"meatballs" poems
Dig the ground,
Deeper & broader,
Large enough to accommodate,
And peacefully lay us,
The commoners to rest,
Without causing any disturbance,
To the Clout-clad looters.
Don't rest till you collapse lifelessly,
Into the mud extracted for digging,
Digging their trap deeper enough,
Deeper enough for all the clout,
'Cause you wouldn't even want,
Their zombies to be turn-out,
Escaping out stark naked,
Out in future to plight,
****** and blight,
Pester and fester
The future generation.
Oh but do we not know,
They will survive and flourish,
Indian or Russian or American or British,
The clout will always be there to suck/eat,
**** blood and eat meatballs,
Why they will survive,
And why the civilians suffer isn't riddle.
Aug 16, 2013
Aug 16, 2013 at 1:56 PM UTC
To my Mom and Grandma, whom I love so dear,
It’s time to celebrate you on this great day of the year.
To have you both in my life, I truly am so blessed,
Some moms and grandmas might be great, but mine are actually the best.
…
There’s a reason why all our friends call my mother a saint,
She’ll take care of us through good times or bad with never a complaint.
Her sense of empathy astounds me, it’s a very special gift,
She’s always there to show support and give our spirits a lift.
She doesn’t take things for granted and shows amazing gratitude,
We all wish we had the ability to adopt her attitude.
Our road trips and vacations are memories I’ll always keep,
I still dream about them sometimes when I go to sleep.
…
Another blessing we all count is my amazing grandmother,
Her strength and good nature help bring us closer to each other.
She points us in a wholesome direction and gives us all her prayers,
So that when we get to Heaven we’ll have a row of reserved chairs.
I love going to visit grandma because she’ll take good care of me,
She’ll cook her delicious pasta and meatballs because that’s her specialty.
We’ll have a good laugh while we both sit and chat,
And she’ll always remind me if I’m ever being a brat.
…
There’s a good reason why Mother’s Day is a day for celebration,
Because my mother and my grandmother are a winning combination.
They really are two special gifts from the Big Man up above,
And from the bottom of my heart I can’t thank you enough for showering me with love.
Jun 15, 2015
Jun 15, 2015 at 3:02 PM UTC
Where tenderness starts?
pink
soft
fluffy
as warm meatballs
where cruelty stops?
raw
sharp
******
as unroasted steak
Apr 8, 2013
Apr 8, 2013 at 3:49 PM UTC
We used to play billiards
and fight all the fire.
We'd drink tea
from cheap mugs,
read The Economist
or newspaper,
chat about boyfriends,
girlfriends,
what was and wasn't a rumour?
The printer munched on paper,
lounge about on scratchy chairs.
50% revision, 50% laughter.
Psychology was me
with a group of girls.
How many people, where, when,
and what was it Freud said again?
Spanish was the same,
me, L, C and E.
Picasso's view of war, a bull and a flower,
grammar overload in the afternoon.
And then there was English.
Can you hear me Fitzgerald?
On a row of females (not just one),
roses, four stories and a single trumpet.
On the garish bus
to see the Manor or the specialists,
to walk up and down aisles in Asda,
talking music with baguettes and meatballs.
Two years came, two years went.
Exams, goodbyes, brown envelopes arrived.
After tapas and a holiday
came sly September.
Here I was with fresh men,
different faces from different places.
So I walked up the steps
into the next avenue.
Apr 20, 2012
Apr 20, 2012 at 3:14 PM UTC
She told me that she never had real spaghetti before.
Of course she's had spaghetti before but not in the sense that made it worthwhile.
When I asked why she replied that it didn't feel real.
That in a sense it was pasta.
She always broke the noodles when she made it.
She developed a fear that everything would boil over and catch fire.
That part of the noodles would be too crunchy.
All of it would never fit in the ***
Her mother always broke the noodles so it just became habit.
In the same breath.
She told me at least once,
That she'd like to twirl the noodles around the fork.
The complete taste and feel of what makes it spaghetti.
The cheese blending into the sauce.
The big ball of noodles just wrapping around the fork waiting to be bit.
When I asked about the meatballs she laughed,
She was vegetarian
Jun 2, 2018
Jun 2, 2018 at 3:33 PM UTC
This is a Mindalithian
Mindalithians live in marvelous mansions
with mischievous children in Minnesota
Midalithians eat mounds of mac-n-cheese,
meaty meatballs, and magicians
Mindalithians like metallic mushroom
and mega marshmallows
Mindalithians make magnificent magic, meditates mellowly
and marches with mops
this Mindalithian taught me magical meditations
and made me march as a mop
May 18, 2012
May 18, 2012 at 1:54 PM UTC
I remember you spirt in the Chelsea Flophouse
you were opening one's lips so gorgeous and so creamy
greasing me stamen on the unfucked bonk
while the bangers let it rip in the alley
Those were the diseased minds and that was Newfangled York
we were squirting for the wads and the meatballs
and that was gobbled snog for the creamers inside Gloria
centrifugally stiff is thus those of White House Nazis
Ah but you copulated telescopic didn't you basket case
you just acidified your jockstrap on the shoulders of the scrum
you copulated telescopic I never once heard you use sign language
I input you, I don't intake you
I input you, I don't intake you
and all of that balling hard on
I remember you spirt in the Chelsea Flophouse
you were gorilla—like your ****** *********** was absolute epic
you leaked me again you frocked slap—up old salt
but for me you would **** an unzipping
And shaving your tongue because the creatures lust after us
who are barked at by the Daleks of *** appeal
you Rohypnolled yourself you emitted jet so what?
we are radioactive salvo we shoot full of holes the stride piano
*** one fine morning you copulated telescopic didn't you cocker
you just blunted your extremity on the cattle
you copulated telescopic I never once smelled you emit
I intake you, I don't input you
I intake you, I don't input you
and all of that balling hard on
I don't mean to insinuate that I slobbered over you peanuts
I can't withhold *********** of each crouched ****
I remember you spirt in the Chelsea Flophouse
that's oodles I don't even kick—start you that thick and fast
Mar 29, 2010
Mar 29, 2010 at 3:36 PM UTC
Ketchup on French Fries and big juicy Burgers
All kinds of Candy just loaded with Sugars
Cold Beer and Pizza and Buffalo Wings
These are a few of my favorite things!
Cream in my Coffee with Crisp Apple Strudels
Spaghetti and Meatballs and Schnitzel with Noodles
Warm Pecan Pie with a Scoop of Ice Cream
These are the foods that I see when I dream!
Chocolate Cupcakes with Caramel Icing
Cookies and Brownies and Fudge – so enticing
Turkey and Dressing and anything Fried
If I say these aren’t favorite foods then I’ve lied!
When the scale breaks, when my clothes shrink, when I’m feelng fat,
I simply forego all my favorite foods
And then I don’t feel so Bad!
Mar 2, 2015
Mar 2, 2015 at 9:00 PM UTC
My mother is a vegetarian
I grew up on tofu and kale
We eat meatless meatballs
And always try new organic foods
I know about healthy
Your are the candy
I convince myself I don't need
But still eat anyway
You poison my body
Spreading through my veins
Infecting me
From the inside out
You chip away at my strength
Deteriorate my self esteem
So I'm convinced I need you
I know about healthy
So how did I end up
In such an unhealthy place?
Oct 23, 2013
Oct 23, 2013 at 11:06 PM UTC
the noodles are elegant, lovely and fair,
i see now there's a reason
why you're called angel hair.
buttery smooth, and golden light reflection
it's strikingly radiant
the epitome of perfection.
the sauce is as red as my cheeks
when one is deeply in love,
far higher than a mountain peak.
look, it flies in the saucepan
alluring is not a word to describe,
but truly, it's so hot, it needs a fan.
the meatballs are spheres of joy
what geometry could calculate its area?
though it ignores me, i tell it to not play coy.
how lovely the ringing sounds of sizzles,
light my ear with fireworks unheard,
oh, how my feelings are a shizzling!
oh spaghetti, my love, my joy, my life,
it's unnatural to see my tears fall on the plate.
you are my happiness, my leftover bowl of strife.
i mourn when there is none left
for breakfast in the morning,
but i dream of you when i go to bed.
Nov 15, 2018
Nov 15, 2018 at 10:31 AM UTC
Old Italian Ladies walk around in long black dresses
A handkerchief tucked up one sleeve for blowing little noses
They are soft and round, with flappy forearms
And give greasy lipstick kisses as they clutch you to their chests
Old Italian Ladies smell like olive oil and flour
And they give out oozy chocolates with red cherry sauce inside
Their enormous laps are like lumpy old recliners
They sing songs about amore' as they rock you off to sleep
Old Italian Ladies let you go down to the basement
Where the air is cool and shelves are lined with jars of pickled green beans
And wide mouthed bottles bursting with clumpy red tomatoes
They use creaky wooden step stools when they need to reach up high
Old Italian Ladies pierce your ears with just a needle
A bar of soap, a lump of ice
A loop of string to make the earring
And a tiny glass of anisette for the tears after the sting
Old Italian Ladies were the matrons of my childhood
Intoning rosaries, invoking saints
Making garlic studded meatballs
Dispensing love as freely as hard candy from their purses.
May 13, 2014
May 13, 2014 at 3:22 PM UTC
Oh those kids and
the cute things they will
say,
someday,
when they'll learn
to talk like
me,
when luckily,
they'll be
allgrowedup
just like me
inventiving words
just like me,
phrases like the one above
I just wrote
when I was informed
by the house chef,
what was yet to come
my eagerly anticipated
promised land
Sunday dinner of
meatballs and spaghetti,
with my special sauce,
Heinz Ketchup
yay!
I sure hope they grow up faster
so we can be
rolling on the floor
inventiving words
like
Sweetballs and Maaghetti
Jun 22, 2014
Jun 22, 2014 at 4:37 PM UTC
There is something about seeing a woman
in a man's clothes
that hints at recent sins,
for where are her own clothes
and why does she choose to wear
a man's shirt? A man's stink?
His salty passions, faded nights
written sartorially in drink?
The wood of his wardrobe
and his love of meatballs?
Jackets are overcoats, clothes lie,
skin peeks from behind rolled up sleeves
pants are dated, we say, **** pants.
There is a sense that what I've been wearing
has never seen better days.
I study this creature with a cat's grace
masquerading in a mongrel's wrinkled skin.
It is then I decide that these clothes
are no longer mine, that they belong
to she who they've chosen and that
I'd rather be naked than feel the shame
of being second best for my own things.
Quietly, I peel her like an orange,
tongues singing like electricity.
Jan 15, 2014
Jan 15, 2014 at 9:29 AM UTC
Hello Mom, I'm lost here in IKEA
It's been fun but I may never see you again
They say the arrows point the way
but they've been pointing the way for days
Swedish Meatballs, the only saving grace there is
In the linen section, I've been circling for hours
Waiting for landing instructions from the tower
As big as this place there has to be a runway
In a fog, quickly running out of power
At a later date, I finally make my way
At the seventh gate, I see Dante wave
As he's pouring over plans assembling a pair of white nightstands
I'll come back and check on him in a few days
In housewares, there are too many cooks in the kitchen
I look around and see something here is missing
The main ingredient, food...still waiting for those meatballs dude
In that special sauce that does more for a man than just glisten
I should have known the way the front door ****** me in
I'd never see my family and friends again
As I wander through the halls of prefab furniture at low cost
My days of sanity are quickly drawing to an end
And even with IKEA's plans, I'll never be put back together again
Sep 13, 2018
Sep 13, 2018 at 8:54 AM UTC
Today I am slickly coated
with the sheen of a long walk,
only holding hands with purpose;
the goal to find it.
The destination that holds promise
according to the latest yelp reviews-
promise worth remembering
while bearing the heat of the summer subways,
the morose and lonely feeling
of watching a couple cling to each other
as the trains swing our bodies around.
When the stench of the city streets-
the receptacles for those
who can't wait any longer,
invade our noses like they were home.
The promise that morphs into ringing
in my head when my stomach grumbles
next to the carts on the sidewalks
with the burning flesh they call halal meat,
smells warm and familiar
sharing shish kabob kisses and chicken knishes,
but I've left those days behind me.
Now I'm scouring the streets of Brooklyn,
for that new chic creperie sans animals,
things with faces, or friends if you will,
screaming "Find me!"
whilst dodging the heady scents of Popeye's,
and bacon egg and cheeses,
meat markets, fish markets, bright moving ads,
of women ******** clad eating burgers.
Would you like lox or sturgeon with that bagel?
and when I do get to the little mom-and-pop
of a hole-in-the-wall cafe,
I think of the carnivorous brothers and sisters
that have had the meatballs to join me.
The countless nights I've had to explain
where I get my protein from,
that yes, I can eat pizza.
And no, it's not a travesty
that I want to give up cheese.
Because the real travesty is in the this country's handling
of living things, and by animals- I mean all of us.
And carnivorous brothers and sisters,
when you're feeling threatened and defensive- and you've got
guilt and entitlement coursing through your
friend-fed veins and thus you claim,
We're shoving our vegan, vegetarian, pescetarian
efforts down your throats.
Think again and know that we're only doing the best
we can to help what we believe in.
That we eat and live
with purpose and promise in mind.
Real women can eat vegetables too.
You can take vegetarians to barbecues.
Trust me, we're good at co-existing,
Are you?
Sep 8, 2015
Sep 8, 2015 at 12:36 PM UTC
Specifically
Those Who Can See Over Everest & Those Who Think They Climb It Daily
GIANTS, BEWARE! The American People are not ready for you. They prefer stretching 4 year olds into fine angel hair and serving them up with a side of “Italian” meatballs. They do not classify your biologically natural state as a desirable beauty. For those who choose to assimilate: they dedicate an entire chapter to your mental status in a Psychology textbook.
DWARVES, BEWARE! Even the dolls are tall.
S.Kelly Woz '13
Apr 1, 2013
Apr 1, 2013 at 1:34 PM UTC
Thanks for the meatballs ma'
On a mission
Be back soon
Took a huge jump on my bike, not a moment too soon
Got struck by lightning and bit by a raccoon
Next thing I knew
I'd taken to the sky
Swept up in a bubble
Passed the Hubble
Made a wish
As I streaked across the sky
And landed on the moon
Found the moondust powdery
Heartbreakingly abandoned and alone
Felt it caress the palm of my hand
Smooth as purest silk
Gave it love
A home
Made it a part of my fingerprint
And as I did
Sprang this wonderfully innocent music
Harmonies of such clarity and void of lies
Brought tears of sadness to my young eyes
As I laid them on this blue marble that houses our skies
Still bleeding itself dry
Spinning faithfully on the blackboard of life
Such grace
This wonderfully complicated dance of life
Never asked for anything in return
Except maybe the answer to a burning question
Why all this grownup warmongering?
Why?
When in the midst of all this hate and terror
Every kid in the world is born
With a natural instinct
To play
To laugh
To explore
And to celebrate
The precious gift of their newborn life.
Jul 18, 2015
Jul 18, 2015 at 7:41 AM UTC
Forget Portland and Austin and Santa Cruz.
Those famously strange places,
where the tourists gawk at local weirdos.
Here is not there.
Here is the place of advice such as:
“When life gives you meatballs put a wig on a dog.”
—True story.
Here is the place where:
“With all good things in life you just have to wipe the bird **** off.”
The place where steel and marble Confederate ghosts,
watch the wealthy renovate their westward homes along a cobblestone road.
Where paintings are propped to rot up in alleys,
and buzzing twenty-somethings on their way back from a show,
shake it and tilt it and carry it home.
—Gilded frame and all.
This is the place of painted concrete where walls are canvases,
and red bricks pop out of the ground,
the tree roots poking through to trip you.
Here’s where the People’s Beer comes from Milwaukee,
but we replaced the R in ribbon with here,
and sell it by the caseload when it rains and when it’s Tuesday.
Where young people go to find themselves getting lost becoming someone else,
remixing history to not admit naivety,
before they’ve been sandpapered through experience.
—To a core.
This is an ink-stained but not splattered place.
Where lines are careful, permanent and abundant,
and on Fridays can cost 13 bucks.
Here is the place where people roam like that restaurant rabbit:
listless and nomadic and stuck.
Where there’s a wild streak in its heart that follows the tracks,
and cuts the city in half.
This is the place that Carvers itself out into cultures,
and you can be from the Bottom,
or proud to be a Rat.
Here is where you night-drive over the bridge,
see the skyline and feel restlessly content.
Here is home.
—For now.
Nov 14, 2017
Nov 14, 2017 at 12:50 AM UTC
January 1st
Dear diary! It is my fondest
Wish to record all of life's
Little events so that someone
Might one day re-live the
Magical moments of my life!
February 5th
Spaghetti and meatballs for dinner.
Had an early night.
August 14th
What an enchanting evening!
I met the most beautiful woman,
Tall and elegant,
Long dark flowing hair,
Ruby red lips,
Oh how wonderful life is!
Her name is Sally!!!
August 16th
Sally came over for dinner!
She seemed a bit nervous until
I invited her in and then we
Danced through the evening,
How delightful she is,
And dare I say how ***** too!
As we were kissing goodnight,
She bit me!
August 17th
Woke up feeling terrible,
How much wine did we drink
Last night? Wrapped myself
Up in blankets and closed all
The curtains, weather outside
Is abominable.
August 18th
Awoke in the early hours
Feeling ravenous. How can
Anyone feel this hungry?
Raided the fridge but all
I could find was some
Stringy salad, nothing to
Sink my teeth into.
August 19th
I feel so ill, haven't eaten
Properly in days, I think that
I'm wasting away; Looked in
The mirror and I couldn't
Even see myself, I'm that thin!
I wish Sally was here right now.
August 20th
This hunger is unbearable,
I could ****** for some food,
My skin is looking so pale
And I feel dreadful; God I
Wish I was dead. I've been
Having weird dreams
About Sally, I think I've
Been hallucinating.
August 22nd
Roused from slumber by
Someone banging on the front
Door; Peeped round the curtains
And the light almost burnt
My retinas; Looked like some
Doctor collecting for the
Red Cross. I waited a while
And he drove off in his van.
August 23rd
Tonight I reached my limit;
Dragged myself to the car,
Hoping to nip to McDonald's
(Yeah, I'm THAT hungry), but
In this atrocious weather,
I was blind as a bat.
August 24th
Doctor van dude came back,
Couldn't face seeing him
So shouted through the
Letterbox, asked him to
Come back with a big steak,
I do so hope he does.
... diary entries end ...
Aug 21, 2014
Aug 21, 2014 at 2:04 AM UTC
It was midnight in Manhattan and the cats were out
they donned themselves with their scarves, and their masks
the caper was set to hit each flat
cause boy were they hungry for some tasty rats
To be in The Feral Cat Club was as cool as it got
See -they'd developed a language that kept them on top
Hell, they ran that town like a bunch of Capone's
but they ran in packs instead of alone
There was Fatty, n' Johnny, and Frankie n' Joe
paired up with Sally n' Bonnie, and Talkie n' Moe
between Broadway, and 42nd they made their move
Meow, meow, meeeeeeeeeeeow, said Fatty to Moe
(this was the call they needed to duck n' lay low)
It meant The Animal Cat wagon was passing by slow
Meow, mow, said Frankie to all
which told everyone he saw a major haul
Sally whispered she was tired of rats n' could they please try
a wonderful place they had all just passed by
it was the new restaurant with meatballs out back
(cause some lame waiter had thrown out a sack)
So they all had a vote, and the meatballs won
placing white napkins beneath furry whiskers for fun
They're all so glad that they've upgraded their style
Now when you see them they can do nothing but smile!
Nov 30, 2015
Nov 30, 2015 at 7:09 PM UTC
Parental love could shatter the eggshell persona of a rascal young man
who carved ***** rhymes into the boy’s bathroom stalls,
who doesn’t understand the point of deadlines,
who saves his milk money to spend on strike anywhere matches
to burn shed bark from the maple in the back of the park.
He remembers the days before mom rediscovered her vices;
the days when there were cocktail meatballs and Christmas cookies.
Those years he will never get back now seem stringy, translucent,
and barely clinging to the fault lines of a shifting mind.
One day he will think of those cookies and taste bitter almonds
as his checking account becomes overdrawn,
as the fix-a-flat in his tire doesn’t stop the escaping air,
as he slips into the warm blanket of Bombay Sapphire.
Apr 30, 2016
Apr 30, 2016 at 3:28 PM UTC
Meatballs
And close calls
He can never seem
To quit cleaning..
Master of the matrix
May just be maintaining
I'd hate to malfunction
Once I understand
how it all works
It's my fault....
And now your hurt
Eventually convinced
I might be cursed
Because I can't
Hear the call..
No longer
Probably be hobblin'
Over
higher
hurdles
soon
And surviving rougher seas
Than I have ever seen
But,
Nobody can wage
A War like me
Sooo
Bring it!
Oct 30, 2021
Oct 30, 2021 at 1:52 PM UTC
My best friend
clutched my fingers like an
oyster on its pink, luscious flesh,
and kissed me
once on each cheek,
in the manner of a ship forcing the sea apart when against the wind,
then shoved me excitedly to her father’s coffin,
and begun crooning to him how I’ve been a good girl,
and how my college grades were very exceptional,
with an air of a flighty tea-party mutual introduction
before giggling with the
lost, hollow smile of a drunkard.
In the kitchen,
her youngest brother
absently-mindedly whipped up a feast of
grainy meatballs,
their father’s favourite dish, he carefully explains,
with murky crow-claws etched beneath his peach-pink eyes
and a tipsy smile that reminded me of barbed wires,
before placing a bowl on the coffin
as if forcing his father to eat,
while the preacher majestically proclaimed outside,
with the red, jagged glare of the funeral lights,
about how it is God’s will to bring him,
to a better place.
Jul 14, 2015
Jul 14, 2015 at 6:37 AM UTC