"tapioca" poems
oh honey ****
pen and ink **** star warrior
pretty little manga girl
twinkle wisp
with kung fu throwing stars
and triple steel samurai sword
that tear through others
made of pink taffy
and cherry juice fizz blood
moving like lightening
a flying gladiator
with dripping sweet rice
and tapioca milk shake *******
oh
you would taste so good to drink
out of a swirling sherbet punch bowl
with big blow job star goldfish
and hungry pink ***** lips octopus
drooling
sit on your face suckers
oh, fighter of one-legged midgets
the best part after a fresh ****
victory ****
to go down on them
their loli pop *****
butter ***** beautiful
springing through the top of your skull
cause you can't get enough
oh wow
happy hello kitty
***** plump plops
viscous
before the coup de grâce
as she twirls their chewing gum gizzards
with her little swizzle tongue
goo ga licious
before placing
what's left of their hose like glistening entrails
around her throat like a pearl necklace
only to get strangled with it
by double **** UFO boy
solar ******* hero of the universe
so hard
she spurts pineapple juice and *** donuts
out of pucker pie ****
**** banged cross eyed
like little girl manga never felt so good
addicted to cruel
whipped with a hella wet noodle
yes no yes no yes no
yes pleazzz
her big blue marble glass eyes
binocular kaleidoscopes
spring out on the floor
and roll around
turning into all seeing
anti-gravity magnetized
silver pin stripped spaceships
peopled by
evil omni ****** **** *****
screaming through eternity
in search of cosmic
tushi sushi
ogling wiggling ballerina butts
bubble gum for the eyeballs
Mar 10, 2017
Mar 10, 2017 at 3:36 PM UTC
Donuts, o donuts,
Wheat Flour Enriched
Soybean,
Palm and Cottonseed Oil Hydrogenated
Vegetable Oil Partially Hydrogenated
Cocoa Processed with Alkali,
Sodium Acid Pyrophosphate
Sodium Aluminum Phosphate
Aluminum Sulfate
Salt, Dextrose, Soy Lecithin,
Guar Gum, Cellulose Gum, Tapioca Dextrin,
Corn Dextrins, Mono Diglycerides,
Citric Acid, Enzymes,
Natural & Artificial colors & flavors
Sorbic Acid and Sodium Propionate
and Potassium Sorbate
To Retain Freshness:
Eat 'em up yum.
Mar 30, 2012
Mar 30, 2012 at 2:08 PM UTC
when i want inspiration to write poetry
i watch a heaving tempest of kisses
they have a better flavor
than cooking shows
what's prettier than pretty pretty
in pigtails
shaking her delicious
derriere whipped Soufflé?
i'm kissing butter princess
witchy ****
spread lickity splits
eating her
with a big wide **** eating grin
like an open face dagwood
whats more poetic than that hopeful glaring
of
Adonis's plumper in paradise
filling Cleopatra's slathered meringue?
ga-ga-ga-gag me, daddy
merciless, pa-leazze
fluttered big wet talking eyes
like pools of blue honey
getting it zigged zagged
hard against a redraw mouth
throttling fluted gullet
while eager throat gasps
a symphonic music of the spheres
in relentless staccato chokes
lovin her big devil **** splashing
all gym built wonder-boy
a litter of ****** and tongues
licking pig greedy
rapturous milkshake waterfalls
whimpering
mmmmmm
oooh big daddy
oh my ****** god
pillar of colossus
you Tunisian donut you
pierce me like a spoon
through summer guava
who screams like that eating lunch
but a half ate apricot?
better than a football game
I'd rather take her greek
more fun than math or small talk
preferable to a pat on the back at work
or a ridged procession at a funeral
oh beautiful dark fig
squatting crotch candy
bubbling tapioca ***
queen of
spun sugar ****
all pyrotechnics
and fluttering sinews
if you asked most
do they watch ****
they'd grow smug like a senator
or punch you in the mouth
outwardly high-minded
refusing the blessing of a
video **** parade
of pirouetting vaginas
and glistening areolas
for the glory
of the secret ************ ceremony
the *** moralists
only good for a secret ******
living their lives
with passions submerged
and nothing to confess
except for guilty offerings
as they wander through dreamland shopping malls
wanting to know
Victorias ***** little secret
seduced
but not caressed
by
a mouthpiece for castrated dreams
Jun 5, 2018
Jun 5, 2018 at 4:05 PM UTC
Listening to the song ‘daddy, super daddy’,
Worried and sad thinking about the father long gone,
While reading the news of a father who killed his girl child by hitting her against the wall
To some fathers and children
A father and son didn't feel anything more than that.
Remember uploading in Facebook, the news of the soaring price of tapioca in five star hotels
The tsunami of saliva which the tender yellow tapioca Crowned by curry leaves and red chilly created, is in the throat.
Today noon,
After lots of news
I am cooking tapioca raw
A green bottle is nearby
When the smell of cooking tapioca with salt hit the olfactory senses
Father came
You don’t have to be the Son of God to resurrect the dead
Told Jesus that just the smell of cooking tapioca is enough
Compound divided into patches, ashes, manure,
Properly cut tapioca plants
Mother rushing to get the rice gruel
Between play and squabbles
A lad is walking around with torn trousers, shirtless
Tapioca, tapioca, tapioca
Tapioca, tapioca, tapioca
For sleeping, eating, hunger
Faith,
Tapioca, tapioca
phoo
For rice gruel, mid noon
At twilight when hunger develops faith
For last supper,
Dried tapioca
Lucky that one who was born after an enema
Was not named ‘black sheep’
With a green chilly, raw
In the shade of the green bottle
When I touch the tapioca,
Daddy is dancing
Daddy
Super daddy.
Feb 7, 2014
Feb 7, 2014 at 8:21 AM UTC
acting on a stage,
she builds with each step,
step,
step,
stepping,
the floorboards trail behind her feet.
they form from the soil,
the earth breathing beneath,
wooden planks sprouting between her toes.
she sings in a voice strained and trained,
her diaphragm strong and core
rumbling in single breaths.
her skin brushed with pigment,
cheeks tinted rouge and lips scrubbed till pain,
gold-dusted on her bones
rays reflecting and blinding from her beauty.
stomach she ***** in,
twenty-four
seven,
always prim and proper,
a perfect specimen of femininity,
her blood flows in a viscosity unique
only to the elite.
fingers down
but she lacks words to throw up,
she's silent,
an empty vessel,
her lips meant to be a two-way gate
but nothing flows either way.
her skin sunkissed turmeric,
her irises tapioca pearls,
hair flowing and falling from her face
toasted nori on the white rice her dress.
daily rehearsals of sixteen
odd years practicing lines;
memorizing them, repeating internally,
the stage she builds like a church
her loves oppose to the act,
but she builds an antidisestablishment
forcing her audience of parishioners
away from her.
Aug 23, 2018
Aug 23, 2018 at 10:54 AM UTC
.
Tapioca sky,
feel the knife curve
like a Moon-hook,
wrenching a tourmaline ****
into hallucinating gums,
ritualised in immortal agony.
Lemon clouds,
see the portrait smile
like a nightmare,
feasting on famine entrails,
of sacrificed words,
scything off the tongue.
© Pagan Paul (2017)
Sep 15, 2017
Sep 15, 2017 at 6:00 PM UTC
the stray
kittens
meeting
at the
red barn
rolling on
***** of
green and
purple yarn
pouncing on
the tapioca
scent of
a catnip
moon
Feb 12, 2011
Feb 12, 2011 at 12:29 PM UTC
you are there, in the kitchen
of my dream
at the stove making enchiladas
and tapioca.
you are probably one hundred and
i think you might keel over, dropping
your white head into the *** of yellow
pudding.
i wonder how you got so suddenly old
and i so suddenly young when
i can remember
reading fairy tales
buying you sugary breakfast cereals
and letting you sleep in my bed
even though you kick
and also tell people
the embarrassing things i say
in my sleep.
i am so hungry i want to eat it all
and leave none for you
but you say to wait
to wait until my eyelashes turn
into a million tiny butterflies
and tickle my skin
with their light wings.
but i'm hungry now, i whine
shoving past you
pushing a hot tortilla between my teeth
and swallowing greedily
desperately
before collapsing
into a sea of blue tiles.
i awake violently, your small foot at my chin.
staring at me is a toenail painted blue.
i stare back at it, into that
tiny ocean.
Apr 24, 2013
Apr 24, 2013 at 4:15 PM UTC
I am;
Partly shiny but mostly dull,
kinda Bo Peep-ish,
I'm into wool.
I'm an errant bent penny of
dubious worth,
a fickle little tickle
on the funny bone o' mirth.
I am
Tapioca pudding after
Chicken coq au vin.
And I am
an iamb
a gestalt of a man.
Aug 20, 2012
Aug 20, 2012 at 3:22 PM UTC
Life is the prattle of an old lady.
She squawks either too loudly
or makes you crane to hear.
as she sits rocking,
her senile nonsense numbs your intelligence
until you sit bleary-
gaping at the air
like the fattest fish in the aquarium.
your every comment drowns
in the mush
of her tapioca voice.
you sit uncomfortably in her fishbowl world of
cottage cheese,
faded floral print- lace doilies
and contemplate your deft superiority
as her denture clicks gnaw on your sanity.
as soon as you think
a vague plotline surfaces in her mumbling
a new great aunt’s third cousin’s baby
weaves its way into the conversation,
and you are hopelessly thrown
like a reused dryer sheet
back into the colored load.
occasionally you attempt to establish a connection
between you and the venerable wrinkled smile
but she mishears and begins another
disconnected strain
featuring Bobby, the lad turned soldier.
but
just
as soon as you gain confidence
that you know how to handle this doddery senior-
she slams you with a small token
of sage advice
that shatters your naïve sphere
with its mind-wrenching validity.
Nov 21, 2013
Nov 21, 2013 at 9:10 PM UTC
One Sunday
On one of our many births
We
must become the Pappa and Mamma
of an ancient Nazrani tharavadu.
I will go in the morning
And return with
A kilo of beef meat
With bones
Two kilos of tapioca
And may be also a *** of toddy
From the toddy tapper.
While I slice the meat
You will crush the coconut mix
In the grinding stone.
I will come, now and then,
And wipe my face
In the chatta and mundu
Draped folds of yours.
Go away you shameless man
You will dub
The slogan of a coy mistress.
Meanwhile
I’ll drum quick rhythms
On your buttocks
Graced
With pleats.
The kids will see
You’ll repudiate, with your eyes
With the sun
Our bodies also will get warmer
Drops of sweat
Will make studs
On your
Nose.
With the fold of
My chequered mundu
I will wipe them off.
The sun will grow warmer
The toddy inside
Will simmer
In our bodies
An insatiable hunger will torment.
The aroma of
The beef curry with the coconut mix
That you cooked
Will drift into my nose.
Unable to control the craving
I will pick
Tapioca pieces from it and eat.
The hot bits will smolder my tongue.
“You Glutton”
You will then
Whisper to my ears
By the time I wash my hands and sit
Calling out to the kids
And you, to come for lunch
The 12.30 bell will ring in the church.
From that unexpected
Sunday
Which we spent
Stingily
We will set aside
Some memories
for the next creation.
Trans: Shyma P
Sep 2, 2014
Sep 2, 2014 at 9:41 PM UTC
I am sixteen,
walking down winnie in the middle of summer
heat waving thick fingers in the air, taunting
I am wearing sweatpants and a hoodie
all my layers of self and self defeating comfort eating are not enough to cover me
I have the hood pulled over my hair
***** too short, uncared for
I am carrying a novel, something cheap and badly written
a friend from school passes by me, waves, I turn away
pretend I don't see them
I stuff my hands in the soft pockets, grab a handful of hip meat, it feels like that scene in Lord of the Rings where juice runs down the chin of a false king
I wear anxiety heavy around my face, I don't recognize myself without it
but depression is not a word I can touch
it doesn't fit me
it doesn't belong in my charismatic vocabulary
I don't know that I am drowning
wet mouth smacking and finger tapping make me feel like my mind is an experimental horror film
how are small sounds so loud?
how do they crawl into my ear canal like an animorph alien?
I was always so afraid of those books
and the sounds outside of our tent when my brother read them to me
I am so afraid of everything
I am sixteen
It's 98 degrees outside
and I am walking down the street in three layers of winter gear
and fear
and self hatred
and I cannot identify it
I don't know that I will be beautiful
I don't know that I already am
I don't know that my hands will pick wildflowers out of words
and that my life will be a practice of arranging bouquets for kitchen tables
I don't know that my hair will be long and easy to twirl around one finger, without thinking about the action
actions won't always feel like eyes watching me in and of themselves
I don't know that I will pull on jeans without thinking about the way they don't lay flat against me
I don't know that curves can be custard on the tip of a finger, sweet and nostalgic tapioca,
gritty and dimpled and perfect for sundays
and mine and plenty
and pretty
I don't know that I will be beautiful
I don't know that I already am
Oct 4, 2018
Oct 4, 2018 at 11:07 PM UTC
the very sound of her voice
somewhere between
a warm summer rain
and inside a blue crystal jar
smooth translucent, atmospheric
like soft ****
swelling roses
tender touches
yet separated by oceans
her voice like hot tote
swaying me
feeling the contoured interiors
of soul's ache
a bending ridge pole
hearts break open
pouring
voluptuous milk
like a tapioca
its beads
bulging blood bells
drink **** lick eat
drown if you can
we speak
rocks in the throat
hello, how are you
im choking on desire
fine she says
i want to **** you
we start with a phone kiss
mmmuuuhhhaaaaa
yes, she says
take me open me up
pour me into your mouth
soak yourself in me
show me your raw hunger
i will eat your dark edges
I'm shaking apart
with tenderness
may i touch your ****
yes, she says
her ***** like wet silk
can beauty bring tears
mouths touch tentatively at first
and then mouths eat mouths eat mouths
and tongues become fiends
cherry red pugilists
bites excite
I'm in the mood to bleed for her
eyes smiling radiant
and souls rapture
hearts dissemble
and fuse
at a braking point
from
long hard years
of vibrant abundance
denied
trying to hold together
on broken wheels
now finding warm mud
to go bare foot in
to slide in
up-leaping
between the toes
to love you in
to roll around with you in
like fat little piggies
playing in butter
to fill you with slippery kisses in
and voluptuous caresses
that even our dreams can not apprehend
skin to skin
soul to soul
**** to ****
so eager
fire engine red
tongues licking tears
beautiful ******* to bury my face in
like baby eating cup cakes
making us whole
we continents apart
from each other
having never met
wow wow wow
yet alive again
what a phone call
we say
good night
sleep my love
later
later
tomorrow
oh yes
have to go
love you
more soon
please
yes
oh yes
kiss kiss kiss kiss kiss kiss kiss kiss kiss kiss kiss kiss kiss kiss kiss kiss
then stillness
a cornucopia of emptiness
hollow husk
tomorrow may be we will give each other phone again
and the land will turn fertile green once more
kissing holding
talking ***** ***** *****
happy in loves fire
salvation
and the heart ever resounding
like tintinnabulating bells
Sep 10, 2016
Sep 10, 2016 at 4:20 PM UTC
to define love.
You'll be baffled
bewildered & broken by the end.
The cynical ones
will laugh,
say it's dead,
overused and cliche.
Why try write what Whitman, Dickinson, Frost & Shakespeare
have already covered?
The romantic ones
will wax on for hours
describing inner & outer beauty
compared to anything that strikes their eye.
Why can't you see it's everywhere?
The hip ones
will scare you,
take a ****
& describe some detailed carnal fantasy
involving tapioca & a talking *****
named Pony.
Ask a lawyer,
they could tell you the legal definition.
Ask your parents,
they will tell you something trite about seeing it through.
Ask little kids
for an adorably wise response.
Ask a dog
as it's ******* your leg.
Ask a scientist,
they will describe the chemical reactions in the brain.
Ask a prisoner,
they will tell you it's something they miss.
But never ask a poet
to define love.
Your brain will hurt,
half your day gone
& you'll be left heart broken
by the end.
Dec 7, 2012
Dec 7, 2012 at 9:57 AM UTC
And just like that,
the sun sets on the last golden, cresting wave of summer.
Standing on your porch and clinging to you,
not wanting to let go of these memories.
Tapioca and folklore,
drive-ins and sing-alongs,
green dresses and sail boats on a lake.
The heavy gates slowly shutting,
and now, we move onward.
Towards applications and last years while
clinging to our gray film childhoods,
and your pleas to "stay here".
May our love be passed on.
Jan 10, 2021
Jan 10, 2021 at 11:11 AM UTC
I once had a friend whose great-grandfather was a partner of J.P. Morgan. My friend had grown up in the Upper East Side of Manhattan. He was a good man, and you wouldn't have known he was heir to a vast fortune, except for his anamnestic autos. In fact, he eschewed the affected life. He was an organic farmer outside of Lawrence, Kansas. I mean he really was a farmer. He was up at 6 and drove a tractor til sunset. He and I would get together from time to time eating tapioca pudding at Denny's and, of course, chatting. The one idiosyncrasy that gave away his untold wealth was anamnestic autos. To the side of his modest farm house was a field within which were old antique cars spread out as if they were cattle, but they were not. There was an Alpha Romeo, a Horsch, a Lamborghini, a Maserati, and a Ferrari. My friend would get an impulse to buy a certain antique car, and because he had the money, he'd buy it. But then after enjoying it for a time, he literally put it out to pasture. The scene reminded me of a painting by Salvador Dali. He never talked about his fortune, but he often ordered a second tapioca pudding.
TOD HOWARD HAWKS
Sep 10, 2020
Sep 10, 2020 at 6:16 PM UTC
When I was 7, I thought I was the luckiest person in the world
Because I found two four-leaf clovers on the same day
So I made a wish, to know how my story would end
And this year has shown me that I am god ****** lucky.
Lucky in a second-chance,
Once-in-a-lifetime miracle sort of way
That makes my fingertips tingle every time I think about it
Lucky in a breath-taking, tear-inducing way that makes me hold my friends and family tight behind my closed eyes
Lucky in a not-everyone-is-this-lucky realization
That forces me to line up my blessings on the countertop and count them,
Then count them again.
I am lucky, that when I decided to take myself out of this world
I fell onto the hugs and clasped hands of
People who would move continents
Just so I'd have someplace stable to stand.
I was fortunate that the nurse on suicide watch in my hospital room
Asked me to call her Ellie and let me cry on her shoulder during games of checkers.
I thought it was auspicious that the mental hospital served tapioca pudding that tasted just like my dad's,
Bringing memories of cold nights and warm smiles.
It was even favorable that I threw up before I got to the emergency room
Because the doctor looked me in the eyes and said
"If all that had stayed in your stomach,
You would be...not standing here right now"
It was reassuring that he didn't say the word "dead" to my face.
I am lucky, not only to be here, but
To want to be here, to want to breathe this moment
Because once you've spent time in the darkness
It's hard to come back to the light
Now 7 year old me knows I'm lucky enough
My story will not end in darkness.
Jul 10, 2015
Jul 10, 2015 at 9:16 PM UTC
Down in the garden where moonlight doesn't reach,
the water is boiling with embracing couples.
Slithering and submerging, surfacing, sinking again
in their alligator rolls, legs pushing, touching others and veering away.
Not yet Beltane but the drive is strong and urgent,
they meet once a year in this fecund rite, old hands and new.
How long they seem to stay beneath the water,
skimming the bottom where smooth newts bide their time
gliding in lithe figures of eight.
Back on the surface throaty voiced princes, hands spread upon their lover's shoulder,
stare into space at either side and sigh all hours of the night.
Tomorrow in warm sunlight they will spread, replete
upon their tapioca pillows dotted with new life.
Jan 30, 2019
Jan 30, 2019 at 7:06 PM UTC
i.
To catch a boy in the wake of summer
Leave out a cup
Brimming with melon-colored milk tea and tapioca
Make sure to capture his smile
When he spills some on the counter
When it is still warm on the cheeks
And independence has yet to be fully realized
You catch a boy by offering him the futon
Night after night after night after night
You don’t think to ask your mom and
He doesn’t seem to mind the basement stench
But you overcompensate with your words anyway
You’re good at that
Kesha plays like a hymn in the cathedral
Of his boyfriend’s second car
But you catch a boy with the menthol sound
Of Cavetown at dusk in your hole of a bedroom
And he sits on the bed and watches you paint
As his notifications are piling up with passive-aggressive texts
Summer tastes like lemon and cough drops
Sep 10, 2019
Sep 10, 2019 at 1:57 AM UTC
Mountains bliss
What shades of
Morning glory
Deep-blue bouquets
Fire-red blossoms
Tell their story
In this tapioca air
Spiraling through
This gentle gorge
Tumbling down
This smooth ridge
Shall witness
These shades of glory
Jul 8, 2013
Jul 8, 2013 at 12:41 AM UTC
It is 1:15 am.
I am sitting here and my *** is numb.
It is the only part of me, thankfully, that has lost feeling.
Everything else is loud, ringing, stinging, and singing.
My pants are unbuttoned.
I believe in small liberations.
In approximately, five minutes I won't be wearing pants.
I believe in big freedom.
My frontal lobe feels like warm tapioca pudding.
I would not be surprised if it oozed out my nose.
I am one who takes things as them come,
even brain pudding leaking from my nasal cavities.
I am also one who shouts a lot, cries a lot, and smiles wildly
and at every possible opportunity.
Settling is not on my schedule
and at this point, neither is sleep.
Jul 15, 2013
Jul 15, 2013 at 2:22 AM UTC
There is a forest
Not even sun is permitted there
I had my eyes on the place
Even before I was born
I knew
You would come
That’s why
I saved that garland
Made in childhood
With the leaves of tapioca
Till now.
In that temple
Inside the forest
I want to
Put it on your neck
(I always forget
To ask
If I can take your neck home
For a day
I will ask this time)
I needn’t remind you
About the weight
Of a thali
Plated with gold
Do I ?
Heavy hearted I am.
translator - Shyma P
Jan 25, 2016
Jan 25, 2016 at 1:06 AM UTC
Please me____
(In) the- in -crowd
You lose me
(Out) the- out
Fury
never
works
out with
Gary_____
Don't ugly
goose me
No pretty, please
me so deceiving
Whole entire
City is leaving
Hot fun summer in the city
A curse like a bad omen such a pity___
Face me
Camelian
Stan the evil
man
To the ugliest
Fight at the
Grecian slam
Huncheback of
Notre Dame
The Pompeii fire
flame
Ugly ducking tamed
Modern
Video-game
Chavez
Fizz Roz
Heading towards
The Planetarium
Pretty tragic
Ending up in a
sanitarium
((Magic))**
Strikingly
matched
Twin of topaz
The Solarium Jazz
Going to Saratoga
Song Sara Smiles
But travels all the way
To Minnesota
So drained Rotto
Rooter
At the Polaris Mall
Christopher Columbus
Clockwork on a bus
Oh! Ohio red roaster
Never pretty at the
Bull's eye Rodeo
Rodeo drive*
Devil and Domino
Virgo meeting Hugo
Taurus
The Pluto Bull
of lotto
Gina eating
Italian Alfredo
Mudpack stinks
Frank and Dino
Sammy the
Rat pack
Moms
Baking soda
Dominque
Mystique
Trapeze
Doing Yoga
Please without
the pretty
Bo ditty
Feeling gitty
Not to be flattered
So bloated
fatter
Role Gotta give
Beauty beast wider
On Fox Five
Harley Quinn rider
Arizona
Eating
Tapioca
Life is a ***** not
a beach diet
Never do we pray
Pretty please to preach
May 7, 2018
May 7, 2018 at 5:58 PM UTC
Enjoys
peaches, pudding
Pies, tapioca,
But
often sups
on beef.
Apr 1, 2017
Apr 1, 2017 at 2:20 PM UTC