"refrigerators" poems - Hello Poetry

"refrigerators" poems

We sipped boulder rock from refrigerators doors and watched the heavens hand out food stamps with IBM logos. “ode to Mehmet” we sang, and licked the Mossberg— fixating on the blue collar philosophy that lived in our empty wallets. Trash cans filled with water bottles stared at us to find our essence— the one we had lost while being fed quintessential American idioms in state-of-the-art classrooms sponsored by slaves and Popol Vuh blood. Six million years of human existence trivialized down to a single sentence— ** Man loved God, man wrote, man conquered God, and now man loves science** — scribbled on SmartBoards afforded by fire burning from Prometheus’ female liver. Trees sing with oxygen no more for the sake of making paper, and eyes soak in the words on paper for the sake of making paper. Trees make the avenue but the future holds an Avenue of no trees— … for in the land of the free, anything but freedom ain’t free.

0

Nov 26, 2012

Nov 26, 2012 at 9:46 PM UTC

ugochukwu-charles-onyewuchi

80's Fried Chicken *******

We sipped boulder rock from refrigerators doors and watched the heavens hand out food stamps with IBM logos. “ode to Mehmet” we sang, and licked the Mossberg— fixating on the blue collar philosophy that lived in our empty wallets. Trash cans filled with water bottles stared at us to find our essence— the one we had lost while being fed quintessential American idioms in state-of-the-art classrooms sponsored by slaves and Popol Vuh blood. Six million years of human existence trivialized down to a single sentence— ** Man loved God, man wrote, man conquered God, and now man loves science** — scribbled on SmartBoards afforded by fire burning from Prometheus’ female liver. Trees sing with oxygen no more for the sake of making paper, and eyes soak in the words on paper for the sake of making paper. Trees make the avenue but the future holds an Avenue of no trees— … for in the land of the free, anything but freedom ain’t free.

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Not as eloquent as a fountain pen, not as artistic as a sketching pencil, not even as bright as a magic marker, but one smart cookie to your kids. We have cool names like Cotton Candy, Manatee, Razzmatazz and Inchworm, and are non-toxic sticks of joy to those little imaginations. Yes, we sometimes look like clumps of colored wax smashed into tissue paper, and we do break easily or lose our wrappers at the drop of a hat, then get tossed in a bag or worse, become homeless. And horror of horrors! We’re reinvented as candles or reheated into twisted zombies of our former selves. And neither do our achievements reside in a museum or gallery, why they're not even framed and proudly displayed on a wall. No, they're slapped on ***** refrigerators and kept there by plastic alphabet magnets that loosely spell such mundane things as ‘milk’, ‘cheese’ or ‘daddy is dumb,' until they fall to the floor or end up in the trash. But hey man, give us a break! This is our plight, it’s a harsh existence! Perhaps we should organize, form a union for children’s writing and drawing utensils, and thus ensure equality for us crayons? We realize, more than likely, this poem's title will cause some backlash by those who insist it be called ‘Return of the Crayon,’ because we 'happy sticks', you see, supposedly don’t take revenge. Nonetheless, we stand by it. It is what it is! Your children love us and so should you!

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Nov 5, 2019

Nov 5, 2019 at 4:18 PM UTC

Revenge of the Crayon

Not as eloquent as a fountain pen, not as artistic as a sketching pencil, not even as bright as a magic marker, but one smart cookie to your kids. We have cool names like Cotton Candy, Manatee, Razzmatazz and Inchworm, and are non-toxic sticks of joy to those little imaginations. Yes, we sometimes look like clumps of colored wax smashed into tissue paper, and we do break easily or lose our wrappers at the drop of a hat, then get tossed in a bag or worse, become homeless. And horror of horrors! We’re reinvented as candles or reheated into twisted zombies of our former selves. And neither do our achievements reside in a museum or gallery, why they're not even framed and proudly displayed on a wall. No, they're slapped on ***** refrigerators and kept there by plastic alphabet magnets that loosely spell such mundane things as ‘milk’, ‘cheese’ or ‘daddy is dumb,' until they fall to the floor or end up in the trash. But hey man, give us a break! This is our plight, it’s a harsh existence! Perhaps we should organize, form a union for children’s writing and drawing utensils, and thus ensure equality for us crayons? We realize, more than likely, this poem's title will cause some backlash by those who insist it be called ‘Return of the Crayon,’ because we 'happy sticks', you see, supposedly don’t take revenge. Nonetheless, we stand by it. It is what it is! Your children love us and so should you!

Continue reading...

I was moving out Parked my bike down the street With a cart hinged on the bolt beneath the rusty pole connected to my seat. The yard was steep, and the stairs leading down the front Vanished each car- go carrying trip of dictionaries and travel guides that could have been lumped together in boxes separately tossed into the neon green synthetic fiber rain-proof buggy Connected to my seat. I ran across the lawn, one last time Buckling the watch I found from high school remembering it’s broken and not caring then I saw men wearing polos beneath Greek symbols beneath a doorway and held my breath as they stared at me. This vacant lot held something which I carried back to find my bike was gone, replaced by a life-sized depiction of a bike saying “no bikes--” A girl inside, explaining where I could find mine I walked down the grey spiral of handicapped access ramps surrounded by aquariums or tvs which comprised the store's interior. The last ramp faced an exit and went straight past refrigerators next to vending machines In the alley behind this office supply store were two old men Roasting my bike on a chain beside the others Disconnected, hung its tires lying on the ground beside their feet and the carriage slung aside like a bloodied gazelle's neck. “What the **** A woman got into my face “don’t use that word” ***** a perfectly good word, after all, it’s how we got here” One man smiled. He felt bad. They helped me put the bike together and I walked it back to my house. I saw my car down the street. I thought about the long trip to the interstate and wondered why I’d rode my bike Then I went back up the stairs of the blue sided hill, to see the roommate I hated and thought about stealing his SNES and stereo but took only my one possession and walked past rotting turkey bacon in a plastic pouch on the top of a table beside some legos and left.

0

Apr 22, 2012

Apr 22, 2012 at 1:21 PM UTC

sansara-justinovich

I was moving out Parked my bike down the street With a cart hinged on the bolt beneath the rusty pole connected to my seat. The yard was steep, and the stairs leading down the front Vanished each car- go carrying trip of dictionaries and travel guides that could have been lumped together in boxes separately tossed into the neon green synthetic fiber rain-proof buggy Connected to my seat. I ran across the lawn, one last time Buckling the watch I found from high school remembering it’s broken and not caring then I saw men wearing polos beneath Greek symbols beneath a doorway and held my breath as they stared at me. This vacant lot held something which I carried back to find my bike was gone, replaced by a life-sized depiction of a bike saying “no bikes--” A girl inside, explaining where I could find mine I walked down the grey spiral of handicapped access ramps surrounded by aquariums or tvs which comprised the store's interior. The last ramp faced an exit and went straight past refrigerators next to vending machines In the alley behind this office supply store were two old men Roasting my bike on a chain beside the others Disconnected, hung its tires lying on the ground beside their feet and the carriage slung aside like a bloodied gazelle's neck. “What the **** A woman got into my face “don’t use that word” ***** a perfectly good word, after all, it’s how we got here” One man smiled. He felt bad. They helped me put the bike together and I walked it back to my house. I saw my car down the street. I thought about the long trip to the interstate and wondered why I’d rode my bike Then I went back up the stairs of the blue sided hill, to see the roommate I hated and thought about stealing his SNES and stereo but took only my one possession and walked past rotting turkey bacon in a plastic pouch on the top of a table beside some legos and left.

Continue reading...

I'm drowning in light, In blinding light: Lights on cars; and buildings; and lit up trees lining lit up streets; Houses with sills all lined in gold And diamond; silver glitter glued onto mould; Street lamps; and laser pointers; and Towers; neon lights dotted with flowers Of plastic sun; hoardings and billboards, With bright teeth and skin and red words Everywhere you turn, Telling you what you want And never knew you wanted; Shop windows; chandeliers; Presents for that time of year; Cell phone pylons with twinkling, Bright lights on top, like Christmas trees; Christmas trees, with stars and angels Speckled, Frosted, Dusted on the tops; Disgusting glare on sunglasses, And a smiting gaze along the arms; Bridges and fountains with gold poured on; Platinum bands in every size, laying all forlorn; Bedside lamps; and taxis; and taxi stands; Every window, but the ones Being jumped off of; TVs and refrigerators, opened Thoughtlessly at night; Screens shooting onto impassive glass That used to be faces; Cameras, going off in quick succession, Quicker than you can keep up; I'm drowning. We are taught desire, in light, We learn to read in light and scarlet letters of fluorescence We are blind, Now that the road is paved for us, To the light that was before.

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Apr 5, 2016

Apr 5, 2016 at 10:20 AM UTC

Shards of Light

I'm drowning in light, In blinding light: Lights on cars; and buildings; and lit up trees lining lit up streets; Houses with sills all lined in gold And diamond; silver glitter glued onto mould; Street lamps; and laser pointers; and Towers; neon lights dotted with flowers Of plastic sun; hoardings and billboards, With bright teeth and skin and red words Everywhere you turn, Telling you what you want And never knew you wanted; Shop windows; chandeliers; Presents for that time of year; Cell phone pylons with twinkling, Bright lights on top, like Christmas trees; Christmas trees, with stars and angels Speckled, Frosted, Dusted on the tops; Disgusting glare on sunglasses, And a smiting gaze along the arms; Bridges and fountains with gold poured on; Platinum bands in every size, laying all forlorn; Bedside lamps; and taxis; and taxi stands; Every window, but the ones Being jumped off of; TVs and refrigerators, opened Thoughtlessly at night; Screens shooting onto impassive glass That used to be faces; Cameras, going off in quick succession, Quicker than you can keep up; I'm drowning. We are taught desire, in light, We learn to read in light and scarlet letters of fluorescence We are blind, Now that the road is paved for us, To the light that was before.

Continue reading...

I am not old, yet. My skin is not powdery and white, see-through like a paper lantern. But there is a part of me which When I dare to reach for someone I love Reaches with brittle ***** fingers, soft and cold and fluttering like white moths That edge closer to a flame until they catch. There is a part of me that feels old, and fragile. And already even in the crest of my youth I’ve cursed this body For its frailty, its needs. It suffers and complains, always crying out for something, Never sated, never still. I’ve said it feels like living inside a porcelain doll A look, and cracks can spider out along an arm, A word and blood can bloom beneath the surface, seeping up into Bruised pictures and symbols. I must always be gentle, I must always be Watching. Too passionate, and fissures form, marring the cheek, spreading like shadows thrown by a lace curtain. I stare out, burning to touch everything, And yet I pull back: To dare is to risk, and I’ve seen Both reward and loss. I have seen a thousand shining colors spread across me like sunrise, Warming my skin, Calling to me like prayer until a bit of light escaped through the spaces between my atoms and reached another person’s palms, But I have also seen the pale, flat shards of myself, Sifted through white dust in dismay For a salvageable portion. Indeed, there are rooms in this world where sharp edges of me still linger Waiting in obstructed corners and beneath heavy refrigerators To gouge a foot or snag a hem, Interred In the dark and hollow places where they flew when I shattered and could not gather them all. I have known Intimately My own fragility, How maddeningly breakable I am And how difficult to mend. And there is a part of me now, always, Which whispers to me when I would be bold, “You are not old, yet. But wouldn’t you just love To live that long?”

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Feb 1, 2017

Feb 1, 2017 at 10:36 PM UTC

"Till Human Voices Wake Us, And We Drown."

I am not old, yet. My skin is not powdery and white, see-through like a paper lantern. But there is a part of me which When I dare to reach for someone I love Reaches with brittle ***** fingers, soft and cold and fluttering like white moths That edge closer to a flame until they catch. There is a part of me that feels old, and fragile. And already even in the crest of my youth I’ve cursed this body For its frailty, its needs. It suffers and complains, always crying out for something, Never sated, never still. I’ve said it feels like living inside a porcelain doll A look, and cracks can spider out along an arm, A word and blood can bloom beneath the surface, seeping up into Bruised pictures and symbols. I must always be gentle, I must always be Watching. Too passionate, and fissures form, marring the cheek, spreading like shadows thrown by a lace curtain. I stare out, burning to touch everything, And yet I pull back: To dare is to risk, and I’ve seen Both reward and loss. I have seen a thousand shining colors spread across me like sunrise, Warming my skin, Calling to me like prayer until a bit of light escaped through the spaces between my atoms and reached another person’s palms, But I have also seen the pale, flat shards of myself, Sifted through white dust in dismay For a salvageable portion. Indeed, there are rooms in this world where sharp edges of me still linger Waiting in obstructed corners and beneath heavy refrigerators To gouge a foot or snag a hem, Interred In the dark and hollow places where they flew when I shattered and could not gather them all. I have known Intimately My own fragility, How maddeningly breakable I am And how difficult to mend. And there is a part of me now, always, Which whispers to me when I would be bold, “You are not old, yet. But wouldn’t you just love To live that long?”

Continue reading...

My mother taught me to finish all the food on my plate, that children in Africa are starving for a taste of it - and only disrespect leaves crumbs behind but I never guessed I would be middle-aged at eighteen Never thought I’d know exactly what those kids were starving for. I’m pushing a full plate towards her tight-lipped disgust slathered in every last drop of stubborn society - she will always be the epitome of gluttony in the most frail and forgotten way, Always asking for more than I could ever give. Only those will a full cupboard of snacks stand before the cool air of refrigerators discerning the difference between craving and needing as the hours ticks away like racing dollar bills I spent every last second stuffing her full with time But she told me that her stomach was empty I am eighteen going on thirty-two raising a defensive daughter I never gave birth to and now I know what those kids in Africa starve for - Not just food But the taste of having too much Too easy so that they can feel hungry again.

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Oct 17, 2012

Oct 17, 2012 at 12:52 AM UTC

My mother taught me to finish all the food on my plate, that children in Africa are starving for a taste of it - and only disrespect leaves crumbs behind but I never guessed I would be middle-aged at eighteen Never thought I’d know exactly what those kids were starving for. I’m pushing a full plate towards her tight-lipped disgust slathered in every last drop of stubborn society - she will always be the epitome of gluttony in the most frail and forgotten way, Always asking for more than I could ever give. Only those will a full cupboard of snacks stand before the cool air of refrigerators discerning the difference between craving and needing as the hours ticks away like racing dollar bills I spent every last second stuffing her full with time But she told me that her stomach was empty I am eighteen going on thirty-two raising a defensive daughter I never gave birth to and now I know what those kids in Africa starve for - Not just food But the taste of having too much Too easy so that they can feel hungry again.

Continue reading...

sweet jesus life is outrageous listless alligators try to upstage this drift from forms to formless sages residual wages furnishing your cages threadbare leather workers raid our refrigerators rage is impulsive sullen lisps and swollen lips frame our faceless daughters in their water glasses houses of hunted howling hourglasses dreamcatchers and dancers humongous lanterns burning pages place-mats on your dinner tables why do they feel so out of place is it the way we are made have you any doubts about your origins what is the worst thing you’ve ever faced are you exposed to typos regularly tokens of penmanship and fraternity hazings hostelries and banquets growth is dependent only on intangible quotients

0

Nov 15, 2018

Nov 15, 2018 at 4:46 PM UTC

ganesha-michael-shapiro

listless alligators

sweet jesus life is outrageous listless alligators try to upstage this drift from forms to formless sages residual wages furnishing your cages threadbare leather workers raid our refrigerators rage is impulsive sullen lisps and swollen lips frame our faceless daughters in their water glasses houses of hunted howling hourglasses dreamcatchers and dancers humongous lanterns burning pages place-mats on your dinner tables why do they feel so out of place is it the way we are made have you any doubts about your origins what is the worst thing you’ve ever faced are you exposed to typos regularly tokens of penmanship and fraternity hazings hostelries and banquets growth is dependent only on intangible quotients

Continue reading...

the first time I can recall a teapot whistling in the manner I’d imagined a teapot to whistle my brother was cutting himself in the tub, gingerly, a test run… - the whistling scared the **** out of him, the bejesus - being made of nothing allowed brother to volunteer in New Orleans after Katrina he opened a few refrigerators that’s all it took - without my brother, I’d be in his words beside myself some ****** eared stranger mucking up a white door listening as if to a radio announcing the missing blow up dolls by name

0

Mar 29, 2013

Mar 29, 2013 at 4:00 PM UTC

the first time I can recall a teapot whistling in the manner I’d imagined a teapot to whistle my brother was cutting himself in the tub, gingerly, a test run… - the whistling scared the **** out of him, the bejesus - being made of nothing allowed brother to volunteer in New Orleans after Katrina he opened a few refrigerators that’s all it took - without my brother, I’d be in his words beside myself some ****** eared stranger mucking up a white door listening as if to a radio announcing the missing blow up dolls by name

Continue reading...

*children the happy idiots, secondary children doubly idiotic thinking of love idealising via Darwinism, must be a toast... well surrender you and i, i'd too be ably nimble, but i got Mandela on my back quacking: you?! what the **** yeah, they said till the field and laugh and pretend. brain dead you ***** BRAIN... DEAD! they didn't hear you, they're english, try Celtic.. Brie anomaly of Normandy... nothing... what about egyptian? sha shoo shisha collar coo coo? hey... that works, lets give the flapping owl a cuneiform signature worth a sunset!* love it, slightly drunk, got a bottle of whiskey ready, cried listening to a horror film soundtrack, got over 200 reads on a poem of mine, got hooked on a pope song from the early millennials, when i was a teen hammering leftover refrigerators on the sly with a tourist as a party was taking place, and the un-lived the happily ever after with the suicide of the Grimm brothers for subsequent pressures that demanded attentive dissatisfaction marginalised into concrete paragraphs sentenced for a grade for a furthering from schooled to schooling.

0

Feb 28, 2016

Feb 28, 2016 at 9:57 PM UTC

removed.polaroid-scrabble

*children the happy idiots, secondary children doubly idiotic thinking of love idealising via Darwinism, must be a toast... well surrender you and i, i'd too be ably nimble, but i got Mandela on my back quacking: you?! what the **** yeah, they said till the field and laugh and pretend. brain dead you ***** BRAIN... DEAD! they didn't hear you, they're english, try Celtic.. Brie anomaly of Normandy... nothing... what about egyptian? sha shoo shisha collar coo coo? hey... that works, lets give the flapping owl a cuneiform signature worth a sunset!* love it, slightly drunk, got a bottle of whiskey ready, cried listening to a horror film soundtrack, got over 200 reads on a poem of mine, got hooked on a pope song from the early millennials, when i was a teen hammering leftover refrigerators on the sly with a tourist as a party was taking place, and the un-lived the happily ever after with the suicide of the Grimm brothers for subsequent pressures that demanded attentive dissatisfaction marginalised into concrete paragraphs sentenced for a grade for a furthering from schooled to schooling.

Continue reading...

Some are lissome, jowly, blossomed or pocked, teeth of old horses—eyes white as flour, a few clubfoot with sisters pregnant as October gourds. Not Norman Rockwell’s Americans, but they are us and live in lopsided bungalows with leaky roofs, heaved sidewalks, bare refrigerators.

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Oct 14, 2016

Oct 14, 2016 at 7:59 AM UTC

Some are lissome, jowly, blossomed or pocked, teeth of old horses—eyes white as flour, a few clubfoot with sisters pregnant as October gourds. Not Norman Rockwell’s Americans, but they are us and live in lopsided bungalows with leaky roofs, heaved sidewalks, bare refrigerators.

Continue reading...

Michelangelo from marble made man, Beyond Perfection. An Ultimate image, as Apollo's Earthrise on Luna, or Showcase #4. Germany has it's Beatles, Just as Liverpool does too, And I've seen pictures of a wall that stretches the length of China. Pyramids rise out of the Deserts of Egypt, The Jungles of the Aztecs, and the Mountains of the Mayans. A Colosseum still stands in Rome, And every temple envy's the ones in Angkor Wot For every age a legend. For every actor a role. For every writer a story, and painter a painting, and general a battle, and architect a structure. Wright and Wolfe and Orwell and Wells and Kafka and Kubrick and Lenin and Lennon and McCartney and MacArthur and Patton and Plato and Dvořák. There is a perfect apple pie in every mother's mind. A perfect game in every pitcher's eye. A work of art around every corner, Stuck to refrigerators, And tucked away underneath children sized beds. Hanging in every high-school hallway, Spray painted on every highway overpass. A Planet-wide gallery as simple as a finger-painting, As grand as that canyon out in Arizona. A world full of masterpieces... But for me... Only you... Only you.

0

Jul 10, 2014

Jul 10, 2014 at 11:19 PM UTC

Michelangelo from marble made man, Beyond Perfection. An Ultimate image, as Apollo's Earthrise on Luna, or Showcase #4. Germany has it's Beatles, Just as Liverpool does too, And I've seen pictures of a wall that stretches the length of China. Pyramids rise out of the Deserts of Egypt, The Jungles of the Aztecs, and the Mountains of the Mayans. A Colosseum still stands in Rome, And every temple envy's the ones in Angkor Wot For every age a legend. For every actor a role. For every writer a story, and painter a painting, and general a battle, and architect a structure. Wright and Wolfe and Orwell and Wells and Kafka and Kubrick and Lenin and Lennon and McCartney and MacArthur and Patton and Plato and Dvořák. There is a perfect apple pie in every mother's mind. A perfect game in every pitcher's eye. A work of art around every corner, Stuck to refrigerators, And tucked away underneath children sized beds. Hanging in every high-school hallway, Spray painted on every highway overpass. A Planet-wide gallery as simple as a finger-painting, As grand as that canyon out in Arizona. A world full of masterpieces... But for me... Only you... Only you.

Continue reading...

I can write like Don DeLillo in Americana. I'll show you your personal Patrick Bateman. How childish Palahniuk is. I'll show you advertising matters. Brands. My brands. Shinola. Dire Straights. Colour TVs. Refrigerators. Blisters on your thumb. I'll show you my shoes, this shirt. These pants. My hair. Fist over knife. Forks over food. Jerking off into a wishing well with next month's bonus. I'll show you when enough is enough. I'll show you what it means to be hungry. Thirst. Blood. Sweat. I'll give you an idea and take it out of reach. I'll find your consumer segment. I'll find your scalpel too. I'll show you who you should really be.

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Sep 10, 2016

Sep 10, 2016 at 1:41 AM UTC

The Account Man

I can write like Don DeLillo in Americana. I'll show you your personal Patrick Bateman. How childish Palahniuk is. I'll show you advertising matters. Brands. My brands. Shinola. Dire Straights. Colour TVs. Refrigerators. Blisters on your thumb. I'll show you my shoes, this shirt. These pants. My hair. Fist over knife. Forks over food. Jerking off into a wishing well with next month's bonus. I'll show you when enough is enough. I'll show you what it means to be hungry. Thirst. Blood. Sweat. I'll give you an idea and take it out of reach. I'll find your consumer segment. I'll find your scalpel too. I'll show you who you should really be.

Continue reading...

Brutal, unforgiving Organic Like sand in your teeth Undeniable as truth in its purest form As beautiful as color Planes are departing Landing Crashing Frogs are leaping Dogs are guarding Cells are dividing The woman with her Judas smile Poison forked tongue flicking Darkens my doorstep no more! Freeways hum Refrigerators buzz Oil goes unchecked I turn off the tv set Ignore the rioting in the streets Look away as the one percent Ruins America The silence of the phone Is deafening Tomorrow is uncertain As I contemplate my obsessions And A.D.D I wonder how patient Can God be

0

Jan 11, 2015

Jan 11, 2015 at 10:46 PM UTC

Directionless pointless rambling

Brutal, unforgiving Organic Like sand in your teeth Undeniable as truth in its purest form As beautiful as color Planes are departing Landing Crashing Frogs are leaping Dogs are guarding Cells are dividing The woman with her Judas smile Poison forked tongue flicking Darkens my doorstep no more! Freeways hum Refrigerators buzz Oil goes unchecked I turn off the tv set Ignore the rioting in the streets Look away as the one percent Ruins America The silence of the phone Is deafening Tomorrow is uncertain As I contemplate my obsessions And A.D.D I wonder how patient Can God be

Continue reading...

the english don't know how to drink ***** sorry... they don't... by the way? the english artifact of saying sorry? it doesn't actually mean an apology... the apology always comes too late... but english nightclubs? the english? they don't know how to serve ***** ***** is never served on ice... i'm losing followers? am i? good... i like my self-imposed censorship... i like weeding out the soft pockets... of people with weak stomachs... for all the celebration of Darwinism? peer into my eyes... if you really want to serve ***** ***** isn't whiskey isn't red wine, served at room temp. being allowed airing... mind you... funny fact... six cloves of garlic dumped into a bottle of red wine, matured for 2 weeks... 3 x 25ml of the wine... apparently curbs your appetite... don't ask me whether that's inclusive of a placebo effect... but when you're drinking ***** proper? you don't add ice... and keep it at room temp., you freeze it... to below -10°C... vodka isn't whiskey! i know what warm **** tastes like, i once fused red wine, and, having ****** into the holy grail, and subsequently drank the concoction... come to think of it... ******* the Vatican colored flag of extraction into a sacrament? you need ***** to be served below the freezing point of water, given that, 0°C is a baron of quality differentiating water from ***** alcohol evaporates at around 70+°C... p.s. interlude: i was never fond of the imperial rubric of Fahrenheit and ounces, pounds, miles, inches... and all that quirky "genius" of measurements... mathematically? i'm aligned with French... but you don't serve ***** at room temp. with ice cubes and a mixer... given that ***** has a lower boiling point, you serve it under the "niqab" of waster becoming ice... so you serve it... as something, equivalent of gomme syrup... you drink ***** that appears syrupy... like any single malt puritan when it comes to whiskey? there are ***** puritans out there... you don't drink ***** lukewarm, or slightly chilled... you drink it at a temp. of a gomme syrup... liquid -20°C... thick... with all the alcohol poisoning bacterium dead... appearing excessively sugary, but not really... night clubs that serve ***** not stashed in refrigerators like butcher's meat? don't drink the ***** in those places... if it doesn't have the smoothness of a gomme syrup? sliding down your throat like a mollusk on amphetamines? the epitome: ***** and orange juice?! you ******** me or opening a ******* parachute while stranded to the the ******* ground?

0

Aug 23, 2018

Aug 23, 2018 at 8:00 PM UTC

removed.polaroid-scrabble

how best to serve *****

the english don't know how to drink ***** sorry... they don't... by the way? the english artifact of saying sorry? it doesn't actually mean an apology... the apology always comes too late... but english nightclubs? the english? they don't know how to serve ***** ***** is never served on ice... i'm losing followers? am i? good... i like my self-imposed censorship... i like weeding out the soft pockets... of people with weak stomachs... for all the celebration of Darwinism? peer into my eyes... if you really want to serve ***** ***** isn't whiskey isn't red wine, served at room temp. being allowed airing... mind you... funny fact... six cloves of garlic dumped into a bottle of red wine, matured for 2 weeks... 3 x 25ml of the wine... apparently curbs your appetite... don't ask me whether that's inclusive of a placebo effect... but when you're drinking ***** proper? you don't add ice... and keep it at room temp., you freeze it... to below -10°C... vodka isn't whiskey! i know what warm **** tastes like, i once fused red wine, and, having ****** into the holy grail, and subsequently drank the concoction... come to think of it... ******* the Vatican colored flag of extraction into a sacrament? you need ***** to be served below the freezing point of water, given that, 0°C is a baron of quality differentiating water from ***** alcohol evaporates at around 70+°C... p.s. interlude: i was never fond of the imperial rubric of Fahrenheit and ounces, pounds, miles, inches... and all that quirky "genius" of measurements... mathematically? i'm aligned with French... but you don't serve ***** at room temp. with ice cubes and a mixer... given that ***** has a lower boiling point, you serve it under the "niqab" of waster becoming ice... so you serve it... as something, equivalent of gomme syrup... you drink ***** that appears syrupy... like any single malt puritan when it comes to whiskey? there are ***** puritans out there... you don't drink ***** lukewarm, or slightly chilled... you drink it at a temp. of a gomme syrup... liquid -20°C... thick... with all the alcohol poisoning bacterium dead... appearing excessively sugary, but not really... night clubs that serve ***** not stashed in refrigerators like butcher's meat? don't drink the ***** in those places... if it doesn't have the smoothness of a gomme syrup? sliding down your throat like a mollusk on amphetamines? the epitome: ***** and orange juice?! you ******** me or opening a ******* parachute while stranded to the the ******* ground?

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i used to live in boxes, not just the ones from packing my life away and expediting it, or where i would store myself under old refrigerators, making soft buzzing noises with my tongue i kept things in them, wings plucked from butterflies and soaked in the sickly sweet scent of formaldehyde. it was satisfying to separate myself from all the spheres of influence and drops in the bucket of my mind. the past was all accorded for, the present mattered not. i could get by on scratching windowpanes for golden flecks of light. as long as i had the memories of being too young to understand thoughts, i was okay, and okay was a word i could say without regret. it promised nothing. so what chance did you stand, all silver and sparkles, speaking backwards and boiling over with steam? you pretended it was virtue you were smoking, hand-rolled, on the slowly sinking porch. i could taste it as hypocrisy, some softest contradiction. and i wanted to seal you off, garnished in a soft sort of word salad, and dressed with adjectives like “lonely” or maybe just a little bored. my way was too angular for your knees, softly curved as they were, and supple on my chest. you compartmentalized so sloppily into a stream-of-consciousness story. so there is a box for you, sitting somewhere, and i confess that i always wanted to sleep alone. a can of soda can be champagne if i’m celebrating something. and so i think i’ll spend my night sugary and sober, painting the sky cardboard and faded, like a memory without a frame to hold it in.

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Feb 7, 2011

Feb 7, 2011 at 1:12 PM UTC

i used to live in boxes, not just the ones from packing my life away and expediting it, or where i would store myself under old refrigerators, making soft buzzing noises with my tongue i kept things in them, wings plucked from butterflies and soaked in the sickly sweet scent of formaldehyde. it was satisfying to separate myself from all the spheres of influence and drops in the bucket of my mind. the past was all accorded for, the present mattered not. i could get by on scratching windowpanes for golden flecks of light. as long as i had the memories of being too young to understand thoughts, i was okay, and okay was a word i could say without regret. it promised nothing. so what chance did you stand, all silver and sparkles, speaking backwards and boiling over with steam? you pretended it was virtue you were smoking, hand-rolled, on the slowly sinking porch. i could taste it as hypocrisy, some softest contradiction. and i wanted to seal you off, garnished in a soft sort of word salad, and dressed with adjectives like “lonely” or maybe just a little bored. my way was too angular for your knees, softly curved as they were, and supple on my chest. you compartmentalized so sloppily into a stream-of-consciousness story. so there is a box for you, sitting somewhere, and i confess that i always wanted to sleep alone. a can of soda can be champagne if i’m celebrating something. and so i think i’ll spend my night sugary and sober, painting the sky cardboard and faded, like a memory without a frame to hold it in.

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Tiny ankles hang down from a wooden bridge over the bayou- and my friend and I stare at the black water and point at all the furniture legs jetting out of the blackness as if they were Cyprus knees— and he says to me “Someone said there’s at least a hundred bodies in there” and without hesitation or a moment of silence for the uncertain yet forgotten Dead I say, “Bodies float, so we would see them if that were true” and he replied, after a brief moment of thought, “Maybe they’re tied to all the couches or stuffed in the refrigerators” and I couldn’t believe how many house hold appliances have been repurposed to host all these passed souls in the bowels of the swamp and with a swing of my leg, too swift— my left shoe dropped and hovered on the water where lily pads should have been

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Jul 12, 2017

Jul 12, 2017 at 9:00 PM UTC

Tiny ankles hang down from a wooden bridge over the bayou- and my friend and I stare at the black water and point at all the furniture legs jetting out of the blackness as if they were Cyprus knees— and he says to me “Someone said there’s at least a hundred bodies in there” and without hesitation or a moment of silence for the uncertain yet forgotten Dead I say, “Bodies float, so we would see them if that were true” and he replied, after a brief moment of thought, “Maybe they’re tied to all the couches or stuffed in the refrigerators” and I couldn’t believe how many house hold appliances have been repurposed to host all these passed souls in the bowels of the swamp and with a swing of my leg, too swift— my left shoe dropped and hovered on the water where lily pads should have been

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Refrigerators are made to keep things cold- a job well done, grapes in the bowl Knew they were yours tasted delicious- this part’s not fun, I beg your forgiveness

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Mar 3, 2019

Mar 3, 2019 at 3:43 AM UTC

matthew-mckeown

Grapes of Forgiveness

Refrigerators are made to keep things cold- a job well done, grapes in the bowl Knew they were yours tasted delicious- this part’s not fun, I beg your forgiveness

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Sun's going down and I'm trying my hardest not to think of the walk back and enjoy the nature. It's a littered mess, though. With discarded refrigerators, tree glass, the paper cups, products consumed and departed. And it's hard to feel one with the wood, but it's easy as well, we're just like the trash. our millennial fashion clashes with the fallen leaves, and our indie rock from our portable, doesn't blend in with the pebbles. I sit on a tree, turned over while the sun gets lower. I've got this eminent feeling, that this trip back we'll be keeling. The trees are still bare but budding, still it's something. I imagine this is where I should breathe, the extra oxygen. But all I smell is city air.

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May 23, 2015

May 23, 2015 at 5:00 PM UTC

Sun's going down and I'm trying my hardest not to think of the walk back and enjoy the nature. It's a littered mess, though. With discarded refrigerators, tree glass, the paper cups, products consumed and departed. And it's hard to feel one with the wood, but it's easy as well, we're just like the trash. our millennial fashion clashes with the fallen leaves, and our indie rock from our portable, doesn't blend in with the pebbles. I sit on a tree, turned over while the sun gets lower. I've got this eminent feeling, that this trip back we'll be keeling. The trees are still bare but budding, still it's something. I imagine this is where I should breathe, the extra oxygen. But all I smell is city air.

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Little girls with Hearts dotting their i’s Perfect bubble letters Letters like a mother’s Princess curls Pretty pictures of Pretty families That get hung up in hallways Little girls with Chicken scratch handwriting Letters like their father’s Stupid spaghetti straight hair And boyish bangs Napkin scribbles of Eyes that aren't quite right and Flimsy stick families Napkins aren't hung up in hallways On walls Or refrigerators They clean up messes They wipe up spills They become stained But thank god life isn't drawn on napkins Thank god life is perfect and clean and never Stained or *****

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Nov 17, 2014

Nov 17, 2014 at 10:29 AM UTC

Letters like their father's

Little girls with Hearts dotting their i’s Perfect bubble letters Letters like a mother’s Princess curls Pretty pictures of Pretty families That get hung up in hallways Little girls with Chicken scratch handwriting Letters like their father’s Stupid spaghetti straight hair And boyish bangs Napkin scribbles of Eyes that aren't quite right and Flimsy stick families Napkins aren't hung up in hallways On walls Or refrigerators They clean up messes They wipe up spills They become stained But thank god life isn't drawn on napkins Thank god life is perfect and clean and never Stained or *****

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*Midnight insomniac gibberish .. House as quiet as a church mouse .. Cheap Wal-mart clock ticking like - 'Big Ben in London town .' Two refrigerators and a basement freezer- making more noise than Piccadilly Circus Old brick houses and Oak flooring make one heck of a ruckus ! If I ever went to England I'll be ****** if I'd ever put up with this much hocus- pocus* !

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Apr 4, 2016

Apr 4, 2016 at 12:04 AM UTC

randolph-l-wilson

Goodnight Folks ...

*Midnight insomniac gibberish .. House as quiet as a church mouse .. Cheap Wal-mart clock ticking like - 'Big Ben in London town .' Two refrigerators and a basement freezer- making more noise than Piccadilly Circus Old brick houses and Oak flooring make one heck of a ruckus ! If I ever went to England I'll be ****** if I'd ever put up with this much hocus- pocus* !

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God bless the children- As they step off the school bus To a soccer ball, summer camp, popsicle joke stick. Bless those who return home to empty refrigerators- Static television and ***** Bless the airplane rides, holding onto the edge of a seat landing into a world where their body- is no longer their own. Daytime heat rising off the road walking barefoot from the community pool, still an aching between legs. Bless this sky, the grass, God Bless America And the fireworks that set fires in our bellies Unforgiving. Bless lightning bugs making stars in a starless black sky Waiting for the moon to move from behind the sheet Guide the blessed children home summer camp soccer ball heaven.

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Jul 2, 2019

Jul 2, 2019 at 1:53 PM UTC

Summers Children

God bless the children- As they step off the school bus To a soccer ball, summer camp, popsicle joke stick. Bless those who return home to empty refrigerators- Static television and ***** Bless the airplane rides, holding onto the edge of a seat landing into a world where their body- is no longer their own. Daytime heat rising off the road walking barefoot from the community pool, still an aching between legs. Bless this sky, the grass, God Bless America And the fireworks that set fires in our bellies Unforgiving. Bless lightning bugs making stars in a starless black sky Waiting for the moon to move from behind the sheet Guide the blessed children home summer camp soccer ball heaven.

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Watching the gray, white and black static, The TV will not show its brazen face. If this absurd box in everyone's house Still worked, say, 40 years ago, I could watch "Kup's Show," Which I miss. Refrigerators last longer. Kathleen Collins

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Jul 1, 2015

Jul 1, 2015 at 4:10 PM UTC

kathleen-collins

Watching the gray, white and black static, The TV will not show its brazen face. If this absurd box in everyone's house Still worked, say, 40 years ago, I could watch "Kup's Show," Which I miss. Refrigerators last longer. Kathleen Collins

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I don't remember when we stopped Going to the grocery shop together When the silence grew too loud to talk over When I'd stopped trailing after you with the rattling bones of canned soup, clutching the well rusted handles of the shopping cart asyou pioneered your way Down the discount aisles proud and dusty Stopping to pick up another sugar laden piece of the American Dream I do remember my first day grocery shopping alone, squeaking with my empty cart hesitantly down the aisle waiting for you to come and tell me to put back the extra box of chewy chocolate chip cookies The scuffed tiled floors shone, the fluorescent lighting cast a dull glow and I swear I heard soft angels humming over the white noise from the refrigerators As I headed home to our white picket nightmare, the blue bags in the backseat shone like medals, subtle victories.

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Jul 21, 2017

Jul 21, 2017 at 12:12 AM UTC

Grocery Shopping on Elm

I don't remember when we stopped Going to the grocery shop together When the silence grew too loud to talk over When I'd stopped trailing after you with the rattling bones of canned soup, clutching the well rusted handles of the shopping cart asyou pioneered your way Down the discount aisles proud and dusty Stopping to pick up another sugar laden piece of the American Dream I do remember my first day grocery shopping alone, squeaking with my empty cart hesitantly down the aisle waiting for you to come and tell me to put back the extra box of chewy chocolate chip cookies The scuffed tiled floors shone, the fluorescent lighting cast a dull glow and I swear I heard soft angels humming over the white noise from the refrigerators As I headed home to our white picket nightmare, the blue bags in the backseat shone like medals, subtle victories.

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