"pesto" poems
Look at all these wannabe gangsters
Terrorising our streets
That one's wearing camouflage trousers
Just wait till you hear him speak
'Dems bear skills mate'
'Can you lend me fifty bar?'
He sounds like he's from Los Angeles
Doing time in the yard
But he's not
He still lives at home with his mum
And his pregnant girlfriend
And he's under the thumb
You see them outside Tesco
But they're not shopping for pesto
Let's go
They've seen the old bill
He's known around this town
For selling dodgy pills
Guns, knives and slang
That's what you need
If you wanna be in their gang
No education
Just a stolen Playstation
And don't forget the ****
Even on a school night
They're out doing speed
You'll see 'em in the park
With a bottle of cider
Then they'll start
On a poor old-timer
Tracky bottoms
And a Burberry hat
Chav fashion
Cause they think they're all that
But the funny thing is
They don't have a clue
They don't think like
Me or you
They think that they're rap stars
Dreaming of fast cars
But they're just wankers
More like 'wannabe gangsters'
Jan 3, 2019
Jan 3, 2019 at 2:38 PM UTC
I follow him in the kitchen
We prepare saucepans;
onion, garlic, tomato, pesto, cheeses,
some flavour of the day...
(We're a fickle two)
and
Boil water, cream
Bubble, salt to taste
Cayenne for luck
He grabs and mixes and I trail,
Closing cupboards and sliding shut drawers the only sounds,
Otherwise silent in our routine.
No good will come of this
silence in our routine
Dec 16, 2013
Dec 16, 2013 at 11:16 PM UTC
listening to French pop
"I'll have liked it when it was cool before it get's cool"
sriracha sauce on pesto pizza
"The waiter was right the flavors are very complimentary to the palate."
watching a ****** "me" movie
"wow their color usage in the lighting really shows the Giallo Italian horror influence"
Listening to the Friendly Indians
"My favorite band? They are only popular in Orange County so you've probably not heard of them.... oh you have?"
watching Un Chien Andalou
"tres interessant"
reading Sartre and Nietzsche
"my favorite philosophers man."
my pretention leaking out slowly to reveal I'm just a ********* underneath this finely unkempt exterior.
Is that changing? Well no but i thought you should know anyway.
Aug 3, 2014
Aug 3, 2014 at 4:06 AM UTC
I have fallen in love
With the air, the trees
The thinly paved and often cracked roads
And even moreso with those covered in cobblestone.
I have fallen in love with the tanned locals
Old shopkeepers with hats and bifocals
Their calling voices
The natural movement of their hands
The cool sea water
And hot white sands.
I have fallen in love with espresso
And how it feels in my throat
The smell of leather
Taste of gelato
Harbours full of fishing boats
The sound of a vintage vespa
Weaving its way through a crowd
The arguing couple, arguing loud
And this is a country of which to be proud.
I have fallen in love with the architecture
The vast and complex history
The more I learn the more I admit is a mystery.
I have fallen in love with the way the sun shines brighter
The air is fresher
And the fruit is sweeter
The men are bolder
And the books are cheaper.
I have fallen in love with the words they say
And how those words effortlessly roll off their tongues
I breathe in their culture
And try to hold it in my lungs.
Pizza, pesto, cute cafes
Absence of anxiety, holidays
The tourists who view it all through a camera lense
Adventure begins and tension ends.
I have fallen in love with it all
Every flower
Every hue
All those pairs of knock-off sunglasses
I love them too.
Every cloud
Every ray of sunshine
Every drop of ***** riverwater
Every painted line
Every brick
Of every church
On all those hills
In all those tiny towns
That populate the green countryside
And every visionary who in them has lived and died
I love
But most of all
I have fallen in love with the version of me
That comes out when I am in Italy
Jun 18, 2014
Jun 18, 2014 at 3:37 PM UTC
Dreams, dreams
Visions come as favela blossoming into a forthcoming
Bounty
For all the Earth citizens
Having a cosy home
Clean waters
Creative life
Without existential suffering
Share people! Share!!! Goods, love, smiles ...
Rejoyce, be grateful, embrace tight!!!
Aug 6, 2016
Aug 6, 2016 at 11:42 AM UTC
Eleven to you
Star-crust in de stijl courts
Silhouettes and shadows
Speed boats race around the lake
On and on and on and on and
Guilty pleasures and guilty moldy blues
Sandwiches on the weekends
Pasta and pesto or gnocchi every other day too
Common mysteries follow the bayou
Heavy heads laden in niello swamps
Does acrostics in the daytime
Pleasures herself with crosswords on her days off
Sacks of coffee, potatoes and ivory- beer at 5am
Three fingers lay across the stitch
This needlepoint is something good
No one died but someone could
Heavy on the hops, melancholy Wednesday's
Miracles in wrestling Russian masters
Thwarting automobiles without their governors
Faster and faster they go
Growing faster and faster they show
Aug 30, 2016
Aug 30, 2016 at 8:46 AM UTC
The old man's getting married to a fat ******
Ding, **** the wedding hearse does shine!
That' what he gets for perving!
Get him to the morgue on time!
The old man's getting to a fat ******
Ding, **** the wedding hearse does shine!
The undertakers are steady,
Both the coffins are ready,
Extra wide for the big fat groom and bride!
The old man's getting married to a fat ******
Ding, **** the wedding hearse does shine!
The bride is wearing her thongy,
His sons are bringing their bongies,
Get him to the morgue on time!
The old man's groom married to a fat ******
Ding, **** the wedding hearse does shine,
The mob are bringing Marijuana pesto,
The transvestites are saying hello,
They can be mothers of the bride!
The old man's getting married to a fat ******
Ding, **** the wedding hearse shall shine,
Yes, that's what you get for perving,
The morticians are all ready,
The coffins are standing steady,
Get him to the morgue on time!
Jan 3, 2016
Jan 3, 2016 at 9:34 PM UTC
You are the smell of dawn in the evening.
You are the taste of champagne in flat beer.
You are the storm after the calm,
that calls a sailor to his doom, and his resurrection.
You are the pupil of my mind's eye.
You are the reflection of eternity in the backside of a spoon,
held only long enough to know on a level beneath foresight,
between bites of spaghetti and pesto.
I alone can call you from the trenches
to embed your nature in the navel of the world.
Your pulse is the very river Nile herself.
And as you pour your own prediction of flooding into my lips,
I know the life you give.
The moon can call an owl to its perch.
Just as the sun can burn a wolf to its bones.
But what loss is that?
They both meet destiny at a coffee shop,
sipping on the preconceptions of their parents, transposed into prose,
whose simple words will uphold the will of the world.
Jul 7, 2012
Jul 7, 2012 at 5:51 PM UTC
There they are in all their glory!
Poems 'bout food to tell a story...
The sunny side up of a summer day
The yolk is rising to a fried egg whey!
There's plenty of grits
to fill the spoon...
With sizzling stars
and a flapjack MOON!
Pasta hills with pesto grass
Sure to give your hips some sass!
Fresh salmon salad on some greens
You're much more likely to be lean
Sensual fruits delight the eyes
And they're easier on the thighs!
Bread and muffins in a race
With cookies and cream
to stuff your face?
Cleanse the body! Cleanse the soul!
You can break the jello mold!
But I don't know if I can last...
*I write about FOOD
whilst I do a FAST!*
SoulSurvivor
(C) 8/4/2015
Aug 4, 2015
Aug 4, 2015 at 9:23 PM UTC
He was the kind of boy that would listen to you talk about your dreams
And watch you try on a series of hats only to tell you he didn't like any of them.
This boy that could talk about kiwis
without seeming dull.
He had an affinity for hip hop music and ironic T shirts
and fancied himself a good club crawl every now and again.
The two P's were often on his dinner menu (pasta and pesto)
And he was quirky.
Not in a Zooey Deschanel kind of way,
But in the way that is effortless.
In the way that intrigues people.
Intrigues me.
He wasn't the kind of boy you read about in books,
but should have books written about him.
I wanted to be the one to write it.
It started off as a fan-fiction
and ended as wishful thinking.
Oct 14, 2013
Oct 14, 2013 at 11:09 PM UTC
(Puh)
“The power to perceive something impossible persuades me. I must pick a place.” The Clairvoyant Gulch.
This person pounds the ground with persistence. A penchant to procreate perception. The Clairvoyant Gulch.
Passing away into peach fuzz and polyandry. Pretty Polly plans to participate in the process. The Clairvoyant Gulch.
Princess Penelope ****** on Polly. Paczki the predator penetrates the preposterous Polly.
The Clairvoyant Gulch.
The President of the Polyandry Psychics proposes: let Polly go but only with the presentation.
The Clairvoyant Gulch.
The Polyandry People peer and pry for what will Polly present. The poor prissy presents her ***** The Clairvoyant Gulch.
She placidly plucks the ***** to pay the People. But she then panics and pours pomegranate red over a *** The Clairvoyant Gulch.
The *** then becomes an urn so precious that the People pray. Polly feels penitent of her peccadillo. The Clairvoyant Gulch.
The President points to the urn. Paczki the predator places ingredients into the *** pig’s tail, pesto and plantar’s wart. The Clairvoyant Gulch.
The Polyanderthals round about and puke into the *** Polly prepares a peyote dish that will pause time. The Clairvoyant Gulch.
The President and People consume the *** It tastes vile and profane, they puke again. The Clairvoyant Gulch.
The Polyantherhals turn around to find Polly unpresent. They **** and pant in confused anger. The Clairvoyant Gulch.
Polly is passing the time, possessing a power within the Earth’s core. Her polyethylene pants protect her from the core’s melting point. The Clairvoyant Gulch.
As for the People, it was not practical for them to be presented such profane magic. Their perception of the universal paradigm had been inverted in perpetuum. The Clairvoyant Gulch.
As for the Polyanderthalic *** of ****** pomegranate juice, the President sold the item through Paypal to a polyandry professor living in Piccadilly. The People never practiced polyandry in perpetuum. Ever again.
~The Clairvoyant Gulch
Jan 21, 2017
Jan 21, 2017 at 5:14 PM UTC
Is it really because of the paranoia,
Or the shameful receiving of a glare,
As you eat your pesto pasta?
Don't blame yourself,
Blame the garlic.
Blame everything on anything
Except yourself
(Have no qualms everyone does it)
'Why are you having a shower now,
You only had one this morning?'
Quick. Think. Make it obvious.
'Oh, I smell you see'.
Sublime excuse.
But this is not the reason.
Shower to remove sins?
By part tis true,
Showering washes away
The layer of **** that the world
Dumps on you throughout the day.
We shower to relive.
The added bonus is that after
We smell divine.
Jun 21, 2013
Jun 21, 2013 at 4:07 PM UTC
I didn't think it was going to be any good.
The Party,
My friends.
9:30
Rediscovered pesto to Arnold the govnah' in Total Recall
I walked in their door a thousand times for their entertainment
each time as a new character,
He's got a wii so he can play gamecube,
Bring your guitar
10:30
The fridge had a paper snowflake with ******* shaped designs
You know why I like the kitchen?
The lighting on my friends faces, I can enjoy everyones expression
Drinking game? Who can't moonwalk, place your bets, take off your shoes
11:30
Pack of dudes showed up, Female hosts forget to invite ladies sometimes
Don't leave! Why? Your the prettiest girl here
oh no the neighbor is coming to complain but
If I know my sister like I think I do,
the two will be shooting whiskey on the roof in no time
2:30
I took a group to visit my ***** call,
I knocked and sang at the door but she stiffed me
Probably a mistake but you can't start a fire without a...
so we left and played "dancing in the dark" in the parking lot
.... ....... ...
Why am I singing to you?
Your half asleep doing takes for my new voicemail
I told you a story about
TheAA Duracell battery who wanted to be friends with the 9Volts
The throw pillow who wanted to be a real pillow
The doorknob who broke herself on purpose
so intruders couldn't see what she had inside
I didn't think it was going to be any good.
The Party,
My friends.
Dec 14, 2014
Dec 14, 2014 at 6:31 PM UTC
explode the greenness within the container of life
mortar and pestle. occipital lobe. throbbing. crasha banga booma the scent of garlic
infusing the innocent air
basil, burning. keep going keep going keep going
wear goggles to avoid the pain of the onions
cut chop slice creal
mortar. pestle. mortal & pestle.
slice
pulverize smash
o the pain
take the basil and mix it
take the nuts
mash em all up
then, mix it all together
diversity
melting ***
jellybeans? no
genoa
pesto pesticide pesto
pesto.
Oct 26, 2017
Oct 26, 2017 at 9:03 PM UTC
I'm not sure
if I love very many things,
but here are the few
that I can remember:
I love the taste of dark chocolate
in November
I love the silver of the sky
just before it rains
I love first sips of coffee
from new mugs
I love the taste of oysters,
but not as much as pesto
I love that one song you'd play for me,
about the boat sinking
I love the kind of soft sadness
that reminds you of who you used to be.
Nov 18, 2014
Nov 18, 2014 at 1:55 AM UTC
Why do I deserve this?
How do I deserve this?
What did I do and in which
Lifetime that has lead to
Me receiving such prodigious love?
Your face beaming upward
Backward hat left ear bent
Your eyes scale my
Adam's apple
Chin
Bottom Lip
Top Lip
Philtrum
Tip of Nose
Bridge
Bottom Lash
Pupil locked
You smile
Then wink
In that way I said I hated
Because I thought it was cheap
And I'm glad I said that
Because now I love it
And the ****** expression
And words that follow
Every Single Time
"Sup?"
Can I read you a poem?
Our inside jokes
Build
Rigorously
Congruously
Correlationally
To our love,
Pesto.
But you already know that.
You inspire me
Blue flame fire in me
You will agree
To a large degree
Is on account of our
Souls' connectivity
Meant to be
My heart dances on the bridge
That connects tears of laughter
And tears of shear happiness and
Gratitude and as my heart swells
To rugby ball bloat
I ask: What am I going to do with you?
You say: Love me.
Well?
I love you.
I love you.
I love you.
I'm in love with you.
Pesto, let's go home.
May 8, 2017
May 8, 2017 at 10:11 PM UTC
i keep my pride under house arrest
tied to an enema of ***** soda
that stops at the border of the premises
what a great laugh crawls from the nailed headboards
and sips from my resolve
i try not to show my subordinates the pressure points I worry about
but the maintenance staff knows too much
the maintenance staff keeps us up the most
they read the cracks in the plates
silverware scratched from being thrown around
every shard is collected
the professionals recommend 3 square meals a day
my pride is offered for breakfast
3 eggs, potatoes made one way, a dragonball shaped pancake
with 5 chocolate chips, and an apple skewered sideways
coffee is poured over top soul
my pride is offered for lunch
grilled cheese, something plain and boring, chips, something also plain and boring,
Gatorade, or overdone redemption
my pride is offered for dinner
grease, a good burrito with grease, an IPA,,,toast to mix things up, a joy ride with Cassidy, a waterbed of folk music, (zero ***** given), pesto penne, another IPA, a timeshare just south, and sometimes dessert
after yelling at the neighbors some
and a few reruns on adult swim
the ***** soda kicks in with a little extra
and puts us all to sleep
in 25 years
when the sentence is over
I don’t think it will find the same 3 square meals a day
Jul 17, 2020
Jul 17, 2020 at 1:44 PM UTC
it’s not difficult
to know what to do
with 500 heads of garlic
but the garlic scapes
that’s another question
i’ve been grinding them
with basil, oil, nuts
and parmesan and freezing
the pesto
but the freezer is stuffed now
with strawberries and soon
the beans will come
then the broccoli
and the kale
i’m not a survivalist
but if the electricity
were ever to be cut
for a day,
well, i’d have to
haul out the generator and
today I picked up my old
two horsepower pump
from the shop
i use it to draw water up from
the pond which is 10 meters
lower than the garden
i am gradually learning to
look after myself
it’s been a lifelong project
Sep 16, 2016
Sep 16, 2016 at 9:31 PM UTC
We’ve all got a wee guy sitting
on our shoulder.
Her wee guy tells her to
have another glass of wine!
have another glass of wine!
one more glass of wine! To help you relax!
(She has to get up for work at 6am tomorrow
morning.)
(Her office is a 25 mile drive from her home.)
Your wee guy tells you to
just take off the ******
She’s on the pill and
it’ll feel better for both of you!
You can’t remember when you were last tested for STDs and
you’re so drunk that
you can’t even remember her name.
The wee guy on my shoulder
sits with his legs crossed, slit-eyed, and instructs:
“If you’re going to have a Brie toastie for lunch, you must use low calorie bread. Less than 70kcal per slice. No butter. No jam. No pesto. No spread. You don’t
deserve to taste.”
The ‘opportunity cost’ of tasty cheese
is bread like cardboard:
brittle like my bones and
dry like my hair and
lacking.
Which is
exactly how I feel about myself sometimes.
I used to turn my head towards him
and say: “okay, pal, I’ll do exactly as you say!”
Today I said
I should put pesto on my Brie toastie
I have a bit of weight
still to restore and
I really like pesto!
I like
myself sometimes.
So I had a Brie and pesto toastie for lunch and
moved on with my day.
Jul 23, 2017
Jul 23, 2017 at 12:06 PM UTC
With pesto and chocolate breathe I lay
******* contemplating today.
14 de Juliet.
Why am I not thinking about this moment,
this second, this sensation, this exploration?
The feeling of the carpet on my naked skin,
the feeling of my silk ****** of sin.
The wetness of my ***** as I lay against the earth
Tightening loosening faster faster I need some girth.
Aren't we created to pulsate, ruminate, procreate?
Then why does this feel so wrong?
After all its only natural to want to love yourself
please yourself feel yourself to get along.
Yes I'm turned-on turned on by the thought of the act of the motion of the ocean of the reality that I could get off.
But frightened when it's all done and even fun.
A fear to release, let go, lose control and roll.
no, It's about me it's about you.
Loving you and getting you to *** a *** dum dum.
For so long you don't know how or why but you just knew you almost died.
in a good way
Rub me
touch me
lick me
stick me
Just be gentle,
Just be free.
Jul 15, 2017
Jul 15, 2017 at 12:32 AM UTC
*i mean, that **** is weirder than the scots deep-frying chocolate bars (mars, mianly, even though i think snikers would taste better), or slices of pizza; yeah, and they say: euro-trash... how much more ****** can you get?! i don't even want to know what the irish culinary fetish is; it's enough knowing that the thai like deep-frying locust.*
i never understood it, this english "thing",
there is probably no nation in the world that has
a compulsion to mix two carbohydrate heavyweights...
heavyweights?
pasta... bread... rice...
crisps...
so i was reading the yesterday's newspaper
and this recipe was included in the magazine:
pasta with beans and pesto...
sounds good enough...
but i read into the recipe...
400 grams of linguine,
300 grams green beans,
200 millitres basil pesto
freshly grated parmesan...
and then it hit me: 1 large potato cut into
1 centimetre cubes...
but now i'd be asking americans to: not bother
getting a passport...
in school i watched the english lodge crisps
into sandwitches...
this is the most oddball of all current nations...
who the **** combines two heavyweight carbohydrates?
they even have this standard of lodging chips
into buns...
like my father once noticed on the building
site, this black guy, stuffing a banana peanut-butter
and some bacon into a sandwitch...
fair enough if you lodge a plantain into
the mix... but a banana?
about as weird as the english
using crisps + bread... or pasta + potato.
having a glimpse at this pratice,
seems more fascinating, than, say, spotting a yeti.
May 21, 2017
May 21, 2017 at 7:43 AM UTC
my lighter ran out of gas
so I lit my cigarette on the stove.
I was saving this light for you
and your pesto pasta,
still in its ***
it won't get wrapped up with the care
with which I wrap my nicotine
but it'll be wrapped
and waiting for you
like I always do
till I've no more rizlas
or love left to give
unreturned
and as my *** embers out
and I go to light another
tick tick tick
I know, you're worse for me
than this packaged love
May 30, 2020
May 30, 2020 at 2:52 AM UTC
So, you're a shelf stacker?
It's Stock Replenishing Operative, actually.
I mean, I do take stock and stack it on the shelf, but it's an easy job,
and I can do it by myself.
We're inexperienced, part-timers,
full-time staff are corporate climbers,
which is fine, but they really don't like us.
Fill the cage and wheel it out,
steering 'round corners, missing the customers,
don't hit the display,
they'll be hell to pay from the supervisor,
they'll vapourize, ya.
Thirty pots of Pesto,
here we go,
bent over at an angle, strainin' my back trying to untangle the packaging,
it doesn't have to be perfect just get them in.
Where's the footstool?
It's with Abdul, fair enough, I'll help him out,
have a laugh with the staff, it's the only way to get through, until
"Ryan! We need you on shampoo."
So off I trudge, to grab a box,
Neutrogena, TRESemme, and Radox.
That has dragged and dragged, but it's break-time now,
just 20 minutes to figure out how I'll get through the rest,
I'm not stressed,
just bored, very, very bored.
Working here has shown me what I don't want to do.
It's fine for a wage,
but I'd love to engage in something of interest,
a job that suits me best.
Enroll at Uni?
Maybe that'll improve me?
Then away I go, no looking back
and all those things I think I lack
will become history, hopefully.
May 3, 2020
May 3, 2020 at 3:08 PM UTC