"tabasco" poems
Dat ***** Though
Hey girl, I see you at da club, shaking dat *****
And all I can think about is how that *** would soothe me.
You lookin' so fresh like celery. Baby, why don't you
come over here and put a bell on me?
I'll be your cat, rub my nose in your lap,
and you can be my doggy. We can do it in style, for a while.
Then jump in the shower, so you can wash me with your lotions
Rub your magic all over me like your hands are made of potions.
Then let's jump back in bed and keep our bodies in motion.
Girl, you fine like China, like Flo from Mel's diner.
You hotter than Tabasco, and I know you think I'm whacko,
But you got a ***** that makes me crazy.
I want you to haze me, daze me,
and if you say no, it probably won't phase me.
I'll just write poetry about you and me
as if it were real because nothin' gonna stop the way I feel.
Sep 10, 2015
Sep 10, 2015 at 11:38 PM UTC
i love the way we met
unbeknownst our paths aligned
and a mutual understanding was formed
it’s true that the best alliances are the ones
you never saw coming
i’m not quite sure what we are
perhaps just two people that chat
i really think we can be more than friends
you are someone
I would start a really small gang with
you can by my person
i’ll have your back
the pinch of daring I need
like tabasco and tequila chicken wings
beautiful in its unlikeliness
Jun 28, 2016
Jun 28, 2016 at 6:58 AM UTC
The Monkey's Uncle
I'm french fried
freeze dried
pour tabasco on top
if you think I lied
if I look your way
I will go astray
pat the monkey's head
every night and day
you drive me mad
with your beautiful smile
for one of your kisses
I would walk a mile
sometimes sassy
with a sharp wit
work the fancy words
rub your hands with spit
a pound of clay
a box of sand
I can spank that monkey
with either hand
hair of gold
hot and cold
motorcycle mama
but it's been sold
likes to dance
when given a chance
has a frequent fire
inside her pants
keeps my head
in constant flux
spinning in circles
that sure *****
it's my own fault
I'm a carbuncle
stay where you belong
I'm the Monkey's uncle
Gomer LePoet ....
Jun 23, 2013
Jun 23, 2013 at 3:13 PM UTC
1. If you aren't moving your hands while telling a story, it's a boring ******* story. Add in something to make it exciting, like a chance encounter with a tiger. So what if no one believes that tigers walk down 5th avenue, at least your story doesn't **** any more. You know whose story ***** now? That ******* who doesn't believe a tiger can make it in the big city.
2. Make bad mistakes every once in awhile. How will you know that you don't want to be part of a Colombian Drug Cartel unless you try it out for a few weeks? Who knows, maybe you'll find out it's your true calling. Maybe you'll stage a coup, take over the whole thing and get the hot girl in the red dress. But no, you're sitting at your computer reading this. My point is, drugs are bad ok?
3. Don't be that guy who thinks he's better than everyone else because he always "does the right thing". You know why he's never made a mistake? Because he doesn't have a real life. His life is as real as a Ken Doll's unmentionables. Yeah it's all smooth and shiny, but he can't have any fun with it. What's the point of having a life that can't be potentially ruined by terrible decisions?
4. Take chances. and I don't mean by putting "Piccolo Pete's Face Burning Tabasco" on your hotdog. I mean walk up to the next girl you see and give her a passionate kiss the likes of which she hasn't had since 3 days ago when she drunkenly made out with some random dude at a bar. Yeah, you may feel like you've just been kneed in the groin and/or maced multiple times in the eye...but you know what? You just made out with a beautiful woman, and you've got a good lawyer.
5. Don't take advice from people you don't know. Especially some random person on the internet, those people are just shady.
Jun 6, 2012
Jun 6, 2012 at 8:02 PM UTC
I first tried an oyster at a seafood bar in Melbourne,
and it jarred in that far-away place.
Oysters, so intimate, were meant to find me at home,
And they did.
In the crowds of Borough Market,
A barnacled Titan plunged his pickled hand into ice-water,
And presented me with a real beauty;
Lustrous, mother of pearl shell,
And at the centre,
A sea-fairy, glittering,
Living, existing for consumption.
A tickle of tabasco, and down he went,
An ocean in my mouth.
I could have been a mermaid
at Neptune’s banquet;
So briny and life-giving,
My mollusc revelation.
An image for you;
A man and a woman, very much in love
Feast on two dozen at an oyster and porter house,
also at the market.
Glowing in the light of a dripping white candle,
They sit at the corner of the counter,
A perfect white wine clinking in their glasses.
Two years ago, an anniversary oyster-fest,
Look how happy we are…
This is the best table in the house.
Now, if we returned,
We might complain about people pushing past,
And the arrogant city-types, drunk and dropping crab shells,
But…That night, it was just us, though busy, it might have been deserted,
Our eyes and the slide of the oysters down our eager throats
Made promises, later to be kept.
Sep 12, 2013
Sep 12, 2013 at 2:57 PM UTC
acid pools in stomachs mingling
with melatonin and valerian.
struggling to displace oneself in the scheme of things.
there is no question that Mitchum was the man,
or that Farewell, My Lovely is still too expensive for me to buy,
but I do question the length of time we spent
pondering the truth with empty schedules and JWH-018.
we etched an identity from a corner-store drug era
filled with colorful characters and interesting flavors;
burning spare change and time probing the annals
of creativity for something to pop up and speak to us.
I know I shouldn't have stopped texting,
but you should have let the schoolyard bully stay home.
artsy flicks just don't have the same charm anymore,
and the struggle to stay seated is hard to purge,
pleading, wailing in a crowded cinema,
when we both know you could've prevented yourself
from never getting a chance to see this.
you hover still over the lights lining the aisles.
the phases of the moon have stayed loyal,
chili and tabasco are still great on a cold January afternoon,
and there is still some charm to cranking the stereo
on the stretch of highway out by Rock Springs.
Big Boss Man still asks "do you believe in God?"
before he asks an unsuspecting face for a dollar.
they still put on concerts in the summer over by The Winery,
but I haven't ever heard of any of the bands.
someone else manages The Smoker's Den now;
some kid I've never met, so I probably won't go back in.
he doesn't appreciate the comedy found in the face of Perot,
or the elusive, dark sweetness of the huckleberry.
in passing we exchanged a miraculous favor,
and in passing we managed to become different people,
in passing I walk on top of uncertain footprints,
and in passing you dream of film noir.
Jul 19, 2015
Jul 19, 2015 at 12:29 AM UTC
black coffee
6 a.m.
old garages
tomato sandwiches
toy planes still in the plastic
Margaritaville on casette tape
Sunday's are car dealership days
tabasco sauce on every dish
two-bite pinchers when we were kids
every boy's name is Mitch
May 27, 2015
May 27, 2015 at 1:04 AM UTC
Dog days fly dust to dust over a hick
pit sardined between corona bikinis that house
the unmistakable stench of lukewarm apple
sauce in the c-cup padding and toothless
******** sitting indian style. Graveled friction
fading the back pockets of their overall
dungarees. Amongst them a settler on their native
turf accepting a Jim Beam peace pipe while above
the influence commercials march in protest claiming fried
egg consequences from engaging in the act. The culture
shock is worth the weekly once-in-a-lifetime chance
to sip the tabasco-glazed opening of my chemistry
teacher’s flask while he schools me in perfecting
the cotton eyed joe. A muffler spontaneously
combusts, melting the raybans off the face of a tragically
hip spectator taunted with “that’s why dad named you Joe Dirt.”
Nov 3, 2011
Nov 3, 2011 at 11:44 PM UTC
I curse like a drunken sailor with a stubbed toe and an eye full of Tabasco.
Feb 24, 2021
Feb 24, 2021 at 12:18 AM UTC
Ex Friend
as I look into your eyes
I see through your brilliant disguise
you think you're better than me
stinging people like a bee
once you were a good friend
but that was all just pretend
then you pulled a double cross
made me hotter than Tabasco sauce
you stole my girl and my pride
you even broke my unbreakable stride
I went out and bought a gun
figuring killing you, would be fun
shot you til you were dead
loved watching your exploding head
chopped you up in little bits
in my shoe box, you now fits
Jun 13, 2014
Jun 13, 2014 at 4:20 PM UTC
So what if-
What if we dive in?
What if it worked?
What if you let it fall-
What if I caught it and gave it back to you
without making a big deal of it?
I’m gathering dust- I stopped moving forward in the last few years,
but I have a weird feeling that I can try-
Like at least right now, while the city basks and blows around us,
I can walk again.
I’m talking about boats while getting a sunburn,
I’m growing blisters I’ll lance with a pin tomorrow,
but for now, I'm focusing more on exploring your hand.
I’m choking down Tabasco and talking fast,
you’re talking slow and listening.
I’m leaning back and laughing.
I’m the one who kissed you,
you’re the one pretending to be surprised.
I’m the one bringing up the hours we spent on the floor
all those years ago,
when you were young and I was mad,
and now, after half a decade of radio-silence-
I’m the one letting you **** me on a different floor,
across a brand new carpet that hasn’t settled flat, hasn’t softened at all.
I’m proud to have let myself soften.
I’m thinking about the way you don’t taste clean but I don’t really care.
I’m not as active as I’ve taught myself to be,
but for now, it seems like you don’t mind.
Keep not minding. Please.
For now, I’m okay with watching our bodies’ arc, thinking
‘goodness, this is just so funny’ and a little bit ‘will this make you like me less?’
Eight years ago I wrote a poem about you and people started to notice.
They told me how it netted in their own hurt and how it held them in a tightness they needed,
and that meant something to me. I never liked reading it-
there are too many flowers. It’s a green and pink feeling,
but now I know that I’m red and you’re blue.
I don’t think you saw it, or knew that it was about you;
I kind of hope not, It was dramatic, but so was I.
So am I.
I am still so soft.
While that poem was brewing, I was reeling,
I was everywhere and I was dripping.
I got a bottle of whiskey and gave it to you in a parking lot.
You didn’t kiss me then, and I let that hurt me for a while,
which wasn’t fair to you; you weren’t even old enough to buy whiskey.
But now you are. And now I’m not everywhere.
I’m only here. I’m still dripping.
What if it's less like leaking and more like watering?
What if it helps us grow?
I want you to be soft with me, I want the flowers
to start to make sense because if we try, maybe we can bloom.
Jun 10, 2022
Jun 10, 2022 at 1:56 AM UTC
I will send you through a bad trip.
There will be bugs on your skin, you've lost your mind so the devil is laughing at you.
Bombs will be set off in the weakest parts of your foundation.
You will read my sentences as if they were in the bible.
You will feel what I feel.
I love feeling like Tabasco sauce has been poured in my eyes because I can't get words down.
I absolutely adore questioning my every move since birth because I can't match these sentences up.
But my absolute favorite thing to do is skip my pills for a day so I cause destruction so I can force creation.
The funny thing is, I took my pills today.
Jul 19, 2014
Jul 19, 2014 at 12:15 AM UTC
I grabbed the weasels' tail and helped him along the street tot he other side to greet his nephew, he is bent out of shape from all the barrel scraping and the eye doctor socking,
he wishes he had three pairs, for pairs, a couple socks, cause he's tired of going barefoot, or with naked soles under rubber boots,
one more pairs of socks
he orders them, and they come, but he distill doesn't have them
why no socks?
he wears them and then they are in the shower he wears them and then they are on neptune invisible rings, he wears them and ten they are on the couch, soaked in coffee and tabasco sauce
and the broom will be kept, and the street livens, it begins to awake
at least I still have my barefoot
sinking into the coffee table
May 22, 2018
May 22, 2018 at 7:41 AM UTC
From your lips,
I feel the burn
capsacin ignition
beyond measure
Scovilles scale
Destroyed by your
radiant red lips
as they press to mine
Southwest flavors
burn my tongue
as my senses
are over powered
Sweat beads
and rolls down
bare skin
stippled
I am blistered
by your love
passion
Dec 5, 2016
Dec 5, 2016 at 10:34 PM UTC