"sammich" poems
“- Bacon sammich -”
Ahhh, liddle green apple 'pon my plate,
**** you ain't ever gonna satiate
my hunger, lust, for something more,
bacon sammich,,you know the score,
Home made bread, cut nice n thick,
full fat butter, ooh yea, that's the trick !
streaky bacon, with chewy rind
just cut off, from a pig's behind,
Fry it up, with a liddle oil
but steady now, or it'll spoil,
not too crisp, n not too brown
coz it's a little rough, when going down,
n to top it off, it's best of course
to maybe add, a splash 'o sauce,
So alas liddle apple, 'pon my plate
I'm afraid for you, the bins your fate,
at the risk of a liddle wife's disquiet
it's a bacon sammich,,,,,fuck the diet.
Alan nettleton.
May 8, 2010
May 8, 2010 at 8:22 AM UTC
rumpled wet cardboard
newspaper floats on gusts of wind
the smell of smoke burns the nostrils
while someone is urinating on the wall
small dogs growl as you pass by
cold bare feet show from under worn blankets
while one hand grasps the wheel of a shopping cart
making sure no one takes their life's belongings
clean clothes a faded memory
as are the faces of loved ones
dementia and paranoia settle in
as your new best friends
"spare a dollar sir, for something to eat?"
"i don't think so, you will buy a bottle"
"you are right sir, but that bottle keeps me warm"
"get a job you freak, and leave me alone"
last cardboard box on the back wall
strange smell, stranger than usual
poke joe with my left toe
joe won't be needing that blanket anymore
shared bottles, germs abound
hey, i used to be a ceo, ya know
then all the voices came around
and told me i had to end it all
hospital told me i couldn't stay
had to go home, and then i laughed
home....you mean that cardboard box?
well while i was in here, someone took it
that makes me homeless ya know
if you have no box, you have nowhere
can't use park benches or you'll be arrested
hey, free room and board, sounds good
warm cot feels so good to my aching back
peanut butter and jelly sammich filled the belly
but **** didn't know i had to watch my back
someone made me his ***** when i wasn't looking
nowhere is not the place to be
©Regina2009
Jun 9, 2014
Jun 9, 2014 at 4:07 AM UTC
what do you do
when your sustenance
becomes your torture
when every mouthful
equals an hour of your future
feeling mortal
when every missed mouthful
is the slow cold unsleeping road
to the same destination
when every thought of it is tainted
by your need and your hate of it
Apr 1, 2018
Apr 1, 2018 at 3:34 PM UTC