"pasta" poems
Yogurt.
"I begin the day buying yogurt in a small favorite grocery store."
Not pizza, nor gatorade.
Bananas
although they are imported from afar and grown in monocultures.
Attract fruit flies in August.
Peaches
locally grown with rainwater. I ate all the farmer's peaches alone
stacking them by the railroad tracks.
Water --
rainwater, tap water, distilled water, carbonated water, spring water --
deep gulps, infinite sips.
Nuts
in moderation, or not, unsalted, raw, replacing chips. His bowl
of filberts, almonds, walnuts quiet weekday mornings.
Edible plant parts --
roots, leaves, stems, flowers, fruit, buds. In olive oil
or butter.
Potatoes --
look online how best to prepare. Baked or fried. With a little
fish or meat.
Tea and honey,
play and prayer. Swimming and running,
talking quietly.
Bread?
Bread's possible as the Bible. Each is liable
to bloat us.
Wine and dandelions.
Dandelion wine's Ray Bradbury's story. Cans in a pantry, books on a
shelf
to the end of time.
Pasta
we used to call spaghetti, never noodles. I wonder if I can remember
how to make
grandma's sauce.
Tomatoes --
cherry, grape. Grab God's eye
going by.
Aug 11, 2015
Aug 11, 2015 at 11:34 AM UTC
One.
When my mom found us asleep in my bed at 4am and screamed at you to 'Get the **** OUT of her house,' you texted me the very next morning and asked to see me as though it never even happened.
Two.
When my family went out of town without me for Thanksgiving, we stayed the whole day at your place and watched foreign movies and ate pasta.
Three.
On our first date, we sat in your car until 3am just... talking.
Four.
When my sister really wanted that new Pokemon game and my local Walmart sold out, you voluntarily drove almost 5 towns over just so she could get it because you knew I couldn't for her.
Five.
The first time we had *** I cried. I still don't know why. You held me the whole time.
Six.
You woke me up with tickets to one of my favorite musicians of all time, for a tour I didn't even know about.
Seven.
When my dogs died, you stayed up with my the whole night as I cried. Both times.
Eight.
The first time you kissed me was at a gas pump at 10pm after I changed out of my blouse and into my hoodie.
Nine.
You took me to Buffalo Wild Wings even though you're a vegetarian. You even put up with my singing each 2008 Billboard Top 100 song as it played. I could tell you were embarrassed for me, but you laughed and kissed me anyway.
Ten.
When I told you I hadn't been to the art museum, you took me. When I told you I'd never been to Chipotle, you took me. When I told you I hadn't felt safe in years, you made me feel the safest I ever have.
Eleven.
After you kissed me the first time, you admitted the thing that "made" you kiss me was my purple-stained lips after I ate Superman ice cream while belting out songs terribly and sitting in the passenger seat of your car.
Twelve.
When I told you that you were a terrible tipper and I was a waitress, you immediately stopped tipping terribly.
Thirteen.
You left me a voicemail telling me you appreciated me, that you felt lucky to have me, and you claimed you didn't deserve me. While I disagree, I felt it. That was the first time I heard you say "I love you" before you had actually said the words "I love you."
Nov 30, 2016
Nov 30, 2016 at 11:27 PM UTC
1
My mother would say:
“Little boy Raj…
Go to Muthu’s
and get some
cinnamon, betel leaves
and ginger and garlic”
And so I go to the shops
singing all the way
and when Muthu asks me
what I’d want
I rattle off a list:
“Sesame seeds, onions
tomatoes and pickles”
And back home,
Mother twists my ears
Ouch!
2
And inevitably I grew up
and inevitably I got married
and inevitably my wife says to me:
“Dear husband whom
I married in a fire-ceremony;
could you kindly go to Woolies
and get me some
flour, castor sugar,
pepper, pasta sauce and pancakes…”
And so I drive to Woolies
singing all the way;
and walking down the aisles
I throw the following
into the trolley:
cinnamon, betel leaves
and ginger and garlic…
And back home
though my wife does not twist my ears
I feel Mother reach forward
from the other world
and she twists my ears
Ouch!
Sep 30, 2010
Sep 30, 2010 at 4:03 AM UTC
Sometimes the poem
doesn't want to come;
it hides from the poet
like a playful cat
who has run
under the house
& lurks among slugs,
roots, spiders' eyes,
ledge so long out of the sun
that it is dank
with the breath of the Troll King.
Sometimes the poem
darts away
like a coy lover
who is afraid of being possessed,
of feeling too much,
of losing his essential
loneliness-which he calls
freedom.
Sometimes the poem
can't requite
the poet's passion.
The poem is a dance
between poet & poem,
but sometimes the poem
just won't dance
and lurks on the sidelines
tapping its feet-
iambs, trochees-
out of step with the music
of your mariachi band.
If the poem won't come,
I say: sneak up on it.
Pretend you don't care.
Sit in your chair
reading Shakespeare, Neruda,
immortal Emily
and let yourself flow
into their music.
Go to the kitchen
and start peeling onions
for homemade sugo.
Before you know it,
the poem will be crying
as your ripe tomatoes
bubble away
with inspiration.
When the whole house is filled
with the tender tomato aroma,
start kneading the pasta.
As you rock
over the damp sensuous dough,
making it bend to your will,
as you make love to this manna
of flour and water,
the poem will get hungry
and come
just like a cat
coming home
when you least
expect her.
8.7k
****** affliction of a lack of affection companion
Hand and hand strolling greater than syrupy plunging
and even sometimes buddy shrugging over wooden noisemakers
We whistle with their metal strings
and through the pasta soft ones in our throats
but no nest colored mares seem to hear
our flamboyant feather calls for future fondling
So I scribe slight implied short letters
invites to drink joints and nature jaunts
All too well thought out
hoping your advanced technology cannot trace
the time I spent to type
The overanalysis of our psych: her and I’s
wondering why she doesn’t have an inkling
for a cute fall date where we attempt to bake apple pies
It’s all too contrived, I know
I’ll strive for delusion
Accept a useful interpretation for our chemical inflammation
and let sparks pass it by
Like itsy bitsy flies laying eggs in a wound
for stagnant water maggots
They’ll eat away the thought well
where all my cranial zaps seem to dwell.
Dec 14, 2013
Dec 14, 2013 at 11:00 PM UTC
I am from New Jersey.
From the paradise of small towns
And the inferno of concrete jungles.
I am from truck tire playgrounds,
Porch Clubs, and the whistle
Of the Riverline.
I am from divorce.
From alcoholism and denial,
From broken doors and hearts.
I am from next to hell.
From pouring out full forties
For one's homies passed away.
From too many candlelight vigils
And sidewalks littered with fourth grade pictures.
I am from the garden state.
From cows, corn, and Clinton,
And tractors in the parking lot.
I am from tradition.
From pasta and seven fishes,
From "Mafiosa!" screamed in the streets
And "No WHOPs" pasted on storefronts.
I am from love.
From three parents and four siblings,
From six dogs and duplicate holidays,
And the smell of tulips and holly.
Jul 2, 2017
Jul 2, 2017 at 10:09 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
Mary had a little lamb,
two lobsters and a Christmas ham,
a three-pound tub of chicken wings,
seven bratwurst tied with strings,
thirteen loaves of garlic bread,
a schnitzel bigger than her head,
four rare steaks, a dozen eggs,
caviar and turkey's legs,
strips of bacon, mushroom stew,
chunks of bread and cheese fondue,
and two whole jars of sauerkraut,
(to clean all of her insides out).
Finishing the pasta salad,
Mary soon looked drawn and pallid.
"I don't feel well," poor Mary said.
"I think I need to rest my head."
Then from her stomach came a moan,
a straining, churning, twisted groan.
Mary gasped; her eyes grew wide.
She'd only seconds to decide.
What could she do? Where could she go?
Her stomach was about to blow!
So, reaching for the nearest bucket,
she retched, and then began to chuck it.
All the courses that she'd swallowed,
and the apertifs they'd followed,
all the steaks and all the fish,
each and every single dish
came flying back from in her belly,
filling up the bucket smelly
with a foul and toxic brew,
and no one knew quite what to do,
so this went on for ten whole minutes
till Mary had expelled her innards.
When she was done, her eyes were red,
and sweat was pouring from her head.
"Are you alright, sweet Mary dear?"
her mother asked. She didn't hear.
For Mary was already off -
the waiters saw her try to scoff
the whole entire pudding bar.
Now, this had pushed her mum too far.
"Alright!" her mother cried, "I'm through!
I've done the best that I can do.
I'm sick and tired of all you eat.
I will not pay for all this meat.
I'm going home. Go get some help —"
Then Mary's mum let out a yelp!
She glanced down at her legs and saw
sweet Mary there begin to gnaw!
She struck the lass, but with great haste,
alas, the girl had reached her waist.
As Mary's ma was there devoured
by her offspring, overpowered,
she cried one thing ere final slaughter:
"It smells like lamb in here, my daughter."
Mary licked her lips and grinned.
She belched out loud and then broke wind.
She felt her tummy start to rumble -
and calmly ordered apple crumble.
Dec 18, 2017
Dec 18, 2017 at 4:52 AM UTC
I didn't mean to distract you, upon first interaction with you, I saw the sun lights refraction shining upon human polka dots
I have a thought that I won't say,
Ill write you In the plot of a book, that takes place far far away
Most times I speak with haste, life is no computer, but I can still copy and paste, my thoughts in a manner that properly compiles grace, and with some glue, you trapped your hands upon plastic keys, and played for me, a melody, and said I've been waiting my whole life to do this, I am alone and I am free, and I will stay that way for a while, so don't look at me with smile, and as quickly as it was created my memory can be cut and pasted into a file you keep beneath your bed,
The cold is coming, and I hope you wear hats upon your head and scarves upon your neck, for I hope you realize I am a sled, I don't stop until I reach the bottom, of a barrel filled with luck I live my off of,
Aug 11, 2013
Aug 11, 2013 at 11:35 AM UTC
*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
There is no smell in all the world,
None in the North or South,
None in the East or West,
None in the lowest places,
None on the highest peaks,
Like that smell filling the air,
Filling the house,
Filling my senses,
That smell of spaghetti frying,
Frying in the morning light,
The smell so different from when it was first cooked,
Moving the senses,
Moving the mind,
Anticipation in scent,
The sauce sizzling,
Changing,
Changing in the frying pan,
As the noodles turn crisper,
Crisper,
Crisp,
With that crispness like no other,
The noodles,
No longer white,
Made yellow,
Yellow from the sauce,
Fried onto them,
One with them,
Flavours seeping in,
And the sauce,
Orange now,
Red orange but clearly orange,
No longer the bright red it was when it entered the pan,
And as the sauce and noodles change,
Reach that perfect point,
The smell just right,
The colour just right,
The texture just right,
The sizzling reaching the perfect crescendo,
Then, and only then,
The spaghetti no longer stirring,
Evened out,
Temperature lowered,
And carefully,
Slowly,
To keep them on the top,
The eggs break,
White running among the noodles,
Filling the gaps,
Turning from clear to white as they hit the hot pan,
Yolks floating on top where they should be,
The perfect drop,
And the odours as the white changes,
Filling the air with new scents,
Mingling with the ones already present,
And then the salt, disappearing on the surface,
The black pepper,
Black flects,
Scattered evenly,
Perfectly,
The smell of pepper joining the egg and spaghetti,
And a splash of Tobacco Sauce across the whole,
That hot smell,
That bright red colour,
And the silver lid slips on,
Over the top,
Hiding,
Protecting,
Cooking the whole,
Until it is done,
And the lid set aside,
The whole onto a plate,
Perfect to the senses,
The smell,
The colours,
The texture,
Perfect,
And the first bight,
Heavenly,
Like nothing else on earth,
Almost sweet,
But still savoury,
Strange to those knowing bowled pasta,
Strange to those knowing simmered sauce,
Strange to those knowing fried eggs,
But the tastes,
Perfect,
Blended,
Strange but familiar,
Many memories,
Images,
Experiences,
All coming together like the different parts of the fried spaghetti,
And the fork through the yoke,
As it runs down,
Bright yellow into orange and red and black and white,
Perfect,
Amazing,
Done.
~The Smell of Fried Spaghetti by Bethany Davis, June 19, 2015
Jul 19, 2015
Jul 19, 2015 at 12:40 PM UTC
Coming into the kitchen,
slightly beyond hungry,
tremendous, happy
excitement fills me.
There is still something
left in the house to eat.
Pasta.
Opening the fridge, the little
green army of boxes
smiles back at me.
"We're still here! And so are
the sea salt, and the olive oil,
and the peanut butter!"
Never had peanut butter pasta?
You're missing something!
Aug 25, 2015
Aug 25, 2015 at 6:47 PM UTC
In my Thirty-Fifth Year I juiced this Remark
The Crisque-Plaque Hotel named after a Tree
Sturdy, of Signage enhance the Grade's Bark
Wishing all else their Best Service was Free
If not the Years to Good Degree advance:
Fruits, Pasta, Meat, Veggies and Japanese
Mix the fricasee to match that of France
And serve it on a Platter, if you please
Only if the Staff were shy; But informed
How noted the needs of their Clients were
One Gesture made, took the Meaning lost cause
Pour some polished Suggestions done on here.
Thirty-Five Candles blown, all without Flame
It was still my Best Day; All just the same.
Mar 8, 2013
Mar 8, 2013 at 1:09 AM UTC
AALI DIWALI
Excitement already there is in the atmosphere, our very air!!!
Goodies, gifts, flowers, lights we wish to, with dear ones, now share.
As citizens good, let's also exhibit some environment friendly care.
Banish Chinese items, I will, because I care for my India n also dare !
Use let us earthen Diyas, decorated in hand; Beautiful ones, beyond compare !
Candles Beautiful can be made or bought n decorated in a bright way.
Colourful Rangoli let us make with organic compounds, indigenous n rare.
Designs, with colours innumerous, one can create if one has a flair.
Same way, why pay so much to buy torn jeans, buy let's a decent traditional pair.
Traditional dresses so colourful are and look pretty n (no wrong meaning) gay.
Pizza, pasta, pastries boycott; try laddu, chakri or Khaja jo mawa se hei bhare.
Instead of flowers, gift Bamboo or money plants or other saplings; what say ?
Gift let us, things made in India. From China, let's willingly sway away !
"Aali Diwali" but create let us noise n smoke less. we must on this, an emphasis lay.
Innovative one can be, using imagination vivid to cute gifts make; n less amounts pay.
No WA, try and visit Grandparents, Mama, Kaka, Aatya, Maushi, is all I have to say !!!
HAPPY WALI DIWALI.
Armin Dutia Motashaw
Sep 25, 2019
Sep 25, 2019 at 3:55 PM UTC
Angel Hair Pasta
****** Oil encased
Oregano, Basil & Thyme
Fragrance ascend
Blonde strands flyway
Garlic Shards dancing
Swim in the wind
Pulsing Beef Stake
Red River Flowing
Seeds flooding
Tightly-wadded
Expertly wound
Atop her head
Wasp-hive
Angel Hair pasta
Jul 28, 2010
Jul 28, 2010 at 8:09 AM UTC
People show love in many ways
A note on the bathroom door
An extra brownie in your lunch box
Starting the car on a cold morning
For her it was in her food
She cooked her emotions the way most chefs add salt
You could taste them clearly in every bite connecting your tastebuds to your heart,
If she was happy the steak melted on your tongue
If she was sad the soup made a tear glisten in your eye
But when she was in love with me
Every Bite sang in my mouth
She made my favorites every night
Life was good
But one day the bread wasn’t so fluffy
It held a melancholy note i’ve never tasted before
I asked what was wrong but she didn’t have the words to explain what she as feeling,
So I let it go
That was my mistake
Day by day, she started to crumble
So did her pies
She went from a wonder dancing in the kitchen and licking the spoon
To a hollow shell serving you lukewarm pasta that left you unsettled
I excused her behavior
I was busy she was stressed
The food was only cold because I was so late to the table
I didn’t realize it wasn’t dinner I was neglecting
It was her
If i could change one moment in my life, i’d be that night
The one where she finally felt up to baking again
We had some time together, she hummed a bit as she stirred the batter
But then she stumbled and dropped a glass measuring cup of milk she was holding
It was bitter irony seeing the woman i loved,
The light of my life,
Crying over spilled milk
That’d be the moment i’d change
I’d catch her wrist and hold her up
Just Like I promised I would
I wouldn’t fail her if I had another chance
Our kitchen is quiet these days
There's a thick layer of dust everywhere except the microwave
And around the edges of the room are tiny bits of glass
Glistening like diamonds
Or unshed tears,
Abandoned like me
But I can’t complain
After all, I abandoned her first
I should have read the recipe
I should have realized she was breaking
I didn’t see it at first
But every bite held a piece of her suicide note
If i’d only tasted it before it was too late
Now she’s gone
My hearts as broken as that measuring cup
And I’m the one crying over spilled milk
By Aknier ~this is fictional~
Nov 9, 2018
Nov 9, 2018 at 10:48 PM UTC
We catch the sunset
while eating
breakfast: ignoring
mothers, ignoring
landlords, skinning our knees
and skipping supper,
using the kitchen with some
improvisation, forgetting to stir
the pasta, blotting bacon
with coffee filters,
flinging linguini on the walls
and the ceilings (for
if cooked it will cling
but if raw it will fall).
“Is that pasta on the wall?”
“Is it purple?”
Outside a boy
in a dress shirt and a girl in
a paisley skirt walked past
the window, holding hands
and clutching palm
Sunday leaves.
Then the strand of linguini
began to detach itself from
the ceiling, like a break dancer,
with flimsy limbs,
and when it dropped
it fell through the air
like an Olympic
diver, twirling and curling
with two ends clung
to one another
and then unfolding
underwater.
Aug 5, 2011
Aug 5, 2011 at 1:01 AM UTC
AALI DIWALI
Excitement already there is in the atmosphere, our very air!!!
Goodies, gifts, flowers, lights we wish to, with dear ones, now share.
As citizens good, let's also exhibit some environment friendly care.
Banish Chinese items, I will, because I care for my India n also dare !
Use let us earthen Diyas, decorated in hand; Beautiful ones, beyond compare !
Candles Beautiful can be made or bought n decorated in a bright way.
Colourful Rangoli let us make with organic compounds, indigenous n rare.
Designs, with colours innumerous, one can create if one has a flair.
Same way, why pay so much to buy torn jeans, buy let's a decent traditional pair.
Traditional dresses so colourful are and look pretty n (no wrong meaning) gay.
Pizza, pasta, pastries boycott; try laddu, chakri or Khaja jo mawa se hei bhare.
Instead of flowers, gift Bamboo or money plants or other saplings; what say ?
Gift let us, things made in India. From China, let's willingly sway away !
"Aali Diwali" but create let us noise n smoke less. we must on this, an emphasis lay.
Innovative one can be, using imagination vivid to cute gifts make; n less amounts pay.
No WA, try and visit Grandparents, Mama, Kaka, Aatya, Maushi, is all I have to say !!!
HAPPY WALI DIWALI.
Armin Dutia Motashaw
Sep 25, 2019
Sep 25, 2019 at 10:42 AM UTC
How long must you stay a Snail in your House
And thinking this Starter bellows out Air
Chance yourself a Door and try to get out
Then see such Fields breed Good Germs everywhere
This only true if Bland Pasta constricts
Yet flipping a Mirror for Crystal View
Mind the Artist. He's just facially fit
But chip the bones a Soft Marrow does spew
Never by Saint's Good Deed I took to Theft
To force your own Arrows and fumigate
A Candid Word which I thought was a Pest
And strained such Friendship to confusticate.
Let's start again. And adjust the Vinyl
Put the Record on-hold; And I Mingle.
Mar 11, 2013
Mar 11, 2013 at 3:59 AM UTC
Purple velvet curtains mimicked purple proses of long dead authors
Auteurs and Anglophiles expressing desire, the desire for Desiree
and she danced, she danced.
Christie too, she danced, she danced
Kick, snare, kick kick, snare, she danced rhythmic hypnosis
Daddy watched from the bar, banal dance of the bandits
And Katzarina, baby in the back, dances for love
Fatherless child begging attention
Dance no more my dear soul, for you deserve more
Lecherous lounge acts, the men in ties
Order another round, girls gather around
Please me, dance for me, ****** and bashful
The purple velvet reminds them of mother
Cruel institutions that decay our psyche
Patriarchal pesticides in pasta and porridge
On the side of the mango, matriarchal monotony
Oh stop this pretentious pillaging of poor prostitutes
You are but a boy at the gates of existence, fear not, for the father and the mother shall hold your hand in the heavenly harem.
Feb 14, 2013
Feb 14, 2013 at 5:53 PM UTC
I am common.
seemingly feminine
but shoulders strong
as barbed-wire.
like a chicken I am
underdeveloped—my wings
weak and unable to
lift me into the air.
I am preoccupied
in self-identified war
with the 875 square foot
apartment and the pasta
that refuses to boil.
on my knees, I
crawl
reconciling rhyme
and reason for
suffering.
the world has gone awry,
I say to myself on an
afternoon bike ride
through wooded
pain, my face
a perfect plane for
scathing branches.
quick and easy blood
am I.
wretched and astonishing
is the rhetoric I
find in the hollow of
my rib.
I am common
but not so when
written by hand.
Aug 4, 2017
Aug 4, 2017 at 4:14 PM UTC
blood stained fingernails
hollow eyed
intestine pasta
with a beating heart side
you don't need it
but i need it
a swig of ipecac
to polish off your favorite shade of wine
a kick of copper and regret
but i am eating
her stomach grew smaller
she drowned a little deeper
a nasty lie beneath gritted teeth
come back darling,
dinner is served
Sep 14, 2014
Sep 14, 2014 at 11:43 PM UTC
I hate feet, but shoes are stupid.
You look so sweet, but your heart is broken.
Get your life together,
That's what they tell you.
Get your life together,
That's what they say.
Trying to make ends meet,
While staying simple.
Paper or plastic?
They never ask anymore.
And what ever happened to
Face-to-face communication?
Maybe I'm too strange for it all.
I just want to do what I want.
Stop telling me what's right and what's wrong.
Sometimes I like pasta for breakfast.
Lunch tastes so good in the morning,
Don't you think?
Mar 16, 2015
Mar 16, 2015 at 1:45 AM UTC
strained is
supposed to be
a word
for pasta
not
relationships.
Aug 21, 2018
Aug 21, 2018 at 3:00 AM UTC