"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
Mar 29, 2019
Mar 29, 2019 at 8:40 AM UTC
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.
Feb 22, 2014
Feb 22, 2014 at 5:33 PM UTC
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.
Mar 6, 2014
Mar 6, 2014 at 5:34 AM UTC
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
* * *
Nov 27, 2015
Nov 27, 2015 at 4:46 PM UTC
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!
Dec 19, 2012
Dec 19, 2012 at 2:05 AM UTC
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.
Jun 4, 2012
Jun 4, 2012 at 4:45 PM UTC
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.
Dec 15, 2011
Dec 15, 2011 at 1:00 PM UTC
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
May 6, 2017
May 6, 2017 at 4:51 PM UTC
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.....
Jul 2, 2013
Jul 2, 2013 at 11:41 AM UTC
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.
Feb 22, 2014
Feb 22, 2014 at 5:03 PM UTC
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
Sep 18, 2015
Sep 18, 2015 at 11:54 PM UTC
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.
Dec 21, 2016
Dec 21, 2016 at 9:09 AM UTC
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.
Nov 15, 2015
Nov 15, 2015 at 6:30 AM UTC
~~~
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
Feb 3, 2016
Feb 3, 2016 at 6:00 PM UTC
paper person
paprika kaleidoscope
papaya yahoo!
papa papoose
papacy cyan
Mar 15, 2014
Mar 15, 2014 at 11:43 PM UTC
*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....*
Aug 12, 2016
Aug 12, 2016 at 2:35 PM UTC
"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.
Aug 11, 2011
Aug 11, 2011 at 8:15 PM UTC
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
May 27, 2014
May 27, 2014 at 1:27 AM UTC
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?
Jun 7, 2017
Jun 7, 2017 at 8:14 PM UTC
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.
May 15, 2014
May 15, 2014 at 9:40 PM UTC
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
Apr 7, 2017
Apr 7, 2017 at 4:19 PM UTC
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
Mar 22, 2017
Mar 22, 2017 at 12:25 AM UTC
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.
Mar 16, 2014
Mar 16, 2014 at 12:52 PM UTC
No chicken paprika
No white wine with oysters
No paris!
I was in America buying Chinese food.
You were shopping for dynamite.
May 15, 2015
May 15, 2015 at 1:24 AM UTC