"prawn" poems
Clownlike, happiest on your hands,
Feet to the stars, and moon-skulled,
Gilled like a fish. A common-sense
Thumbs-down on the dodo's mode.
Wrapped up in yourself like a spool,
Trawling your dark, as owls do.
Mute as a turnip from the Fourth
Of July to All Fools' Day,
O high-riser, my little loaf.
Vague as fog and looked for like mail.
Farther off than Australia.
Bent-backed Atlas, our traveled prawn.
Snug as a bud and at home
Like a sprat in a pickle jug.
A creel of eels, all ripples.
Jumpy as a Mexican bean.
Right, like a well-done sum.
A clean slate, with your own face on.
12.9k
you sowed this **** into my brain...
why do you even "think"
that i want... you?
i, want your children...
the meme-mutation is what i'm
after...
and there are plenty of useful idiots
to allow me to process
the intermediating processes
for: the sigma, "accomplishment";
which is unlike
what infected mushroom's -
trance party track sounds like,
outside of my own head.
why do these people even
think i'm after their genes
of memes?
i want, their infantile
replicas...
i want to craft a
worthwhile curiosity,
on a canvas, that that they call
their gene replicas, children,
and... like why called me...
easy meat..
einfachfleisch...
what?
i'm not here for these news' anchors...
i'm here for their children...
nibble nibble nibble chew chow
cow tow and main...
prawn crackers...
ah... news anchors are
easy targets...
slightly pointless
20x bulls eye honing devices...
it's their children...
i want their children...
i want their cognition
to become replica of wheelchair
bound infirmaries;
why?
oh... you know...
football and wrestling,
given the Qatar investment plan...
the whole sport "thing"
became a tad bit boring...
had to resort to secondary sources
of entertainment;
children of news anchors?
the secondary, "last",
albeit, the best resort;
schindler...
required a list,
to become reincarnated...
and revive a **** a heartlessness
of an reincarnation
anomaly:
i.e.: what, a limited number
of people, to begin with?!
so the rest is primitive "a.i."?
now i'm starting to think...
thank the blue indians
for their culinary innovations...
but when it comes
to their theology?
**** 'em;
did i advocate that?
if i did... within what pronoun
guarantee of advocacy?
playing the grammar card...
which pronoun?
the plural singular,
or the singular plural,
or the gender neutral?
thank you jean-paul sartre,
for the... "i"...
i simply love, this revised concept
of a unit...
the revision clinging
to the royalist affirmation of pronouns...
i.e. 1 would say... so...
and 1... would, so, will, do so.
**** the pronoun debate
in Canadian politics...
if i have to resort to this?
then i will...
like your plain citizen...
may "i" speak within
the confines, of the royal, one,
given the example:
one might suppose...
to be the former, and the current,
highest, etiquette?
gender neutrality of pronouns...
last time i checked...
one was never allowed
pronoun stature...
why not address this
conundrum, to begin with?!
oh, right... too late...
too many loud mouths
without a guillotine...
so, basically, a cow fart's
worth of argumentation.
Aug 2, 2018
Aug 2, 2018 at 11:51 PM UTC
Did you know the East Indian Bottle Masala includes as many as 27 spices, or that an oil-free pickle served at their weddings is actually known as Wedding Pickle?
These and many such authentic East Indian masalas and pickles are available at East Indian Cozinha (Portuguese for kitchen), a food store started by Christina Kinny at Kolovery Village in Kalina, Santacruz. "I started East Indian Cozinha with an attempt to preserve and highlight our cuisine and culture," says the 24-year old, who has studied Masters in Social Work and currently, works with an enterprise that helps tribal farmers.
What’s in store?
Going back 500 years, the East Indian cuisine enjoys influences from Portuguese, British and Maharashtrian fare. The staples include rice, coconut, tamarind, fish and meats, with spices forming an integral part of the cuisine. For instance, Prawn Atola is a dry dish comprising prawns coated only with Vindaloo Masala featuring Kashmiri chilli, cumin and turmeric. "Most people from our community were farmers and would be out on field all day. So, the masalas and lemon would help preserve their food for a longer time," reasons Kinny.
At present, the store stocks six varieties of masala in 100g bottles (R150 onwards). These include Khuddi or Bottle Masala, Chinchoni (fish) Masala, Vindaloo Masala, Roast Rub, Kujit Masala and Tem Che Rose. She also offers Wedding Pickle, an oil-free variety prepared with raw papaya, carrots and dry dates. "All the recipes have been passed on from generations and are homemade," she informs.
However, making the masalas is no cakewalk. "It takes three days to dry spices under the sun. Then, we hand pound them and pack them tightly in bottles with wider openings," says Kinny. She recalls that in her grandmother’s time, the masalas were tightly stuffed in beer bottles. The bottles were darker, and hence, helped preserve the masala for at least a year, at room temperature.
Lugra love
East Indian Cozinha also stocks traditional 10-yard saris known as lugras. These are hand embroidered by Kinny’s mother, Carol. Previously made only from cotton with authentic gold borders, now, lugras are embroidered with sequins and threads. "She has been in the garment industry for the last 30 years. She also makes traditional accessories like kapotas (earrings), karis (hair pins), anklets, etc," informs Kinny.
read more:www.marieaustralia.com/formal-dresses
www.marieaustralia.com/short-formal-dresses
Dec 8, 2015
Dec 8, 2015 at 1:52 AM UTC
off the asphalt
five miles down south
she catches prawn
her skirt the catching net
feet quietly feather weight
she looks a muddy heron
beneath sky grayish pale
swimming wind with fishy smell
on her no man's patch
intent on her solo search
head bowed down cutely arch
she must have her catch
streaks of mud on her hair
only what she does care
a bunch of wriggling store
fire it up when day is dead
have the catch thinly spread
and nothing more
Dec 16, 2015
Dec 16, 2015 at 8:37 AM UTC
Gatt wishes he'd never been born,
Says his brain is the size of a prawn,
You know the old spinner,
But he ain't much thinner,
That ****** Aussie is Shame Warne.
He can bowl a big turning ripper,
Then fool you with his quick flipper,
While he comments on sky,
And eats one more steak pie,
Before you're done up like a kipper.
Even with the bat he's not bad,
Drives the opposition quite mad,
He could captain them too,
More than Ponting's IQ,
But he's gone and us Poms are just glad.
May 30, 2010
May 30, 2010 at 12:49 AM UTC
One Turbot says to the other "do you believe in Cod?"
The other replies " I think we each know a Sole". "I believe one day when the chips are down and we are at our most battered we will each know a Plaice and we are destined to fillet".
They exchanged a glance and swam away.... just for the Halibut.
I hope my Whiting doesn't offend. Remember believers.... believe in Cod and one day you will be Prawn again.
Apr 1, 2019
Apr 1, 2019 at 12:42 PM UTC
YUMMY YUMMY IN MY TATTOOED TUMMY
I like eating very much, call it a passion coz obsession sounds too mad.
Give me a sandwich tuna mayo one sliced tomato on bread times two.
Not enough!
Time for chicken donner on nan with everything on: hot sauce, salad cream with salad, peppers too, Jalapeno style. Add an order for onion barges, samosas and chips in pita bread with mild sauce on.
Yummy yummy in my tattooed tummy!
Half an hour later, an Italian beckons. His pizza looks cool! I say three types of meat, sliced, on top. Extra cheese, deep pan and two types of olives. Munchy time and yes, I enjoy this meal.
Later… What next? English fish and chips with salt and vinegar and a drop of gravy. No mushy peas, I hate them! I’ll take two fish cakes on the side. Traditional English grub down the hatch. Then meat and potato pie on a muffin. Careful not to burn my mouth! Did that before.
Yummy yummy in my tattooed tummy!
Time for some American influence, supersize me! Huge portion of fries, mega big burger and a litre of strawberry milkshake.
I’m multicultural in my diet. Foreign people are cool when it comes to their cuisine. I love Norwegian apple juice, as I need a drink after eating their goats’ cheese on rough white bread.
Yummy yummy in my tattooed tummy!
Chinese crispy duck is desirable, just like egg fried rice and prawn crackers. All available food is welcome, I’ll eat your left over’s on my trip of eating.
Yummy yummy in my tattooed tummy!
Feb 6, 2018
Feb 6, 2018 at 12:58 PM UTC
In case my Letter had not been read Clear
That for these Fourteen-Lined Girls I retweet
Was never to demean you; Nor pout Fear
But hope to contribute your Youthful Beat
Killing this Concept of Bleeding Bat's Tongue
Which asks nothing more but Maliciousness
The Fabled Book, not just its Cover hung
But Pages worded with the Prawn's Intent
You pound the Hammer; My Thoughts stick my Claim
Which only Un-Conditioned Fortune lies
To Jolly remove your Third Condition's pain
And bring that Heart back to you in Disguise.
You are Raised well, with Thought and Prayers bear
To Live in Great Response; And be Aware.
Mar 10, 2013
Mar 10, 2013 at 8:37 PM UTC
A corner of a room is a misguided place to cower in.
Bad move!
Especially after you have just had chicken chow mein styled into your hair.
You sit.
Transfixed.
You watch.
Catatonic.
Prawn ***** glisten like diamonds in the snow as they slide effortlessly down the peeling wallpaper.
Baby screams.
Baby screams relentlessly.
The stench of cheap beer perfumes the stagnant air.
You think to yourself
"Is this it?"
Then you remember
You remember ….
What the hell was her name?
It’s on the tip of your tongue ….
BANG !!!
Tina Smitherson
*Once!
Just once ….*
The one and only time he raised his hand.
She was gone.
Didn’t even look back.
And her so quiet and all ….
Oh ….how we tormented her.
Oh …. how we teased her.
**BOO !!!
BOO !!!
BOO !!!**
Away she ran like a frightened little mouse.
No friends.
No life.
Nothing.
A bona fide geek.
And yet ….
And yet … only once.
How was that possible?
Night turns to day.
You look around the room.
*Chaos.
Filth.
Emptiness.*
Taunt at you manically …. in triplicate.
Baby sleeps peacefully in her makeshift cot.
Bruises red and angry.
*Maybe today ….
Maybe ….*
Then you reach down into your darkest resolve and open the cupboard beneath the sink.
Bin bags.
Detergent.
Dish cloths.
Dustpan and brush.
“I wonder what Tina Smitherson is doing at this precise moment in time?”
Jan 23, 2011
Jan 23, 2011 at 11:18 PM UTC
It cannot be
that we are
child of the sea
and not the star
Look skywards
in silent wonder
with silent words
and not here under
Who sings to the dawn
when night is gone
not tyger or fawn
and not fish or prawn
Come back home
the stars do cry
from heavenly dome
and not airless sky
Lift your eyes, if you can
and see the stars that glow
that's our mother land
and not here below
Dec 15, 2010
Dec 15, 2010 at 5:29 AM UTC
My crisps are potato creations.
My chips are micro, that's for sure.
Cheese and onion, ready salted, good to munch as snacks.
Offer me prawn cocktail crisps.
They make me sick, I'll give them back.
Smokey bacon, boy I'm quaking,
Almost tasting the flavour in anticipation.
From my head down to my toes.
Smokey bacon crisps, tantalise my nose.
They tell me new crisps and fries being created every week.
Cheese on toast crisps.
Well I never,
Roast dinner, sadly missing vegetables.
Holy ghost crisps.
Gone in a puff of eerie green smoke.
Think I'll stick to fries.
Can't do salt and vinegar.
The pong it makes me feel ill.
The taste is even worse.
(c)LIVVI
Oct 11, 2015
Oct 11, 2015 at 2:15 PM UTC
found in Styron's darkness visible... he survived auschwitz... but said adieu to life: by throwing himself down a flight of stairs.
millennial, generation y, huh?!
also called the:
bearable heaviness of non-being...
say: survivors of auschwitz,
and apart from Kundera,
i'm fudged into this stealth-culprit
hangover...
and when i speak the native tongue
i use double emphasis...
everything suddenly becomes italic...
gówno... or **** teutonic: gavron, ja,
ich habbe schtabbe ga ga, magpie on
a licky-sticky schtaisse:
vroom bog-tie boom boom...
everntually language is just that:
magnifique sounds, mein herr,
be that a cello i hear?
nada... mindlessly i too
feigned a farting brigadier, farting into
a brass horn: worth a gingerbread /
pumpernickle marching rhythm.
yes, double emphasis in the native...
kosz (koš)... bin...
trza błagać... błagać!
o śmierć... beg for death...
but hetman cossak said smerc... and it
sounded altogether better.
a household argument,
after prawn-pasta was cooked throughout
an afternoon of general bewilderment:
a heap of pebbles makes more sense
than the Orion constelation...
given the mathematical approach
to the situation, and subsequent mapping...
because they really did drop a bomb on
Hiroshima and Nagasaki...
and that's why 21st creativity
is trapped in a hamster's routine...
karaoke is standard...
this insissting plagiaristic zeitgeist!
so i said: you really think you conquered
yapan? jesus, je suis, zeus, yesus, jamaican
jah jah *** buck...
rasta root mon, rasta root.
battered and bruised...
someohow this whole dating scene
passed me by...
and what happened to me aged
21... is strangely becoming the norm
of giving the circumstance:
i can't remember being of any age, particular.
the quicker argument would coincide with:
give me a machinegun, and march me into
a Latvian forest...
because, right now, it's
a scenario of being coerced into donning a leash
or more like a leech,
and an afternoon spent
pulverised by a pneumatic tsunami
of adverts... calling it a job done,
with a siberian brew: cow juice in
tea...
liquid werther's original.
Jan 10, 2017
Jan 10, 2017 at 7:32 PM UTC
she had these little hobbit feet
on her lower back a patch of hair
i offered to shave them both off
but she preferred to leave them there
when we ordered take out Thai
she always asks for extra spice
i send her in to pick it up
because they never charge her full price
The owner always winks at her
she says it's kind of creepy
i say baby just play the game
as long as he's giving you freebies
but since you left he always asks
so i told him you moved on
i woke up one morning and found a note
she found some better honey walnut prawn
Jan 9, 2016
Jan 9, 2016 at 5:55 PM UTC
I was walking on air this dawn.
We danced all around the lawn.
We were as wild and as free as a fawn.
Our bodies wiggled like a prawn;
And smiles on our faces were drawn,
With the feeling as if we won.
I was walking on air this morning.
Our laughs sounded better than a bell's ding,
And our voices were louder than a phone's ring.
We held our heads up like a king,
While our restless hearts sing.
And I wouldn't change a thing.
I was walking on air this afternoon.
You got me grinning like a new moon.
Like a flower, my cheeks bloom.
I didn't ever want to go back to my room,
And wished the moment wouldn't zoom.
I'd have given everything not to make it end too soon.
I am walking on air tonight.
It's all too dark but it still seems so bright,
For the bliss in our eyes has light
And no darkness can ever block my sight.
This ecstasy we couldn't fight
Will forever bind us tight.
Jun 1, 2013
Jun 1, 2013 at 1:33 PM UTC
At the table sat a prawn, a fish, a glass of water, and a watch.
All trying to figure out who had the best hand.
Two out of three games already played.
Tension drawn on all of their faces.
The fish twitches at the river, caught in thought eying the glass of water.
The prawn in constant panic. Eying the fish.
Stuck in the same predicament as the fish. Winning a much larger *** the last hand played.
The fish much larger than he. The prawn folded his hand.
The glass of water over-thinking the endless possibilities of both the prawn and the fish.
Sweat dripping down the side.
The watch on the other hand, had the best poker face of them all.
As time reveals everyones true intentions.
Revealing a slew of faces
Mar 2, 2017
Mar 2, 2017 at 8:40 AM UTC
it becomes a problem
when i turn my pinky finger
into a prawn and encircle
the moon;
well less problematic
thinking of it as an italian
orchestra, nonchalance gelato.
Feb 28, 2016
Feb 28, 2016 at 8:00 PM UTC
It was raining
so I invited Enid
in to learn
how to play chess
I shut the front door
of the flat
and we went past the kitchen
where Mum was doing
the washing in the boiler
just showing Enid
how to play chess
I said to Mum
she looked at Enid
and smiled and said
make sure he doesn't cheat
Enid nodded and smiled
and we went into the sitting room
and sat at the table
in front of the window
which gave us extra light
I got the chess box
from the side
and opened it up
and put down the chessboard
and showed Enid
where the pieces went
and how they could move
and how many times
and gave her the whites
and I had the black pieces
you go first
I said
because you're white
she looked at her pieces
which piece can I move first?
any pieces provided
it moves as I showed you
she gazed at the chessboard
and this piece is called the prawn?
she said
no pawn
I said
it's like a common soldier
it moves as I showed you
she hesitated her small
9 year old fingers lingering
over the pawn
forgot where
and how it can move
she said looking at me
I smiled and showed her
how the pieces moved again
she watched
think I've got it now
she said
ok off you go
I said
she moved her first pawn
and then sat back pleased
that she'd moved a piece
how's your old man?
I asked
she looked at me
her eyes bright through
her thick lens glasses
he hasn't hit me or Mum yet
she said
that's nearly two weeks
and he's been all nice
and patient and not rowed
and Mum's happy
in a nervous kind of way
Enid said
I moved my black pawn
do you think he'll go back
to how he was?
I said
hope not
she said
moving another white pawn
that's what I fear each morning
that he's gone back
to being as he was
and that'll come in my room
one morning and slipper me
or hit me around the head
in my bed
I moved my knight
to the front of my army
take each day as it comes
I said
we played out the game
I took all her pieces but one
her king
and he I checkmated
and won.
May 27, 2016
May 27, 2016 at 1:50 AM UTC
He sat there looking on,
The one million mile stare,
As still as if he was drawn
Or maybe just in prayer.
Across the entire world
His mind would race.
His thoughts would unfurl
As his mind would quickly pace.
How do you catch a prawn?
Or how would be get home?
The last chopper from Saigon,
The great civilisation, Rome.
All the world was his oyster.
But why not anymore?
For while his mind did roister,
Time had crept out the door.
At this time everyday
He was able to be free.
On the outside he was grey
While inside he could flee.
Mar 11, 2015
Mar 11, 2015 at 8:57 PM UTC
Is the sun too bright
for the sky? Does it burn out
the azure like a moth trapped
in a light fixture till it dies?
Is the ocean too deep
for the land? Does it swallow
the green as it stands?
Is the nightingale too melodic
in her song? Singing all night
in the moonlight. Does her pitch throw
the switch on his wand?
Is the dandelion too strong
for his coiffured lawn? As he
cuts her down she rebounds, poking out
her head like a foot from under
the spread. He can’t shell her
like a prawn.
Jun 29, 2022
Jun 29, 2022 at 6:55 AM UTC
I am the bads deliverer
And i deliver bads.
I deliver all the things that disappoint you, make you mad.
I drive my van right to your door, and arrive just as you leave
So i write a 'collect later' note impossible to read.
I deliver all the products that just aren't quite what you ordered,
Like a t-shirt just one size too small, or a photo wrongly bordered,
I miss one meal off your takeaway, give you beef instead of prawn,
I tell you 'between 9 and 12' and then arrive at four,
I fill a van with fragile things then hit every speed bump;
But the worst thing that I've ever done is deliver Donald Trump
Mar 21, 2017
Mar 21, 2017 at 5:07 PM UTC
Plates of chicken,
Beef, lamb and pork,
Cherries and grapes,
Fresh from the stalk.
Salads and noodles,
Lettuce, tomatoes, corn,
Not a glass out of place,
Not a prawn.
A enticing odour,
From bottles of wine,
And perfect food,
The finest of fine.
On a separate table,
With red velvet cloth,
Lies stacks of deserts,
More than enough.
Cakes and cream,
Puddings and pies,
And in the corner,
A pavlova lies.
An incomplete job?
Not in the least,
Look at the food,
What a feast!
Mar 14, 2017
Mar 14, 2017 at 1:31 AM UTC
Worthless life let me to rest
Lost in faith, Thy gothic Soul lured
For they the Regretted filthy blissed of priest
For that, shall unending poverty be cured?
The grimy monster gnaw, as mind been pawn
Death reminds, the lovely once demise,
Why wouldn't you change?, are you a prawn
Sins swallow righteous deed, the evil stands and rise
Grave for the Deaths at brisk
Indeed Death shall continue to frisk
Alert! Destiny to final destination
Alert! Amnesty of resurrection
Crippling deeds swing in pain
Occults of evil were spiritually tass
Wretchedly bore life is at hunt
Running from the gossiping ghasts of Satan
As those deity faith overwhelms
The cherished sprit of evil is at mirth
But Innocent souls fly at frith
But for all shall they resist those claims
Nja
Mar 26, 2020
Mar 26, 2020 at 10:17 AM UTC
Backbone - methadone,
live long - die young
Taste the honeycomb
never mind the buzz
We're all chum waiting
for the sharks to come
I'd swallow my tongue
if the words would play worm
for my mockingbird
but I know I'm one stone throw
away from being broke so
I'll avoid the phone like I
forgot how to be grown
Torn between mastodon and prawn
Someone take me home - chloroform
Firstborn - I'll be the last gone
Aug 9, 2017
Aug 9, 2017 at 6:25 PM UTC