"patties" poems
I don't have any emotions anymore
Sometimes, I don’t know if I’m having a feeling
Or I am dreaming, while I am awake?
Some might think that my mind
is exploring my emotions
while looking for happiness,
So I decided to bake a melodrama cake
Nope! I meant mel-o-cream butter pound cake
The ingredient is my path to getting my feelings back
Egg, butter, flour, sugar, raisins,
baking powder and a little milk
I just want to transfer my feeling,
with some logical thinking..
Somewhere, deep within a non stanzaic,
and syllabic poem forms by the minute
It’s going to trend like this cake,
which is going to be bake with love
Poetry is everywhere,
creaming my butter and sugar is poetic
because butter and sugar never stick together. It also
reminds me of Nana’s golden brown patties, tasty and spicy
Adding the eggs, nutmeg, baking powder, brings out the
natural female traits in this Island girl,
without my empowering dreads
The raisins and the baking powder remind me of
The Rise of Radical African American Activism,
And all that rises, rise in due degree
so poetry is everywhere
it's in everything we say and do.
Oct 7, 2015
Oct 7, 2015 at 9:03 AM UTC
****
Frock..
Flock.
Bock!
Bock bock bock!
Mother mother bock,
Mother mother bock bock
Mothercluck mothercluck
eggsh eggsh eggsh
1 2,
1 2 3 Crack!
Eggs eggs cheese,
Baking biscuits
Frying spud
Mix'n roux
Squashing beefs,
Squashing beefs beefs beefs.
Rolling patties,
Flipping bacon.
Who eat the bacon?
We eat the bacon!
Roll'n patties-
-uuuh yeah, let me get a bacon'n'egg
In'a'tick little man.
I'll put that **** in my pan.
If the thank you doesn't show,
You can owe me blow me-
Imperial March ringtone
-Checks cell and ignores call-
"Who was that?"
"What? Oh,
Just another annoying memory."
-OH!
My kitchen love!
Ovee Ovee Ove-n
I think I wanna roast-ya toast-ya!
Apr 14, 2015
Apr 14, 2015 at 10:03 AM UTC
Starvation.
First and foremost
The plot thickens and the atmosphere is beyond any thunderstorm.
The forecast was predicted before the growling began.
Bellies ****** in not by choice.
Now misconduct fills the void .
I'm starving
He's starving
She's starving
The people are ready to run a mock
Have you ever witness ***** in a bucket, they fight relentlessly to get out until they tire.
Have you ever witness a person eating mud patties to ease the hunger pains, I'm talking about the real hunger games.
Shortcomings is starvation
Starvation of:
Attention
Food
Education
Clothing
Electronics
Transportation
***
Hugs
Love
Fathers
Mothers
Family
Yet, politicians act like they don't know what I am talking about .
And beanstalk will never grow if beans were handed out.
Give the people jobs that match America's cost of living.
I can hear bankers & corporation whispering blasphemy .
What does it really mean to live among the living when you are the walking dead......
We want flesh.
Aug 24, 2013
Aug 24, 2013 at 6:58 AM UTC
I
The Nutcrackers sate by a plate on the table,
The Sugar-tongs sate by a plate at his side;
And the Nutcrackers said, 'Don't you wish we were able
'Along the blue hills and green meadows to ride?
'Must we drag on this stupid existence for ever,
'So idle so weary, so full of remorse,--
'While every one else takes his pleasure, and never
'Seems happy unless he is riding a horse?
II
'Don't you think we could ride without being instructed?
'Without any saddle, or bridle, or spur?
'Our legs are so long, and so aptly constructed,
'I'm sure that an accident could not occur.
'Let us all of a sudden hop down from the table,
'And hustle downstairs, and each jump on a horse!
'Shall we try? Shall we go! Do you think we are able?'
The Sugar-tongs answered distinctly,'Of course!'
III
So down the long staircase they hopped in a minute,
The Sugar-tongs snapped, and the Crackers said 'crack!'
The stable was open, the horses were in it;
Each took out a pony, and jumped on his back.
The Cat in a fright scrambled out of the doorway,
The Mice tumbled out of a bundle of hay,
The brown and white Rats, and the black ones from Norway,
Screamed out, 'They are taking the horses away!'
IV
The whole of the household was filled with amazement,
The Cups and the Saucers danced madly about,
The Plates and the Dishes looked out of the casement,
The Saltcellar stood on his head with a shout,
The Spoons with a clatter looked out of the lattice,
The Mustard-pot climbed up the Gooseberry Pies,
The Soup-ladle peeped through a heap of Veal Patties,
And squeaked with a ladle-like scream of surprise.
V
The Frying-pan said, 'It's an awful delusion!'
The Tea-kettle hissed and grew black in the face;
And they all rushed downstairs in the wildest confusion,
To see the great Nutcracker-Sugar-tong race.
And out of the stable, with screamings and laughter,
(Their ponies were cream-coloured, speckled with brown,)
The Nutcrackers first, and the Sugar-tongs after,
Rode all round the yard, and then all round the town.
VI
They rode through the street, and they rode by the station,
They galloped away to the beautiful shore;
In silence they rode, and 'made no observation',
Save this: 'We will never go back any more!'
And still you might hear, till they rode out of hearing,
The Sugar-tongs snap, and the Crackers say 'crack!'
Till far in the distance their forms disappearing,
They faded away.--And they never came back!
4.4k
Reese’s Pieces are for people who
Are used to picking up the pieces
Of broken hearts
But they still want to make it
A good experience
Smiles that look like peanut butter
And kisses that taste like chocolate
Butterfingers are for the kids who
Are used to being picked last for
Everything except to cheat off of
In math class
They’ve grown accustomed to
Not being thought of
Popular kids like the M&Ms;
Because in the end
What else do they have except
For the stories of muses
And the parties they attended
One-by-one they picked apart
Everyone who didn’t act just like them
Pop Rocks are terrible and
So are Peppermint Patties
Crunch bars and 100 Grand’s
Made the jocks think they would actually
Go somewhere and do something
With their lives
Hope comes in strange forms
Monkeys don’t know the difference
Kit-Kats are for the hipsters
Talking a little too loud about mustaches
Listening to music that nobody knew
Grouping around vegan lunch tables
They would break off one by one
When another clique accepted them
Anything made by ***** Wonka
Was a favorite of the kids who
Knew who they were and
Weren’t ashamed
After all, what does candy say
About any of us
Clothes and shoes
Were only disguises
To hide us from the world we
Desperately wanted to fit into
If you had a Five Star notebook
Started mattering a lifetime too soon
When I step into the convenience store
I picture the kids that I know
Because of the candy they ate
I regret having such a sweet tooth
To pick apart kids’ lives
With nothing to satisfy the bitter
After-taste of social humiliation
Mar 23, 2013
Mar 23, 2013 at 12:02 AM UTC
Let's go grab the money
Hidden in the Christmas Tree
Shoppe mason jar with the
Frosted stencil designs,
Ornate and resembling flora.
Let's take that money,
The three separate wadded
***** of once crisp
Green pieces of paper
That somehow reach the
Arbitrary total of one
Thousand, three hundred and
Twenty dollars and
Fifty lonely cents.
Let's take that 1,320.50
And go see the desolate
Stretch of sprawling
Humanity deferred between
These hiked peaks and the
Dangerous mountains
Separating the west
From the rest.
Let's go there!
Let's go there!
We'll make it across,
Be sure of that,
Be sure of nothing
But that!
Let's use the remaining
Seven fifty
To buy some
Seven Eleven sustenance
To have while
We walk backwards
Down backroads edged
With the encroachment
Of the wild back into
Negative space some
Long-ago engineer
Carved and paved.
Let's tell the driver of
This beat-up
Time-worn down
Overcast grey
Buick LeSabre
That we can pay her
Ten dollars to replace
The juice necessary to get
Us back to our sick aunt's
House in Poughkeepsie.
At the gas station
We'll tell her to stop
Real quick
And hope she leaves the
Auto to go
Pay the schlup at
The teller's booth
And jack the beater
And hope we won't
Have to bolt
Again if she doesn't.
Let's call my cousin
And find out who will give
Us four hundred dollars for
The stolen used parts store
And take that four hundred
And buy:
Two (2) greyhound tickets to get us
Back to our ****** apartment
In Stamford: 64.50 American
Three (3) damp-bunned flimsy
Beef patties glued between
Pieces of government-issue
Yellow American cheese
With all the fixins we please: 3.24 American
One (1) zip of dried out
Seeded and stemmed breaks
From the boredom of
Our own conscious
Processes: 120 American if lucky
At least eight (8) servings
Of amphetamine based
Pressed little buttons
Of confused energy: 200 American
One (1) bouquet of
Red yellow and oranges
Mixed on the petals of
Your mother's favorite
Species: whatever's left American.
Oct 2, 2012
Oct 2, 2012 at 12:40 AM UTC
When in the pasture
They don't offend;
We avert disaster,
When they're penned.
But that crusted crap
Is everywhere;
If not aware,
We step right in.
We'll scrape the pooh
To no avail,
The smell's
Stuck to our shoes.
We can't quell
The **** we're in.
There's one steaming
On my walk,
Leading to my door.
Leave your keys
When you leave,
That patty leads
To court.
The Internet's beset
With bullish threats;
Hard to miss
The patties here;
Our lives and much
That we hold dear,
Is shared and smeared
For all to read,
Milking us of privacy;
An abattoir,
It's piracy.
It's utterly insane.
They entice us,
Then enlist us,
Like leading
Cash cows
Down the lane;
Then tap
For one drop more.
Friends may offer
Cow pies
With an aromaticfluence;
They pressure you to choose:
Step right or left,
Then smear you with
Their cocksure ********
What enemy
Could do less?
Shopped pixelled patties
Are reprehensible,
Making one
So susceptible:
You *****
Then starve,
Then lose your hair
Until one day
You disappear.
We get caught up
In the flash,
Of all the stars
And fast cash,
But they have patties
Underfoot,
They slip and slide,
Get clean,
Then smirk.
We can smell'em
On those jerks.
There's a patty
At your boyfriend's place;
You're deep in it
If you're late.
There's a patty
At your girlfriend's place,
And you're deep in it
If she's late.
Some patties
Are so well disguised
In the colours
Of lover's eyes.
Intoned in lover's lures.
But step in it,
They call you *****
Some patties
Are good
At getting you high,
But one mis-step,
And you may die.
There's hidden patties
Lying within,
Crusted beneath
Veneered skin:
They waft with doubt,
Fear and longing;
Side-step that mass
At all costs.
Don't crack the surface.
You're better than
You think.
Sep 16, 2014
Sep 16, 2014 at 10:07 PM UTC
cons:
do you know how often i have to shave?
**** man i just want clean armpits
and then i turn into a giant dog every month and that hair grows back really ******* fast
i need to invest in one of those lint rollers for shedded animal fur because it is becoming a problem
also i'm pretty sure i chewed another pair of shoes up the other night i need to find a safer spot to put my shoes
shoes are ******* expensive to be constantly replacing i can't ******* do this
not to mention the need for meat okay meat is expensive unless you buy tons of cheap stuff and there is no way i'm eating something that tastes like a greasy foot
(looking at you, cheap sausage patties)
pros:
i've got self-defense pretty much covered now
i'm prepared to **** people up if i need to
and i'm pretty warm like all the time now so i don't have to spend as much on heating
(though at the same time there's the air conditioning in the summer,,,)
also i get to tell all my friends I'm a gay werewolf so i'm basically the coolest
Dec 6, 2014
Dec 6, 2014 at 10:27 PM UTC
peppermint patties:
they're really just chocolate
with toothpaste inside.
Mar 16, 2012
Mar 16, 2012 at 6:43 AM UTC
Beef patties covered in sand ****
Scrambled eggs floating in rain water ****
Frozen coffee *****
Bugs in Chicken ala King ****
The hot sauce is some consolation.
Thank you taxpayers
for your sincere generosity,
I hope you are enjoying
your Sunday brunch.
Jan 24, 2014
Jan 24, 2014 at 8:15 AM UTC
-
Not cupcakes or brownies
or butterscotch drops
Peppermint patties,
nor big lollipops
Caramel ice cream
with sprinkles so nice
Apricot pudding
or pie by the slice
Banana split servings
cinnamon buns
Pink cotton candy
just now freshly spun
Sherbet or popsicles
purple and green
Milkshakes or sodas,
red jelly beans
Oranges, peaches
bananas or plums
Coffee cake, cookies,
their left over crumbs
Chocolate, vanilla
or strawberry too
None are as sweet
as the love found in you
May 21, 2015
May 21, 2015 at 12:26 PM UTC
That smell isn't around anymore.
I didn't even realize it until I could barely remember it.
It's the smell of the old place I used to live
alone.
The smell of the doors at night
and the corn patties in the cupboard
and the leather sofa
and my old cat.
It's the smell of the doubt.
The lack of the light.
Being stuck in the middle of the tunnel.
The smell of the tunnel vision.
The smell of the fact that it was
midnight after the journey through the tunnel.
The smell of my heavy chest,
that I smelled with my head hung,
nose close to my heart.
Straight ahead, it doesn't have that heavy smell.
Now it smells of ethnic food.
And breath always on the side of my neck.
It's warm.
The smell of trying and failing.
I only smell success from effortlessness.
Jan 6, 2013
Jan 6, 2013 at 10:37 PM UTC
******** Pure and simple. ********
Be like a vampire
Refine your tracking trait,
Saving time and disappointment.
Recognize it when you hear it,
See it, read it.
I've had to eat beside it.
It rarely smells until identified,
You sense the patties are everywhere,
Inside and outside the paddock.
Speak out when encountered:
******** plain and simple.*
Point in its direction,
Be a searchlight.
The room goes silent
Like a stop-action clip,
Frozen for the stink to seep.
Everything has the stench.
They're skilled,
But shallow.
One needs to go home and wash,
Do the laundry. Clean the kitchen.
Honestly!
Feb 22, 2016
Feb 22, 2016 at 9:39 AM UTC
Four patties of ******** he wears
Two upon each shoulder wing
Polished gleaming egocentric air
Marching like a king
His Chief of Staff
And parade of sycophants
Make me want to laugh
All aligned like **** ants
Until their buckets of ********
Are sloshed upon my desk
Right or wrong just do it
Another bullshit-filled day
Aug 15, 2013
Aug 15, 2013 at 8:21 AM UTC
Hamburger Hell
Beefsteak Charlie says to Porky the Pig
I can see the party lights
someone's throwin' a bash and it sure looks big
down at the slaughter house tonight
say lets get together and hit the buffet
you might as well stuff yourself
they'll only throw it away
Old Colonel Sanders says to Elsie the Cow
golly baby you're the one
two all beef patties, special sauce, lettuce,
pickel, cheese, onions on a sesame seed bun
say we just got time for a roll in the hay
might as well stuff yourself
they're here to take you away
I know where you're going, I can tell
don't go looking for me
down in Hamburger Hell
don't misunderstand me I wish you well
don't go looking for me
down in Hamburger Hell
lyrics by Todd Rundgren
Gomer LePoet...
Dec 9, 2013
Dec 9, 2013 at 10:45 PM UTC
I went to Misato Japan, .
Small people and the gentlest of faces
small roads and rice patties.
Miso Soup and a kiwi farm.
Photo booths and game centers.
I didn’t take enough pictures
Sendai before it was destroyed.
Matsushima and the buddhist temple.
The flocks of seagulls near our boat.
The islands so distinct.
Wind so powerful.
We were treated like royalty,
looked at like celebrities.
I was dressed in a Kimono
and treated to a feast.
People so gentle,
bows full of honor
gratitude in their eyes
immense kindness I was shown.
Nov 6, 2014
Nov 6, 2014 at 3:19 PM UTC
*Off to sell 'market tomatoes' to those East Atlanta communist
Those long haired , know it all Bolsheviks and their
electric cars , running around half naked like they have
a clue about a farm , their buying these god awful tomatoes
for two dollars apiece , they smell like *** , wine and sun
screen haggling over my price like I'm growing food for
free , like I've no other place to be
Are these organic , absolutely don't panic , their grown
in A1 chicken **** , the finest soil I've ever been associated with ,
a secret family recipe cooked in Georgia July heat , blessed by
a 'Witch Doctor' from New Orleans , a bit of peat from lowland
forest , cow patties from a friends dairy barn , dry manure thanks to
a 'Horse Princess' from Zebulon , ****** on by a pack of ornery goats in the village of Kelleytown*
Sep 28, 2016
Sep 28, 2016 at 10:12 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
Who lives in a pineapple under the sea?
one glass of Ovaltine- oops, I had three
can we fix it? yes we can!
a plethora of beanie babies always at hand
no play-doh or silly putty on the couch
remember the smell of York patties when you opened the pouch?
Teletubbies is on, I hear the nu-nu
my beloved game boy and Gremlins; Gizmo's my booboo
come along and see what's new
it's me, you, and Zooboomafu
remember when Emily wished on a dragon scale?
that's what started the Dragon Tales
I'd drop anything to catch the Rugrats show
Tommy, Dil, Angelica, Chuckie was kinda slow
Cinnamon Toast Crunch in my bowl
Soccer Boppers and those little ugly trolls
Jell-O pudding and Dragon Ball Z
I knew the Fresh Prince song when I was only three
I still watch SpongeBob and now I'm in high school
just because you keep it real doesn't make that you're uncool.
May 15, 2014
May 15, 2014 at 2:38 PM UTC
I am a great cook, you said, casually
switching between the phone and knife
cutting conversations into small slivers
dicing lettuce, add patties, mustard
the phone smearing your make-up.
balancing between your neck and necklace
and long spiral ear-rings.
I am a great cook, you continued,
head tilted at a rakish angle
knife still dancing in mid-air.
( It’s a technique you mastered
over the years)
Cutting, calling and stalling.
I watched those big brown eyes
join the talkative salad and burger
now taking shape on the table
I shrivelled in fear
when you laughed and said:
I am a great cook and killer
of lettuce, stray ladies and flirty men-
Ha! Ha!
( oops!)
Do you want a beer to go with your burger?
did you joke?
Author Notes
Optional
© Marshall Gass. All rights reserved, 22 days ago
Jun 10, 2014
Jun 10, 2014 at 11:14 PM UTC
My grandpa who eats steamed sweet potatoes on foothills textured in green rice patties
dreamt up a tall brick house with a black iron gate
barbwires sprung around the tips of the entrance to keep out thieves
right now he wonders how long he can keep fibbing to my mother—
their rotten hut at the end of the massive foothill, not fleeting
monsoons come early, swells the ground till it gave
a landslide takes four people and a child
that day, red stars hung above Tiananmen square gates
grounded bones came in sacks, white cement hauled by green skin trucks
My grandpa who loves sweet potatoes constructs an ivory wall.
after the revolution, the sun peeks out in montages
peering through the smoke
gunpowder stuck to the tank tire roads
black heads roll off yellow tar dirt into a pit
My grandpa gives his best friend one thousand yuan—
visas for my mother and grandma,
His best friend disappears,
writes my grandpa
an apology and, leaves him a large white sack of uncooked sweet potatoes
light tan, severs in half and plops down on the lumpy cutting board,
dusty orange inners, grandpa tosses them in the boiling water
and later, while gnawing down,
he pretends they are oranges for once
Grandpa, who’s kneeling on our dried front yard with a worn out copper pail
waters the salty earth slowly until it sprouts sugar canes
chops one down, breaks it in half, the sun beats
peering through palm leaves
a viridescent river of silk and pale honey
my small three year arms grab a hand full
sliced by grandpa into pieces neatly placed
in a blue flowered ceramic bowl
years later, I chop a stalk down and chew until
English becomes a second language again
and in my twenties, I grab a hand full
sliced my mom into pieces, places them in a weaved basket
made of reinforced bamboo
I put it in front of my grandpa’s grave
in Fujian on the foggy mountainside of a small retirement town.
The edge of the South China coast covered in a thick plastic smog,
I sit on a stone eating sweet cold potatoes with my grandpa facing outland,
a red kneeing sun, barely visible past the trees
Apr 25, 2017
Apr 25, 2017 at 12:41 AM UTC
**You are a shotgun that shoots me with flowers, that stick to my skin like the wet morning air.
You are apologies left unread hidden in the mailboxes of the people I love during the humid summers of Florida.
You are a pocket knife.
You are a lighter with little gas left.
You are essential to live, if not, it would mean a life without tears rolling down my dry skin when I’m eating York Peppermint patties at 2 am thinking of you.
You are a shotgun.
You are the light of a dimly lit candle that burns me when I go to turn the flame off with my fingers in the middle of a monsoon.
You are a noose.
You are a hammer with no nail on a rainy Sunday evening.
You are a shotgun that shoots me with flowers.**
Oct 28, 2016
Oct 28, 2016 at 6:58 AM UTC
When will I walk here again?
On this crispy gravel that my blood has spilt upon
That with my cuts have shared their sting
When will I feel this again?
The sharp poke of golden leaves
Raked into a mountain
And fallen like a kingdom
When will I see this again?
I favored the papery tree
Peeling cream sheets of bark
When will I smell this again?
The tang of York patties
The comforting scent of cigarette smoke
It lies in my veins now
When will I see you again?
The greif and ash in the folds of your skin
Your hand clasped around a warm tupperware of tonight's leftovers
Your foggy, yellowed glasses
And the hat I never see underneath
When will I hug you again?
Feel your denim clad arms encircle my growing waist
Feel your tears on my cheeks
For now I stroke your wedding ring
And ask myself questions
Dec 21, 2012
Dec 21, 2012 at 2:23 PM UTC
I’m Coming for you Bob...
To Hull & Back...
to Carver’s Just for the Mushy Peas!
As a little lad, I think on a Sat’day morning, we’d go
to a market somewhere, was it on the docks?
Asked our Brian, he’s smart, he said it were... I thought - he’d know.
...After all the mooching, the tugging, the shushing, the rows
and all me **** “where’s he gone nows?”
If I stuck it out long enough wi’out gerrin’ a clout,
we’d sit inside, or sometimes out,
of a blue striped tent - and I’d eat mushy peas.
There might have been chips,
there could have been fish;
Mam always had fish,
Brian, would have had a pattie... well, he was 12(ish)
Not sure I’d even have known about patties all them years back.
But anyway peas is what sticks in my mind…
and all down the front of me jumper...or sometimes on me mac.
They say - if you haven’t been to Carver’s
you haven’t been to Hull.
Well Bob... I’m coming back!… And’ll
bet,
when I was digging mushy peas
with my fork back in Fifty Three,
it were your Grandad, (also Bob) would have been serving me!
Cheers! And, I know it's cheeky - but - Can I have scraps wi'that?
Dec 30, 2020
Dec 30, 2020 at 10:27 AM UTC
Eric,
Happy Birthday!
I love you very much.
May God bless you
& protect you
always.
I'll be dead in 64 days,
so make sure to wash the dishes
before your Dad gets home.
Let's see,
there are some frozen patties in the freezer.
Once those run out
you can usually get them on sale,
two for ten.
Here's my pin number. I know you always forget it,
5-1-8-8.
Make sure your Dad takes his medication.
I know you'll make the right choices,
even if they aren't the one's that I want.
Love.
Mom.
Oct 24, 2011
Oct 24, 2011 at 6:44 PM UTC