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"paprika" poems
first I smell myself. the deep bass tonality of my musk, hot, creamy, sweetness unique, of coffee and creamy, my owned sweat oiled secretions massaged into her skin emplaced by vigorous parts rubbing and tongue caressing, under the fading shadows of my glancing, desirous admirings then I smell herself. sinking sunset glimpses of last nights parfume parfait, scattered in random strategic locations architecturally planned, some flavors come over me like modest waves, others spelunking found in crevices, cracks and caves, where humans tread in guileless search of guiltless pleasure then I smell our sharings. lemon and thyme, paprika, sea salt and pepper, a basted rub laid upon animal skin consuming, and consumed, the vinaigrette balsamic and California yellow raisins, pine nuts, decorating leaves of red soil spinach and spicy arugula, word salads, so miraculously ingenious, you swear off eating flesh then I smell our combinations. the air conditioned atmosphere that blends us properly chilled, the olive oils pressed from two colored differing skins, the mortal and pestle finely grinding our own fresh crumbled dirt, appearing in places where dirt is wet panko crumbs encrusting us, our combined liquidity, shaken and stirred, drying in martini tandem it is 8:17am and this recipe of reciprocity, at its most pungent peaking, for soon raining waterfalls of potable city water and the sophistry of French soap, the pseudoscience of modern chemical shampoo, together erasing, scrubbing away this poems aromatherapy tapestry, your perplexed complexing nostrils will mock you once more, for ever disbelieving, thinking you could no longer write of only love poetry that crested high above the trite Friday, March 29 2019
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Mar 29, 2019
Mar 29, 2019 at 8:40 AM UTC
The Aroma of Us
first I smell myself. the deep bass tonality of my musk, hot, creamy, sweetness unique, of coffee and creamy, my owned sweat oiled secretions massaged into her skin emplaced by vigorous parts rubbing and tongue caressing, under the fading shadows of my glancing, desirous admirings then I smell herself. sinking sunset glimpses of last nights parfume parfait, scattered in random strategic locations architecturally planned, some flavors come over me like modest waves, others spelunking found in crevices, cracks and caves, where humans tread in guileless search of guiltless pleasure then I smell our sharings. lemon and thyme, paprika, sea salt and pepper, a basted rub laid upon animal skin consuming, and consumed, the vinaigrette balsamic and California yellow raisins, pine nuts, decorating leaves of red soil spinach and spicy arugula, word salads, so miraculously ingenious, you swear off eating flesh then I smell our combinations. the air conditioned atmosphere that blends us properly chilled, the olive oils pressed from two colored differing skins, the mortal and pestle finely grinding our own fresh crumbled dirt, appearing in places where dirt is wet panko crumbs encrusting us, our combined liquidity, shaken and stirred, drying in martini tandem it is 8:17am and this recipe of reciprocity, at its most pungent peaking, for soon raining waterfalls of potable city water and the sophistry of French soap, the pseudoscience of modern chemical shampoo, together erasing, scrubbing away this poems aromatherapy tapestry, your perplexed complexing nostrils will mock you once more, for ever disbelieving, thinking you could no longer write of only love poetry that crested high above the trite Friday, March 29 2019
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34
slept and soaked the sabbath Saturday away. the body, achey breaky, cranked and croaked, slewed by a slew of common miscreants. one, a stitch in my side, feeling like someone's inside, wanting to be born, feet first, coming out the side of my chest, instead of my ****** so, promised poems and bills to pay, put aside for a more poetic bill paying day. awoke once near midday, an unusual wake up call, my nostrils do attend, when the honey odors of cinnamon and vanilla invade the french shores of my subconscious. I love three things French: the elegance of their language grande, their frenchified fries and frenchified toast. was fed some french toast, bathed in vanilla and cinnamon, thus drugged, went back to bed again. as I drifted off for the third time today, heard the woman dramatic say: "must have, must have," two words that I from my past, consider a curse, a grave phrase of choice of my ex-wife, her way of saying I didn't measure up. *must have paprika to roast your chicken for Sunday dinner.* relieved beyond measure, as I to dreamless sleep dispatched, vague recall a poem forming about the spices in my life.
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Feb 22, 2014
Feb 22, 2014 at 5:33 PM UTC
The Spices of Life - Cinnamon, Vanilla and Paprika
Alta cocina in Cochabamba for eight, It’s llama for lunch accompanied by An Andean black rice which I find Is quinola, which is easy to like if You are already committed to llama. This llama for lunch in Paprika, is good I wonder if gauchos lasso them from two Meters, at least, to ensure, they don’t spit This is why Blazing Saddles used cows, Makes the movie more macho methinks.
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Mar 6, 2014
Mar 6, 2014 at 5:34 AM UTC
Llama for Lunch
no dead birds in the oven no innards in the stuffing nor fatty drippings to be scraped and poured the smell of roasted veggies wafts through the wintry air pumpkin and sweet potatoes marshmallows green beans lentils turnips & collard greens hashed browns & black-eyed peas quinoa sorghum cuscus hummus carrots leak broccoli Romanescu gumbo in southern regions wild rice dishes in the north tastily spiced with turmeric cumin and baked paprika Indian curry soy sauce chipotle as well as with the usual suspects of garlic salt and pepper and whatever fits the taste of hosts in short a venerable feast to demonstrate how nature feeds us a large cornucopia of plants for our delight and sustenance in short no need to **** a bird * * *
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Nov 27, 2015
Nov 27, 2015 at 4:46 PM UTC
VEGAN THANKSGIVING
Chick peas et al Garbonzo beans' a machine with blades, the means. Tahini, lemon juice and a red pepper flakes, A chipolte in abodo, smoked paprika, is what it takes. Roasted red pepper, garlic too, touches on the button, The roar, whirr and with the sounds blending till done. Salt and pepper to taste, Not too much or it is a waste,   Not to little or, well, you know, A hint of red just shows. With your crusty bread, dig in like you hold a shovel, Two handed flavour, taste and bite into that crusty bread, Flavour moves and sends a smoky heat sensation to a new level, Hope this is the best tasting poem that you have read!
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Dec 19, 2012
Dec 19, 2012 at 2:05 AM UTC
Spicy Red Pepper Hummus with Crusty Bread
You're a little pastry box wrapped in blue tissue paper. You’re the first bite into every brownie, every **** every pie, every cute little confection. You're that thin ribbon of caramel across a layered slice of cake, You're the sugar still lingering on my recipes, the little puffs of flour with each turn of a page. You're that extra dash of cocoa and that sprinkle of vanilla and the egg stained finger prints on jars of paprika and cinnamon and nutmeg. You're the soft crack of a brown egg, the raw taste of extra batter.. The sizzling butter in the bottom of a pan You're every scent of spices and salts and frosting and the sticky sweetness of glazed honey. You're the walnuts and sprinkles on top of last summers birthday cake. You're the peppermint sensation on the roof of my mouth and the sweet flavoring on the tip of my tongue. You're the delicate drizzle of chocolate over a homemade batch of sugar cookies, the finishing touch.
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Jun 4, 2012
Jun 4, 2012 at 4:45 PM UTC
What I found in the back of the cupboard...
Be afraid. The breakdown of civilization is at the hands of our well-meaning, overly thrifty, spoon-wielding mothers. Be very afraid. They are entranced by spices and covering condiments, pepper and powder, onion and garlic galore. Gingerly they add cumin and dill, cinnamon, nutmeg or cloves with thyme to add sage and curry, parsley, paprika and allspice. Their casseroles become zombie food as the dead reanimates. These cheese-added monsters, hungry for mystery-meat, render brains to mush and bind our bowels. They stiffen our gait with numbness and nausea until we are rendered victims of another pepto-pandemic. And in the night of the living dead, feeding us salt in a casserole apocalypse, we panicked victims become the casseroles we consume. Now paralyzed in fear by the light of the open refrigerator.
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Dec 15, 2011
Dec 15, 2011 at 1:00 PM UTC
In a Casserole Apocalypse
In this tightly interwoven tapestry of silks and cottons softness upon stems an intricately-boned journey manifesto of life I find myself in patchwork landscapes of ochre and rust turning turquoise earthern shades of cumin and cardamom cloves and coriander piquant red of paprika alighting the senses My fingers reach out to sift the powder to crush fragrant fronds of fresh basil and oregano upon the blueprint of tips allow their scent to permeate my skin and infuse tissue of tongue and lips and I seem to be in this bustling marketplace my blood afire like dried ghost pepper searing and brightening all flavors fenugreek and asafoetida to soothe the ache of emptiness chervil and chive to get juices flowing I want to slit open vanilla pods get at the beans revel in their essence wear it all over me In this realm of spice and paradise I am flying, a magic carpet of dreams unrolling before me like an unfurled flag of new existence The sounds of hagglers, fading in raw visons of shiny apple colors olives piled high textures of smooth cherry budded broccoli of walnut wrinkles aroma of guava Music takes over I am in a cloud of oud and lute syncopated tabla bells and rumbling taut skin drum beats Or is that long low whir simply my heart purring to the cadence of freedom's call? I only know that in the whisk of a second's split I will savor the flight and also the fall
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May 6, 2017
May 6, 2017 at 4:51 PM UTC
spice and paradise
Just bought some capsicums Big,round, fresh capsicums Sweet and sour chicken in the menu some fresh tomatoes, ginger and onions A great recipe from mom's kitchen, doesn't it sound and smell awesome? green and red capsicums on the table Take a sharp knife to cut them into halves Paprika adds  flavor to my chicken recipe The taste I must adore... Surprise Surprise...  almost trip from the kitchen stool A sharp knife falls on the kitchen floor The green capsicums screams in despair... " Are you really cutting me to pieces?" And the red capsicums yell, " Cut the greens not the reds?" Is this my imagination ? Am I cooking in a dream? capsicums can speak? Oh.. They really speak... and pleading me to omit them from the recipe... Again I look at the pretty capsicums.. Deciding whether to cook them or not To capsicum I offer this thanks, when needing something like peppers It's you I very much adore, Without, this recipe is lacking in so many ways. Decided! In mom's kitchen There is no compromise Pretty capsicums green and red... In my cooking *** you go.....
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Jul 2, 2013
Jul 2, 2013 at 11:41 AM UTC
Pretty capsicums...
L’épicerie «Mozabite» d’Akbou S’il y a un lieu dont je me souviens, C’est de l’épicerie d’Akbou, située dans la rue centrale. J’y accompagnais mes parents, et pénétrais dans cette échoppe avec tous mes sens en éveil, surtout pour humer les senteurs mêlées des jarres d’olive et de piments rouges. L’épicier était Mozabite, avec des pantalons bouffants. Le roi des commerçants du lieu, car dans l’espace resserré jamais rien ne vous y manquait dans cet incroyable fatras où le «Mozabite» faisait ses choix. vous tirant toujours d’embarras. Il y avait des tonneaux d’olives vertes ou noires dans leur saumure avec ce goût qu’elles ont : «là-bas.» et puis ces senteurs mélangées de menthe, paprika, cumin des parfums de fleur d’oranger. et à la belle saison des dattes pendaient les «reines» : «Deglet Nour» Parmi toutes ces friandises Il en est deux qui pincent mon coeur Cette galette ronde et si tendre la «Kesra» plus tendre que le pain. et les sacs remplis de semoules qui sont la base du «Couscous» Kabyle Alors que l’agneau est son prince Merci à l’épicier d’Akbou qui sut si bien aiguiser nos sens. Paul d’Aubin (Paul Arrighi) Toulouse - février 2014.
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Feb 22, 2014
Feb 22, 2014 at 5:03 PM UTC
L’épicerie «Mozabite» d’Akbou ( Kabylie in Algeria)
Once upon a mealtime When salt had gone away He had left in such a hurry And with no sub to work his day Poor pepper started panicking Mostly missing his dear mate But also with a worry If he alone would taste so great So he soon sent out a message To all the pots upon the shelf 'Partner needed quickly, I can't dust dinner by myself' So suddenly came rescue In fact response was vast The rest of all the condiments Took triumph for him fast First of course came ketchup So used to being shared But pepper didn't quite believe That they would be best paired Then came Mr Mayo With a winning stance he stood But too eager for the winning Pepper didn't think him good In butted boisterous barbecue Believing there was no other Unless there could be any left Of his favourite sweet chilli brother But pepper wanted neither For he cared about this dish And they came in heavy servings Which wouldn't be salts wish Still with plenty choice left He looked upon his friends Mustards, chutneys and pickles Fine flavours they'd all lend But then he heard herbs and spices Who were giving a loud shout 'If you want salt not to be needed Then you'd best not leave us out!' This quickly made him realise That the best friends he could make Would come not squeezed all over But served with a gentle shake So he rounded up the shakers But he wouldn't work them all 'You're right you'll help me nicely But who mostly? It's your call' The chilli taking charge of things Addressed pepper with this test 'Well what is this dish we're warming And we'll tell you what works best?!' When they looked upon the oven hob They saw mix of veg and meat Chopped finely and frying in a pan Slowly taking up the heat So suddenly they knew now Who would win the role to take Cajun and paprika A fine taste they surely make So shaked upon the cooking It was served with a success No one need ever know That peppers day had been a mess So later in the evening When salt stumbled his way home His apologies were heartfelt 'I'll never leave you all alone' But pepper soon forgave him He said 'there, there, it's ok' For now he knew the secret Of how to cook in the best way
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Sep 18, 2015
Sep 18, 2015 at 11:54 PM UTC
Once upon a mealtime
Once upon a mealtime When salt had gone away He had left in such a hurry And with no sub to work his day Poor pepper started panicking Mostly missing his dear mate But also with a worry If he alone would taste so great So he soon sent out a message To all the pots upon the shelf 'Partner needed quickly, I can't dust dinner by myself' So suddenly came rescue In fact response was vast The rest of all the condiments Took triumph for him fast First of course came ketchup So used to being shared But pepper didn't quite believe That they would be best paired Then came Mr Mayo With a winning stance he stood But too eager for the winning Pepper didn't think him good In butted boisterous barbecue Believing there was no other Unless there could be any left Of his favourite sweet chilli brother But pepper wanted neither For he cared about this dish And they came in heavy servings Which wouldn't be salts wish Still with plenty choice left He looked upon his friends Mustards, chutneys and pickles Fine flavours they'd all lend But then he heard herbs and spices Who were giving a loud shout 'If you want salt not to be needed Then you'd best not leave us out!' This quickly made him realise That the best friends he could make Would come not squeezed all over But served with a gentle shake So he rounded up the shakers But he wouldn't work them all 'You're right you'll help me nicely But who mostly? It's your call' The chilli taking charge of things Addressed pepper with this test 'Well what is this dish we're warming And we'll tell you what works best?!' When they looked upon the oven hob They saw mix of veg and meat Chopped finely and frying in a pan Slowly taking up the heat So suddenly they knew now Who would win the role to take Cajun and paprika A fine taste they surely make So shaked upon the cooking It was served with a success No one need ever know That peppers day had been a mess So later in the evening When salt stumbled his way home His apologies were heartfelt 'I'll never leave you all alone' But pepper soon forgave him He said 'there, there, it's ok' For now he knew the secret Of how to cook in the best way
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72
Basil, paprika, cold Hungarian goulash, bleu cheese and stale cinnamon coffee cake dominate the taste of  your mouth and skin; it’s not because you are slovenly that pulls me into you, I am alone.
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Dec 21, 2016
Dec 21, 2016 at 9:09 AM UTC
Thirty four words on desire
I have no idea what to say. I don’t know what I believe in. I do know what I don’t believe in, though. I don’t believe in god. Or any salvation, really. I don’t believe in sheltering opinions and coddling students. I don’t believe in censorship. I don’t believe in the idea that we should teach by word of mouth instead of leading by example. I don’t believe in hitting children as a form of discipline. I don’t believe in authority that abuses power in order to **** anything in their way. I don’t believe in searching through your daughters text messages to find out if she’s in trouble in place of fostering a relationship that allows open communication with her so that she doesn’t need to hide. I don’t believe in hanging threats over people’s heads in lieu of the things they have done when they were a different person. I don’t believe in kicking people while they’re down by telling them that “someone somewhere out there has it much worse than you do.” I don’t believe in hurting for everyone equally at the same time. I don’t believe in painting my nails purple. I don’t believe in vegetable juice. I don’t believe in veganism. I don’t believe in paprika or leprechauns either. Hell, I don’t really believe in anything– and that, I can believe.
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Nov 15, 2015
Nov 15, 2015 at 6:30 AM UTC
This, I Believe
~~~ when between the table and the fridge, she wishes to pass, and I, obstacle roundly present, am alerted by a gentle squeeze of my *** happily acknowledging the purposed duality of her **cheekiest, sweetest, signal given** ~~~ a food array presented, paprika colored roasted chicken, spaghetti squash salted, salad with cranberries, candy walnuts, even raisins hidden within and all before me placed she objects little, with eyes silent uplifted like two pie rollers in striking position, when I commence to sup, with my just dessert of apple crisp, that by coming first, is grandly philosophized, that today, "the last shall be first" ~~~ she wakes me prematurely, her only cause, the intruding concept of her successfully doing the telling, first one to win the everyday claiming race, the first to say on this day, I love you foremost and also, "haha I win" **** it** ~~~ miscreant me, happy loafer, habitual offender of other things that the censors here, would not permit explicitly disclosing, for which she looks wise away, mumbling only "half of his addiction to cinnamon raisin loaf, still, far, far, better than none" ~~~ I know she loves me cause: 1) she likes unfailingly every one of my poems (a half truth) 2) she loves best, faithfully, those she loves the best, that are the ones that release, without permission asked, those that come with a side of tissues, at the ready, to be emergency issued those tissues I call, the ladies-in-waiting for the gentlest stream of tears
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Feb 3, 2016
Feb 3, 2016 at 6:00 PM UTC
five for fighting (or loving)
~~~ when between the table and the fridge, she wishes to pass, and I, obstacle roundly present, am alerted by a gentle squeeze of my *** happily acknowledging the purposed duality of her **cheekiest, sweetest, signal given** ~~~ a food array presented, paprika colored roasted chicken, spaghetti squash salted, salad with cranberries, candy walnuts, even raisins hidden within and all before me placed she objects little, with eyes silent uplifted like two pie rollers in striking position, when I commence to sup, with my just dessert of apple crisp, that by coming first, is grandly philosophized, that today, "the last shall be first" ~~~ she wakes me prematurely, her only cause, the intruding concept of her successfully doing the telling, first one to win the everyday claiming race, the first to say on this day, I love you foremost and also, "haha I win" **** it** ~~~ miscreant me, happy loafer, habitual offender of other things that the censors here, would not permit explicitly disclosing, for which she looks wise away, mumbling only "half of his addiction to cinnamon raisin loaf, still, far, far, better than none" ~~~ I know she loves me cause: 1) she likes unfailingly every one of my poems (a half truth) 2) she loves best, faithfully, those she loves the best, that are the ones that release, without permission asked, those that come with a side of tissues, at the ready, to be emergency issued those tissues I call, the ladies-in-waiting for the gentlest stream of tears
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62
paper person paprika kaleidoscope papaya yahoo! papa papoose papacy cyan
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Mar 15, 2014
Mar 15, 2014 at 11:43 PM UTC
Smear
*I busted my brains open and scooped out the raw flesh and useless ****** material only to replace it with dashes of schizophrenic paprika and hits of new world ordered acid....*
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Aug 12, 2016
Aug 12, 2016 at 2:35 PM UTC
Paprika And Acid
"you sack of crap," i spit, broken cigarette clamped between my lips. speeding by the rIver at maybe or 60 street lamps whipping by like faeries. i'm drunk we're all drunk beer cans in the glovebox, on the seats under us, filling the car up to our ears, filling the trunk, i swerve and suddenly i'm home. i clamber up stairs, throw the door open collapse on my bed and pass out. and that's when i dream these visions come to me of grinding teeth, flames, screaming there's a beautiful woman, completely naked but instead of human legs she's got horse's legs "what the **** i say to here, "let's get goin" and she says "you'd take any woman that could fog a glass, wouldn't you?"and i say "no, just ones with horse legs" and then i wake up. it's morning now. i feel sick, hungry, hungover, tired, and forget all about the ominous dream for the time being. i put some eggs to boil i go outside and have a cigarette and while i'm sitting there i remember that night there was a bunch of people, and drinking speeding through space time, what strangeness this all is. all humans, some of us drink to forget but i drink to remember. it's metaphysical, it's important, more important than money or what the **** ever. i go back inside i run cold water, peel the eggs, it's difficult, the shell keeps pulling off chunks of egg with it. i get frustrated and spit "sack of crap," and take a bite of the egg. mouth full of shell shards, cutting my gums, the egg wasn't fully cooked. i pour mustard and paprika on it anyway and eat it. i get the sense that my life is a metaphor but instead of thinking about it i go get drunk.
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Aug 11, 2011
Aug 11, 2011 at 8:15 PM UTC
yolky
"you sack of crap," i spit, broken cigarette clamped between my lips. speeding by the rIver at maybe or 60 street lamps whipping by like faeries. i'm drunk we're all drunk beer cans in the glovebox, on the seats under us, filling the car up to our ears, filling the trunk, i swerve and suddenly i'm home. i clamber up stairs, throw the door open collapse on my bed and pass out. and that's when i dream these visions come to me of grinding teeth, flames, screaming there's a beautiful woman, completely naked but instead of human legs she's got horse's legs "what the **** i say to here, "let's get goin" and she says "you'd take any woman that could fog a glass, wouldn't you?"and i say "no, just ones with horse legs" and then i wake up. it's morning now. i feel sick, hungry, hungover, tired, and forget all about the ominous dream for the time being. i put some eggs to boil i go outside and have a cigarette and while i'm sitting there i remember that night there was a bunch of people, and drinking speeding through space time, what strangeness this all is. all humans, some of us drink to forget but i drink to remember. it's metaphysical, it's important, more important than money or what the **** ever. i go back inside i run cold water, peel the eggs, it's difficult, the shell keeps pulling off chunks of egg with it. i get frustrated and spit "sack of crap," and take a bite of the egg. mouth full of shell shards, cutting my gums, the egg wasn't fully cooked. i pour mustard and paprika on it anyway and eat it. i get the sense that my life is a metaphor but instead of thinking about it i go get drunk.
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57
my mom showed us how to love taught us love in a kitchen I love you - wash the carrots I love you - mix the batter I love you - grease the pan I love you - 250 degrees fahrenheit I'd like to peel an orange throw the rind at your face take turns kneading bread have a pancake flipping contest So let's rummage though the spice drawer rub cinnamon on your skin let the thyme sink into your palms breathe in the anise, exhale paprika sprinkle pepper over your thighs toss salt over your shoulder kiss me with vanilla between your teeth touch me with hands steeped in cardamom slip on the linoleum kick up the curry put the kettle on make it sing smash a tomato between our hips throw everything left into cast iron and simmer on low for 3 days I love you - mince the garlic I love you - don't burn yourself I love you - pass the butter I love you - smash the plates I love you - stir stir stir so honey? sugar? flour? eggs? you grab the spice rub and I'll set the table
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May 27, 2014
May 27, 2014 at 1:27 AM UTC
Kitchen Love
there are spices inside you your tongue may be blind to, but i pick up on them! i love the taste it makes when you splash into the world in singing patterns of these particular flavors. flakes of the peppers you picked dried out as you listened to Explosions in the Sky on vinyl, and thyme your parents bought from the grocery store. the basil you borrowed from your best friend, Jess i tasted the red hots of your honest thoughts and fell so deep in love i had to scream i'm too weak i'm too weak and come back one day trying to find that taste so i'm working on recipes, messes of rosemary, puddles of parsley puffs of paprika and plenty of thyme 'til good taste will come again just like a nursery rhyme?
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Jun 7, 2017
Jun 7, 2017 at 8:14 PM UTC
recipe for love?
Porkchops Waiting in the living room laid across the leather couch. I could smell the flour from the kitchen. Infused with garlic powder, pepper, old bay the right amount of paprika. Watching her coat them, gentle like baby powder during a changing. The grease sizzles like tap dancers across marble floors. Watch the delicate flip, she’s rougher when she rubs my nose. Sounds then become single Raindrops hitting a metal roof. The meat rises to the top of the pan They are cooked.
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May 15, 2014
May 15, 2014 at 9:40 PM UTC
Porkchops
pimiento angeldust, where have you been all my life? though I wish I met you sooner let's not bemoan days gone by but start now in agape mouth with a thorough intro upon eggs and 'cado and this tongue that loves you so
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Apr 7, 2017
Apr 7, 2017 at 4:19 PM UTC
smoked paprika
Food Of a sort Don't eat the aromatics though Massive indigestion may follow Appreciate what you can consume Potatoes, paprika, meat and oats are awesome
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Mar 22, 2017
Mar 22, 2017 at 12:25 AM UTC
low FODMAP: an acrostic
If only poets could also be perfumers, imagine the wonders they could bottle (as I am no poet, forgive this concoction, but I couldn't resist). It smells like our love, give it a whiff. Those top notes you smell? Scales of butterfly wings and paper, new guitar strings and pollia berry. You can catch a slight odor of your much-hated fish fins (I swore you were a child of the ocean). It gets deeper at the heart, excuse my pun and irony (your heart turned out more shallow than my bathroom sink). Here tequila meets ***** the night bleeds into day. An orchid on the verge of rot, a mouthful of condensed milk and tears to kiss away the growing, gaping **** Only near the end notes does this spell truly break (so forgive the “midnight” reference I put in the formula). When you smell the crushed angel wings and blood-soaked, shattered chandelier, a paprika heart beating wildly, remember the smell of bruises and nightmares. I trust you need no recipe to recreate this masterpiece but not in the same proportion, bottle, ways; I refuse to be your donor of raw human juices.
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Mar 16, 2014
Mar 16, 2014 at 12:52 PM UTC
Perfumery of the 21st Century
No chicken paprika No white wine with oysters No paris! I was in America buying Chinese food. You were shopping for dynamite.
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May 15, 2015
May 15, 2015 at 1:24 AM UTC
At a Safeway on proctor street