"radish" poems
a future promise
a hard on like bundled gym socks
in stuffed blue jeans
a future threat
a shriveled phallus wrinkled obsolete
she remembered fondly
being beaten drum chatter
and seized like slow roasted
fall off the bone pulled pork
****** raggedy Ann
catapulted beyond Euboean heavens
ravaging scrotums Gordian ******
with her wild fiendish mouth
drinking a river of
haloed golden showers
spit and ****
in a runaway hot house of glistening pink
buttery spires
engorging her macerated orifices
half eaten radish
chocking on hordes
of big do do *****
a ****** face; cross eyed
Babylon abalone
bashed Ashly mashed
begging for
a face full of swinging *****
like caped chandeliers
trotting faint giggles
in a constellation
of ruptured arteries
and thick sparked ****
on her knees
milk glitter faced
scared with happiness
she counted one smiling bruise at a time
her badge of calamities
black and blue silhouettes
grinning invitations like party favors
without a crease of shame
her skin rapturous
spackled patchworks
bled like torrential fountains summer tide
while every body had fizzy red ice phlebotomies
and steamed through her drooling tumble pie
lust ***** totem
house of winding labyrinths
honey pumped transfusion
flush on blush
opera of tangled limbs
red pulse wedding flowers
slick ***** palace
blood tongued orchard
caressing knotted mooned
**** spill
Jan 14, 2019
Jan 14, 2019 at 2:22 PM UTC
It was a Friday night,
I was on the phone with my grandmother when I looked at the clock suddenly remembered,
it was time for the ritual.
I immediately hung up on my grandmother,
and stripped of my clothing.
The ritual required I be naked.
I then took some goat cheese out of my refrigerator,
and put it in the microwave.
I waited.
The goat cheese seemed like it took forever to melt,
but it only took a few minutes.
In those few minutes,
I just sat there,
and played with my left ******
Finally, the timer went off,
and it was done.
I took the melted goat cheese,
and poured it onto my body.
It burned,
but I suffered through it.
I would do anything for the Goat Gods.
Anything.
Once the melted goat cheese was poured onto my body,
I began to lather myself in it.
Soon, I was covered in melted goat cheese.
The smell,
was horrendous,
but in a way,
I enjoyed it.
Then, I removed the goat blood from my refrigerator,
and poured it into a ***
which had been on the oven all day,
waiting.
I began to boil the goat blood.
I took a sip of it.
"No" I said as a shook my head in disappointment.
I had been ripped off again by my goat blood dealer.
There was no flavoring in it.
It tasted like goat blood.
So I threw in some carrots,
and a dollop of horse radish.
While it was boiling,
I went to my bedroom,
to my closet,
where I found my goat mask.
A real goats head I had carved out and made into a mask.
I put it on.
When I had it on,
I felt like one with the Goat Gods.
When I returned,
the goat blood was done.
I poured it into a Tupperware container,
sealed it,
and put on my shoes.
By now,
the once hot and slimy goat cheese,
was dried,
and stuck to my body.
It was crusty,
like the crusties you get in your eyes,
just all over your body.
I walked out the front door,
across the street,
to my neighbors house.
I tried to open the front door.
Locked.
They knew I was coming this time.
Last week,
they forgot.
So I left the goat blood on their front steps,
and left.
When I got home,
I immediately went to the TV,
sat down,
and turned on "Antique Roadshow".
I looked out my window,
and saw my nervous neighbor grab the goat blood,
and bring it inside.
"Soon they will join the Goat Side" I said as I repeated it to myself, "Soon they will join the Goat Side".
Apr 4, 2012
Apr 4, 2012 at 7:55 PM UTC
Hiro was such a clever guy.
he always said the funniest little jokes, even when he was Hiro-chan, to me.
he used to act like a cat when he was frustrated and, and-
remember what he said to the mailman that day, in like june?
about how he looked like an angry Hotei-osho?
we all laughed and that mailman, that man’s face went radish red.
he was such a good lawyer, Hiro.
i mean, he wasn’t rich and powerful, no
but he did good things, though.
like Sayotoma’s lease –
without Hiro, he would’ve lost the store!
and then where would we get our tempura? huh?
oh, Hiro, you are so much fun to talk about.
and i hate that all i have of you now is smoldering incense and an expired passport.
i poured a cup of water on your grave today, you know.
it was a hurting kind of hot under summer’s sun – it’s august, after all.
some steam came off, and it sounded like you sighing
and i said more loudly than i cared no problem, Hiro
and my wife looked at me, with a misting eye,
while my son kept flicking matches
from that cheap matchbook we got at Sayotama’s place.
all the failed matches collected between his sneakers
and i thought that *i wish Sayotama didn’t make all his matches
so **** fragile.
they burst and blacken in a second,
and you don’t have the chance to really light something,
and they just end up falling between the sneakers
of some kid who can’t even remember you,* Hiro.
Jul 12, 2010
Jul 12, 2010 at 11:21 PM UTC
The lake is little different
chlorella puts a green coat on her
when the wind comes
thick ripples appear
remnants of lotus and withered reeds
some pierce up the sky
some bow to the water
the branches of willow on the shore
still they keep the same demeanor
they like touching the tip of your nose
sometimes you bump into their arms
little surprises await in the cold
of wind and drizzle
you walk slowly on the periphery
in the fine rain of the morning
vivid knotweed guarding the mound
lettuce offers four-petal florets
radish flowers are not in full bloom yet
though the rain of last night
is still hanging around the corner of your eye
the lively vegetable farm by
the lake doesn't lie
little cabbages aren't afraid
when we lean forward we see
it is a fun-sized garden.
Jul 17, 2021
Jul 17, 2021 at 8:19 AM UTC
I miss getting way too ******
in chefs corner
and i miss giving way too many ***** about school spirit
Sep 20, 2014
Sep 20, 2014 at 10:29 AM UTC
It takes courage to be born in a grave
where the earthworms caress
and the night is like day.
But where two or three are gathered
they will burrow deeper yet,
pressing the earth to their faces.
It takes gall to bite the mouth that eats you,
little rocket ships
who never left the ground.
Launch your cultured pungent taste,
for if you must go,
go loudly.
Daikon, Cherry Belle, Easter Egg,
Black Spanish, Red King,
you are conquerers.
Digging away until the sun comes to find you,
blushing in myriad shades
of fearless ambition.
It takes integrity to never leave your roots.
Break bold and crisp,
candied keg of gunpowder.
Apr 14, 2013
Apr 14, 2013 at 10:09 PM UTC
fed the birds.
fed the birds a
book about
my dead
weight.
fed the
birds a heavy.
fed them from
my thin
hands. The words
that live.
The birds ate.
The birds ate words that
lived and always
lived
in
separate
houses. if...
and i mean if
and only if
they
could afford
it.
if these
clever pagans
ever had
a dime.
they found
it boring rich
folk to
death.
i fed the birds
my indigenous
nomads. they dined
in high style...
dined black and
fancy
on
shabby
addicts, as they
hopped
trains . i fed the birds
my
swarthy tribe.
and they supped.
i fed the birds
a monologue
with trains of
thought
the words i fed
them... the vagabonds...
hopped
trains.
of thought.
I fed
the birds.
i fed the birds just
outside.
i sat
and fed them
black light and Harmalade
fed them blackly
fed them with
piano keys; the black
ones, the ones
that radiate
i fed
i watched them. watched
them fancy peck. and peck
and fancy
pluck.
i watched. they dined
on serene defeat
by technicality.
it was surreal
to watch a blackbird
pluck from black
keys - peck
a morsel of glum
from
the black rays, yes.
the black rays with
opposable thumbs
and a
lifeline. the only one i
know forbidding gypsies
with three eyes.
an open
palm.
a paranoid
black radish
white dwarf star
with piano keys
for black rays
of
nimbus, yes
mine is the hand that bites the hand
that writes the book
it wants
to ban, that ain't
a fan
not at all. just an appendage. a pen dirge ? What ?
i fed the flock lots
I fed
the black ones -
with dolls'
eyes...
tucked
under
wing.
i fed them, yes.
a book
about the size
of any welcome
malcontent.
i fed
them sorrows
and ellipses with
adjacent lawns.
wutherings in
stately manors, squatting
on either side
of memory
lane, like
a bourbon and
coke had
practically crawled
across shards
of hard
things to break,
with a drink
in your
hand
and crawled, well blended
down the hatch
of enormous, well appointed
gothic frogs, that -
were mostly refurbished toads
with odd columns.
i fed
the birds,
broke out the
Good
Chi
na
hang the tantrums !
yes
One should expect
a rich metaphor to want to
watch you
eat it's every
word
or
by extension;
lick the toad with 15 rooms,
three stories, unfit for children
and a full staff
of Adjectives,
highly trained
to
short-sheet the Bedlam, and fluff the pillories.
one should sip the liqueur
off the floor, inside the huge
and tipsy
gorgon
and be thankful
for the dank
and
the solid gold flyswatters.
they're complementary. take one
as you leave out
thinking
" toads, eat flies.... so it follows...."
apropos of nothing, on the
' Good China ',
now in the belly of birds, well fed
an unwell.
a book about
my dead-weight's
dream
to eat fewer
flies and
more
steak.
to grow wings.
yes.
Oct 17, 2012
Oct 17, 2012 at 11:23 AM UTC
I was walking along the brook,
landed in one of them corn mazes from the books.
I started running,
started funning,
'till I gone and ran into a corn stalk,
I hit it so hard I forgot how to talk,
I could barely walk.
It don't matter,
just started going faster.
Well I found my way to the end,
but across the field I saw a radish bend.
Ah well, I guess its the weekend,
and Id rather run the radishes than come to an end.
And I ran,
oh yes I ran.
I ran here,
I ran there,
in the sky,
nearly trampled a guy...
Yeah he was yellin',
at me,
I said whats up.
And then he says this, he says:
I own these here radishes,
Go on *** get outta mah FaRm.
Then, I dunno, I guess I was just really cool,
I was able to convince him, that this here, was my farm.
And that's the story of my farm.
Feb 1, 2017
Feb 1, 2017 at 12:47 PM UTC
every time I wake up without you
is another tiny heartbreak
but how many tiny heartbreaks
does it take to add up to one more
noticeable? how many lonely mornings can I...
unpacking my stuff/moving in
I'm leaving 3 drawers and part of the closet empty
so you have room for your stuff and I wonder
if I'll fill them after you leave
or if the space between my clothes
will be a reminder of your ghost
being busy is good. being busy
means less time to think about ...
I'm going to learn how to ride a bike.
I'm going to learn how to ride a bike.
I'm going to learn how to ride a bike.
I really like the way you look sitting in this bed
with the sunlight creeping through the window shades
and giving you tiger stripes
but you like couches better
"I can't wait-"
but you will.
You don't have a choice.
Jun 29, 2014
Jun 29, 2014 at 1:56 PM UTC
So that eternal garnishes be exposed
not by being particularly good or worthy
but by sole grace of the radish itself
Carved into petite rose
striated to whimsical
red and white allure
not distant from place pulled
should leaves be present and immaculate
O what crunchy goodness it is
Long time hath happy sulfured
soothing comfort to throat
What wise crisp snap to it
Charmed these root veggies
and in that window box was born amorous
Apr 19, 2016
Apr 19, 2016 at 1:29 AM UTC
d'harga'h! urn! and sung clemency with the sign of the cross - Mr. Longinus - a baptism awaits...
in the Turkish shop buying my beers -
politics talk, gone Razza - Tahir -
talk of politics - deciphered a word:
Erdoğan (Erdoghan, Edrogrzan,
what was it - macabre radish to taste -
niechmaj sto Vlad'a reka na tle kiwnieniem raz!
i krok poza 'sztem! bogiem byka wybryk
szto?! - the crowds descended, and the kestrels
and the pigeons, and the swans,
and the migratory storks, and the seagulls -
for the Winged-Hussar Polonaise.
fluff of the wings -
the Mongol stench
reinterpreted - i rather be picking
ethnic mushrooms - kropki polka -
and koniewki - łopieniek & canary -
grünling in German, gąska zielonka - Pan Kleks -
or Chanterelle Mushroom - pepper shakerz -
kurki, tzn. te słynne grzyby.
the deviating kurka - or chickpea foetal
variant of fungus - or alias chick.
each time they pithy my assertion to claim the
ethnic brothel of Europe that Poland is for
the noble families - each time they undermine
the worker testifying the fuck-worthy ****
prior sleep - pride settles in -
and a long forgotten assertive builds up
to architectural proportions -
it just ends up being a game of throwing
copper coins into Scotland, potatoes into Ireland...
and dinosaur bones into Wales...
and post-colonial subjects into England, lazily
packed with the labels **** and Hindu;
Karzimierz Dębski could have said: it was never
supposed to come to this; shame that it did;
the safety option was exacted.
Jul 18, 2016
Jul 18, 2016 at 10:59 PM UTC
Knees paved like the tooth
of a dog. Mothers only trying
their best. I never knew what
that meant until my belly swelled
like radish gums with myself
holed inside. Right now I
am just waiting for a neatly
wrinkled wave.
Jan 10, 2014
Jan 10, 2014 at 7:42 PM UTC
You don't really know how I struggle
just to string the words beading by color
threading them into a ring on my right hand
rainbow wrists and darling pinked heart-shaped
pockets at the ******* securely aligned.
A sneeze is an excuse to learn forward
and lurch inside with pleasure,
doesn'
t everyone know that?
It's all interrupted in the end
anyway, but
each cliche understands and I
transparate and soften physicality
fffft.
and rematerializing like a mother-
in-law I stake my heart on
a whited sepulchre-
but ain't originality a ***** The repetition
becomes quite tedious, but go
on with a smile, my dear;
For life is full of
surprises- wretched beats and
sweetened bruises, rather like a berry
and most unlike a radish.
So hold your basket gently as
you sway and twist within
a mellow breeze that teases
the auburn tendrils that once
framed a face too young
keep the corners of your mouth
up, and defy your forehead by
the strength of your brow
for I always stand ready
right behind.
Jul 11, 2012
Jul 11, 2012 at 5:43 PM UTC
a one dimensional
*** ***** brain
in a three dimensional hologram of consciousness
i am a dumb wind
a slouching mongrel soul
carved in corpusles
its twenty six dimensions stupid!
mind like a radish in a **** slum
inhabiting a no return winter
of hollow helled mountains
soon to be dead
like disappearing smoke
i hear my voice
trying to count its molecules
with a slathering tongue
needle numb
and a brocaded Vox throat of tears
while eyes plead floating
like cataract clouds
no
Shadrach Meshach and Abednego
shinning baptism ufo's
god ***** shimmering in space
no
no reality quotient here
in a fitted sim built blood machine
of flimsy bone locomotion's
looking for time slips
tormented
by lifes prodding night stick
in a distortion field
i turn the wheel of shapeless shadows
in Satan's mill
waiting dormant
****** and muzzled
in a 666 cosmic zip code
im just another
****** **** ***** Jew
************ ******
apple bend over
living to pay the ******* rent
in a house fallen before its built
panting staccato deja vu's
in a no return winter
of pandemonium
in this knot of blotting screams
i try desperately to levitate
from this spittoon of ascending ***** matter
here gold turns to chalk
and i'm always doing gods work
with the devils pride
like a bug in the grass
Jul 3, 2019
Jul 3, 2019 at 12:59 PM UTC
Radishes all there are radishes
Remembering...
Up rooting from the decaying earth
Dirt fluttering like snowflakes to the ground
As picked rows of radishes becoming piles
Smile...Remembering the feeling of satisifcation
Hard-work and ***** hands
Remembering... heart-shaped radishes
Piles of heart- shaped radish
Dripping of Mother's earth
Remembering... All, all the madness
Consumed by madness
Pick by pick- row by row all the heart-shapped radishes
Remembering, Smiling -desiring
All the hurt melting- slowly melting
Unseen- becoming one with earth
Transforming into rows and rows of heart-shaped radishes
Healing parts of all the madness, wholeness
Remembering... and smiling... ***** hands and radishes
Feb 26, 2018
Feb 26, 2018 at 11:40 PM UTC
On February 5th :
I am learning
how to drive
in between
metamorphoses
of snowy colors.
On February 5th :
If you look closely
you can see my
mother with her
legs firmly planted
onto the passenger
seat; she is silent
until we pass
a collection of deer.
We pass a collection
of deer and my mother’s
arms look the same
as mine do when I
am angry. Her face
is the Atlantic, full
of irritable little wrinkles.
(My mother’s face is always
the Atlantic, full of irritable
little wrinkles.)
When I was younger
her wrinkles screamed
at me with over-used lungs
until my body grew limp
like radish roots -- it’s just that
when I was younger
I had trouble seeing
the large gap between
snow and static no matter
how many times my mother
would try to emphasize
their differences.
But both dripped onto my
prickly face like newborn wine
onto sidewalks; both looked
just like my mother’s old wedding dress.
Feb 11, 2014
Feb 11, 2014 at 2:43 PM UTC
In an orange suit was the groom
In a red frock was the bride
Walking to the wedding floor
Flashing their most winning smile
The carrot and the beetroot
Radish, the priest addressing
The couple to come forward
Taking their blessings from
Potato, bride's grandmother
Joins the priest to proceed
Hall, crowded with guests
One by one joining them
Drumstick, the tallest uncle
Comes with his wife, lady's finger
With her sister, the Eggplant
Then came the triple sisters
Green, red and yellow
The stout capsicums
Always in dieting and yoga
Came the slim beauty bean
Hot and **** green chillies
With her cousins G and G
Red and pulpy tomatoes
Came running some toddlers
Of round and small green peas
A celebration was the wedding
Of happiness and togetherness
Sharing their blessings and love
With a sweet kiss and a tight hug
Were happily married with a bang !
May 12, 2016
May 12, 2016 at 8:56 AM UTC
Red screamed to Sky—
“Why can’t I be Gold, who is cherished,
jackpot, a bull’s-eye. Honey glazed fields
and caramel skies eaten
up like a succulent mango. Gold
gets to fill the pots
on the end of rainbows,
while I am merely a member on the spectrum.
Gold is a craving, desire, a thirst,
but I am hardly much. Rust, decay,
a rotting radish, I weep from their bodies,
defective. I’m the polluted breath
on their polluted tongues, I scorch
their skin and blast their wicked hearts out.”
Sky whispered back—
“I look down
on the globe and there are no distinct, dazzling
metallic Yellows, but I see you,
Red, in the rose bouquets and apple trees,
in blushed cheeks, and soft
kisses. Red,
you are dewy strawberries
and strawberry bushes with ladybugs dancing
on half eaten leaves. A woven picnic
blanket, checkered in line with the adoring
couple and their glimmering hearts and their freckled
faces, rain boot hit puddle, bitten lips, lip bite cherry,
sip wine in scarlet dress, spicy pepper,
firework—
You are Red.
Jun 5, 2018
Jun 5, 2018 at 3:48 PM UTC
I'm walking alone,down the long
street, midnight the moon shines
high, a pale moon, and wan with
the sickly light of the thousand
thousand city lights jewling the
streets and lanes and alleys of the
great city so prettily, seen far off,
a conflagration of multicolored
stars brought to earth, shining amidst
the vast lonley dark of the plains in
the night under the stars and the
pulsing moon, like a great halved radish,
red around the edges, from drink,
from laughter, from the lack of sleep
and the joy of the knowledge that
everything exists and that we are alive
right now and roaring, yelling up under the
madly glittering lights, circling circling,
all around us over our heads, and now the
most awful roaring of sound and of
smell and of sheer surging drunken glory
and then black, and the sleep of the abandoned,
of the holy ones who live raw and free
and mad and idioticly, wild in our sheer
shining distinct lack of soberity, and of the
great rationizer, common sense be ******
and sleep until the shine of morning comes
dawning over the horizon, and shines in our
eyes and makes us cry out, and up to the
business of the day, to the long mad glorious
trek onwards, ever onwards, and all a great mad
comedy of life rovolving around and around,
and on we go, on, on till death do us part,
sweet love affair, the road and I and us and everyone
apart from the masses, crazily determined,
singly in our passion, to walk and love and
sing and yell and drink under the moon,
not a care in the world, and on and on and
on and on, till death do us part, my dear
projected love.
Oct 30, 2016
Oct 30, 2016 at 1:50 AM UTC
so that's how you do it?
yes.
this is me lying in the middle
of a road,
waiting for his headlights
to erupt with effervescence.
i bet he's great at casting
shadows in high definition.
weird, i know.
this,
my latest concussion,
rings like drowning.
i was a city boy b4 i was her.
i was a butterfly b4 there was a
warning sign.
this,
this precision, like that
word for wet earth smell
i hate.
don't say it, we're empty.
don't say it, let's talk about
your ****
this is not
how the body withers on the vine.
talk about exonerating the body.
talk about abusing the body w/
electricity and sterling obituaries.
so this is how the body tells time?
asks the
alien of fortitude.
yes.
it plays euchre with dark haired men;
it turns seconds into months
revolving around
the mind bending neverness
that the body avoids at all costs.
it turns love into a stew of rabbit
and radish and dandelion stems.
the body turns stretch marks into
fishing nets, it
curls its own fingers inward
under the rib to feign being held.
so that's how you do it?
asks the
alien of fortitude.
yes. you lay
your body in the middle of the
road and you pray like hell
it's the tall suit of armor that runs
you over, and
you pray that he recognizes you;
you pray that his glass of water
isn't empty yet.
Sep 1, 2016
Sep 1, 2016 at 1:22 PM UTC
it usually takes about 20 hours of fasting,
then this, thing, walks into the kitchen
at 3 in the morning and is like:
i need something to eat...
and there he is standing, hunched,
slobbering over scraps...
he first eats a can of macrkel in tomato
sauce and adds worcestershire sauce
to it thinking it's bolognese spaghetti sauce,
he gets all beavis and butthead
with the fork while he toasts two slices
of bread... then he gets onto tinned
sardines in sunflower oil, which he also
dashes some worcestershire sauce into...
he creates a radish out of tiny plum tomatoes;
and he's standing there growling and frothing
at the mouth... because the cats he owns had
more food than him over the past day...
he's walked a 2.5 liter marathon of 6.6 miles
worth of walk to with the symphony of glugging
down beer, and he's angry like
any anger that might be contained and pacified
by simple pleasures...
so this thing writes a "poem", or rather an ode
to youtube video editing practices...
tinned fish, who would have thought:
apparently it doesn't get much odder than this.
Mar 6, 2017
Mar 6, 2017 at 10:10 PM UTC
early in the morning
as i went up the stairs
secretly
first seen
the strength of two eyes
not my relative
but a next-door
in our home
radish soup
when there was no soup
when money ran out
it became a bank
was
our nearest
better than
distant cousin.
Aug 22, 2021
Aug 22, 2021 at 7:30 PM UTC