"pillsbury" poems
Well let’s peek into the kitchen of Lucy and Ethel to see the baking of this 7 Layer Cake
On cue in take
Ricky is having a party in his home regarding his 10th Anniversary in managing the Night Club called “A little bit of Cuba”
He wanted something fancy
Did he say fancy?
There’s no telling what Lucy has baked into that cake
Lucy and Ethel are busy baking away
But somehow that cake is going to cause people to make a quick getaway
Now remember, this is not the Pillsbury bake off, but should say “Revenge with back off”
At this point, you are allowed to cough
The cake is in the pan and ready for the oven
As the cake is baking, Lucy and Ethel are entertaining the guest
This is not at any one’s request
While Lucy talks about Hollywood and show business, do you smell something burning?
Luc y shouts, “My cake!”
But was it too late?
Lucy and Ethel rushed to the oven
The cake was half burned and didn’t rise
Why am I not surprised?
Meanwhile, what is Lucy and Ethel going too serve for dessert?
Lucy says, “I have a plan”
Let’s open a can of fruit cocktail and add it inside the burned cake
But Ethel stats with, “How will the guest respond?”
Lucy proclaims, “Who cares, they can’t know the cake was burned
Well the dessert will be served
Think on eat at your own risk being observed
As Lucy and Ethel serve the cake, suddenly one of the guest get sick from eating the cake
Lucy of course starts to cry
Yet the baking that cake was a good try
Eat at your own risk said I.
Jun 4, 2015
Jun 4, 2015 at 6:32 PM UTC
Just because they have disappeared
does not mean that
i'm clutter-free.
It's a cluster-free, a clusterfuck of ******* insanity.
My uncle left right after
my Grampa's funeral,
split like a chicken's *****
"he's in the airforce
or some other human-processing factory,"
Ma would say to me.
My aunt mable,
dipped out
dripped out two kids
then split
like a pillsbury biscuit.
My aunt pat's mom,
left Aunt pat on Aunt FLo's doorstep,
in the sole of her instep,
stepped out on a kid
and a husband
with a left shoe,
the right one
was left behind.
My pops
was forced out,
I saw him drag Ma
through the halls,
saw him whip her face in
with the brass-end
of a leather belt,
everybody's face was leathery
when the cops came in.
There is a litany of disappearing faces
in my family picture, a litany
of the disappeared
who reappear
over thanksgiving and christmas dinners,
when we wax nostalgiac
or hurt
over turkey,
gravy,
and biscuits.
Over love
and how many are missing.
Jan 25, 2012
Jan 25, 2012 at 12:24 AM UTC
Sweetheart you need to be have a flatter stomach
Put down that soda pop
Or one day it will make you pop
Put down those puff pastries
Or one day they will make you the Pillsbury Dough-girl.
Take up crunches and sit-ups
And just ignore when your body screams for food
Take up ******* in and waist trainers
And just ignore that ******* in all day weakens your muscles pushing you further from your ideal
Hey good lookin’ you’d be prettier if you had smaller thighs
Stop eatin’ them donuts
They turnin’ you too dough
Stop ordering your pizzas in larges
They turnin’ you large
Start doing some squats
Just ignore your back screaming in pain
Start running sum more
Just ignore that bigger thighs mean a lower risk of heart disease and premature death
And a simple request from everyone else: make sure your hair always looks like a girl from a movie, that your skin is flawless, you dress perfectly, are always happy, smiling constantly, have an aesthetically pleasing Instagram, be in an adorable relationship, know all the newest music and shows
You know what
just be perfect
but
not to perfect
-love society
Oct 23, 2018
Oct 23, 2018 at 3:28 PM UTC
Senseless
Palm trees wrapped with barbed wire.
I like gingerbread cookies of pillsbury dough, of that you already know.
Frappuccinos without whipped.
Like a dream
Y.M.C.A.
Rollerblading the past is fading.
Summer camps horseback riding, rock climbing, arts & crafts.
Friends confiding, connections binding, lots of laughs.
Swimming, smores, canouing, & row boats.
Gemini Loved Scorpio
Solar system of a higher altitude.
Astrology to set the mood.
A date which is charming & not rude. Greek or mexican? My favorite food.
Jan 15, 2015
Jan 15, 2015 at 2:54 PM UTC
Lars lifts opens the toilet seat. The hinge squawks and he mimics the sound with his mouth. A dumb smile folds out on his face like someone unrolling a beach towel. He sits without dropping his pants or underwear. The cops are just about to leave through the screen door. Maggie offers a departing sacrament of right out of the oven of crispy flakey Pillsbury biscuits. They wave their hands parallel to the ground refusing. Maggie pulled the biscuits out too early. The bottoms are tan and dimensional but the tops are sloppy. They look like they have a glaze but they don’t have a glaze. They are pasty but still hot to the touch. The pan is hot. Maggie is wearing maroon oven mitts. One of the cops gets his foot snagged on the throw rug. They walk with their heads down but don’t notice the curled edges of the throw rug. They notice a black pug named Roger instead and nearly avoid fumbling over him. The cops scatter outside quickly like ducklings crossing the street. Lars’ dumb smile lingers and he laughs with a shushing lisp. He reaches between his legs into the toilet bowl. His hand disturbs the water. His nose is bleeding. Maggie closes the doorwall after the cops leave. The cops left the screen open. Maggie reopens the doorwall, closes the screen, shakes her head, and then closes the doorwall again. The kitchen is humming with improper wires. The light is electric pastel blue. The linoleum is too ***** to sleep on. Maggie’s ******* can be seen through her shirt. Lars wipes his nose with his arm and shoulder. He is hunched digging into the toilet bowl. He pulls out a baggie with a twist tie on top. The baggie looks reused. Maggie enters under the frame of the door and her lips roll out like a beach towel. The ******* in the baggie is very very dry.
Sep 16, 2016
Sep 16, 2016 at 7:56 PM UTC
Yo I got skillz by the millions
With tons of ammunition
Who fuckin' with the commission my mission
Is to control the rap game blow fish tactics
From ******* who **** quick my **** stick
Slick leave em with one eye patch cookin' up another batch
Can ya catch
The madness of real ***** with multiple figures money surpassin' the aurora
Hardcorer grim explorer non could ignore tha
Deadly pedigrees sheddin so beautifully
Im feelin' like Mango Slade cuts through like a blade
Lyrics colder than the words from Chuckie
Coastin' spells I do it well it ain't hard to tell
While ya souls fail another body destined to hell
It's Yosef ninth gate chillin' over ya crates
Like a demon intervention got ya nerves
Penchin' and itchin' soon to be twitchin' and inchin'
My every move I'm takin' ove the earthly ground
Bow down what's that it's the Southside
Breakin' em down so ya bound to drown
My armed men stack men from the guns
That back bend to the roads ya
End
No longer boys to men to deaths I comprehend
Takin' on deadly sins seven to chose from
I'm makin' chaos from USA to the New Jerusalem
And who's dumb? Enough to **** with me
While I'm on my Crazy *** leavin' ya stunned
And outdunned and who can
Come?
Against my magnificence layin' hellish scents
In the forms of an emodiment
Who could stop it
Since adversaries are culprit let the snakes
Shake and take away these painful memories
Yeah I'm dreadin' ya head missin' the feds
*** I got more bread than Pillsbury dough
So quick with the skills and I
Know
Suckas don't wanna go toe to
Toe
**** mics worse than Exodus who can plex with us
The coldest strong as a swingin' boulders
Knockin' ya head off ya shoulders I thought I told ya
Southside stay running with hidden
Soldiers
Nov 4, 2018
Nov 4, 2018 at 7:00 AM UTC
Why are you always so little,
running around kicking shins,
then hiding inside a cookie jar
swearing the crumbs are talking about you
in bittersweet morsels
wiped from hands
stealing all that is sweet in your life?
Apr 4, 2016
Apr 4, 2016 at 1:12 PM UTC
Hie Yamaha Wegman ****** voyager, voted vonage valuable, unrepentant TIME Magazine subscriber. Spotify sportsman Snapchat smartly. Sleuth slenderman silences Shutterfly schvitzing. Saxby sassy Santander sais sage rues rudimentary router rotorooter.
Royale Rococco rigged remarkably regular referee reefers red reddit reeder recuperating. Reconnaissance recluse really rabid. QVC quotient quoting, quo quoi quivering quite quirky. Quisling quipped. Quintuplets quintessentially quiet. Quids Quicken questions.
Quartermaster qualified quaint quaffing quadrilateral Pythons. Pyrex pylons put purdy purposeful puny punsters punching. Pumpkin pumice publicized prudential protean pros properly pronouncing prolific prodigies.
Proletariats professors' problematic. Pro privileges prioritized. Principle primates prevaricate. Preppy pregnant, praying prattler possibly Porgie. Poseidon pooping poodle ponders poppycock. Plum? Polite poison pods ply pitiful pinterest.
Pinhead Pillsbury pillager Pi. Pigskin pierce petsmart pests permanently. Perdition percolates peppered PennState pedigreed PearlJam Patagonian. Pastor pastes passion passably. Papas' paginated orbitz okayed. Nutty node needs money.
Next netzero nee naugahyde. Nattering nationwide nabob Moxie Molly McGee. Monosodium livingsocial joyus je kickstarter. Identityguard Huffington GMO. Gluten Glutamate footloose fancy free footlocker. Fingerhut fetishistic fabrication Cingular.
Feb 3, 2018
Feb 3, 2018 at 9:47 PM UTC
What's uut man?
My snake tipped legs and iceberg froze fade languish in the shade. Tell a mother how her bush should bloom, Gathered all the rose peddles and released them to the desert air, when I rise Pillsbury dew drops tip tap clatter back. I already know what love is. Hearts tide to a string. You can call me Duncan. They call me South of no North. My gift of gab was extrapolated from Teddy Ruxpin's jugular and drug through a Chinese sweatshop. I hung my cords out on the line. They hardened into a sharp blade used for doe hunting. Try ice skating uphill while not breaking a sweat. Pull the plug from the speaker steal the mic and jet. Will mount Olympus faction my fold? Nevermore, well maybe once but I'm so straight and narrow their knees are like maze portals to me. Take a swig from the medication station. Don't stay to long or you may like what you have become too me. No worries; Uutt, oh it's magic.
May 26, 2015
May 26, 2015 at 7:56 PM UTC
We are all connected.
The smell of chapstick & playdough.
Pillsbury Dough Boy has to go.
Tomorrow we will make a side trip.
Errands & appointments we can skip.
The right shade of purple & pink for my lips.
Some accessories are necessary.
The right heely shoes of styles so few.
Straight or wavy long hair.
About my appearance I always care.
I want to always look my best.
Hair, makeup, wardrobe, & all the rest.
To age older one day at a time.
Youth & my prime is no longer mine.
Liquid eyeliner to enhance & make finer.
Foundation to even the tone of my ****** skin.
Mascara for my lashes.
Finding clothes that matches.
Some eyeshadow for my lids.
Revealing jewelry where it's hid.
Feb 13, 2015
Feb 13, 2015 at 12:27 AM UTC
Dumping Jack Flash
Dumping Jack Flash
it's a gas gas gas
one minute a prince
the next nothing but an ***
it feels so good
to have the feeling of a thump
upside his head
as he's tossed into the dump
pick himself up
and brush off the dirt
get right back in line
don't even button up his shirt
you see he's been here before
in case you didn't know
like Pillsbury
all rolled up in dough
thrown in the oven
stuck with a fork
you know when he's ready
when he begins to bark
his eyes swollen red
headed for a crash
like old Major Frank
in an episode of Mash
was eating tasty morsels
now gone in a flash
understands the reasons
but he's run out of stash
can't cop a buzz
completely out of cash
find the whiskey bottle
make his own bash
he thought he was someone
but apparently just trash
so easily tossed
dumping Jack Flash
it's a gas gas gas
Gomer LePoet ...
Jun 22, 2013
Jun 22, 2013 at 9:47 AM UTC
The new education
building was beautiful
because it was reminiscent
of friends’ houses past.
Fond, albeit naive, memories
of stone suburbs and finished basements and iPod stereo systems playing easy listenin’
trite popular rock n’ roll music to the smell of toaster muffins,
some Pillsbury brand I can’t remember the name of and didn’t bother to then
because my mom or dad (for different reasons) couldn’t be persuaded to buy boxed, branded
items (usually, and until an Aldi came to town), and don’t bother to know now because
it’s probably better and cooler to not know.
We fear what we think we know about what we actually don’t know.
I learned that recently and it is popping up everywhere.
Popping up like processed delicious memories out of new clean toasters.
Where are all the crumbs? Where is the crumb life?
I’ll ask that if I ever return.
There once was a statue of a short Italian chef with a mustache and a tray attached to his stone hand, for letters, I assumed, and if I ever go back I’ll also ask: is that for letters?
See the truth is that there was depth.
There was depth but what bothered me I mean really made me uncomfortable
was that it was hidden and wiped off the counter and swept up so to speak
with perhaps, someone else’s hands.
The depth wasn’t measured in wood chips and smelly black beautiful old independent dogs
or falling apart antique chairs or comprehensive but dusty cd collections, k.d. lang, Stevie Wonder, Jesus Christ Superstar soundtrack, or posters of hot chile peppers or piles of unsold rocks and bricks in the backyard that were also high standing posts for kids who were imaginary queens and kings and warriors, or tacky red spray painted bicycles.
Our depth was visible and pure and it seemed like everyone else’s was cleaned up and stored away.
It felt that way when I was young.
Now I value my family’s visible depth
and consciously remind myself that no matter how
fresh the paint smells or how not present a quirky old photograph is
it is somewhere, it is somewhere
**** it is somewhere
it is beautiful
to remind myself that.
Oct 5, 2015
Oct 5, 2015 at 5:54 PM UTC
Throw away that dastardly pastry,
don’t eat that muffin or scone,
run from that evil bakery,
leave them well enough alone!
Wheat, barley, rye and oats,
these are our greatest enemies,
remove them from our plates,
so they no longer rumble our tummies!
Let's start a blog, issue a protest,
we'll boycott Panera, Wonder Bread,
the Pillsbury Doughboy,
and have Quaker-Oats seeing red!
There’s no stopping us now,
we’ll bring all grain to its knees,
its high time our irritable bowels
do as they please!
Mar 2, 2020
Mar 2, 2020 at 1:23 PM UTC
Still a dangerous emcee once I set my feet in the industry
Exposing used to be homies now they wanna kill.me
But can't still.me I keep the techs on me
Just incase I gotta capture another soul makin' eternity
Placin' urns round me Cuz they soon to burn
To ashes smoke the greenest grass from Shannon Ireland
This captain ain't hiring
only killers I be admirin' y'all flows expirin'
Once the sirens sounding another Emcees gets a pounding
Heads covered with ***** plastic bags
Poked holes soon to be drowning
Fools tellin' jokes but you don't see me clowning
Only money and guns I trust so that's my surrounding
A King like Arthur I be the author
Sealin' emcees chapter takes notes for the rapture
Kidnapped ya team flashplay scenes Bones become fractured
Once I roll over weak emcees like a tractor
Major factor to this game
We ain't no actors
Flippin' heads With my metal spatula
Communicating to y'all with the street vernacular
My personality evil as Mallory
Natural born killers
Intincts is what inspires me
Who better than me?
My flows poisonous like Ivy
Got more brothers than Isley
Summer breeze with me
Heat is what ya catching from me
My guns Rip through skin cells so rapidly
Paint murders so vividly graphically
They'll remember me I'll be
Notorious like B-I-G
Fools dry lookin' all thirsty
Sips bottles of the Dom Perry
**** Governor Perry we bake more dough than Pillsbury
Rolls so know ya role or else get the barrel to ya temple
Executions made Iraqi style so how?
You gone disconnect the dial?
Deaths is callin' soon to be fallin'
With the rest of the Angels
That we had to fuckin' strangle
Don't matter the point or angle
Fools chained like Django hop in the Black Tahoe we got deals for sure
I'm.hustlin night and day like Al B Sure
We choke out competition like Latrell
Make heaven out of hell never see a jail cell
Money lookin' too good I'm feelim' Richie
Chillin' at the top mobbin' like Big Paulie
Dec 21, 2017
Dec 21, 2017 at 8:52 PM UTC
I could see for miles Up $ Up
Why so difficult to move
a smile stay put to raise so upliftingly +
A new existence a phrase
You could move miles 2- Praise
way up and away
You're voicing the big hit up___towards you
Mentally sing rejoicing
The slightest smile
Where did it go??
I see your smile sadly
Oh! No
Down
Move the frown
Miles way down
Smile*
Oh! no downward
10
09
08
07
06
05
04
3 times
Love me more
Amore'
Mentally
Chosen 1
On 1
One more chance
Oh! God
Godly wait the smile++
Welcoming so inviting
"The Meeting" his smile
How it timed us the door
Smiles hit us through the floor
Winding moving staircase
What goes up must come
down picking up
Their smile's the love pair
U-R going down
Somewhere mentally
Bonded together
physically
Hot-headed The Pillsbury
Dough man you are the
Miles of lovey
He's "Gooey Oh! Joey"
smashing
The cool landing
You were marked
"The Given" To give and love
but feeding the poor
The next time your
"Smiley face"
Brings___ more lifts
More gifts @ the door
Gifts of happiness
God first
Not always about being
first class
Having any luck? love labeled
Such a sprinkled mind
Mental telepathy
Mentally everything
Wearing his College
school ring was something
The bell rings
swinging jazz pitch
In school remembering
the lost and found
His eyes were striking out
Dodgeball telling her
He didn't want to lose her
She made the Robin Joy Fly
the home run became all her
She won him over the shooting
Stars "Godly smiles nothing
compare to their love look above
Apr 22, 2018
Apr 22, 2018 at 10:11 AM UTC
It was Donna Darling’s annual dinner party
A Cotillion approved eatery
Six spoons and six forks
The wrong one, and all the glares one bore
And then waddled in Miss Pillsbury
Her stumpy feet too short to
Do anything but waddle
Uninvited she was
As she always was
Squelching her way
through the narrow doorway.
As fourteen perfectly styled heads
Shuffled their feet under the table.
Boom! Clash!
Six spoons crashing
Six forks attacking
Poor old lady Judith’s knee
As she groaned in pain.
Donna scratching her head
Eyes darting through her invite list
Top-to-bottom, Top-to-bottom
Screech! Went the chair,
Scratching Donnas hand polished marble floors
Like nails on a chalkboard.
Oh, and what she did next,
Almost sent Donna to her upstairs bedroom
To pop some unprescribed ******
As the stout woman grabbed soup
with her chubby hands
And started gulping it down
Before it ran through her fingers.
Frazzled Donna tried, oh she tried
To salvage the integrity
Of her fancy dinner party
Unfortunately, at the moment
it was running down the table
From Miss Pillsbury’s double chin.
Swooosh! Went old lady Judith
As she skated across the marble
Like an Olympic figure skater
Only to crash into Donna’s perfectly organized
stainless steel kitchenware.
Donna ran out screaming and crying
Nobody’s seen her since.
And as for Miss Pillsbury,
I’d be surprised if she noticed any of it
Jul 18, 2019
Jul 18, 2019 at 12:42 AM UTC
I think that today,
we should all scream
until our lungs ache
from the distance we’ve tread
and the things that we’ve said –
anecdotes that fill our hearts with joy,
tearful stories of all of that wrongness which we’ve faced,
the lyrics caught between our ears
and have been for days and months and years,
all of those words that we’ve written
in bright fuchsia gel pen in the margins of diaries
from our awkward third grade years
that we hoped no one would ever lay eyes upon.
Scream until the last syllables
crawl up your throat in an effort to be heard.
Scream until your tongue ties itself into knots
from the exhaustion of spilling all of your secrets.
Scream until you grow weary,
but that kind of weary where
you fall asleep with a smile on your face
and a soreness in your every muscle
that means you have accomplished something.
Act like a little kid again
and chase after ice cream trucks,
shouting along to
the sticky-sweet cadence
that drips into your ears.
Or crumple into a heap,
***** laundry piled as high as
Mount Everest
on your puke-colored carpet
and
scream.
Just scream
and scream
and scream.
And when you lose your voice,
come to me
and I will make sign language jokes
into your sweaty palms,
fingers curling expressively
as your shoulders lay just a bit higher,
the scaffolding that had been holding you up
torn down joint by joint,
rod by rod;
but it didn’t hurt did it?
It felt exquisite,
like waking up on Christmas morning
to the smell of just-burnt Pillsbury cinnamon rolls
and dented, wrapping-papered packages.
Let these memories whisper through you,
not scream,
and let them carry you to sleep.
You screamed today.
Now,
you can whisper
or send back witty one-liners into my palm
without the fear of explosion.
Now you can chase ice cream trucks with jingling pockets
faster than ever
because you are so
*******
light.
Aug 18, 2017
Aug 18, 2017 at 9:23 PM UTC
The plush of my ***** waist and thighs attempt to pop every hemline and button in my wardrobe
My body is to Wholesome my flesh is too engulfing
and for this I roll over each elastic and my thighs Bust from my stockings
and my love handles and stomach squeeze over my waistline
and my back and my ******* make Pillsbury roll bra straps
and it looks like there's so much extra meat in too small a sausage tube
and it looks like I just kept blowing into the balloon
and I don't feel too big and I don't feel like my clothes are too small
and my body just doesn't fit in them the way they used to
I feel like how beautiful must I be to have this much extra to give that my stockings can't even hold the juice of my thighs
and my pants spill over with so much good batter
and my back rolls like Silk have the luxury of keeping my back from being straight like a board
for I do not know what I would do with a smaller body
if I could feel my leg bones and see my ribs if there was a gap in between my thighs if my hips protruded taking my pants along with them if my collars made soup bowls.
I dread what I would do with such a hard body how would such hard edges fill out these worshiping stockings
Nov 5, 2018
Nov 5, 2018 at 12:33 PM UTC
Farewell, Aunt Jemima,
Goodbye uncle Ben!
It sure was nice to know you
but these stereotypes must end.
Now, about that Pillsbury dough boy-
He shames people who are fat.
Why does he still get a pass?
What is up with that?
Is Captain Crunch a fascist?
Is Tony Tiger really tame?
Will they ditch the Leprechaun?
I know I'll never look at Betty ******* quite the same!
I think that kindly Quaker is the cause of my confusion.
At least its good to know that he's committed to inclusion.
Jun 17, 2020
Jun 17, 2020 at 8:21 AM UTC