"overcooked" poems
The Dutch brought art, mud and dirt of the Kathmandu heartland,
With cigarette smoke clouding the air, and pizzas in the oven.
Not overcooked, no medium rare, slight rounded, man-made
The ambiance was now of Rembrandt and Van Gogh,
Yellow with the hint of light.
Perhaps coffee, perhaps tea.
And delight in a conversation of philosophy.
Maybe you'll pay, maybe me.
The open doors swallow in the air of the monsoon,
with the enigma of ever binding books who stuck to the wall
Like wall flowers, some folded papers like petals of an unbloomed bud.
They all had smells better inhaled with tobacco smoke.
The music played, and people dance within the security of their thoughts,
The shelter for their thoughts, the flaws of their speech.
Memories,pure and bright radiated from the lamps above the bar,
Lights which come to us only in fallen stars, but wishful thinking
is dangerous.
Hence forget it like Dutch forgot the wars.
Memories are made here, where the humidity is heavy from the perfume of heavy smiles, or folded chins and forheads from a chess game.
Not hidden, no worries, around the corner.
But yet again man made.
Sep 7, 2014
Sep 7, 2014 at 8:32 AM UTC
Well Done.
She said, but don't ***** it up. Its a start.
How could I?
Your sauciness drove right thru my heart.
Will you please be my bottom bun?
Baby, you're my seed number one.
Sesame wants Sesayou
Tardy to your selfworth day party
Salty, and peppered with hardy haught looks
I've overcooked this simple match up
Maybe baby I'm plain ketchup.
Feb 23, 2018
Feb 23, 2018 at 4:48 PM UTC
Burning bodies in salted seas.
Pinching ***** along the dead beds.
Wet winds carrying the sharp flavour,
Of overcooked hot dogs and slutty beach bums.
Mar 30, 2013
Mar 30, 2013 at 7:52 AM UTC
Taking a sip from his mug.
Sugar, the vanilla and the cream
romancing.
I asked forgiveness,
this animated disposition,
a weak voice to comfort,
he never forgets the white chocolate,
the looking back.
Everything went still,
the conversation,
hot metal, pull the plug.
The tender puffiness,
the greatest,
the best seats.
It was time to
the timer of the oven
slowly
overcooked.
Dream of him, a phone call,
ashes.
His heart beating
wanting to be alone.
Jan 25, 2013
Jan 25, 2013 at 1:05 PM UTC
Cheesecake,
o’ Cheesecake.
I can still remember
the day you were born.
But how sad it was,
since your life only lasted for a couple of minutes
because
I ate you right away.
Your delicious fragrance,
arose
from your mom’s tummy, which was named
The Oven.
Your skin got tanner, and tanner
as your body grew;
luckily, you
were not overcooked.
I waited
for the moment you came out
and it was
magic.
Your stunning golden skin,
so tanned
and ****
I turned out being a beast
and you were the beauty
who caught my eyes
without a second delayed.
And the perfume you wore that day
smelled beautiful, too,
as if I would bite you
with hunger.
Mmm’ creamy flesh
with cheesy flavour,
spread in my mouth
every bit of yours.
You gave me a dilemma, since
I wanted you to live
for me
to embrace your beauty;
I wanted you to die
in my mouth
with satisfaction.
Your splendid funeral
in my stomach
was as great as many others’.
Don’t be sad
for leaving me soon
don’t regret
dying young.
I love you
and
I’m sure
one day soon you
will reincarnate
as another
Cheesecake baby.
Apr 18, 2016
Apr 18, 2016 at 12:21 PM UTC
i love that sound
a wind walks by and stirs the trees
that rushing breathing sound
the leaves make as the branches are swayed in the wind
i love the many voices of daylight
a lawnmower and childrens laughter
birds chattering
a small plane boiling overhead
pulling a sign for some event
i love the sound of summer
i love its taste
ice cold soda when your sitting on hot pavement
the texture of a overcooked hotdog at a ballpark
i love the taste of
your lips while you are sunbathing
sweat and sunscreen are an ****** mix
i love how summer tastes to my mind
it feels young
it tastes free
i reach up with incredible grace
****** the contrail from that jetliner far overhead
and tie it into a ribbon for your hair
there you go my lovely
you are a young french princess of the world
i love your taste most of all
you taste like love to me
May 15, 2014
May 15, 2014 at 8:31 AM UTC
I made some soup.
But it’s not for you.
It’s for me.
I don’t want you to change it.
It’s my soup.
Some people want to add some basil or maybe a little oregano.
But it’s my soup.
Some people think it’s too salty.
One person thought it’s too sweet.
But I told ‘em
f--k you.
I won’t change a thing.
It’s my soup.
Someone even tried to stir the ***
I grabbed the ladle
and bopped him on the head
I told him it was my soup.
Someone told me to turn up the heat
For what reason?
It’s a perfect temperature.
Someone else told me to turn down the heat.
I told him that would make it too cold.
It’s my soup.
Someone even told me I had to take some ingredients out.
But I love it the way it is.
It’s my soup.
Someone even tried to take a sip
The nerve!
It’s my soup.
Make your own.
Someone said I overcooked it.
I told her to leave me alone.
I like the smokey flavor.
To my horror, someone even tried to throw it out.
I grabbed the *** and put it back on the stove
Where it belongs.
This is my soup.
This soup…
is my life.
Sep 21, 2013
Sep 21, 2013 at 10:34 PM UTC
I've driven myself in
to the valley of deserted
Tears.
To where it's too hot,
while living is an isolation.
There's no river nor
lush forest around,
its as dry as the desert
sands, then humidity
strikes your nerves
that you'll feel
overcooked.
The crimson sky
Bleeds of its inking
Beauty...
I on the other hand
solidify my strength
to ease the burden
I carry, as i lift myself
Little by little towards
A meaningful step
For SURVIVAL!
© pax
Apr 23, 2017
Apr 23, 2017 at 11:09 AM UTC
Macaroni and cheese,
It will never cook for me,
It is a pimple on the face of humanity
The water is too watery,
The fire is too firey
The cheese is never too cheesy
Macaroni is the goal that I can never reach
It is the bird that will not screech
I think I want some peach.
Peach cobbler
Always such a blunder…
Are you overcooked-- or under?
Dec 16, 2015
Dec 16, 2015 at 10:44 PM UTC
I'm conscious I am a rambling idiot
I sometimes see a glimpse of sense,
Patterns created by me
I like to say I'm artsy
I know the real reality
I'm just a depressed mess,
Picking up trash and calling it crafts
Thinking I may have finally gotten it right,
I awake and it never changes
Life is thickening up fast like a poor made dessert
I just stand here with my fork, in hopes it'll cool down
My tongue is destroyed,
It no longer can take the burn
So be warned don't serve me overcooked confections
Dec 8, 2017
Dec 8, 2017 at 2:37 AM UTC
and the bus windows fogged by human heat became a part of this child, and the wooden roof rot recliner
for summertime phone calls, and the crying neighbor woman’s sticky mascara,
and the hot asphalt became a part of him…the sideways light on the trees fifteen before dark, and the tract
house mazes at night, and the hidden playground underground,
and the blooming jasmine over strangers’ fences…invisible barking dogs…and burnt bike wheel tracks,
and glittered marsh gorgeous and toxic,
and cherry tree lined freeway, and the bitter fruit afterward…and the purple grateful palms…and the
neighbor’s unbloomed roses;
and the car rides to Elsewhere, and the urban self-sufficience envy,
and the free tickets from the out of town hero…and the wild-haired directors pacing preshow
lobbies…and the squirming audience beer-in-fist…and the blush-stained sidelit Cordelias…and
the honest snickers clearing the building into the cold lot still and quiet,
and all the changes of city and country wherever she went.
The red couch, the red rug, the blue kitchen, the dying dog,
The star trek memorabilia, and the dusty book garage, and the overcooked rice leftover…
the weight of guilt, the thought if after all we deserve every ounce,
the streets themselves, and the midnight three block nightmare runs to safeway…and the barbeque smell from not-my-house,
and the ****** children stumbling to the bus,
the brass chimes that fell off the door, and the dead grass backyard blanket, and the overgrown fields
where your dad smokes *** and the heat wave transposed radio, and the bird nest window mold ,
And the lawn flamingos become a part of him or her that peruses them now,
flame retardant,
american canyon: The Gateway to Somewhere Else, hallelujah, hallelujah,
Amen.
Jun 12, 2011
Jun 12, 2011 at 6:27 AM UTC
We stared at the ceiling as it blackened from the lights turning off,
and the air chilling with every breath from the A.C.
Inch by inch we moved closer to each other
because we thought it was what we were supposed to do,
but little did we know that with each nudge
our electrons were sending spark signals
way before our bodies even thought about touching.
Like iron and sulfur, we synthesized
moving into each other's lives,
and leaving our pieces behind us,
swapping stories and secrets
in the cover of nightfall
with roaring laughter,
while our heads made permanent impressions
on their downy and memory foam petals
in the garden of wishes
we created.
Constantly I was with you,
just as the shore is never without the sea.
I became your shadow,
and followed you to your room,
and back again,
through the drug cartels of Mexico,
to the blizzards that lie beyond The Wall.
You became my greatest adventure
and showed me what lay beyond the door
I was always too frightened to open.
You earned a doctorate in my mannerisms,
becoming an expert on each temper tantrum,
and each shining grin that you always brought about
on the gloomiest of Wednesdays
when I ran out of milk for my cereal
and overcooked your mac and cheese.
You embraced every flaw I had,
like the father welcoming home the prodigal son,
and came to love every scar I accumulated,
thirty-eight in total,
from the hordes of others,
almost too numerous to count on ten fingers,
that constantly left me with a sewing needle,
and a bottle of Elmer's glue
to mend from each tumble
of their careless hands.
Every jagged edge of mine that cut your palms,
and left nicks on your fingertips
was smoothed by the rough edges of your beard,
and through scratchy kisses
from chapped lips.
You became my greatest blessing,
as well as my greatest weakness,
so now I constantly crave your pale face
spattered with freckles
and beautiful laugh lines
that congregate around
the warmest brown eyes
I have ever seen.
And I thought I loved you then, but
it definitely was nothing like I love you now, because
now I wake up next to you,
I make both of us coffee, and
push open the curtains to let in sunlight.
And when I wake up next to you,
I don't hate Mondays as much anymore,
And when I wake up next to you,
I feel safe,
because through the valleys of your sleeping lungs
I found where I belong.
I found my home.
Nov 28, 2013
Nov 28, 2013 at 3:03 AM UTC
It isn't just a flame
Burning within me
(cannot extinguish with your loving words)
It isn't only the rotten smell of overcooked thoughts
(I'd still love to eat their bitterness away)
Although it is...
It is me and my love for thee,
You who makes me a poet,
Who makes me feel enough to feel human
Whether it's sadness, happiness, hatred or jealousy
(oh that silly stinging heart of mine)
No... It's a contagious forest fire
Combusting my sanity towards those
Near you; Lived and living or loving
(how readily my tears want to burn them)
It's known it's not healthy
But you don't see it's my love anyway
Even when I am angry with you
(nothing that you're responsible for)
And mime my thoughts out to you
So you never understand.
By the time this forest obliterates,
It's all just too late to tell you,
And again,
The ash is buried inside,
Waiting to reignite,
Soon.
Jun 24, 2017
Jun 24, 2017 at 4:36 PM UTC
We stared at the ceiling, blackened
from the absence of light,
air chilling with every breath from the A.C.,
moving closer and closer
because we thought it was what we were supposed to do, but
our electrons were sending spark signals
before our bodies even thought about touching.
Like iron and sulfur, we synthesized
moving into each other's lives,
leaving our pieces behind,
swapping stories and secrets
in the cover of nightfall,
with roaring laughter,
our heads making permanent impressions
on their downy and memory foam petals
in the garden of wishes
we created.
And I followed you to your room,
and back again,
through the drug cartels of Mexico,
to the blizzards that lie beyond The Wall.
You, my greatest adventure
showed me what lay beyond the door
I was always too frightened to open.
You earned a doctorate in my mannerisms,
becoming an expert on each temper tantrum, each shining grin
that you always brought about
on the gloomiest of Wednesdays
when I ran out of milk for my cereal
and overcooked your mac and cheese.
You embraced every flaw I had,
came to love every scar I accumulated,
thirty-eight in total,
from the others,
almost too numerous to count on ten fingers,
that left me with a sewing needle,
and a bottle of Elmer's glue
each time.
And I thought I loved you then, but
not like I love you now, because
now I wake up next to you,
I make both of us coffee, and
push open the curtains
to let in sunlight. And I wake up next to you,
I don't hate Mondays as much anymore,
Because through the valleys of your sleeping lungs
I found where I belong.
Mar 3, 2014
Mar 3, 2014 at 12:38 AM UTC
I rediscovered you under my bathroom rug
I was rendered artistically silent
Blindly fighting
Fierce winds of consciousness and
Eternal sadness that
Tastes like ***** bathwater
Now I’m glowing
Aloft and permeated
The ***** dishes are right where we left them,
unfortunately
And you’ve gone and
Stolen all of my rosemary linens and
Devoured them
One by one
Plus –
I’ve overcooked the Dali Llama
Oh when will love’s agony end?
Don’t harden your eyes at me
Or lock me in the back of a limousine
I shall pour
liquid charcoal
methodically
into
your
moonlight
eyes
There are certain things you shouldn’t ever think too much about
Math for instance
Math,
Death,
and the reason you decide to get naked with someone
Dec 27, 2012
Dec 27, 2012 at 8:57 PM UTC
i just need that right moment
to run from this perfect amalgam of confusion and doubt
this overcooked stew of panic and frenzy
hide in a space where i could infinitely freeze
and stare out cold, stunned and lifeless
feel my heart take its sullen pause
and cry...damn, howl even
into the unreachable depths of sorrow
at the mind-boggling finality
of losing you...
i need to get over this.
the ending has got to be so clear
no ifs, no buts, no more gut-wrenching self-persecution
i need that ******* perfect moment
to nail this ******* coffin.
i need that precious moment to grieve
cash in my pure unadulterated mourning
my monumentally epic funeral
one that would put your self-loathing to shame
as i shed my shameless tears for you
for losing you,
the incredibly amazing you...
and for losing us,
the one-in-a-million Us.
when can I have that moment?
please?
Mar 3, 2012
Mar 3, 2012 at 1:14 PM UTC
You walk like your shoes are made of coals.
Restless,
dancing on your toes as you waltz
between the window
and the kitchen.
chiseling a weak smile between sallow cheeks.
You're wiping loose strands of auburn from your lips,
tucking them back into your greasy visor
and praying for 2 a.m.
And by the time it rolls around,
and you have been sick from the smell
of angsty undergraduates
and overcooked, pre-frozen meat patties,
you could collapse in the parking lot
and let the snow bury you till spring.
Marching across the lot,
into a grimy liquor store
purchasing your poison at a questionable bargain.
supper that warms you inside out,
takes you blissfully to sunny dreams,
leaving you in heap on the kitchen floor
every ******* morning.
Moving through your woozy wake-up call
of sprinting to the bathroom to surrender your shame,
and wipe away the traces of a cold night on a linoleum mattress,
your fingers slipped
while you attempt to piece together this china-doll visage
that you shattered every night
and the curling iron caught you on the neck,
a perfect metaphor for the day-in-day-out
that roasts you on a spit,
slow and searing,
wrinkled and
wrung out into the flames,
crisp and blackened
like the very meat you served me
between stale bread
this evening.
Don't succumb to our fires,
not in a place so fried by it's own hand.
Take your tips, little lady,
and climb aboard a Greyhound
Use those legs and skip to a different coastline.
breathe new air, kiss a new shore
and roast over the fire
somewhere with better *****
and a nicer view.
Dec 22, 2013
Dec 22, 2013 at 5:21 AM UTC
Better to be
than not be at all
Better to hang
than to fall
Better to be looked over
than over looked
Better to be baked
than overcooked
Better to frown
at the ground
than smile
at a falling sky
Better a toothache
than a heartache
or be found
with heart break
and die
so better to live
and to give
than take
like pancake
is better with
ice cream
than icing
on cake
Jan 6, 2022
Jan 6, 2022 at 12:04 AM UTC
Cryptic warnings in
dusty old books.
Lose floorboards and
cuts from fishing hooks.
Memories that aren't mine,
transferred over airwaves
and across time.
Lifetimes of bitter motes
metered out and measured in
Television tropes.
Sam and Diane until Rebecca
moved in.
I recall Coach's signature move,
taking it on the chin.
Frank until Winchester,
Better or worse,
Hawkeye and Trapper/BJ
ever perverse.
It's not who I am.
Not steps I've taken.
I remember it crisp as
overcooked Bacon.
Apr 20, 2014
Apr 20, 2014 at 11:32 PM UTC
He never asked me for anything.
His humbleness and fruitfulness grew on me
Without knowing that his hand could carve words into ellipticals and parabolas.
His cooking skills were awful,
but he can make a Ramen soup
That'll make your knees melt like overcooked chicken broth.
He was 24 when he first came to this country,
his English broken like the glass protecting his eyes,
He left African battlefields and deserts
To generate cereal boxes and lithium batteries.
His pockets stuffed w/ month-long receipts,
because he always wanted to keep track of where he spent his hard-earned money.
Nobody gave him a cup to **** in, much less a ***
But he always felt optimism grow in his foreign lungs,
swinging his voice like a hammer to build maturity,
to stand like golden shrines.
He’d pray every night to speak to his lord,
to ask God to help shape him into something a bit more,
like his shoulders were too weak to bear the struggles of his cries.
He works harder than ghosts to keep his heart in this world.
The Beach Boys were his favorite band when he first came here,
and he always babbled about Brian Wilson because he wrote poems.
He searches for lost poems that he's buried inside the mother of his children
He visualizes the pages of these poems,
writing themselves on the faces of his children.
He tries not to see too long, too hard,
because then he may see too much of himself inside his oldest son.
May 10, 2013
May 10, 2013 at 9:51 PM UTC
Dinner starts way past
midnight. But candles render
useless; the light, the moon,
the sky illuminates like skin,
golden brown, cooked
to perfection. I found the right
mix—ice in a form of smile,
the friction of skin, the aroma
of unyielding perfume in the air,
washing the odor of burnt
meal served for love.
Then bed was a melting ***
for tonight is a delicacy
in which you—I—become
a main course; we give
(to the ideology of sacrifice:)
the way we present ourselves
overcooked, overdone, but never
rare.
Sep 10, 2013
Sep 10, 2013 at 11:59 AM UTC
The journey of memory mealtime lane.
First stop, let’s get it over.
The painful place of supper time tension.
Watching the clock, start the race
To produce the evening prize.
Another plate – protein, vege,
A third of carbs is wise.
Table laid, stage is set,
But there’s a stomach-churning silence,
I’m staring at the wooden spoon.
His sallow face swallows and the
Fork shuffles, napkin placed on the pile.
His footsteps leave, we try to ignore
The deserted plate - talk and smile
Come on now, memory mealtime store
Fill me a tasty smell –
Grandmas’s larder – whole room devoted!
Crinkled brown paper nesting
Squares of brownies, gingerbread.
Eyes behold, like moons of light
Boubon biscuits, french sponge fingers.
Other worldliness, such a sight!
Now take me back to nice school dinners,
Waiting down the hall, up the playground steps.
Will treacle cake all have gone,
Just leaving rice and prunes?
Dreadful cold white mash potato scoops
Neatly spread apart.
My favourite - dark chocolate sponge
And jam pink marshmallow ****
Join me to sitting round
My family kitchen table,
‘Best bit is the skin,’ Dad and me agree.
He approves as I eat
My little sister’s potato jacket.
I’m good and there’s plenty
And we’re all feeling full.
Every plate eaten clean, completely empty.
I remember secretly sneaking
Opening tins and picking out pieces
Of chocolate from choc chip cookies.
By the window, our Kenwood soda stream,
It’s bottles like shop bought fizzy pop!
And Dad’s homemade wholemeal loaf
Unlike any bread from the shop.
My Sixth form packed lunch –
Two Ryvita sandwiches with a kipling cake,
A calorie counting diet
Eaten by morning break
Whilst writing the stove is forgotten
And now the smell of overcooked stew -
Burnt pan supper – a frequent memory.
I think I can save it, definitely cooked through.
Arriving at the end of mealtime lane,
A message to hang in the kitchen high above
Something I’ve learnt to remember,
That the food in our lives must be all about love.
May 23, 2021
May 23, 2021 at 5:09 PM UTC
Ecstatic in the sea breeze,
a magnanimous moment of
interloper pride ******* the day.
Uncoil—my heart, my chin,
my unglamorous abstinence
enforced by fear.
This is no lapse, but fury
and fortitude forging me
in the crucible of love.
Yet again I am up against it—
the stage of floating eyes and
overcooked feelings pawing
at my attention like
squids in a pool.
Ink and jelly in a room temperature soup
swirling and sloshing under
the authority of a rented room.
By gods, this time I’ll make it work—
plant leaves and blunderbusses
leaning against teal paint,
the sun really is on a fishhook.
Stand apart from me then and
judge the waters for what they are—
a storm too small to surface
in a sky too big to swallow.
I’m sweating in it
and the alarm clock is going off.
*bleet
bleet
bleet*
Too deep to turn back.
Too tired to go on.
This is where the end begins,
in the middle of it
with no ground at all.
Sep 3, 2025
Sep 3, 2025 at 7:47 PM UTC
I'm torn appart,
torn from the inside
torn between two forces
in me.
I am most definitely a misanthrope:
asexual, friendless, dysphoric, and even
ugly.
I struggle with life,
but I especially struggle with life around others.
You can call me shy or an introvert,
but I think there's something more to it.
Perhabs something in that desire
to erase the whole human race
and substitute it with a powerful computer
maybe capable of thought, definitely of science,
with luck art;
most certainly not capable of love,
and harm.
An unmoved observer of the world
would produce our random beauty with its ones and zeros,
and none of the pain.
Perhabs just my inability to enjoy being with others;
they are my species yet sometimes
I wish they were not.
I've always been shy.
I've always been an introvert.
Maybe I've always felt alone,
but not this alone.
I've never been this alone.
I've had friends,
real life human friends too,
but they are gone,
I no longer feel them,
they got tired of knocking at my walls for me to open up,
relax,
talk.
I used to be able to talk to them,
occasionally,
but I no longer can.
It's not their fault;
I'm just being misanthropic,
that's my thing now,
they better just move on.
But I do feel alone.
I imagine myself being loved
and it looks like a chimera:
it has fear's wings
and frustration's claws;
it has overcooked thoughts' head
and, worst of all, my body.
I imagine my life alone
and it looks so real I could touch it.
It is here.
This twenty years of preparation
where a lie,
design to sell me life
as a worth living experience with friends and family.
My friends are gone,
they are gone because I made them leave,
I am gone.
My family is here but they are not with me,
they would be better without me.
Is this the conclusion,
that life is not worth living
and everybody is, or would be, better without me?
Maybe it is.
Maybe I should.
Maybe I will.
Maybe I'll see you around
at the bottom
of the sea.
Jul 2, 2018
Jul 2, 2018 at 1:27 PM UTC
In the hopes of melodramatic expression,
We use overused combinations of words
To cook overcooked works of "completion",
But we never truly grasp
The hand of death,
Nor have we truly grasped
The possibilities this universe,
Or even beyond what this universe,
Provides.
We bounce the ball of clever word-play
On the playground of our understanding,
And though our playground's small,
We aggrandize it to be more;
In our heads, it reaches the shore,
And we play even in the fall
When we're not supposed to, sanding
down the ball with our bounces and our days.
Whether we wish for certain weather
To rain or shine on our heads,
Few will have that weather affect them
When they do not wish it so,
And they will be in the know.
They will hear the thunder through their phlegm
And they're the only ones to tell of it on their death bed.
They're the true poets, not us, whose spirits are still light as a feather.
Dec 16, 2012
Dec 16, 2012 at 6:32 AM UTC