"mcdonald" poems
Nan,
I wrote this poem for you to keep
As you lie peacefully asleep
To share the stories you once told
Sat in your chair growing peacefully old
I will always remember those days
When I sat up to the table studying the maze
Of thousands of puzzle pieces in my gaze
However I was never fazed
Because you were always there to guide the way.
I will always remember your trips out and about
Although never adventurous I felt,
McDonald's and M&s; without doubt,
Were you favourite places to walkabout
I will always remember your creative flare,
Your knitting needles and you cross-stitch squares,
how you could sit and chat, yet knit with care
Always seemed so unfair
But most of all, I wrote this poem to say thankyou
Not just from me but from all the family too
For the wisdom and knowledge you once shared
For showing you loved us and that you cared
I wrote this poem to say goodbye
As you watch us from up high
I remember all the fun times we had
As my friend and as my Nan
And I miss you more than words can say
I hope we can meet again someday
Dec 1, 2014
Dec 1, 2014 at 5:37 PM UTC
Sometimes, I wish I hadn’t just been the backseat of your car,
Intoxicated. My first drunk hook up. My first. Period.
I picture myself being champagne on Valentine’s Day.
I picture myself being you, nervous in the car, holding Starbucks
because you know I love coffee. Sometimes, I picture myself as her,
calling you a stalker and ignoring your calls,
but then I see myself. I call you beautiful,
turn you into poetry, laugh at your bad jokes,
I see myself as I become your drunk Wednesday night
when you’re sad. I see myself as I say no,
I become a “this is not a good idea”
and you a “we’ll deal with the consequences in the morning.”
We laugh because this hurts too much.
You take her out for dinner and I burrow money
for Plan B because you forgot you don’t like condoms
and clearly have no idea how children are made.
I have already named him. He has your curls and
my anxiety. He is smart. Except, I never wanted kids and
you would be a great father. Instead, you tell her
the beach reminds you of her and I cry in a McDonald’s
bathroom with my friend as relief floods through me that
the test comes negative. I stop talking to you,
move forward, meet someone new and before long
see myself becoming you. Because isn’t that the cycle?
Bad men turn good women into bad women who turn
good men into bad men. I’ll set him free so he can hurt
someone like me, and I drink red wine as I read her
poems about him and me.
Feb 27, 2018
Feb 27, 2018 at 3:59 AM UTC
I know it's just been a week
But I'm already beginning to miss you
And I'm not the only one
You do make an impact
On anyone who has been lucky enough
To get to know you
Whether it be family or friends
Or maybe even total strangers!
Anyway, we've had some great times together
I shall never forget our trip to the UK
And the fun we had there
Especially the Wimbledon camping experience
Would you have believed me then
If I had told you
That you would end up returning there to study
In a matter of three years?
Mysterious indeed, are the ways
In which Fate works
Our trip to USA was equally memorable
Who will ever forget that iconic moment
When you identified a McDonald's cafe from the plane?
Nothing, absolutely nothing ever
Escapes those beady eyes of yours
This is one of the many things I love about you
We may not spend a lot of time talking to each other
But you understand me very well
Perhaps more than I understand myself
And I know that I can always count on you
Anyway, I am getting too sentimental
Have a good time out there
I'm sure you'll find new friends
In fact, as I write this
You seem to be making progress on that front already
Try to balance studies and housework as much as you can
And most importantly
Take care of yourself
Whatever problems you might face
Know that you're not alone
We have your back always, no matter what
It is your happiness
Rather than what course you do
Or what job you may find
That matters to us the most
So, on that note
Let me wish you all the very best
Take care and stay in touch
Miss you loads
Sep 25, 2022
Sep 25, 2022 at 12:32 PM UTC
A long, long time ago, I can still remember when,
Junk food made me smile,
And I knew if had my chance,
That I could make my fatness dance,
And maybe I was happy for a while.
But McDonald's made me shiver,
With every burger they'd deliver,
Bad news on their doorstep,
I couldn't take one more step.
I can't remember if I cried,
When I passed size twenty-five,
But something touched me deep inside,
The day I knocked back obesity fries,
CHORUS.
So, bye, bye McDonald's French fries,
Drove my chevy away from McDonald's,
didn't have a bevy,
I said goodbye to whiskey and rye,
Singing no more apple pies,
That's the end of obesity fries.....
Did you go to McDonald's biomes?
Did you know you're changing your genomes?
Eating all those pesticides?
Now do believe they love you, guys?
Might as well eat dead flies!
And can you change evolution in real time?
Well, I know you're addicted to them,
You'll need more than treadmills in the gym,
Now can't even put on your shoes,
Man, you'll dig the obesity blues,
CHORUS.
I was an obese teenage bronco buck.
Driving to McDonald's in a pickup truck,
But I knew I was out of luck,
The day I ate landfill in those French fries...
I started singing bye, bye obesity fries,
Drove my chevy, had no bevies,
And the burgers were dry,
This is the day I knock back French fries.
CHORUS.
I met a girl who sang the blues,
She'd passed turning size twenty-two,
I asked her if she ate junk food too,
She just smiled and drove away,
I drove down to the store no more,
Where I ate additives years before,
But the junk food store didn't care anyway...
CHORUS
CHORUS....
Nov 27, 2015
Nov 27, 2015 at 4:56 PM UTC
Manila,
Manila,
Your bustling streets vibrate with the rumbling of the jeepneys
and the hollers of the drivers as they say,
“Pasahero diyan, kasya pa, kasya pa!”; (Any passenger there, some seats are still free!)
Your nights twinkle with the Christmas lights
that surround every tree around the Meralco building
when September begins;
Your endless traffic jams keep McDonald’s and KFC alive
twenty-four by seven
where traffic enforcers dodge cars
and vans
trucks and tricycles
and jeepneys and bicycles
while dancing to the rhythm beating in their own ears
with a smile and a salute to all the drivers
from dawn to dusk;
The noise awakens the outskirts of your city
filled with people who never fails to smile
even when the storm pirouettes like a tempestuous ballerina,
where children watch the roads
transform into this ocean of black water
and small wooden boats become the means of transportation;
paddling in between houses
as the adults try to go to work;
where chickens waddling upon roofs
and cats chasing rats
become the best forms of entertainment
but Manila,
your lingering smell of cancer
comes with the dark blue starless sky
telling people to grip their bags until it merges with their bodies.
Manila, say good night
while they hold it tight
protecting it from the dark humid air
where thieves come out to
thumb down unscrutinised objects
from shallow pockets
by the flickering lamps
across the blazing red and emerald green lights
you see less
and less
and less
faces
as the Sun sinks and says good bye.
Stop
and try to tranquilise yourself.
Your city is now lead
by a blood-thirsty leader.
Apologies from gunshots overpower the cries of help from your people.
Manila,
ignore them
and sleep well.
Let the truth decay
while lives burn and vanish.
Prayers cannot save your mutinous ignominy.
Halcyon days are over
but
Manila,
you are still a beautiful city.
Your resilient people
overflows with hospitable hearts.
Their faces plastered with big smiles
as they welcome us for you
and say, “Mabuhay!” (Long live!)
proud and mighty.
Offering their minds on banana leaf plates to everyone who visits,
Giving away their hearts in small loot bags to everyone who leaves,
The Pearl of the Orient Seas
was my hood.
Manila,
despite your lack of snow
and intense weather swings,
You are
and will always be
my home.
Apr 7, 2017
Apr 7, 2017 at 4:54 PM UTC
Fat people have no heads.
They end at the shoulders,
they are clipped off at the neck.
Never talk to fat people.
You may talk to an expert,
to a dietitian or a doctor
but never to a real live fat person
because fat people have no heads.
Use the word Epidemic
at least once, especially
if children are involved.
Children are always involved,
so use the word Epidemic
at least once. Fat children
still have heads, usually;
only fat adults must be
d e c a p i t a t e d.
Because he still has his head
you may talk to a fat child,
especially if you offer him
a box of chicken nuggets.
Entice him to say Alarming Things
with a box of chicken nuggets.
After the word Epidemic
segue from concerned anchorwoman
to stock footage of fat headless girl
browsing the racks at J.C. Penny’s.
Segue to fat headless mom
walking with her fat headless son
on a sidewalk populated by
fat headless pedestrians.
Voice-over Alarming Things
about fat headless people
not getting enough exercise
and segue to fat headless man
stuffing his fingers into a box
of McDonald’s french fries.
Fat people eat only McDonald’s
french fries and we will be right
back with more on this story
after a word from our sponsors.
Cue McDonald’s theme song.
Pretty people Golden Arches
laughing with their heads
as they eat McDonald’s french fries
with their heads
and never gain a pound.
Jan 6, 2012
Jan 6, 2012 at 5:58 PM UTC
Kailangan ko lang ilabas kasi nakita ko tong picture sa Facebook. Inaamin ko madalas sumasayad sa isip ko to. Sino ba naman ang hindi maiisip to kung marealize mo kung gaano ka kahelpless at powerless na baguhin ang paligid mo. Sino ba naman ang hindi makakaisip na baka may mas magandang lugar para sa ating lahat na kung saan masaya tayo. Yung feeling of guilt kung bakit ako nasa loob ng kotse, naka-aircon tapos may batang kakatok sa bintana mo at siya ay walang makain, tapos pag inabutan mo magsasabi padin ng "Thank you po.", sabay bibili ng sundae sa Mcdonald's. Tangina lang diba, kasi bata lang din sila at gusto nila maenjoy ang buhay. Tapos, magmaneho ka lang sa Quezon ave, may kakatok sa bintana mo humihingi pagkain or limos. Tingin ka sa Quiapo may mga matatandang nanlilimos, tapos, masayang masaya pagka binigyan mo ng pagkain, nakakaputangina. Nung nag Davao kami, yung mga nagbebenta ng perlas dun alam **** isang kahig isang tuka ang buhay nila, isang tingin mo lang alam **** sobrang hirap ng buhay. Nakakagago pala talaga ang pakiramdam ng pribelehiyo no? Kasi andun ka lang para mag lamyerda at gumastos ng madaming pera. Yung feeling na nagiinstagram ako ng walang kakwenta-kwentang bagay tapos may namamatay sa gutom sa ibang lugar, may naaabusong ofw sa middle east, yung mga nasa Mindanao napapagitnaan ng gulo. Yung nakikita **** sales lady sa SM na alam **** todo kayod para kumita ng pera sa Maynila pero tangina hindi nabibigyan ng tamang benepisyo at kontraktwal padin. Ang swerte ko. Ang sarap ng buhay ko. Sa sobrang sarap, napakaunfair na at nakakagago na dahil di ko din masabing ayaw ko ang buhay ko, pero ayaw ko din ang mga nakikita ko. Ang labo no? At bilang isang ordinaryong tao, wala kang magagawa para matulungan sila na maglalast sakanya. Hanggang abot ka lang ng barya kasi di mo pwede isacrifice sarili **** kapakanan para sa iba. Dahil ganun na ang mundo ngayon, sarili ko muna bago iba. Pero masisisi mo ba yung pagiisip na ganun kasi may kanya kanya tayong mga problema na dulot ng pagiging myembro ng society? Duwag tayong lahat. Duwag na tumulong sa abot ng makakaya natin kasi takot tayo na baka tayo naman ang mapunta sa ganung kalagayan kapag binigay natin ang lahat. Tulad ko, pasuicide suicide pa pero duwag akong gawin, hanggang sagi lang sa isip ko, tangina ko eh no? Dahil yung nakakatulong lang talaga yung may tunay na tapang. Katulad ni Mother Teresa ang daming tinulungan at inalagaan, pero ironic dahil nawala ang paniniwala nya sa Diyos dahil sa nakita nya nasobrang hirap na dinadanas ng mga taong inaalagaan nya. Putangina ng Mundo. Bakit ba tayo nandito? Pagtapos nito balik na ko sa normal. Tangina nyo.
Mar 21, 2017
Mar 21, 2017 at 10:20 AM UTC
the magnolia was a bit of a *******
(as far as trees can be ********
and like very many other things—
like japanese candy from the Fugi Mart in Greenwich
(across from the McDonald’s and next to
the music shop where I got my viola)
and like pokemon cards and nintendo gaming systems
and like Avril Lavigne’s “Sk8er Boi” on a pink CD in a Hello Kitty radio
—that ******* of a magnolia was a distinctive taste
of the years I spent growing up in my house at the end of Wyndover Lane.
the ******* thing was almost perpetually in bloom.
it barged into both spring and autumn
(it didn’t give a **** about timing)
those pink and white spongy petals padding the ground
and at first you think it’s ******* beautiful
sitting in the crook of the trunk where it split into
two large
separate branches
tilting your chin back to catch a glimpse of blue between fat blossoms
then the petals start rotting
water-retentive little *******
and you can’t sweep ‘em away because they stick to the patio
brown clumps slipping under rubber soles
my dad lets loose a string of curses
and the magnolia shakes with laughter
I tried pressing the petals in a notebook once
while I was in that naturalist phase it seems all little girls go through
when you make fairy houses out of bark in the backyard
and put flowers between the pages of books because it feels
oh-so-much-more significant
than picking a pretty thing and showing it to mom
but the magnolia seeped through my spiral ring
and when I opened it up a month later they were dry tan papery things
not at all velveteen and rosy
and there were garish pink bloodstains all through the ten pages
on either side
magnolias don’t preserve well
except, honestly they do don’t they
then of course there’s that childhood tragedy that everyone has
when your dog got hit by some soccer mom’s suburban
or your teddy bear was lost in an airport
or maybe you just liked to cry because some things
were just really worth the tears at the time
but when I came home and found out they cut down my ******* ******* of a magnolia
I bawled
there wasn’t
even
a
stump.
May 2, 2013
May 2, 2013 at 4:48 PM UTC
To future conquering civilizations
in galaxies far far away . . .
don't worry about polluting the air,
our smokestacks have shot dirty-bombs
into the clouds for centuries,
mixing rain drops with the
black grime of industrialization,
transforming our children's tears
into cesspools of sulfuric acid and ddt.
We've also drained the bayous and swamps
and between you and me
don't even bother landing in Africa
there isn't suitable drinking water
for miles, you see.
You can thank years of colonization for that.
In fact, you may not want to land
on Mondays, Tuesdays, or Thursdays
in LA either-
on those days the air quality index
is 175 and far too unhealthy for any
biological organism to survive.
But at least you won't die of malnutrition
you've got decisions:
McDonald's or Burger King
choose
cholesterol and diabetes are your shock troops.
Send them in immediately,
there won't be much resistance
we've got these things call lazy boys
and daytime t.v which have
enslaved the population and decreased
the distance
between fully functioning
human beings and mindless apes.
Don't worry about bringing weapons
we've got those too
we've perfected the art of blowing each other away
there's not much for you to do.
we destroy cities with fire from the sky
and our mushroom clouds rise
at least ten miles high.
And god can't see, there's too much smoke
in his eyes
and our radiated children die
with radiated sighs.
While we are on the topic
don't worry about us spreading
propaganda
we've lost the ability to communicate.
We've learned
books turn a peculiar dark yellow
when lighted and burned.
And forget erasing history,
we've done that too.
Our subjugation of native peoples
is masked as 'patriotism'
under the red, white, and blue.
But don't get me wrong,
I tell you all
of this not to dissuade,
please come and attack,
please come and invade.
Here, I'll even turn
on the lights . . .
Dec 23, 2012
Dec 23, 2012 at 9:06 PM UTC
She may not have been your prototype teen or hiree.
Or of the masses. Or herd.
However, she did walk into a McDonald's
approach the counter
emit an esoteric exchange for help with the cashier
and with knowing eyes
the cashier directed her to the starting gate.
Now
with application in hand
and blue ribbons in her eyes
she was off to the horse races,
nervousness riding on her shoulders.
In my eyes, she was a longshot to win,
where I could see her shoes falling off
before the race started.
And her imaginary jockey falling off her horse
from laughing so hard,
for she presented herself through the restaurant
and a job interview with a Starbucks frappe,
totally oblivious of her unwrapping.
It would be like turning up for a Yankee's job
in a Red Sox outfit.
Who would do this?
As the rubberneckers, I looked on.
Incredulous.
She took her seat at a vacant table
carrying her youth awkward.
Her looks of brown hair, eyes, and raw innocence
complimentary.
But those jeans, high risers, with holes in the knees
with a white Bebe shirt that hugged her shape
shouted trendy but not job interview.
Oh, my.
She continued the procession
extracting info from her phone
and filling out her application.
No doubt with votive candles at her side
and prayers on her lips.
And perhaps blue ribbons awaiting.
After all, this was her foot in the door.
It was at this time
I had an epiphany moment
tears welling in my eyes
as I slipped on hamburger choices
and sipped on past life on a teether,
totally oblivious, too.
It was like looking in the mirror.
Her youth and awkwardness and my growing decadence
towards the light.
When the manager came in and summoned her
to the interview table,
which was located in the dining room,
I saw a little kitten purr inside of her,
where her eyes nervously checked her surroundings.
At first introduction,
the reddening blush on her face and Adam's apple
stood pronounced
but her low voice was choked.
Almost inaudible.
As the manager put her calming hands
into hers
the light turned on
all foreboding escaping.
All misplaces and tense faces replaced with aces.
This was a defining moment for her,
as the golden arches braced her feet,
making all the rubberneckers, me, proud.
Logan Robertson
6/6/2018
Jun 7, 2018
Jun 7, 2018 at 12:19 AM UTC
I fell in love at a McDonald’s. I expected it to happen in an overpriced cafe or a fancy Italian restaurant, but it happened at a McDonald’s and it was love all the same.
We were on our way back from the beach. We went whale watching but the ocean could have been empty for all the fish we saw. We paid good money for a caricature of the two of us. The graphite image of a happy couple with our faces sat in the back seat of your car. It would be framed and put up. We went into the sea as deeply as we dared and laughed and screamed as the waves came and came and came.
We were driving home with bits of mountains and boulders stuck between our sandaled toes and that’s when you pulled into a McDonald’s.
You ordered a sandwich, 100% real beef, never frozen, and asked me what I wanted. I said I would have the same. 100% real beef. Never frozen. I hate spending time and money on that which can only be consumed. We sat down with our food underneath the fluorescent lights next to a Happy Meal kiosk and I decided that I was in love with you and it was love all the same.
Jun 11, 2014
Jun 11, 2014 at 12:58 AM UTC
America, the land of lies
America, the land of homophobia,
America, the land of endless sin,
America, the land where church and state are not separate,
America, the land where we let a 3000 year old book dictate our laws and policies,
America, the land where a man who can throw a football well makes 50 times more than a man who saves lives on a daily basis,
America, the land of diabetes, heart failure, obesity, and McDonald's,
America, the land where we debate whether healthcare is a right or a privilege,
America, the land where company profits are more important than the well being of the human race,
America, the land where we spend twice as much on healthcare than other country,
America, the land where our overall health rating is 26th compared to other countries,
America, the land where we claim all men are created equal,
America, the land where a man can't marry another man,
America, the land that promotes democracy by invading countries and forcing democracy on the people,
America, the land where our education system is suffering constant budget cuts,
America, the land of debt,
America, the land of problems.
Mar 28, 2013
Mar 28, 2013 at 12:33 AM UTC
Money melting in a spoon,
let's shoot it into our veins.
Flashing Kardashian lights,
streaming into our brains.
Donald Trump! He's our man!
Mark Muslims is the plan!
All-you-can-eat-
Pile. It. The. **** High.
When you walk or
When you talk,
let the words squeak out
like they're between
Your thighs.
Thighs. American thighs,
Dreaming next to our Calvins.
Our slacktivism, our regurgitated ideas
spitballing out of our McDonald's mouths
into our peers' ears, distilled by years
And years of "almost-knowledge"
that we quasi-ascertained,
if we knew what that meant --
but we've been left behind!
No child left the **** behind!
We were left behind and there's no
possible way we slacked off, that we're dumb,
that we aren't the movie stars destined for
Lamborghini cars, five-star bars, designer bodies
for designer you and designer me:
the most special of the unique, the
Pearls that have been made in the
darkest parts of the sea, the darkest parts of
origin. Origin. ****** ****
American **** virginal ideals sliding around
the muck of a marketable **** fuckfest,
******* of the American mind, the
congratulations of the American ego,
the proud mother and father tears associated with
buying and lying, "trying" and frying our food,
our ideas, our friends, our neo-impressionistic
children in Jordans, skinny jeans, on tumblr:
the unknowing cousin of Fox News, surprised
by its own wit and wisdom: they're ******* twins.
Carbon copies, unknowing, unwilling, un-un-un.
The romanticism of mental illness.
The close-up of reality-tv emotion.
The manipulation taught to servers
from managers.
The manipulation taught to customers
from society.
All we care about is **** image, and ***
Self-preservation: **** Donald Trump
and **** you.
Apr 20, 2016
Apr 20, 2016 at 12:39 AM UTC
It was the summer my
feet tanned like a gladiator,
my coliseum was more a
city piled on dirt, dust, trash
and under that; sand. It was
a desert summer though pollution
and global warming stole the
'dry heat' notion, burned it
up between layers of humidity and
buried it under the city-
down to sand that touched jewels
and biblical lust.
sometimes I ate pigeons and
sometimes I ate McDonald's.
sometimes I was in love and
sometimes I cried myself to sleep.
my eyes were brown, my skin was dark
and my accent was convincing.
I could have been anybody
tiptoeing between past-dead
hatchbacks and stray cats-
any lonely girl with sleep in her eyes
and fogged up sunglasses,
so why did I stay me?
Dec 16, 2013
Dec 16, 2013 at 10:33 PM UTC
I almost don’t want to voice my opinion
because I like staying in the back of the mix
but it’s hard to do.
Straight from the mind, the mouth,
of a transgendered person,
this is honesty.
I know that there are a lot of people going on about the bathroom laws right now.
It’s ridiculous we even have to get to laws for bathrooms.
They’re for
elimination,
but it generally doesn’t stay at that.
Gossip, vomiting, crying, **** ****** etc. Things you’ll most likely, in this century, find in the walls of bathrooms.
People are posting the meme, about the ****** Trying to mix it in with these laws.
A ******
who is a man,
and someone who is transgender, don’t fall into the same category, and even if it’s made to better the judgement of hate and redirect the criticism of keeping transgender people in a specific bathroom,
don’t compare.
Because he is a male, he is a ******
We are not the same.
Now, recently, people are posting about the mass shooting and connecting the two.
Saying how the last thing they want to hear about is how dangerous a transgender person is in bathroom now.
And they’re correct, because it’s always the last thing on my mind. I hate myself, so you don’t have to.
I have enough hate in me for myself so everyone can leave me be, knowing its strong enough.
I don’t want to be me, I don’t want to be like I am and I live with that everyday. I haven’t been able to make peace with myself and love myself, yet.
But I hope I can eventually.
I just wanted to put this out there, so people can see this side of things. From someone who is transgender.
The last thing on my mind in the bathroom is: you.
I do not want contact with anyone in there.
I fear you. I am scared to be there.
I feel threatened. I feel in danger, not you.
You should be ashamed to feel such resentment towards someone you don’t even know, because I am in the one in danger, not you.
I feel ashamed I am afraid of you and that is embarrassing to say,
but I am.
So don’t dare make it about your safety, because you are the last thing on my mind,
I promise you that.
Being misgendered, being ***** being beaten, being murdered, slandered, assaulted, accused, uncertain, hated, dehumanised, alone.
Fear.
These are what I am thinking about when all I have to do is *** but all I wanted to have to do was get groceries.
Or get McDonald’s, get cat food, my car fixed, an outfit, take my husband lunch, take my daughter to the park, etc.
I have a family I love, very much.
So yeah, you are the last thing on my mind when I just have to use the bathroom, and don’t even want to need to use one in public because I am so afraid for my safety and wondering if this time, is going to be the last time I walk in one and don’t get to go home to my family because of who I am.
I am sure people have reasons to fear what they won’t know or understand,
but understand this.
I know you have your own fears and your own needs and expectations, but so do I.
Don’t fear me, in the bathroom, because my fear is actually greater than yours,
I promise you that.
And honestly, that is the last on my mind, anyway.
**I just have to ***
Jun 14, 2016
Jun 14, 2016 at 2:32 PM UTC
what were they thinking, as I am here and still working
with four months to go and knowing there is no improvement
to be noticed and only betrayal after betrayal
and I've never been done so ***** as at this place
whose management thinks we are making 10 figures
and wheels and deals and has a blonde obnoxious secretary
who gossips and no I don't fit in because this is absurd and I am
reminded how a nasty person can ruin anything
a meal in Paris at a restaurant hundreds of years old
and a crabby old man who was my father in law and his
horrible girlfriend and we sat in this fancy place and I could
only think I wish my husband and I had gone out alone to McDonald's tonight
because we would be free of this hateful presence
or maybe we had just bought a loaf of bread and some cheese and at it
walking down the Champs Elysses, or maybe just starvation
would be better than these people and here I am again
in a perfect little "green" brand new school and I think it
is definitely located in the middle of hell and not surrounded
by wineries and fields and wealth
Feb 7, 2013
Feb 7, 2013 at 9:46 PM UTC
i smoke cigarettees too **** much.
this is how you know nothing original will be said in this poem.
i use cigarettes as a social crutch.
i don't know about you
but when i'm in the mood to be honest
i'll tell you
i smoke cigarettes because
i want to be 'cool'.
because let's be honest:
i can't think of
a poet
a musician
an actor
an olympic swimmer
a hockey player
a president
a priest
a ****
a serial killer
or a psychiatrist
that's worth mentioning
that did not smoke
yes, i know you can
and go ahead,
but let me first
make a point instead
let me be honest,
if i can smoke a cigarette
and maybe be alone for
5.75 minutes
then maybe
a thought will occur to me
something outside this ******** world
and it will be good enough to write down,
just maybe.
let me be honest
i don't need you
with your judgemental eyes
and your cursory glances
walk away from me
at a party
i don't miss you
i am with her.
i garauntee if you asked
Whitman
Hemmingway
Freud
Phelps
Obama
about their actual relationship with smoking tobacco
they would have similiar descriptions.
but go ahead, tell me
about the hazardous effects of cigarettes
let's talk about the cancer
and the tar
and the disgusting phlem
that i will constantly have to eject
from my throat-hole
when i'm fifty.
go ahead, tell me about
******* people over
and ripping their minds out
and the sickness
and the disease
and how it's all so wrong.
it's as amusing to me as it is to you.
Mcdonald's will **** you.
Pall Mall will **** me.
Nov 5, 2011
Nov 5, 2011 at 12:34 AM UTC
Lettuce is love, lettuce is life.
You walked up to McDonald's and ordered a mcdouble
I was behind you in line, looking for some trouble
I said, "excuse me sir, you know mcdoubles don't have lettuce, right?"
He said, "yes, but I can't eat lettuce at this time of night"
I was getting angry at this point, not gonna lie
I was like, "come on buddy give it a try"
He started backing away, a little intimidated
The farther away he went, the more I felt the hatred
How can he not want lettuce?
This dude's real close to getting fought
The cashier interrupted my thought
"I can get who's next in line"
I said, "cool, I'll take a McChicken, it's a bite of heaven
Actually I take that back, I want eleven"
You already know i didn't buy them for the chicken
I bought them for the lettuce, it's tasty finger lickin'
The cashier says "is that all I can get you tonight?"
I turned back to her said "naw, gimme a medium Sprite"
Got my drink and my McChickens, then tried find this guy to fight
He's at a table munching on his mcdouble by himself
I caught him looking enviously at my McChicken, lettuce spewing out health
I sat down at the booth beside him
Told him how I despise him
For not getting lettuce, how could one be so arrogant?
I threw a punch to his face hard enough to leave a dent
He yelled out in pain, tryna run away
The cashier notified me that the police were on their way
My fate was inevitable, but I did it for lettuce
It's been 3 years now, been locked up ever since
Lettuce makes me happier than ever, it's my only friend
My favorite thing in the world, nothing and no one can contend
Moral of this story: get lettuce on your sandwich,
Unless you wanna go to mcdonalds and end up with a bandage
I can finally conclude, after this long strife
Lettuce is love, lettuce is life.
Feb 13, 2016
Feb 13, 2016 at 10:54 PM UTC
Driving around this valley of sheets
When I see a IHOP and realize
that a sudden hunger has come over me
They say Come Hungry, Leave Happy, and
with one glance at your buns, perfectly made
I realize that I have been staring far too long.
Like Taco Bell, I should Think Outside The Bun
But as I pass a Burger King I begin to wonder
how many possible ways there really are
to Have It Your Way, and as I lay you down
I smile at the thought of how wonderful the taste
of each one of your Baskin Robbins 31 Flavors will be.
While I start to undress you I pause, hesitant
With your smile and slow rhythmic breaths
a song bursts into my head with a just one tip
as if I'm at Cold Stone, and I think, just Let Yourself Go.
"Where to start?" I ask as I glance up at Subway
and I am reminded that I should always Eat Fresh.
I should go in slow, but I dive right in like a bucket of KFC
The scent of you, so enticing. The taste, Finger Lickin' Good
I'll savor every moment, and by the subtle McDonald's arches
that your back resembles, I'm Lovin' It and so are you.
I grab a handful at ******* and realize that this poem
is Delightfully Tacky, Yet Unrefined. Nonetheless,
I can tell by the look in your eyes that you are ready
Asking the same question that they ask at Wendy's
Where's The Beef?
Mar 28, 2011
Mar 28, 2011 at 1:30 PM UTC
It just feels like yesterday
It just feels like yesterday , I learnt how to brush
It just feels like yesterday, I had my first crush
It just feels like yesterday, I came home late from the playground
It just feels like yesterday, I discovered the earth is round
All these tiny moments I wish they would last
Suddenly I realise I'm growing up too fast.
It just feels like yesterday, my mother waited for me at the bus stop
It just feels like yesterday , I tasted my little sister's teardrop
It just feels like yesterday, I watched the sky change colours
It just feels like yesterday, I realised about the world and us there is so much to discover
All these tiny moments I wish they would last
Suddenly I realise I'm growing up too fast.
It just feels like yesterday , high school began
It just feels like yesterday, I wanted my life to have a plan
It just feels like yesterday,I got my first mobile phone
It just feels like yesterday, I wondered what it's like to be on my own
All these tiny moments I wish they would last
Suddenly I realise I'm growing up too fast.
It just feels like yesterday, I dreamed of being a fresher
It just feels like yesterday, I succumbed to peer pressure
It just feels like yesterday, I couldn't get enough of Barney, Swat cats , justice league and Hey Arnold
It just feels like yesterday , India finally got its McDonald's
All these tiny moments I wish they would last
Suddenly I realise I'm growing up too fast.
It just feels like yesterday, I turned an undergraduate
It just feels like yesterday, studying architecture was fate
It just feels like yesterday, I was surrounded by my family and friends
It just feels like yesterday, I realised its never too late to make amends
All these tiny moments I wish they would last
Suddenly I realise I'm growing up too fast.
Aug 2, 2016
Aug 2, 2016 at 12:44 PM UTC
The Doctor has a Sense of Humor!
<|>
give a surgeon a scalpel
and an excuse,
and the artist emerges,
for creativity is a good surgeon’s
natural habitat
Sure, sure, there’s a plan,
with best and acceptable outcomes,
but when messing with a real heart,
a sly ***** with numerous deceptive guises
at its disposal, you never for sure never know,
despite all the advanced imaging techniques,
exactly
what you will find once you go
spelunking
in caves of life and death
so, he takes a bit from here,
and a bob or two from there,
there a cut, here an incision deep,
Old McDonald provided a body,
or a canvas, and the Doc
is happy.
So I uncover holes where he
probed, redeploying the healthy,
like a good designer, Doc rearranges
and repairs, a travelogue of splicing and dicing,
his handiwork
Now standing over you for many hours,
can get tiring, though each ***** be
different, unique even, but leaving
a little marker, a stylized signature,
is well, is the rightful discretion of the artiste!
So you can imagine my surprise
when the tubes removed (ouch!)
the bandages ripped off in a
signature move of a delighted nurse whose
loves seeing grown men cry from lesser trivialities,
you cannot imagine my surprise
when I discovered my new tattoo,
upon my chest front and center!
*Herein please find your heart repaired,
and revitalized:
Please Note!
We guarantee our work for minimum 15 years
(Aug. 3, 2038),
but our disclaimer
we assume NO responsibility after that
if you should
happen to live for 30 YEARS or more*
Dr. P.
Sep 21, 2023
Sep 21, 2023 at 7:58 AM UTC
Don’t think too much
About forbidden touch
Or legal abuse of such
Little creatures like dairy cows and fabric workers.
Don’t feel too much.
The homeless man with his crutch
Can disappear, hush.
Turn your head dear, eat McDonald’s chicken fingers.
Don’t love too much.
Why on real people crush?
People slip through your clutch.
As flashing lights reanimate Rihanna, both your eyes close the shutters.
Our world distracts us from seeing,
Persuades us we need a break.
Deserving one after a day going nowhere.
Turn the TV on to the latest ‘Bachelor’.
So loud. So loud. So loud. Too loud!
I shut my eyes from the too-bright lights.
I need to escape the escape, to find solace.
I put pen to paper and hear its whisper.
Poetry softly roars while TV screams shrill.
You’ll remember the written words for time
Degrees of magnitude than you’ll remember
(consciously) that singing cat meme.
Real love takes more effort
Than a heart reaction on Facebook.
Writing truth takes longer than re-posting.
Yet I want to share myself, not another gif lol.
Mute the volume for a second.
Can deaf ears hear again
the music of
the pen?
Think too much.
Aug 21, 2016
Aug 21, 2016 at 2:17 PM UTC
If I were from Africa or Brazil
or one of those places,
where I slept on a mat in a little room,
America would be weird to me.
Because of like food commercials.
McDonald's. Or Tempur Pedics!
Where it's all about comfort
and they're worried about the arc
in their bed, and I mean,
I'm sleeping on a mat.
I think about myself too much
and I don't think about other people
as much as I would want to.
I want to think about how others are feeling
when I talk to them, you know?
I've tried to drop all stereotypes
because really everyone
has an individual category.
And I think everyone has at least
a small amount of mercy.
Even if they don't show or choose it.
And I love Mom.
So much
Mar 1, 2013
Mar 1, 2013 at 12:28 AM UTC
I’m thinking of the faded checkered pattern that has been
smoothed away by time on the dark cloth seats of a Nissan Pathfinder
driving down Ryan Road on a hot day in June.
My mother, in the front seat, singing along to a Spice Girls cassette.
I’m thinking: red, plastic, crab-shaped sandbox and
McDonald’s Happy Meal toys.
I’m thinking: light princess pink, seafoam green, and robin’s egg blue.
I’m thinking of a framed cheetah cross stitch, hanging on the wall of what
used to be our bedroom at my grandparent’s house.
I’m thinking: Barbie doll houses and Hot Wheels and a cul-de-sac at
the end of the street.
The sweet smell of cigar smoke. The ice cold splash of the garden hose. The pop of a bubble. The sting of soap in the eye. Dreams by The Cranberries. As Long as You Love Me by The Backstreet Boys. A HelloKitty boombox slowly spitting out vapor when the deck builders hit a power line while digging. The deer in the backyard looking for corn. The faded wood of a playset that was never really played on.
My father: sitting alone on a splintered bench by the firepit at the edge of the woods, empty beer cans at his feet, chain smoking cigarettes, and humming along to a song that is stuck—forever stuck—on the tip of my tongue.
I do not know if this happened. I cannot ask him.
(I’m not sure if I would want to ask him.)
But I can make an educated inference that that line of
fiction is really nonfiction.
A memory that feels like a phantom limb.
Sounds like the sharp crinkle of static.
Covered in a gossamer, dreamlike haze.
There is a distinct otherness to this memory, to who
I think I was before the trauma.
We are two different people. A yin and a yang. A day and a night.
The hermit crab is soft beneath its hard shell.
The asbestos is not apparent within the insulation.
You cannot see the lead in the paint.
The mold inside the fruit.
May 5, 2021
May 5, 2021 at 2:46 AM UTC