"toothpick" poems
having the low down blues and going
into a restraunt to eat.
you sit at a table.
the waitress smiles at you.
she's dumpy. her *** is too big.
she radiates kindess and symphaty.
live with her 3 months and a man would no real agony.
o.k., you'll tip her 15 percent.
you order a turkey sandwich and a
beer.
the man at the table across from you
has watery blue eyes and
a head like an elephant.
at a table further down are 3 men
with very tiny heads
and long necks
like ostiches.
they talk loudly of land development.
why, you think, did I ever come
in here when I have the low-down
blues?
then the the waitress comes back eith the sandwich
and she asks you if there will be anything
else?
snd you tell her, no no, this will be
fine.
then somebody behind you laughs.
it's a cork laugh filled with sand and
broken glass.
you begin eating the sandwhich.
it's something.
it's a minor, difficult,
sensible action
like composing a popular song
to make a 14-year old
weep.
you order another beer.
jesus,look at that guy
his hands hang down almost to his knees and he's
whistling.
well, time to get out.
pivk up the bill.
tip.
go to the register.
pay.
pick up a toothpick.
go out the door.
your car is still there.
and there are 3 men with heads
and necks
like ostriches all getting into one
car.
they each have a toothpick and now
they are talking about women.
they drive away first
they drive away fast.
they're best i guess.
it's an unberably hot day.
there's a first-stage smog alert.
all the birds and plants are dead
or dying.
you start the engine.
11.1k
Hark! Take heed, for this cake be both mighty and magnificent!
1.75 cups flour
2 cups white sugar
2 tsp. baking soda
1 tsp. baking powder
0.75 cups unsweetened cocoa powder
1 tsp. salt
2 eggs
1 cup (as in 8 fl.oz/250mL.) strongly brewed coffee (make more and drink it!)
1 cup buttermilk (or 1 tbs. white vinegar+1 cup milk mixed well, blah blah)
0.5 cups cocoanut oil (or 0.33 cups basicallywhatever oil), a little less if ***
1 tsp. vanilla extract
OPTIONAL:
2-3 shots (60-90mL; 0.2-0.33 cups) black spiced *** (Kraken, if at all possible)
I also want to experiment with whiskey/burbon.. if you try it, let me know!
--Flour, sugar cocoa powder, baking soda+powder, salt mixed in one bowl
-- eggs, coffee, *** buttermilk, oil, vanilla in another
Slowly mix the dry into the wet until as homogenous as possible.
I use an 8"x8" (20cmx20cm) pan @350F (175 C) for about 40 minutes, but I check on it at round 30 minutes because some variance may well apply. If you use olive oil, or avocado oil, or whatever other more fluid oil, I find a slightly hotter oven (375 F/190 C) can be advisable, but pay attention to your specific scenario! The worst that's happened for me is the top gets a bit crusty, but that pleasantly works with the overall moisture of the cake, especially with olive oil and the *** addition.
Do the toothpick test to see if it's ready!
Frosting is applicable, as well, because this Magical Cake is not horribly sweet for how horribly sweet it sure is. I usually just sprinkle some confectioner's sugar on it to make it look all fancy for my classy friends and band-mates.
ENJOY!
Bake responsibly, but have some fun.
Also, suffer the decimals!
Mar 9, 2015
Mar 9, 2015 at 8:53 AM UTC
And all your heros are gone,
but you refuse to take off the mask.
A loudmouth, a capitalist,
with greasy hair and a golden toothpick,
he is your enemy
he is your oppressor and
he sits upon a throne of coal and blood
with armed security
and a nation built for him,
to protect him and his money,
a police state, pat downs on the corner,
murdered in the street,
your daughters gotta eat.
He grows fatter and fatter still,
he loves complacency,
he loves contentment,
he invests heavily in both.
He knows we are strong,
he knows we are many,
he knows he must divide us to win,
he knows we're his greatest weapon,
so he created Fox News,
he created TMZ,
stealthily,
we didn't even notice,
he created NPR and KVIE,
he gave them masks that look like ours.
They look poor,
they look starved,
they look like us, but they have a different master.
Our master is the earth,
our master is our coworker, our neighbor, our mailman,
our dishwashers, our bus drivers, our minimart clerks.
Our masters are not the TV,
our masters are not the radio,
our masters are not the New York Times,
they are not National Geographic,
they are not BP,
they are not our principals, our administrators,
our policemen, our CEOs, our investors, our bankers,
our insurance providers,
these people hate us,
they hate us because they can't squeeze blood from a stone,
and
the rivers are running dry,
the factories are standing still,
the people, our masters and our friends,
they're in the streets,
they're shouting "BLACK LIVES MATTER"
they're shouting "NO JUSTICE NO PEACE"
"NO MORE WAR FOR OIL"
**** THE POLICE"
"DOWN WITH THE 1%"
and soon
and soon,
The False Gods will grow so fat
and we'll have nothing left to eat but them,
and on that day we'll sit down to dine
and it won't be civilized and it won't be pretty,
their blood, our blood, will feed the rivers and their flesh will feed our hungry children and their money will burn and warm our chilled bones but we can't wait,
we can't wait for this to happen because everyday they grow stronger,
we grow weaker and the river becomes dryer.
The Bourgeois is our enemy,
they say 'All Lives Matter'
they say 'Work Hard and Your Dreams Will Come True'
BUT THEY LIE
Jul 12, 2016
Jul 12, 2016 at 4:54 PM UTC
you can hear the echo via Zizek the Slovak,
well, attire me in slavic myths and
i'll be mumbling purrs in mud too
for a helium bubble to become a comedian,
i know a jittery ******* addiction
when i see one...
if one thing the catholic schooling system
taught me was how to avoid
sniffing glue and how to recognise
a Freudian apostle - still, with all
the hippy **** you'd think
sniffing glue was what Ukrainian existentialism
prescribed with paracetamol,
catholic education just said: no no.
**** me it's the late 90s and we're talking
post-Chernobyl antics...
but that's how i see the left, leftist politics,
the right
utilises prefixes and suffixes in the
old stance of simple pre- pro-
anti-
qua-
-so so...
the left? oh they're right in there...
their prefixes are
Marxist-
liberal-
Hegelian-
whatnot...
they don't
use abstract prefixes,
their prefixes
are concrete,
they want the porridge in their mouth
to ensure a slur that never comes,
among a range of onomatopoeias they argue
from the perspective of the hushed and ushered crowd,
via one observation: Stalin clapped after a speech
to enjoin with the crowd, a real big brother,
****** never clapped, a sitting-duck method;
i'm not advocating, but by a proxy placebo dynamo
experimenting, it's called experimenting with
thought rather than practising with will,
former no chance of footstep evaluation for
cult status imitable -
the left intellectual
has no rubric of thought concerning to and fro -
it has to be concrete layered and a shut off
perfect architecture without fault -
it can't be what it is -
con-
has to be conservative
pro-
has to be socialist
you once said legitimate
transparency - but you didn't say legislation -
well, the left understood it as legislation,
the right too wanted legitimate transparency -
the green party said we could have neither
but could have the replanting of a thousand
oak trees with a Robin Hood placard on the first
oak tree replanted in Sherwood Forest...
b. ~ d. ~... shot ~100 bent arrows into a bullseye -
hurrah! hurrah! maid marian lost her virginity
too! to a broomstick rather than maradona's
fingernail toothpick!
at an essex market the cockney shouts (out of
place): *** yer courgettes! *** yer courgettes!
ta fa a pudding! ta fa a pudding!
*** yer cucumbers! tooth firth 'un!
Apr 20, 2016
Apr 20, 2016 at 9:50 PM UTC
In the amber sunroom the regal canary perches,
Surveying his sun soaked kingdom from a golden throne,
Positioned just below the thick wooden rafters...
They might as well have been treetops.
The weathered oak armoire below, their immovable trunk;
The oversized tank, teeming with exotic fish, his ocean.
Through the translucent shades, the engorged sun turns orange,
And settles on the domes of the distant dragon trees.
Soon the silver haired woman, with "dust in the creases of her face,"
Will open the arched doorway, and into the sultry Moroccan air he will spring
Majestic yellow wings propelling him above the treetops,
Diving towards his vast ocean, circling between the dusty antiques,
Reveling in his glorious freedom, yet always returning,
For that is only the penultimate pleasure of every evening;
She will always call him home with the suculent scent
Of a luxurious dinner: mango, pomegranate, and papaya.
A sharp, tumbling trill disrupts his peaceful musing,
A flashing crimson streak leaves a momentary swatch,
Emanating from the open window, invading his territory and ending atop the amoire.
He refuses to look at her, intent on maintaining appearances.
She comes and goes so freely, innocent of any thoughts for me.
Feathers ruffling with discontent; jumping, leaping without direction.
Seeking the highest perch, closest to being free; only to be confined
By the bronze rods of social correctness, locked with the brass clasp of my own fear.
His little lion's heart becomes a battering ram,
Smashing against the inside of his toothpick ribcage.
Rapid fire thoughts soon dissolve in an attempt to compose
A song that is worthy of her. And so he waits, and watches her turn,
Red wings outspread, escaping back into the evening sky.
That blazing orange ball, finally sinking beneath its own weight,
And the failing strength of the mighty dragon trees,
Now merely blackened silhouettes of their former glory.
Jun 29, 2012
Jun 29, 2012 at 3:39 PM UTC
Mythical.
The artist is an old one,
Un-earthly and infinite,
Vast as heaven and the void,
The limitations of good and evil,
I am immune, yet soul crushingly bound to its power,
I am a toothpick,
Yet I am useful for now,
As I plan my escape,
Writing an endless map in memo pads and text files,
I tell myself it will someday be worth the while.
The artist is like you, reader,
The artist is ugly, disgustingly so.
The artist is beautiful, and puts me to shame.
The artist could burn the world with a thought,
But couldn’t break its teeth with a diamond,
No matter how hard it tried.
The artist is fictional,
Contextual,
Known only to I,
Especially as the artist.
I bet its laughing at me this second,
My feeble attempts to escape a napkin,
A tool to further other means.
I don’t mind it,
In fact, it’s rewarding in a way,
The artist lacks definition,
But moves with a sway,
It is hard to defend.
[(Impossible to define)]
My role is that of a journal of skin,
A memory bank to which it is akin,
But my limit is reached,
Something has come to a head,
I can feel the artist defined…
It has taken form,
And now,
Unfortunately,
Dead.
Sunburst
I wanted to ask it what it was thinking,
But I think I know now;
Bad things.
Dec 25, 2012
Dec 25, 2012 at 2:15 AM UTC
When you're 70, you're gonna look like a piece of flab anyway.
We're all gonna look like a piece of flab anyway
but that's not the point
you're absolutely beautiful. It doesn't seem to mean anything though
I don't quite understand how to make one feel beautiful if they can't love themselves.
Nobody should be killing themselves over goals that are almost impossible to achieve in body image, ESPECIALLY if they're healthy to begin with, you wanna look skinny, then have fun getting skinny, staying skinny and living skinny. Maaaaaaan. Nobody wants to just eat salad. Eat what the **** you want. just don't ******* stuff yourself every time!
god ****** girls, you're all ******* stupid for killing yourselves over this body image thing. you can all be beautiful, as long as you feel good about yourself, but I mean...if being skinny as a toothpick is your ultimate goal. If that's how you think you'll truly achieve your hapiness.
Be my guest, try it out, tell me how it feels when ya get there.
tips: **** what people have to say, if you have some extra weight, but are HEALTHY, then **** them!
if you're truly upset, don't sulk, and do something about it then. Don't be ******* brainwashed by society, SOCIETY IS STUPID LOL. Why on earth would you want to do the SAME THING that EVERYBODY else is doing? I don't understand. You ******* idiots
May 17, 2014
May 17, 2014 at 7:12 AM UTC
For ShirleyB
Feel your heartbeat quicken
For these pasta-salad days:
I am bringing chicken.
Bulging bellies thicken
Laden with crab hollandaise.
Feel your heartbeat quicken.
Sweet Siobhan seems stricken
By the puddings and soufflés.
(I am bringing chicken.)
Insert thy toothpick in
Anastasia’s canapés:
Feel your heartbeat quicken.
Beatrice (she’s Wiccan)
Brought a heap of warm beignets;
I am bringing chicken.
Jealousy shall sicken
Those who brought their best entrées--
Feel your heartbeat quicken:
I am bringing chicken!
Apr 28, 2016
Apr 28, 2016 at 6:50 PM UTC
I keep coming across these guys
on the bus
walking the streets
they’re just about everywhere
I am.
Sitting across from one of ’em
on the city bus
spooks me down to my core.
They’ve got slicked back
greasy hair
that’s turning gray,
tanned skin from walking in the sun
too much.
Old-style tattoos up and down
their arms
that are blurry and faded green
women’s names are no longer legible
in the little banner around
a simple heart tattoo.
I always wonder where
their women went
cause they never have one
next to them.
Sitting across from this guy,
he takes a good look at me too.
My slicked back, greasy hair, pale skin, and new old-style tattoos.
It’s like he’s lookin’ back
and I’m lookin’ forward
to a future that just might end up
being my own.
I see these men
down & out,
rolling ****** Top Tobacco cigarettes
with brown & yellow fingertips
pregnant little toothpick smokes
with loose ends that spill tobacco
all over their laps
on their faded grey-used-to-be-black
rustler jeans
the cheap kind from K-Mart.
I see these men
and it terrifies me
to think
that could be me and my future.
It could be me.
If I don’t get my **** together.
Cause
right now
today
as I get ready to pull this sheet
from the typewriter and catch the
2:48 p.m. bus
I am going nowhere
Fast.
**** me.
Dec 2, 2011
Dec 2, 2011 at 2:37 PM UTC
I was raised on ridicule
Scorn and blaming.
Belittling laughter
Jokes and shaming.
Though nobody who knew
Seems to doubt it
They sure as hell wish I
Would shut up about it.
That’s just the way it is today.
Abused children, it seems
Upset people; therefore they
Are best not heard, just seen.
Four Eyes, Toothpick and Brat
These are a few of the names.
You might as well call them freaks
And creeps. It amounts to the same.
Screwup, ****** fumblefingers,
Bones, Spazz and Stumblebum.
Pantywaist, wussy, ditz and then
Plenty more where those came from.
From birth to death it seems
Sometimes, throughout all of life
Some people just don’t care
That scorn can cut like a knife.
It makes people question
Every move they might make
When somebody keeps on
Calling them things like flake.
The condemnation and rebuke
Aren’t covered up by the laughter.
People should question deeply
The effect they think they are after.
So cut the kids a break
It won’t turn out wrong
And the ridicule of a child
Can last their whole life long.
Nov 5, 2015
Nov 5, 2015 at 6:02 PM UTC
Golf clubs for fists
And hockey sticks for machetes
In this world, anything will print you for the records
And violence can be picked up at your local 99 cent store
And charged to a players club card
As cancer is an entree for your 6 course 5 star meal
And smoke stacks are sold in 20 and 25
Another toothpick lined up for check-up
May 31, 2012
May 31, 2012 at 5:14 PM UTC
royals mistake the tears cried over animals, esp. those wild and not petted, as if they were man’s added 1 to a million ‘ stones in minature form of the sandy: see that singleton quotation mark? it’s different pause from comma semi-colon or hyphen, it’s the ironic pause - almost compounding the two words.
i skullhead i,
i the skullhead, i,
no more a body than a maxim,
i the tomb in stone
but in body a bone,
i skullhead i,
i the skullhead,
no more a body than a maxim -
why will not death wilt
before engaging in the lives or mortals?
why will death meddle in mortal amorousness
when it will not meddle in a death of a god?
**** you death!
meddle elsewhere! who are prone
to breathe the same air as you;
interesting lives make less
of a library than libraries readily mothering
the lives hardly lived but nonetheless written...
eager ***** in section 1,
less eager ***** in section 1.5
mature ***** in sectiont 2 of being crazed
by crosswords and those dumb books
written by young men who "diverged from living"
given horse was replaced by motorcycle...
and feet were replaced by horse later replaced by
ferrari... vroom vroom...
and affordable life in london by saudi arabia investments;
let's wave to our mothers...
we'll be the ones on the premier red carpet
for sure...
it doesn't matter... i prefer opera to cinematic raqqa...
and i prefer theatre to conversation.
Dec 3, 2015
Dec 3, 2015 at 9:09 PM UTC
'You look like someone I know'
Heard that line a thousand times
Guess I'm scattered round the globe
Like farmers planting seeds serpentine
Have you heard the front-page news
Eden lives far underground
And God is just a hidden camera
Making sure the lost stay found
Big games of the life-sized kids
You were 'not It' by a hair
Fingers on a Ouija board
**** the truth just give me dare
Tweedles are now stalking triplets
Killing riddles, sinking ships with
Everything but the black lipstick
Crooked smile and rusted toothpick
Every friend is a stepmother
Eying you with pools of dead fire
As she sticks her acid tongue
In the mouth of your pure desire
Walking blind and blurry-eyed
With two chambers in each hand
Each are ****** tame and wild
Beyond these walls, beyond these lands
Only fools know the true score
Cause they've locked the exit-sign door
You were almost worth dying for
Now it's the ninth circle of this war
Nov 23, 2011
Nov 23, 2011 at 5:27 PM UTC
In a land where you exchange Mao
In his different values,
And get meals on Lazy Susans,
The aroma of tea
Filling malls and subways,
And people—
Ask for a fork and a knife.
Whirl your hands about
And attempt to communicate
In Chinese dashes of silhouettes
In air, while speaking
In another language you
Know will be lost to unknowing,
To this fine dining.
See the toothpicks, plain
And humble, and smile.
It could have been the same
As those in the Philippines.
Stress your hearing a little,
You might catch them say,
“Mao welcomes his brothers
From the working class.”
Back home, the only welcome
The working class can provide
Are smiles and turo-turos,
Free karinderia water
And a toothpick for the day’s
Only meal, the aroma of hunger
Filling people.
Jul 13, 2012
Jul 13, 2012 at 12:15 AM UTC
'You look like someone I know'
Heard that line a thousand times
Guess I'm scattered round the globe
Like farmers planting seeds serpentine
Have you heard the front-page news
Eden lives far underground
And God is just a hidden camera
Making sure the lost stay found
Big games of the life-sized kids
You were 'not It' by a hair
Fingers on a Ouija board
**** the truth just give me dare
Tweedles are now stalking triplets
Killing riddles, sinking ships with
Everything but the black lipstick
Crooked smile and rusted toothpick
Every friend is a stepmother
Eying you with pools of dead fire
As she sticks her acid tongue
In the mouth of your pure desire
Walking blind and blurry-eyed
With two chambers in each hand
Each are ****** tame and wild
Beyond these walls, beyond these lands
Only fools know the true score
Cause they've locked the exit-sign door
You were almost worth dying for
Now it's the ninth circle of this war
Nov 19, 2011
Nov 19, 2011 at 7:15 PM UTC
He had a blackened beard he was
Out of his face,
On his sledge adorned with the
Flayed skin of those on the
Naughty,
&
Nice
List, those deemed unworthy for
The gifts to bring this night,
Those houses with no
Cans,
Bottles,
Mince pies,
To line his stomach, from the offerings
Of 40% alcohol that fuelled his laughter,
Vomiting induced from heights, over
Gardens,
Roofs,
People
Killed from frozen missiles of *****
From above high,
He would sneak upon those
Deemed unworthy,
"In the eyes of children"
He would never harm an
Innocent,
Young,
Cradled
With love, but the naughty list
"Wasn't of children"
It was parents unjust,
Cruelty
Neglect,
Violence
"Against those unable to defend themselves"
He was the protector
Of the innocent ones
The elves would hold the parents down
As Serial Santa
Shouted out the charges, so each was heard
Ears bleed as his voice pierced sound,
He would be the
Judge,
Jury,
Executioner
"For their time was coming to an end"
Some begged,
Screamed,
Spat in his face,
He would go in his black bag
And from nowhere,
"A sound proof room for justice"
Was to be served as children
"Where not to be disturbed"
As parents screamed out,
He had finished flayed bodies
Disappeared within his black sack
"The odd finger picked up"
Used as a toothpick to get
Flesh stuck between teeth out,
"But what about the children you say"
"They were fine"
"Never woke, slept in peace"
*"I don't ****** parents for fun"*
"Ok"
"I get a little satisfaction"
"From them coming to their deserved end"
"Thousands in these hundreds of years"
"Dispatched in to the bag, still not full"
"After so many kills through the years"
"Cloning is the way forward"
"Been pioneers in this for hundreds of years"
New parents for a new day the best present
A serial Santa could give,
H A P P Y C H R I S T M A S P A R E N T S
Prey that your nice, for I **** for the
Children, they deserve better in life,
Nov 23, 2014
Nov 23, 2014 at 7:27 AM UTC
Papier-mâché skin held up by toothpick bones.
Composed of dainty flowers,
Paired with eggshell tiptoes
Used for skipping and prancing –
Prim, proper, polished
And petite, satin-gloved hands
To scrub the dishes with
Till unblemished to mirror you back, from inside out –
Purged, chaste, elegant.
Fragile.
But papier-mâché has layers of depth and
Skin thicker than at surface it seems.
Toothpicks can pick up the pieces
Of each hiccup or calamity,
Regardless of how small
And despite their size they’re not weak at all,
But, piercing.
Those eggshells shield and yield
The precious prosper of young.
Who’s to say you’re no cactus,
And not just some flimsy petal –
But you can bet you’re just as sweet.
We are composed of the iron
That presses your clothes.
Nip
Like the scorching tea served
On china platters.
Our rosé lips are pursed
Not to kiss, or gloss for backwards fairytales
‘Prince Charming’ turned frogs
But in revolt.
And revolt we will.
Oct 28, 2015
Oct 28, 2015 at 5:16 PM UTC
Give me a man
who will wrap his fingers
around my waist,
treating his life like
a flexible toothpick
to prevent my caving in
towards the stained harmony
of celibacy
and I'll provide the cure for cancer.
Provide me with a man
who will take these
drapes of solitude
hanging upon each shoulder
(all corners weighed down
by the lead of self-ambivalence)
and toss them as if they were
patches of cloudy fabric
waiting to be shooed away
like a mosquito with thoughts
and I will hide you all from
the surgical hands of Fate.
I've already wasted to null
the charm of an Annie Hall.
***** the carnal camaraderie
of the girl next dorm,
and now the last resort is
quid pro quo, world.
Quid pro quo.
Apr 29, 2010
Apr 29, 2010 at 10:51 AM UTC
They say you can't I say true
Heehee here are the steps
Step 1:buy a bunch of fruit (mostly banannas)
Step 2:take the fruit find your stupid person why is he under the couch cushionss
Step 3:Feed the banannas to him
Step 4:steal his shoes and throw them at his head
Step 5:Stick a toothpick up his nostrils up his as** and into his mouth
Step 6:Kick his as**til he learns his lesson
Nov 30, 2014
Nov 30, 2014 at 11:39 PM UTC
watching the rain,
river flood,
down the steamy,
windows.
my mind jumps back...
...back to those sweet
and careless days,
of a country chilhood.
when we made boats.
of halved walnut shells,
with toothpick masts
and fantail sails,
then sailed them
in kerbside regattas.
when marbles were worlds.
fought for,
in hand drawn,
colleseum-like circles
on dusty driveways and paths.
when we folded and flew,
the news of the day,
on strings,
high, to the sky and beyond.
when we made castles.
of sand and mud,
we were, then,
childish royalty,
the back yard our kingdom.
as the water sheets,
down the window panes.
i hope,
these creative joys and victories,
will not be lost to my son.
in this age of technology,
where, leapads and xbox'
kindles and webgames,
tempt them,
to play in a world,
of pre-created splendour.
looking through the water,
i am reassured this will not
be the case, by the sight,
of father and son,
in yellow macs,
stomping puddles,
for the splash.
Mar 28, 2014
Mar 28, 2014 at 12:54 AM UTC
"why don't you,"
said the Lofty Man
warily considering me,
*"sing of the Sublime
the Grand, The Divine?
Sing you of the Uncommon
the Mystery
of the Spiritual, the Religious
of the Incomprehensible -
why don't you?"*
"Cos," I said,
pushing the toothpick
between my teeth
(the ****** food bits always get stuck in between),
*"I've been
to the mountain top there
and I've seen the Sublime
is just O so, so Common
so battered Trivial"*
(Then I spat out the food bits -
O it was Divine Bliss, just like in post-coital)
Feb 8, 2013
Feb 8, 2013 at 4:45 AM UTC
SMASH
your porcelain armour
and toothpick bones
mine was scarlet few times
too many
control overwhelms me
do i swallow your universe whole
to save my long gone pride
as you were once mine
my universe and nothing less
or more
or do i do
what i wish you had done for myself
once upon a time
hold your hands through the eggshell mesh
and nurse your toothpick bones
Jan 28, 2015
Jan 28, 2015 at 1:49 PM UTC