"nicola" poems
*i think, you should stop going to italy, for one, oh **** me, keep going on hedonist piss-fuck fests to places like mallorca, but stop going to italy, you're making my stomach ache from laughter, with what you come back with, the so-called "innovations"; somehow i'd just poach my cauliflower, and drizzle it with fried breadcrumbs, and serve it as a side-dish to fried eggs (2), and some tatties; for goodness sake, even cauliflower cream soup makes more sense, garnished with some fried chorizo!*
first it was avocado on toast...
who the **** puts avocado on bread?
i can imagine putting it in pasta...
but on bread?
hey, what the **** does
the acronym f.a.d. mean?
i don't know, and i won't google it...
o.k. avocado on toast...
nothing near guacamole,
but fair enough...
but what i discovered... pushes
the button where i turn into a fox laughter
(fuchslachen) -
i couldn't stop...
you can find it in the weekend
section of the saturday times newspaper...
written by nicola m.
cauliflower and mozzarella pizza...
you have to be ******** me...
cauliflower? on pizza?
one of my housemates at university told
me an anecdote:
i was in a restaurant once,
and asked for a pizza with no cheese...
he continued:
and then the head chef came out and
asked me... are you, insane?!
a bit like: bread... but no butter?
and i thought i was insane eating a watermelon
today, whole,
the red pulp, and the outer layers including
the skin included, allowing myself
a gorilla imitation cameo gimmick...
but i thought i was mad...
but there's avocado on toast...
and now... cauliflower on pizza...
it's a ******* side-dish!
wait, don't tell me... you're going to put
some potatoes onto the pizza the next frizz
comes along... right?
how about beetroot?
thankfully, if i have some
wacky ideas in terms of culinary escapades,
they happen, drunk, after 12a.m.,
and i'm the scientist, and the experimental rabbit
2-in-1...
a newspaper column?
apparently, you get one, putting avocado
on toast...
or cauliflower on a pi-zzzzz-ah...
to be honest, even though i haven't tried it,
grilled aubergines on a pizza could work...
the toast? marmite and cheddar...
english people should stop glorifying holidays
in italy... they're ****** cooks...
an italian would just look at
a pizza with cauliflower and say: cosa?
i'd suggest heading to scotland first,
and picking up the vibes from some haggis.
**** me...
avocado on toast...
caulifower on a pizza?!
now i can die happy, 'appy,
clapping: encore!
Jun 10, 2017
Jun 10, 2017 at 2:54 PM UTC
I am the young girl running around the house,
looking for the pony,
on Christmas morning,
while the ship is slowly sinking,
in a manure flavored sea.
I am the armless tennis player that
is convinced he will defeat Roger
in less than an hour,
using just one ball, over and over again.
I am Roy Wright at the beginning of the trial,
with a big stupid smile in my pocket,
and a tinny black book in my soul.
I am the faithful survivor of unfaithfulness
and I will be the one that lands on his feet,
in Scottsboro heaven.
I am Bartolomeo V, the one with no vendetta,
having a croissant,
waiting for Nicola to shave, before we take off in one of
Rothko's paintings. May the 5th be
with the ones who actually did it.. and, you know what?
I honestly think Cronaca Sovversiva is a great title,
even though I haven't read the ******
thing and I have no sympathy,
whatsoever, for any anarchist.
Hell! It's hard for me getting my **** together in complete order. I don't want to think what would become of me
in complete anarchy.
I am the one that wakes up every day
with a stupid smile under his nose,
not remembering the scent of yesterday's failure.
The one that starts dreaming as soon as he gets up,
ignoring the fact that he might be an ignorant
*****
with no desire to go to outer space,
but with huge hopes up his sleeve for
M. Damon and his agricultural knowledge.
I am in favor of all fancy schmancy Earth saving knowledge,
and I am aware that all that space debris in my head
will do some serious damage one day.
If they ever figure out how to get it all in.
I am the tic, that will come after the tac-toe, this time, and not the other way around!
the encore of every good concert,
the yin for the panda ****
the slim leg for the flamingo,
the gambler,
the rambler,
the day rider.
I am the Syrian boy that just learned to swim and
all of this infinite blue soup
is nothing more than a Saturday stroll.
I will get in the back of that truck and I will breathe
the purest air that someone could ever breathe,
I will sleep the sleep of reason and monsters will not be produced.
You have my word!
I am the skin before the needle shoots up
all its ink.
I will be perky. I will be green.
Sep 15, 2015
Sep 15, 2015 at 5:58 AM UTC
Most people don’t know
That two halves don’t necessarily make a whole
Half a shoe plus half a butter knife makes something
infinitely more useless than either halves alone.
Or it makes something much more interesting
But still, whatever it is—it is not whole.
Most people want more
Than only half of things
I wonder: is it greed or just a desire for completion
And if something is complete, is it also whole?
And if someone were to search for long enough,
would they find the missing half to everything?
Unstructured Musings by Nicola Em is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial-NoDerivs 3.0 Unported License.
Oct 28, 2012
Oct 28, 2012 at 12:31 PM UTC
Nicola Sturgeon
Needs no urging.
Scottish trouble,
Let’s burst her bubble.
She wants to split the UK
And make it rubble.
Theresa May thinks she’s the dregs.
The papers? They only ask,
(Nicola and Theresa) -
Who’s got the better legs?
Paul Butters
Mar 31, 2017
Mar 31, 2017 at 2:17 PM UTC
Hey, baby
sing me a tongue lullaby
I’ll dance for you if you would like that.
Twirling along the lilt of your sounds
as you utter them syllable by syllable.
I find you in the darkness created
by the infinity of
whatever it is we feel and you sweep me
off my feet—literally—and fly with me
away inside the music you created.
By then it’s only you and me,
although it has been all along
and it’s your body
and it’s nobody; my body
Entwined in the kasbahs of eternity.
An Adaptation of a (Love?) Poem by Nicola Em is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial-NoDerivs 3.0 Unported License.
Oct 28, 2012
Oct 28, 2012 at 12:35 PM UTC
The dawning oasis
with vin d'une nuit drenching the sand
sees the good driven out
The long haired suitors
are voided by decree.
Storks bask in the sun,
as Saint Nicola's Paris jolt
ends before the carnival begins,
the fools largely spent.
Jul 9, 2013
Jul 9, 2013 at 2:33 PM UTC
The UK General Election has run its course.
A “win” for the Conservative Tories
With most votes and seats
Though they lost their parliamentary Majority,
And can only govern
By doing a deal with the Northern Irish DUP
Who oppose the rights of gays and women
And want to bring back hanging.
Yet Labour too are celebrating a win:
Halving the gap between the Tories and themselves
And winning loads of votes and seats.
OK they finished fifty odd seats behind,
But hey!
And then the Libdems “won” four more seats.
Plus The Greens held Brighton by a merry mile.
The Scottish Nationalists still got thirty five seats,
In spite of Nicola Sturgeon calling for
Another referendum on independence.
Sinn Fein in Northern Ireland got more seats too.
And the Welsh limited their damage by Labour.
“Winners” all, except for UKIP.
That’s politics.
Until the next election.
Which might be fairly soon.
Paul Butters
Jun 11, 2017
Jun 11, 2017 at 5:48 AM UTC
It's funny how easily,
The lies slip,
From my lips,
'Are you okay, Nicola?',
Of course,
I tell them all,
(Except for him, of course),
Lies, lies, lies,
It's obvious I'm dying,
But it's for their own good,
Love trumps morals,
If they knew...
It would all be over,
Just not in the way,
I want it to be
Jan 24, 2011
Jan 24, 2011 at 12:22 PM UTC
her face a world all its own
eyes of chocolate earth, full of stars and moons, comets and constellations. betwiching and bedazzling
Hair a red waterfull of love cascading down, lightdances through this red river like a thousand playfull faries, painting shades of passion, and tones of joy, your hair sings a love song to me, a harp made from a thousand red strands, plucking a silent melody heard only by my quiet heart.
lips a seductive dance, played out by passion and desire, how many hidden secrets do they hold. every word spoken a dazzling tango. if only my lips could dance with yours, this dance is kiss and a kiss is everlasting bliss.
Oct 26, 2011
Oct 26, 2011 at 6:18 AM UTC
She wanders around trying to smile,
A brave face,
The picture of denial,
Tries to hide the hurt that grows,
Scared of rejection,
The youth and innocence that no one knows.
Nicola Bolt was working at staying strong,
A road often travelled,
Her journey is too long,
Scared of speaking out, of causing a revolt,
Afraid of crumbling below,
The poor lost soul of Nicola Bolt.
Aug 28, 2012
Aug 28, 2012 at 5:21 AM UTC
for Kate and Nicola and Wayne and Paul and Cameron and Skye and Kylie and Nathan and Cameron and the weird guy next door.
Here’s to you, my crazy friends
You ******** misfits too cool for my school
But you liked me anyway, you let me
read you my book of poems
You played Bone Machine while I was tripping
We walked through the suburbs looking for fairies,
We slept with each other despite my huge crush on you
You liked me anyway.
You taught me to smoke ****
To stop hating on op shop clothes while
I wore Country Road and cashmere vests.
We watched the sun come up, smelling of sweat
and drugs and DJs’ last hurrahs and dark old
warehouses, kerosene fire batons and your menthol
cigarettes.
I gave you Siddhartha and Guildenstern and Rosencrantz,
though it wasn’t the first time.
I loved it all: the guitars, the punk chords, the dodgy old houses
in run down parts of West End,
the random houses, the secret nights smoking your
Champion Ruby in my old *** pipe because we’d
run out of **** and Henry Miller wouldn’t settle for just plain *****
Bohemian Cafés and curries,
girlfriends turned turncoat then lesbians,
your secret *** parties that I never found out about ‘till years later
your Mezz Mezzrow typewriter and bright candles of novel beginnings
that never saw the light of day. Her sweet little hips showing a little too
clearly with the the shining light from inside as it lit her silhouette on
your balcony. I miss you guys, with your madness your friendships and
deep inner hipness that wasn’t in me.
So it’s years later now, we’re old and I ain’t seen you in years.
Wayne showed up in a café one day with CDs of his latest, still cool
I was studying Mandarin, and I wanted to reconnect
He gave me his number but I didn’t call him, I can’t explain why.
You showed up one day, “weren’t you going to come and say hello?”
I was but I still don’t know how.
Dec 16, 2015
Dec 16, 2015 at 6:50 AM UTC
Because your smile is the truest I have ever seen
and your love for others
The most
-Nicola Sarah Soekoe
Oct 18, 2012
Oct 18, 2012 at 4:06 AM UTC
Her name was Nicola.
She adored the sky.
A natural born traveler.
Who loved being outside.
This was her favourite view.
Dec 16, 2014
Dec 16, 2014 at 8:04 PM UTC
When our lives are written
From the ink and numbers
That make up the universe
So we will find our way
By the light of the stars and the sea
May 25, 2020
May 25, 2020 at 6:21 AM UTC
Hace ya medio siglo
don nicola creía
que el lascivo prostíbulo
y el discreto vestíbulo
eran lo mismo
por entonces las vírgenes
besaban a sus novios
en el vestíbulo
y los novios seguían
cursos de **** básico
en el prostíbulo
ahora las casas vienen
con poquísimas vírgenes
y sin vestíbulo
y los hombres de empresa
exigen cinco estrellas
en el prostíbulo
ay don nicola
por fin tus dos palabras
son una sola.
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