"sriracha" poems
listening to French pop
"I'll have liked it when it was cool before it get's cool"
sriracha sauce on pesto pizza
"The waiter was right the flavors are very complimentary to the palate."
watching a ****** "me" movie
"wow their color usage in the lighting really shows the Giallo Italian horror influence"
Listening to the Friendly Indians
"My favorite band? They are only popular in Orange County so you've probably not heard of them.... oh you have?"
watching Un Chien Andalou
"tres interessant"
reading Sartre and Nietzsche
"my favorite philosophers man."
my pretention leaking out slowly to reveal I'm just a ********* underneath this finely unkempt exterior.
Is that changing? Well no but i thought you should know anyway.
Aug 3, 2014
Aug 3, 2014 at 4:06 AM UTC
toaster strudel makes me doodle
eggo waffles feed my poodle
sriracha hot sauce makes my gut toss
taco salad tastes like farts.
smarty thinkers with big wieners
clear the way for bathroom cleaners
dangerous pokemon in the sky
teach me things like how to fly
supple ******* against my chest
your ****** is hard and so are the rest
eat this pear
munch with care
put those shorts on
watch me stare
take a bath in tasty grease
my wiener is small to say the least
now let's race inside this tub
we'll see who get's out first
should we get out?
Aug 20, 2014
Aug 20, 2014 at 9:04 PM UTC
i marinade my fingers,
banana pepper juice, hot wing sauce, sriracha,
i beg you to come close enough so that
i can burn every inch of your lukewarm skin
i'm not looking for revenge
i just want you to know what it feels like
to be set on fire and live to talk about it
when the sun blazes tomorrow
i drank enough whiskey for ten men last friday
and followed familiar footfalls,
i held myself up on barstools and good friends
and watched the door, waiting,
confusing look alikes through blurred vision
when you finally sauntered in
i saw it in slow motion,
i felt absolutely nothing
except hammered and free
Feb 7, 2013
Feb 7, 2013 at 1:56 AM UTC
Below my sleeping taste buds
a low gurgle is heard
(through my veins or skin?)
and the groggy bits of tongue
entice my need to feed
--Something sweet, salty
spicy and satisfying...
So wander, i did to the kitchen
so medium with cupboards filled
with boxes and bottles
cans and stretched stomachs
(too, so medium).
I reach for bread, a toaster
then milk and a mug.
I toast and zap,
then spread and rip
then pour, and oh! what more?
Aromas lifting my nose higher
than my need to feed.
A ding for warm milk,
and a splash from a spoon
Some spice? Squirt some Sriracha.
Salty? Add seasoning of garlic and pepper
The PB&J; classic: now advanced!
Warmed milk turned Cocoa
more splashing, then stirring, i made
L U N C H
Funny, as i bite into the
sweet, salty, spicy and savory sandwich
I look onto the spilled milk and Cocoa powder
and am reminded of the cosmos.
Jan 27, 2013
Jan 27, 2013 at 2:15 PM UTC
sanguine comedians roll across the hills of
pop culture like waterfalls in Banff. Two
sriracha-soaked eggs gaze like ****** eye
***** gouged in a midwestern southern comfort.
short temperament and a sweet disposition.
short temperament and a sweet disposition.
Jul 20, 2013
Jul 20, 2013 at 9:03 PM UTC
AVA: drinking sriracha so that i can feel something
GRACE: *** how'd it go
AVA: not well
GRACE: *** ava u liar u r practically a genius
AVA: that's hilarious
AVA: sayS THE GIRL IN GENIUS MATH
GRACE: wish you were here
AVA: what???
GRACE: nvm, ignore me
GRACE: wrong person
GRACE: i'm sure ur test went fine
May 5, 2015
May 5, 2015 at 3:54 PM UTC
Keep packing the sand
grains deep in my brain,
back it up and prepare
for war, cancer climbs
its way down my throat and
nestles in my lungs. Choke me
with your flypaper ideas and rip
off the collected dust on my face.
Abstract art, cigarette love.
Illusions and spiky throats can't
talk or communicate effectively
like a frog with a tongue ring, I
may hook on your lips if you try to kiss
me. sriracha detergent... spin cycle on tremble
May 14, 2012
May 14, 2012 at 11:10 AM UTC
I like you like I like sunny days,
and sun rays,
and kittens,
and chocolate ice cream.
And you make me happy like that **** does.
I like you like I like my bed in the morning,
and my black out shades shut,
and watching Netflix in bed all day,
with my Christmas lights on.
And you make me feel warm like that **** does.
I like you like I like walking through the woods,
and staring up at the clouds,
and writing late at night,
and even talking to myself.
And I like you like I'm discovering something.
And I like you like I wasn't expecting you to come along,
like I haven't felt this way in a really long time,
like you keep me wondering.
like you're different.
And if I'm being completely honest,
I've never met another person as interesting as you.
I want you think about me like I think about you,
and I want you to like me like I like you,
and I want you to be able to know little bits about me that other people don't.
I want you to notice things that I'm not trying to show off, like my earrings,
I want you to notice things that are just for me,
And I want you to notice them purely because you're interested in discovering who I am too.
And I know whatever is going on between us has an expiration date,
and its not fair that time isn't on our side,
but I don't care that I only have a couple weeks with you,
because you've begun to awaken a part of me that I missed.
And it hurts sometimes,
but I don't mind the ache,
because you've already brightened a spark in me that was dim for too long.
And I don't want you to forget about me when I'm not there next year,
or over the summer,
or even this weekend.
I want you to think of me and always remember lazy mornings spent under my covers,
and late nights spent getting ****** and eating Sriracha and carrots,
and long days spent under the Mexican sun.
I want all this because I like you,
and I can't take it away,
and I can't lessen it,
and I can't apologize for it, and I'm not going to try to,
because, whether you realize it or not, you're helping me.
And the way I feel about you is so bittersweet,
and when this all ends it might break my heart,
because I think it already is.
Apr 7, 2013
Apr 7, 2013 at 1:44 AM UTC
When you love someone for long enough,
You begin speaking their language.
You find yourself saying the same things,
Even stumbling over the same words;
I used to think it was silly the way she'd
Say "Spiracha" instead of "Sriracha,"
But love has a way of changing
The way you think,
Translating your old ways of
Thinking into something new.
Intercultural. Bilingual.
Oct 19, 2016
Oct 19, 2016 at 6:33 PM UTC
Jimmy Page rips into his guitar as I rip into some nachos,
Covered with some real toxic-spicy **** I accidentally created in the kitchen,
And suddenly Black Dog becomes an anthem to my agony.
The habanero peppers dig hooks in as the serannos and the jalapenos begin going to work,
Hitting me with staccato body blows,
Pausing but for a moment before laying in again.
It's as if the very air itself is aflame,
The sriracha's heat sears my throat and lungs,
With the cayenne peppers charring my stomach.
My eyes water,
I want to wail like Plant at the moment,
As sweat begins to gather on my brow,
The sickly sweet stink of the apple cider vinegar used laces the air and stings the nose,
****** hair practically gets singed as it passes.
Page let's loose a riff with his instrument that imitates my heartbeat,
As the heat finally grows too high.
I reach for my only lifeline,
Something almost as terrible as the devil's ketchup itself.
I take the mason jar and take a swig,
And another fire snuffs out the one currently raging in my esophagus and brain.
My breath fast,
Blinking hard and quick,
As the song fades along with a bit of my happiness at creating something so wicked,
As I grab another chip...
Mar 15, 2018
Mar 15, 2018 at 11:41 PM UTC
Dive kicked off the aspirin,
overdosed on vitamin D.
Up all night, celebrating,
properly sober;
properly hydrated,
properly fed.
Stomach ache from experimenting foods,
sriracha on salad and chocolate and eggs
threw it all over everything like "HADOUKEN!",
there's information floating on the wind everywhere
and most of it is ***** and cats,
people saying, "hey" and "yo" and "whats up?"
And I'm addicted to Tom Waits,
and probably *** and probably the internet,
and probably video games and thinking,
but thinking about offing myself.
Genesis does what nintendon't
and lately every modern gaming console
simply just www.WillNot.
I guess we're all fantasizing till we stop.
Also, punk and jazz will not mix well,
my grandfather wrote me from the grave
just to say so.
He says the rent isn't so bad,
but the landlord is the ******* devil,
although there's a room for me to move in.
I just might if I don't get medicated,
for right now I'm whimsical
and singing up and off key.
All these zombies are feeling my vibe
with their teeth and fingernails,
and affection never felt so good
from such a friendly crowd.
I don't get out much anymore,
I'm slipping into old habits
more often because I'm lonely
and melancholic and bored.
It's all right or whatever.
Jan 1, 2015
Jan 1, 2015 at 1:12 AM UTC
as of late
i have been maintaining sanity
organizing my addictions
compartmental-izingly
where you seem to fit
perfectly among my other
bad habits
i take you out
when i'm at my weakest
ridden with guilt and entitlement
i must admit
you are by far my worst habit
but to tell you the truth
you're getting a bit long in the tooth
so I'm gonna inhale a large bag
of gluten free quinoa brown rice
multi-grain tortilla chips
mix up a special batch
of sriracha and hummus
spicy avocado dip
Nov 13, 2016
Nov 13, 2016 at 5:22 PM UTC
I can't taste
I can't feel
no matter how many
layers i peel
i pour sriracha
on everything i eat
it's all i can do
to make it sweet
then you came along
to quench my thirst
what a joke
it just got worse
so i'm on a new mission
just need basics to survive
sriracha for my oatmeal
to keep me alive
Jul 2, 2016
Jul 2, 2016 at 2:40 PM UTC
poetry with two spoons and a salt shaker
~for poet, writer, Lora Lee, unexpectedly~
my symphonic orchestral accompaniment today, musically
unlimited, except by lack of disowning skill, a voice unkempt,
spoons and salt shaker, there in-nate rhythmic opinions off key,
worse, my manly word-smithy, out o’town in June, July, August too?
He, having an affair with my she-muses, left me bereft & berated,
helplessly hoping, the timpani of my words clashing, overrated,
woeful under-something, betraying my need for spicy sriracha,
poetry, sans hamburger helper, no-tasty, even less-than-average
everyone comes rushing in to the kitchen, hearing my to-sky-voices
howling, thinking something wrong, the four instruments rack up a cacophony of rhythmic-less noises, words emerging, to-a-person, they announce, “you’re no Allen Ginsburg, ppp-please not so early next time”
alas, they don’t know the poems are coming hot and heavy, guess I’ll
go outside, serenade them birdies in the trees, the striped bass in the bay, the rabbits procreating/sleeping/eating under their (our) dock
the squirrels know better, have skedaddled to the next-door-neighbor who feeds them classical stuff with a dollop of jazz creme mixed in, but I don’t care, cause I got all day, the rest of my life, to amuse me & you too
to refine the qualitative, to improve my creative, I’ve gone “native” and the rush is the best, the wind beneath my spectacles (haha) drives my rhyming to lowlight heights of prosody, besides seems
everybody has gone to a different beach, so it’s just me and the giant blackbirds cawing holy hell noises, and I’m thinking seriously about baking pie, but they just don’t get the hint, how annoying is that!
harrumph!
BESIDES GOTTA WRITE SOME SERIOUS STUFF...
Jul 4, 2020
Jul 4, 2020 at 10:13 AM UTC
They are telling me to have a mentality of hakuna matata,but if really knew me, I like things to have a little heat to it like sriracha. No chakra for me please, for I am real, I say things as is, not to crazy about starting off with the story of the birds and the bee's. That **** is some true b.s, for real man, awkward talks can get thrown out in the trash cans. Kumbaya my lord, I can't handle these foolish people that conspire with their idiotic deeds, they must be full of a bunch of **** I proceed to take out these exceeds, that pray onto beads like some kind of cult or creed. What the **** is wrong with us, hanging onto lost values, no wonder it's so easy for you to say in God you trust. Gentiles and philistines lined along with their hypocrisy, is there a way where we can cure this disease. I speak about real deals, to eventually help this world fully heal. Although no body wants to hear me, maybe I am just not speaking clearly or maybe everything is becoming to **** weary. Where be the hope, where be the believe, offended offenders roasting each other as if they are beef. So what makes you have the authority to tell me to chill and sing kumbaya at camp, when people are struggling to get some food stamps. You have no idea, to blind and privileged entitled bricks, you are the reason why future generations will continue being privileged entitled ***** No time to take a chill pill or check all the haters emails, it time to be real it's time for our society to finally begin to prevail. All hail no one, we are all equal, no one is more great than the other, everyone is one with one another. Oh brother, did I just say something that makes sense, because your looking a little tense, playing the defence.
Apr 6, 2016
Apr 6, 2016 at 4:33 PM UTC
it's 10:58 pm here
i have stumbled down the stairs one too many times
and i can see the look on their faces
when i say i'm okay
i'm okay
one too many times seems repetitive
repetition is good
repetition reminds me of the clock ticking inside my head
but the clock counts calories instead of time
as i count the seconds passing through these hunger pains
like contractions
should have bought a pregnancy test today
i didn't
i'm good at not doing things
like going to class
and eating
this bowl of rice and beans
seems all too familiar and i watch myself in the mirror as
i
eat
it's a trick i've learned
it helps me stop
the day i found out spicy food can curb appetite was
revolutionary.
i had always hated it
but sriracha became a new best friend
i've lost 30 pounds in 6 months.
Mar 6, 2018
Mar 6, 2018 at 11:20 PM UTC
Silly little Sally
Sings like fresh sriracha
With a zest for life
Her sour life is savored
Defensive acid
Spice
Adds flavor
Jan 25, 2016
Jan 25, 2016 at 8:39 AM UTC