts era
~~Adam u
Garko~~~
Apr 15, 2017
Apr 15, 2017 at 3:07 AM UTC
With lips that challenge the
reddest of wines
she drank from the cup that was offered, without question
it was sweet. Sickly sweet and dark
dark sugar, the colour of ***
drips from her mouth,
she wipes off the evidence with a snide smile,
a knowing scorn. Almonds
ground up and mixed into marzipan
covering cakes, full of plump fruits soaked in brandy
take a slice. You have your cake now
eat it.
Mar 26, 2016
Mar 26, 2016 at 12:25 PM UTC