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jimmy tee Nov 2013
the Vee Tee hipsters delight
in this ferment, Heady Topper
an unfiltered, uncooked, double hopped whopper
with a can in their hand, they’re a real show stopper

but after the bistro night
your intestinal tract
full of brie and this brew, comes under attack
with gas that must pass, like a well that is fracked

and I know this as fact



Wednesday, November 13, 2013
tangshunzi Aug 2014
Se c'è una cosa che dovete sapere su di me .è che io sono ossessionato con la caramella .Zuccherino.fruttato .cioccolatoso caramelle.il termine " golosi " e mi vanno di pari passo .Quindi questo capolavoro candy- ispirato di un matrimonio catturato da Ozzy Garcia Fotografia ?Beh.mi ha colpito con il suo bouquet caramelle ( SI ) .fiori rosa -riempita da Ocean Fiori e un infinito visualizzazione dolci.Clicca qui per tutti i dettagli squisiti .E ' al di là abbastanza .

Condividi questa splendida galleria ColorsSeasonsSpringSettingsOutdoorStylesTraditional Eleganza

Da Sposa.Yoav e ** iniziato .scegliendo un luogo che potesse ospitare il nostro matrimonio all'aperto .l'aria calda Miami .una tregua benvenuto da inverni ventoso di Chicago e



Amsterdam e un minimo cambiamento climatico per i nostri 30 membri della vestiti da sposa famiglia che hanno fatto il viaggio dalla lontanaIsraele.La nostra visione per la sera era comfort casual con un lato di zucchero e un paio di sorprese lungo la strada.Jessica Masi di JCG eventi assicurato che questa visione è venuto a vita e Ozzy Garcia .di Ozzy Garcia Fotografia .artisticamente catturato questa visione e immortalato esso .
Avevamo fratello Yoavs officiare una parte della cerimonia .perché abbiamo ritenuto che quando si trattava di integrare i dati personali .chi poteva raccontare la nostra storia meglio di qualcuno che è stato lì fin dall'inizio ?Abbiamo voluto questo per impostare il precedente e il tono per il matrimonio a tutti i presenti .testimoniando il primo giorno della nostra vita in coppia .sono stati tutti .personaggi integrali amare nella nostra storia .

amore è dolce .il mio amore per la caramella è ancora più dolce .e ** sempre saputo che volevo il mio bouquet di essere fatto di caramelle .Alcune persone si asciugano i loro mazzi di fiori .alcune persone li salvano .avevo intenzione di mangiare la mia.Grazie alla Donut Divas .** avuto un ottimo spuntino a tarda notte sulla mia prima notte di nozze !Alcuni dei miei dolci preferiti di zucchero .marshmallow e M \u0026 Ms .sono stati abilmente collocato in un cono di cialda gigante.Il vantaggio di avere un matrimonio in giro per le vacanze di Pasqua è che anche l'erba nel bouquet era commestibile .

Oltre alla mia dipendenza da zucchero .credo davvero che ci sono pochi prodotti alimentari in questo mondo che può farmi felice come una torta di compleanno Publix negozio di alimentari .Al fine di condividere il mio amore per questa confezione con gli altri.dolci display ci ha fatto diversi stand torta di legno colorati .a cui Ocean Fiori aggiunto qualche scintilla .e abbiamo avuto diversi gusti di 8 pollici torte Publix poste sulle tavole di accoglienza .Il piano era quello di rimuovere le torte dopo cena e li hanno tagliati per dessert .ma i nostri ospiti seduti a questi tavoli è diventato così possessivo nei dolci sul loro tavolo che non avrebbe permesso a nessuno di toccarli .I nostri ospiti scavate con le loro forchette .senza nemmeno togliere dalla torta stare !

Oltre a tutti gli elementi fugaci di zucchero che è andato in nostro giorno speciale - le carte escort .il bouquet .i pop anello caramelle .lecca-lecca ragazza di fiore.il candy bar .le torte Publix - Penso che uno dei nostri ricordi preferiti dail giorno è venuto da Erin Una Chainani .** letto di Erin online circa due anni fa dopo googling Miami ritrattista .** chiamato Erin e le ** chiesto se lei sarebbe così incline a frequentare il nostro matrimonio e dipingere una scena.Non solo era pronto.ma ha dipinto due scene di boot!Ha catturato uno della cerimonia e uno del nostro primo ballo in coppia .

Quando il mio nuovo marito ed io stavamo confrontando le note dopo il matrimonio .entrambi abbiamo notato abiti da sposa corti che molte persone ci hanno offerto questo consiglio .amare ogni secondo di questa giornata perché va così veloce .E mentre il giorno ha fatto andare in fretta .non abbiamo mai avuto l'impressione che abbiamo perso tutte le occasioni per tutto dentro E grazie a Erin e Ozzy .abbiamo ricordi che ci ricordano del giorno del nostro matrimonio per sempre .Fotografia

: Ozzy Garcia Fotografia | Floral Design : Mare Flowers | Abito da vestiti da sposa sposa: Pronovias | Wedding Cake: Temptations eleganti | Scarpe : Mojo Moxy | capelli: Tanya Maquez | Abbigliamento dello sposo : Completo di supporto | Cake Stands : Sweet Visualizza | Cake Topper: Questo è il mio Topper | Torte (piccolo ) : Publix Bakery | Candy Profumo: Donut Divas | Cigar Roller : Acope Cigars | Dress Sash : Blue Bird Studio | Orecchini : Matrimoni 826 | Pianificazione + Design : GCP Eventi LLC | Flower Girl Dresses :pretty Flower Girl | Scarpe Flower Girl : Toms | Trucco : Rachel Blair Shapiro | Ritratto Artista : Erin Una Chainani | Wedding Venue : The Palms hotel \u0026
http://www.belloabito.com/abiti-da-sposa-c-1
http://www.belloabito.com/abiti-da-sposa-corti-c-49
http://188.138.88.219/imagesld/td//t35/productthumb/2/2314635353535_397744.jpg
Miami matrimonio al Palms di Ozzy Garcia Fotografia_abiti da sposa 2014
Broke A Musician Mar 2014
I need to assume most people are stupid
enough to believe within minutes of
big names releasing videos anywhere
people are sitting at computer waiting
for music that ***** and give them
millions of views in minutes.
Don't you love how Youtube sits back
and lets it all happen?
I too could have a viral video with tens
of millions of views if I had cash to pay
promoters to add views.
I too could have a number one song if
I could afford to buy people addicted to
apps cards for exchange of my songs.
Great to be rich and get richer knowing
people are dumb enough to believe
getting famous ain't like it was years ago.
All you need is money to buy you downloads
and tens of millions of views to get a viral video.
Amul Garg Apr 2012
How unique a place is the examination hall!
Sometime or the other calls us all;-

Even for those who come prepared,
There isn’t another place so much feared;
Ah! And the last minute revision,
Ends up as everyone’s decision;
And there’s a reason,
Passing is for sure everyone’s mission.

And the scene inside,
Really takes you on a ride;
When you try and fight,
To fetch some topper by your side;
When the paper distribution starts,
There’s pounding in each of the hearts;
And everyone just prays to God,
That the invigilator doesn’t act like Voldemort;
May he let us cheat,
From the person on the adjacent seat;
Although this prayer is continuously chanted,
This general wish is seldom granted.

As soon as the paper is in our hands,
We just look towards our friends;
But the invigilator turns acts as a high resistance,
Just comes and stops the current of assistance;
We somehow try to finish the exam,
After praying to Krishna and Ram;
The earth slips below our feet,
When it’s announced –
“It’s time to tie the sheets”;
And our handwriting touches amazing speeds!!

Out of the hall comes a variety,
Some people sad and some happy;
Sad ones are like this for a while,
But soon they smile,
As they know a bad exam isn’t a shame,
For their friends’ condition is the same.
And they resolve the next exam would be better,
And forget this resolve sooner than later!!
She stands so stoic upon her place
Watching the hustle and bustle in this Christmas race
She sees the light of wonder in the child's eyes
A wonder of what Santa may bring tonight
She is afraid that the meaning is gone
Listening to them sing all of Santa's Christmas songs
Then a hush fell upon the home
Lights were dimmed and a single candle shone
The family of three then left the tree
To the alter they went, in front of the nativity
They fell upon their knees in humbled grace
Thanking God for giving His only son for Mary to raise
The angel then smiled under her stoic face
Seeing that this family, the true meaning, did not forsake
Akshat Mar 2018
school ke pehle Din mile the, Rote Rote Sab aye the par tum has rahe the.
Usi baat se rote rote me chup hua tha aur wahi se dosti ka pehla chapter shuru hua.
Padhai ke chor Hum washroom Break ke bahane aadha lecture bunk Krte the.
Break me 15 ki sandwich aur 10 ka juice aur kaha koi kharche the.
7 bje se pehle agr barish hogi to scl nhi jaenge aur usi ki chutti Milte hi barish me jam ke nahaenge .
Result ke din kiska Kam ayega uspe shart lagti thi aur agr uska zada Aya to ye sochke bht phat ti thi.
Mere saamne shart harke Jeet ta hmesha tu hi Tha , kuch nhi pada yr bolke topper banta tu hi Tha... Jhuta saala!!.
Pehli baar kisi ldki ko dekhte dekhte tumne mujhe dekh Lia tha ,uske saamne usi ke Naam se chidane ka zimma tumne le Lia tha .
Teacher ne jab daat ke bahar hmko khara Kia Tha , class room se zada bhr hmne seekh Lia tha.
Aakhri baar jab aakhri din ham mile the kai wade hamne kr lie the.
Par tab shuru Hui zindagi ki asli class, alg school me admission no same class.....are Koi naa alg school Hai to Kya hua har week Milte rhenge par Sach btae dost aur kitna khud ko dhakte rhenge .
Pehle milke plan banate the ab Milne ka plan banta hai........in sab me kahi kho si gayi Hai hmari zindagi.
Kaha Hai yr Mera vo school Wala dost kaha Hai.......
Letter to My Lawyers.

Being of sound mind and body...

To whom should I leave my teeth
Which person do I love
Enough, to leave my smile to
When I'm dead and up above

My grandson will get my glass eye
When my life is at an end
I'd imagine I could see him
playing marbles with his friends

My artificial knee cap
I'll leave to my younger sister May
She can have it in her living room
As a brand new candy tray

I think I'll leave my hearing aids
To the woman up the road
They don't work too well anyways
And in truth, the cow's a toad!!

The breast implants that I have got
Are old, and slightly mottled
But, I'll leave them to the nursing home
As two hot water bottles

All my unused catheters, to the pet store
that's my wish
They can use them in aquariums
Pumping air for all their fish

This is my will and testament
It's my National Health Care list
These bits of me are all I own
There might be some things that I missed

My artificial hip joint
I'll give to the fellow down the lane
He can clean it up a little bit
And there's a topper for his cane

Anything else that I forgot
That is still good, I want to go
To someone who might need it
Make it someone that I know

One last thing I ask now
my support hose, goes to Jack
He always wanted a nice hammock
To swing in out the back!!!
Inspired by the fine work of Pam Ayres.
Mateuš Conrad Apr 2020
.and very much so:
the royal albert hall... is not where you'd go
to watch ballet...
      unless you were going to watch...
an enlarged centipede pretend to stampede
on a treadmill...


high-brow my ***...
         because iron maiden's phantom
of the opera... did... does... predate...
andrew webber's stab...
                 hard rock 'ammer...
       as in... a paul di'anno bitchboy
                 scant-gimpwhore fan... etc.
the castrato operatics... later...
n'ah...               but that's oh so much
an origins story...
                    and hardly the evolution...

- that the phantom of the opera stands on
a skeleton of three songs...
revised...                morphing...

perhaps not, not that they are songs...
i'd have to sharpen my scalpel for
attempting the smithy deeds on words...

a skeleton of three themes...
       thus noted:

               "angel of music"
            "phantom of the opera"
    and... last but not least:
                     "masquerade"...

what a day... or what wasn't expected...
no one ever told me that:
a musical per se... differs so much from
a musical: for the stage...

by musical...
                 i'd be shaking to conjure up...
the screen musicals of a west side story...
etc. -

            and one can easily so tire of
this trap...

  and what of the internal jokes?
jokes at the expense of the opera...
              - poor fool, he makes me laugh
       - hannibal...
quite the jokes...
   having to draw the blood from
the mundane talk elevated to an operatic
context of song...

that a musical is... somehow...
when opera can be reduced to talk...
and can be thus reduced to:
the joker in a hand of poker...
   a whimsical little card...

the 25th anniversery of the phantom
at the royal opera house...
one can somehow forgive the electronic
attaches of the overture...
whether the electric guitar of the drum
machine...

   like one can forgive:
                 nirvana's unplugged...
at the end though...
   even andrew webber looks perplexed /
nervous... how did we get away with this?
i don't know:
the only style of genre that...
actually requires a stage and props...
and ample volume of space!
a theatre: since otherwise...
opera: pure technique...
                and prop minimalism...

and...

because can a musical: not require a stage?
does it indeed feed too many images
that need to be attired with quacks...
with feathers... with leather boots and chandeliers?!

now i'll toast! i'll toast to a new reason
to go down the alleys of ah bit tipsy:
itsy bitsy sniffing a bottle neck...
bloated from a champagne cork pop!

truly... if only the stage...
   that allowance to perform a performance
a need to perfect: always never:
the editor in charge...
   all those out-takes left to what life is
left behind the curtain...

     the musical of the movies of h'america...
whatever they might be...
to name but a few would be best...
           and if i didn't first see the phatom
on a television screen...
but in its natural environment:
with the volume of required air...
     i wouldn't have been able to choke
my tears...

and i have seen the theatre
and i have seen the opera
and the ballet...
                            i sometimes...
"sometimes": wearisome...
try to forget the maggot pit of phelgm,
sweat and ***** of a rock concert...
        of all the mediums...
         this jumbled up swedish table platter...
what a cocktail of a rollercoaster!

i could forever take off my garments
of jealousy: of which there's that pitiable
affair of a beard-envy...
                well...
                           well well...

how pristine: they even had a music-box!
in that crude relief of finding
"revisions" and alt. interpretations
of... perhaps it's only a matter of
two themes and that overture?

             and if it's song and dance...
       it's not a candy-smiles and tap-dancing buffet...
it's opera and ballet...
because... it's opera:
                 ha! empty these cupboards!
no one needs to attend an opera
like a foreign language movie:
with subtitles running on a FTSE100
reel above the stage...

                      the musical: is the reinvention
of the opera... a musical is an opera...
with mild added animation of theatre...
and there's a pinch of ballet!

          this will most certainly not translate
into me liking cats... or les misérables...
       this will do...
                   sing-along / sing-through?
and everyone is, suddenly... equipped with
a deciphering ear to translate the over-infuated
vowels of an operatic breath?!

- and very much so:
the royal albert hall... is not where you'd go
to watch ballet...
      unless you were going to watch...
an enlarged centipede pretend to stampede
on a treadmill...

- but if someone would tell you...
a musical... west side story? yes?
     i'm pretty sure it would be all about:
singin' in the rain... fair enough...
             but all for that popcorn entertainment...
and the tap-dancing...
and chewing-gum advert smiles...
and all that technicolour dabbling...
and all those heavily bothersome editing
processes... like... the plumbers
most associated with veins and arteries?
sorry: the romanians are picking the fruit
and veg for the next: x-factor star...
the next youtube vlogger breakthrough chart
topper...

blunt and ******* obvious...
      and how has english changed since Dickens?
i made a note of...
because i will not make notes
of what's already passed...
a direct etymological association with a loan,
word...
  not from dutch, german or french...

       SA-LU-BRI-OUS
            (healthy...)

                   PER-EM-PTO-RILY...
         (not being permitted a denial)

that 19th century victorian english that...
just had to loan words directly from
latin... this much of reading Dickens remains
in me... after having just experienced
a blitzkrieg of a musical: proper...

there are still the same old nooks 'n' crannies
for me to find shadows and moths
in...

    because: i am most certainly the one
about to cite: they took away my circuses!
and m'ah bread!
there's no football! well... no football?
goodness me! what are, what are...
the alternatives?!

         opera you can... disregard...
theatre if... movies are your...
ahem... sartre's curiosity with the keyhole...
voyeurism: to exist is to be seen...
but only through a keyhole...
                     which movies aren't, of course!
the editor comes in...
even in the golden age of cinema...
the panoramic view... resembled a stage...
and in the old movies you could
time... the editor taking charge...
and how long it would take for
the actors to forget their lines...

            not that that matters... given...
there's no stage... but the red carpet
of postures and toothpaste adverts...
and paparazzi *** epilepsy from the strobe
glitter ball of the leeches congregating!
not even vultures make such a spectacle!
i saw the same...
then the concrete was layered with enough
frost at night...
the crevices would become impregnated
with diamonds of ice...
every twist of the head would
agitate these sparkles toward imitation
of a flash!

there's a "musical": in the advent of the h'american
sense... and there's: a musical...

- and if you happen to hear a subtle joke
by evelyn waugh in the meantime:
at the better for you...
              what is an encyclopedic "ogling"
within the confines of scrutiny:
that man may forever be attired...
and the genitals just dangling like
champagne flutes without any,
any sort of, scrutiny of...
not having to play the Oedipus!

               here's a fork... here's a donkey...
here's a spoon... here's the Schleswig-Holstein
and its siege of Westerplatte!
here!
   the Schleswig-Holstein tenor of
                           the opera: Westerplatte...
oh joy: a "my" in a "history"...
and none of it an affair that might...
disturb the peaceful lives
of those lived: under the splendour
of a charles II and a handel firework's music
to have to somehow: "put out"!

clearly: i'll be dying from the ******
of all the collective forces of the universe
and gambling and... oopsies...
i am here... and it's not that sort of grey...
pistons assured!
- had i the face of beauty...
beside starring as a tadpole of potential...
a voice with a stage to make outlet with...

- what could ever become of this...
jigsaw puzzling overdue do...
                         the narrative in the classical sense:
hardly what, and what not:
this vector and the in-between
from some mythical (a) toward a journalism,
and weekend opinion pieces...
and all that insomnia riddled "journalism"
of the current year of crux denoted with
a (b)...

               all true: from darwin and the "big bang"...
and of course... time shrinking...
in between... beside carbon dating...
and let us not hear of things speak
for themselves: but ourselves!
untrue! hercules!
untrue! prometheus!
untrue untrue untrue!
but darwin and the ape: nod! gentlemen!
we have proof!
myth or no myth: but a journalistic integrity!
that's enough proof! for today and tomorrow!
and... what's not the fiction that's already
memory?

and what is... this imagination that's...
not a single street witnessed of Paris
in the circa of the year that was... 2004...
or 2006 or 2007...
                      
for the art... and this detail of science that
once upon a time shocked...
now... only comes... burdensome...
a ballet on ice... a shaking of hands with
a shadow... something beside this:
base revision of culture and civilization:
this bogus lopsided quest for:
re-inventing... nothing more... than a zoo!

so little must have happened in the case
of english history...
this hannibal and the mountains...
but what curtain: the great wall of china:
built among the mountains...
ingenious: doubling-up?
  xerxes whipping the waves of the aegean...
the great wall of *****-chewing-wall'ah...
i dare become the new albino...
i dare... and i the next japanese porcelain
frailty...
               many thanks: for the <caugh caugh>...
hooray!

              oh my mother:
the cindarella of nations of europe...
         i seriously can't do much worse than
that cocktail and carboot sale of tchaikovsky's
1812 overture...
   it's an overture!
              
really? the phantom of the opera is because...
of the overture?
last time i heard... prokofiev's lieutenant kijé
(kij - stick... kije... sticks)...
romance... was all a rave! "rave"...
              a nibbling at a crescendo...
    but hardly: then again: a nomad chorus...
a reminiscence... a memory lost: yet foretold...

and if... the anonymous provider...
of the full extent of the carmina burana...
      what if?
        i play... this cliche... this... my most
democratic oath: for the bettering of the voice
that could allow the congregation of
the many! my democratic oath: my quasi:
civic duty... me joining the club of the most
sober bottom's-up! pick'ld-week!

                 such are the affairs... hardly a worthiness
of a frenchman of pander...
or of being so blessed by an island...
when being neighbour of europe...
and easily bound to be found because:
france never too interest in the robot antics
of the scandinavians or what
was ever to be assured by iceland!

thus came the crude: skeleton waiting
to be refined... a peter schteele interlude of:
fancying a giant to a tumble...
i will not satisfy myself with a biography
outside of the realm of immediacy...
how do people write a biography without
the peacock of whim and of what's readily
available? a biography with a past...
automated: futurism... n'est ce pas?

         - i escape for the transcendental relief in
beauty... my own lack...
therefore better neglected: rather than denied...
it's my own that Belzeebub should
****** with maggots and acne synonyms onto
my face...

          i escape for beauty... not... sorry...
pardon my fwench: a ******* conversation
of the paupering sociopathic sort of
a job trotter sordid kin'!
                  if only crocodiles could cry...
they'd be warm-blooded...
and i would be year after year
an oscar nominee for a toast
of best actor at the oscars!

          pity... pity and the subsequent
dumbdrum!
                no! i do not want to guillotine this
affair with the autobiographic as long
as i am drinking and not any champagne
in sight... or... schnapps...
              
i best be off... this is enough frivolity
of the heart for a day's worth!
Kripi Jun 2013
Oh yea!* Today was my matriculation result.
I was eager to know.
I scored very well
It's 87.35 %
I have stood third in school
But people said it's not so cool
I surprised!
I thought and asked myself
How?
People said,''silly!...you are not the topper!
I felt like i am under a chopper
Actually, some reason is behind that
Just like a diamond behind the ugly hat
I felt not good then
The only thing was ...there was some reason behind that
It was..............................................................­......................
...................................TO BE CONTINUED.....
Mentioned in my next poem
Bruce Adams Jul 2019
on ruby jacobs walk, a
small girl
asked us for money for ice cream.

she eyed our cones
                                yours, lemon
                                mine, strawberry
with a child’s hunger
glinting and opportunistic
as she held out her palm for coins.

i was not yet accustomed to the shapes and sizes,
to a dime being smaller than a nickel,
and in any case wanted to preserve them for souvenirs
so we shook our heads and walked away.

a year later, writing this poem,
i learned that ruby jacobs was a local restauranteur
who, as a boy,
illegally sold ice creams
for a nickel on the boardwalk.
                                                a nickel is the larger coin
                                                the size of a ten pence piece.
                                                i know that now.

the wide atlantic rose from a sloping manicured lawn
        star-spangled,
                                like everything here,
                                                           ­     the airborne flag
                                                            ­    above a wide pavilion
                                                        ­        a fanatic wedding cake topper
                                                          ­      against the blood-blue sky.

        i slipped
out of my shoes and let
the white sand burn my feet,
and jaggedly fill the spaces between my toes.

the atlantic held open its arms
though we weren’t, as we imagined,
                looking east
                looking home
but south to new jersey, across the bay.

the gnarled boardwalk was a
song of the twentieth century
        a roll-call of mass-market capitalism
        here in the city that didn’t invent the concept
        but certainly perfected it:
                                                hot dogs
                                        amusements
         ­                       ice creams (we’ve covered that)
                        fridge magnets
                baseball caps
        i bought an espresso cup with a picture of the president
and the caption:
                         ‘huuuuge!’
i stopped to take a photograph
of a space-age building from the fifties
which turned out to be
                                        a public toilet.

later
from the sunbaked d train,
brooklyn spread out beneath us
the houses garnished with flags,
then the city coughed us up on seventh avenue
and night fell five hours early.
20.7.19
Katryna Dec 2013
the night and the frost and the words that they speak
your fingers are frozen, your eyelids are closed
the crests and the troughs of your breath in the air
like the language of winter winds;
harsh tones that never go unheard
beneath your feet or inside your ribcage
or even as the frigid night that entwines itself with you
demanding to be felt

kveld og frost og ordene som de snakker
ditt fingrene er frosne, ditt øyelokkene er lukket
topper og daler av ditt pusten i luften
som språket av vinteren vind;
harde toner som aldri går uhørt
under føttene eller inni ditt brystkasse
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krevende som må oppleves
norwegian is a tad bit rusty so if you find a mistake please do correct it! it's been so long, and my writing is a renewed work in progress
My Christmas tree
Is not the same as yours
You see, my tree is in my mind
It can't be bought in stores

It's made up of a lot of things
I couldn't ever, ever buy
And I put them on my Christmas Tree
Using my minds eye

The star atop my Christmas tree
Is as bright as bright can be
My tree topper  is The North Star
It's the brightest one you see

For tinsel, I use icicles
That Mother Nature made
By hitting us with an ice storm
With devastation laid

For ornaments, I have my pick
There is so much there to choose
With a winter pallet so diverse
With whites, reds, greens and blues

For lights, I use the stars again
And street lights as I need
I let them shine and light my tree
It's the brightest tree indeed

In my mind my tree is ten feet tall
With gifts piled half as high
But, in reality, there is no tree
It's just in my minds eye

You see, I am a prisoner
Of machines and stuck in doors
I haven't had a Christmas Tree
Since Nineteen Eighty Four

But, still I choose to celebrate
Giving gifts and sending cards
But I lie here looking outward
So, going out, well...it's too hard

My tree, it is incredible
And the best part, I must say
Is that I can enjoy it all year round
And when I'm done, it goes away

No needles dropping on my floor
No checking strands of lights
My tree, it shows up when I want
And it's always out of sight

I wish you could walk in my mind
And share my tree with me
It's ten feet tall, and beautiful
And it's just for me to see.
Anthony Williams Jul 2014
Can you know how much I want you in the parking lot
to be strung out like meter maids in a fiddle
against my cheek and hard shoulder relayed
avoiding no string explanations but easy riding
stretched out beyond once at a Beyoncé concert
just to see your halo tyres screech echoes
aglow in the ccs of my tiny mind
as it wrestles with your personal youi toy issues
like a playful puppy with a soft-fix-rated wish list
to bite a whole lotta wish bits of open road can you
bare to test how serrated tongues kiss in tune

it's a don't miss love once thought I can fixate on
sense passion peach scent parking zone zany catch
pitching selfies of us two so perfecto we're in pinches
clinching made-up rows with post-cuticular itch scratch
u-turn buff out delecto smiley multi-teethy smooches
a no blame game mile after mile lost in the now
distracted in your put me through mobile beeps
full on not coping in the full brunt of my own alone bed
we motel back to hands off places
into back-out but no back-off welcomes

like a newly opened up sink whole from car to sofa
we click an unbuckle so well whenever choice strapped
telling goofed dippy love yous in nuggets kilo unlocked
staking times to care unextractable from distractions
wacky made from all your spills of tickle-tacky flesh
not wondering if its drive away thrills will go to waste
it's great transferring the apricot dream deposit as soon as
we dessert amuse each other after another amazing inference
goodnight speak for can I never come down from this highway

more and more under the covers of darkness accepting
without a hundred replica 'oh... don't' thanks
about who amongst our friends we can invite due to starving
for a combination of something they think we might be cooking
because we hate surprising add-in too except samfaina sauce
the spice of safe healthier for the solar farm morning recovery
your orange sunjuice extras converting tact without put downs
into staying cool out of the fridge and try not wanting to be set
in ways runny over your chin causing poaching without a permit

I know how it looks but I can't face not facing you
that wrinkle in your nose when it twitches to say
I see where you're going with this enroute idea
and pull me into the fast lane for the unbelievable
believed fully in you for a lie moment
needing you flat on your face and up front indecent
with the café latté grounds for chatting late
you gave me such a let's revisit French roast stare
you melted the café glacé I saw inside with a party intuition

the cheer me sense you uptake and bring to any cold space
by star walk in **** roles enough to water any dry as dust pan
slowly across with room for all eyes following
and brush aside arguments
so I can stay here tonight?
OK I'll drop my things in the got it all together
now on a successful detour
hearing your exalted exam declaration arrive "yes" in the mail
a result with female passes so nicely played on a level field

stepping up so mall boutique professionally to a border crossing
you were in a graphic position to stay
in shape in a way not relaxing
but with visa entries for multiple tourism
volumizing my eyes with an apply now unzipped boo-boo
uploaded in youtube to dual carber eater in full HD biker
rolling in hard drive definition a bluray inexhaustible backfire
shining out between leather studs your patch
“I live to ride”
and for the rest of the world's club it stops there
how not frustrating is that heart's topper for me
by Anthony Williams
Judypatooote Feb 2016
Hopalong Cassidy

When I was a little girl
Hopalong Cassidy
Was my hero
I would watch him on the television  
Riding his horse Topper
And then
PRETEND...
Hiding behind chairs
Running from one to the other
Shooting the bad guys
With my finger gun.
One birthday my mom surprised me
With a whole Hopalong Cassidy outfit.
I had a vest with fringe,
The cowgirl skirt, the hat
And best of all
A Hopalong Cassidy WATCH
And a silver play gun in a holster
In my imagination
I WAS HOPALONG CASSIDY
Back in the 40's
IT WAS OK
To play Cowboys and Indians
IT WAS OK
To shoot the bad guys
With a finger gun
Or a silver play gun
IT WAS OK
To use the word Indians
Without offending anyone
So Sad that kids can't play
Cowboys and Indians anymore
Because you wouldn't know
If that gun was real

By judy
I wrote rhis poem when i read an artical on a 5 year old boy who was exspelled from his school for pointing is finger at another student and saying bang bang.  What a different world we live in now compared to back when...
Anais Vionet Apr 2023
It was going to be a beautiful Saturday morning - and the wind was still. Wind mattered because Peter and I had borrowed a friend's lime green Fiat and trekked 30 minutes north to play the Lufbery (frisbee) disc course. We teed-off just after sunrise. It’s a beautiful, wooded course. I used to be a frisbee-golf addict and I’d brought my gear to Yale - but only managed to play twice. I finished 8-under (for 18 holes) and Peter earned a little participation, something or other, to be awarded later.

Peter lives in a doctoral frat-house they call doc-house (the 8 guys who live there are all doctoral students). It’s a typical frat house, remarkably dark and filthy. Every surface seems carpeted and there’s a dizzying cocktail of smells - old beer, dust, pizza, cigars, whisky, popcorn, cigarettes and *** - ugg! Yes, If you need to carouse, this is the house. You hear, “You’re in the DOC-HOWWSE!” (said like dog-house) when a group of new girls show up.

In the basement, there are arm chairs that I’m sure haven’t been cleaned since someone in the class of 1955 spilt beer on them. If I sit on one - and I try not to sit on one - I keep my arms crossed in my lap so they don’t even touch the armrests. Peter’s room is clean - I had a service come to clean it (and the shared 2nd floor bathroom) before he moved in. I got him a new mattress and topper too.

My favorite of his roommates is called “Melon” (His real name is Milton). He’s a big guy, 6’3”~ish and probably 450 pounds. He’s the sweetest guy but a slob in the classic, Chris Farley mold. Peter says he already has two PhDs (One in ‘computational mathematics’, a second in ‘mathematical modeling’) and he’s working on a third in ‘decision sciences.” He owns doc-house, having bought it when the owner hinted at moving to Florida.
“Melon makes a bag-and-a-half consulting,” Peter explained, admiringly.

The house is on a wooded hill and the driveway, about 400 feet long, goes straight uphill. One time, I’d brought a couple of bags of groceries and Melon, as usual, came bounding out of the house to help me. The uber could only get half way up the crowded drive and by the time Melon got to the car he was completely out of breath. I half expected I’d have to give him CPR, but he rallied after a couple of minutes - talking non-stop, all the while - and leaning heavily on the Uber which ran up my bill (I found it endearing).

Back to my story (a lot of that was background). Peter and I were going to Geronimo’s (a Mexican restaurant). I was sweaty from golfing, so I decided to shower. I’m showering away and I hear the bathroom door open (I’d absolutely locked it). So, I assumed it was Peter. The next thing I hear is someone taking a loud ****. Then the guy starts humming - and it wasn’t Peter.

There I was, shower running, behind a flimsy, opaque-plastic, flowered shower curtain. What now? I was thinking. “Occupied!?” I said loudly, like a question - standing stock-still naked.

“Fukk” I hear him say, “Sorry, sorry, SORRY - I thought you were one of the guys!” he said, flushing, dashing out and slamming the door.

I waited a moment, killed the water, wrapped up, climbed out of the shower and wrapped my hair in a second towel while leaning against the door. It had been locked - well, the little *** was pressed in anyway. I picked up my stuff and dashed across the hall to Peter’s room.

Peter was propped up on his bed with his laptop as I rushed in, closed the door and leaned on it. “The lock on the bathroom door doesn’t work,” I said in a rush.
“Did something happen?” he asked, looking up.
“No,” I said - thinking about it, “Not really,” and I started to towel dry my hair.
That’s when I noticed that his index finger was turning back on itself in a “come hither” motion. Then it occurred to me that, wound as I was, in a small white towel, I might look like a loosely wrapped participation trophy.

Sometimes you face an army of desires - without armor.
BLT Marriam Webster word of the day challenge: Carouse: "drink alcohol, make noise, and party.”

Bag-and-a-half = as in a bag of money
Judypatooote Mar 2015
Hopalong Cassidy

When I was a little girl
Hopalong Cassidy
Was my hero
I would watch him on the television  
Riding his horse Topper
And then
PRETEND...
Hiding behind chairs
Running from one to the other
Shooting the bad guys
With my finger gun.
One birthday my mom surprised me
With a whole Hopalong Cassidy outfit.
I had a vest with fringe,
The cowgirl skirt, the hat
And best of all
A Hopalong Cassidy WATCH
And a silver play gun in a holster
In my imagination
I WAS HOPALONG CASSIDY
Back in the 40's
IT WAS OK
To play Cowboys and Indians
IT WAS OK
To shoot the bad guys
With a finger gun
Or a silver play gun
IT WAS OK
To use the word Indians
Without offending anyone
So Sad that kids can't play
Cowboys and Indians anymore
Because you wouldn't know
If that gun was real
A memory of when life was simple and fun. Of course it was, I was a child.
Gourab Banerjee Jul 2016
Newspaper to news channel
Headline to breaking news
Gangrape or molestation
Foeticide or honour killing
Dowry ****** or eve-teasing
We're uninterrupted
     "    restless
As well in daylight
Or in the dark of midnight
We're the winners
     "      "   topper
To achieve our goal
We're reckless
Proud men of shameless nation
We're Hon'ble Indian Men-Written on 26.07.2012,Thursday
Damian Murphy Jun 2015
Remember...
When comic books were the real big thing
and kids everywhere waited eagerly
every week excited to start reading
the latest Beano or Dandy
Remember…
Enjoying Dennis the Menace and Gnasher,
Minnie the Minx and the Bash Street Kids,
Roger the Dodger, Scrapper and Basher,
Beryl the Peril and Billy Whizz.
Remember…
Thinking Bully Beef and Chips were so great;
the awful things that Bully would do!
Not forgetting Desperate Dan and Keyhole Kate
who were always fantastic too.
Remember…
When we used to read the Sparky or the Topper
or the Buster or even the Beezer
without of course forgetting the Victor
or Roy of the Rovers either.
Remember…
When they had the Bunty for girls too,
the Mandy and Judy as well,
which many boys would read it is true;
though all promised never to tell!
Remember…
Waiting patiently each year for Santa to bring
the Annual edition of your favourite one,
spending hours on Christmas Day just reading;
and reading was the best thing under the sun!
Remember…
When everyone joined their local libraries
soon after schooldays had begun
When you were sure to find a book to please
and reading was so much fun.
Remember…
When books transported us to another world,
each new book a revelation,
instilling in us a love of the written word;
really fuelling our imagination!
Remember…
How much enjoyment you got from reading
and what little effort it really took,
how the pressures of life soon began receding
when you immersed yourself in a book.
Remember…
To try and make time to read a good book,
to take time out every now and then,
and you never know, with a bit of luck;
You might fall in love with reading again.
Donall Dempsey Apr 2015
WELL, KISS MY POPLITEAL FOSSA!


I remember the golden
tassels of my dress

touching the back
of my knees

as I was kissed
for the very first

time bent over
in a clinch

as if we were
statuary.

The tassels' touch
exquisite in itself.

Much more sensual
than the actual kiss as

I wondered( his tongue
dancing with my tonsils)if:

there was a name for that
sort of thing

( the back of the knees
I mean ).

"Ok Freddie!" I commanded

seeing as I seemed
to be in command here.

"...that's quite enough of that!"

Shattered he
reluctantly

took his tongue
out of my cheek.

"Cheeky ******!" I thought
"should never have let him go

...that far!"

Crestfallen he
stammered a sorry.

"You won't tell my mother
...will you?"

Hid his *******
with his topper.

I went in at once
and asked of father

"Is there a name
for the back of the knees?"

"Of course there is my love!
It's your popliteal fossa!"

I tingled
to my toes

having discovered my first
erogenous zone

and knowing
that one day

I would become
a doctor.
https://youtu.be/U3MwdWPYqC8
Sombro Nov 2016
The comments of the ocean
Blend nicely with the brush
Of tipper topper dinky dinghies
That paddle all a hush

Ships sailing on the summer current
Keels are black and leery
With barnacles and treasures trawled at sea
They nose ahead worn and weary

I sigh a little on the plinth of my palm
Propped nicely 'gainst the ivory table
And clink ****** cups, you know
Those little things that make you remember

Shame? Not me. When I watch the birds
They hover without shame
Boasting of the clouds they've visited
And castles up high they are welcome to

Take, take, take the spring breeze that simmers in
I couldn't feel the grace of disgust
I couldn't, I'm too happy
With salt ground tea and seemly company.
A little poem written in an Istanbul café, overlooking the bay
being the topper in the class, he developed certain pride
that the envious derided, ignored flatterers on his side.

the first bench was his permanent place
from where shone his haloed face
when the teachers spoke seemed it thus
there was only him in the whole class.

all questions he took the answers he knew
solved hardest sums others had no clue
not once an intruder could invade his space
he shined in glory of his flawlessness.

from him was never unfinished homework
ruthlessly made on exams his mark
was taken for granted he would win first place
the rest of the herd would just run the race.

the teachers indulged him the pride of the class
but you know all fame are fragile like glass
it so happened a new teacher joined the school
unbiased he was not to blindly toe the rule.

he asked the first boy if he had ever flown a kite
played marbles on road picked up a fight
if ever he had walked barefooted on the grass
stole a look at sky bunked even one class.

if he had ever chosen to close the book
hid him alone in the scariest of nook
scanned the horizon to catch first moonrise
counted the stars bamboo grove's fireflies.

he looked nonplussed didn't utter a word
anything than studies he hardly bothered
had he answered it would all have been *no

to him most precious was his place at front row.

he bowed his head down with ashen face
for the first time in class he failed to impress
what happened next was no riddle to guess
that teacher was gone without a trace.
Grace Jordan Aug 2015
I spend a lot of time worrying about what other people dream, what they want from life, and making it happen. I always try to play roles, like the good student, or the sweet daughter, or the funny niece, or the counseling friend, or the reliable sister. But what do I want? What do I dream?

For a long while it was three simple things. Kids, animals, writing, and I never questioned or developed any of it. I mean, I had a relative idea of dates or amounts of kids, and relative writing ideas, and relative animal ideas, but nothing solid.

But today, though it may be f little interest to anyone else, I'm going to flesh out my dreams. I owe it to myself.

I want to publish a novel. Particularly a social commentary. Particularly something important to me, like mental health, the environment, relationships, family, etc. And particularly something that people may like one day. I'd love to have a novel that people know. It would be really special.

I want to have kids. At least one, preferably two, livable three, pray to god no more. And you know what, I'll love any kids I have, but I really want a girl. I want a little ball of crazy who can be a pirate or a princess and follow me around and call me mommy and cuddle on my lap and let me read her stories and be my baby girl. Maybe I'm crazy superficial, but the cake topper for me would be the ability to name her Alice. My little hero of Wonderland. I mean, the white picket fence dream is to have one boy, one girl, but I guess we'll see. If I get no girls, I'll name something else Alice. If I get two girls, I better pick one super meaningful name for her, because only one is not fair.

I want to see Africa. The animals there have always been my favorites, and I feel they're just so wild and crazy and different. There are deserts, forests, savannas, lions, zebras, okapis, all of it! Its always just seemed so wonderful to me and I've always wanted to see it in person.

I want to take my kids to Disney World. I want them to feel the wonder I felt as a kid, and fall in love with the magic I loved as a kid and even now. Maybe like I fell in love with Wonderland and various other worlds Disney created, maybe they can find their own worlds that resonate with them and make them feel safe.

I want to find or build a house for my family and decorate with love. I have art skills, I can decorate everywhere. Disney rooms, book rooms, video game rooms, all of it. I just want our hearts to be strewn across the walls and be a place of comfort for them.

I want to get married to a man I am madly in love with. Obviously, I think right now I'm with a man I could easily love the rest of my life. I wish with every fiber of my being that the home I dream of, the kids I want, the books all over, can all be things I have with him. But I won't make promises to myself that I don't know what will happen. God knows that in this second I want no one else, but I cannot force myself on the person I will be in the next twenty years. I can only dream all of this will be with him.

I want to create art. Not atypical art, with paint or pencil, but with crafts and words. They are beautiful pictures that I'm good at making, and I'd like to not only make them for family and loved ones, but maybe one day sell them and do more than just be that ever-writing author stuck in their study. Maybe I'm crazy, whatever, but I want it all.

I want to graduate college. Not only because I'm already in it, and I will enjoy the time I have, but I do want it over with as well. I know everyone's going to yell at me and say shut up they are the best days of your lives, but people said that about high school too. I enjoyed my time, but I look forward to today and tomorrow much more than I enjoy looking back. I want to graduate and have a lovely time at college, but I also don't want to spend forever here. I want to learn what I can, make friends for life, make connections, and then start the rest of my life. Start being a professional writer.

I want to start keeping an open dialogue with my audience, not just here, but on other social medias, so there is a connection even before I publish my first book or the ones to follow. I want to be an approachable author. I want to seem human, not like some unattainable, far away thing for young authors to look at. I want to be real.

I want to publish a poetry book. Obviously I'll wait another year or two, and compile the best ones, but i think it could be fun. See me write novels? Well see me write short things too. I know most authors/writers pick a niche, but after years of trying to find mine, I don't think I want one. I just want what I want.

I want to write a memoir. Though I use a pseudonym, one day I want to grow the confidence and strength to write as me, and tell people not just the stories that go on in my head, but the stories that are going on in my life. Hell, maybe I'll call it something cheesy like "The Girl Behind Grace" or something super cheesy like that haha

I want to start a bipolar group wherever I raise my kids. I mean, I'm sure with the way I am and how the person I'm with is, we'll have quite a few years of adventure. A lot of years. But I will put my foot down and say for the sake of kids we need to settle, at least for a good twenty years. I want to be a leader and help others like me where I live, i want to help people feel better. This life isn't easy, and we deserve help and a group and a community just as much as any book club.

I want to work on my baking/cooking chops. I want to be so awesome at baking and cooking that all the kids want to come to my house for dinner and I can make my kids their own badass birthday cakes. Maybe even make cakes for friends and neighbors for a bit of money. It will be awesome.

I want to visit my family at least once a year. I know that may not work out, but I don't want to lose them in all my crazy life that I plan. They may be out there and need help but I do love them, and I want my kids to have a good sense that they have a huge family that loves them so much.

I want pets. Crazy pets. Turtles and dogs and pigs. Those are the ones I really want. Dream world says one turtle, one pig, two dogs. It'll be absolutely crazy cool. What kid gets to go to school and say they have a pet pig? my kids.

I want a garden. I'll work on fleshing out that idea. I just want to be outside more. I love outside.

I want to fall in love with my life more and more every day. I want to have fun with my family. I want to play video games, a write like a madwoman, and be a good mom, and take care of myself, and make my home and life beautiful. I want everything to be worth it at the end of the day, even when not all things are ok.

I want a lot, I know, but a girl can dream, right?
#me
His topper reflected prisms,
And hair burned under his moon glance,
How ephemeral was midnight,
Darkness dressing my hair in stars,
His smile the light spill from a broken moon,
A claret glass bursting with blood skies,
His plumage exodus stealth netherworld ,
Trithing shards in flamed heat,
Black salt pastes orinein wounds,
Kirk yard elementals despoil spirits of all hell,
Strix cackle, taunt on nightly transvections,
A viridescent sadness wakes alone.
Saudade no seasons doth befall,
Trapped in concupiscence darkest tale void of intemperance


── Clad in loves spectural crown

Arnay Rumens © 12/ 2014
Words to give you thought provoking hmm now what do they mean? It was once suggested that I refrain from cosmic or being wordy in my work, rather the opposite grinned my face.. Enjoy, words are our art after all challenge the master be the ink in your pen :)
I can feel me
******* breaking under gray skies
As I dream of red eyes
And green grass
CPT Slime and Rasta's daft laughs
And the taste of tobacco on your tongue
While I wash up in SlimeyG's kitchen

Good God, if I wasn't there, that infamous week would've been filthy!

We can feel
The bass ******* it through the sideboard
SlmieyG's lounge walls are shaking hard
And we cackle bare
When Big Gay tumbles grinning downstairs
So I stick the kettle on

Good God, we caned a litre of milk in one round of teas!

I can hear
Those slimey green dawgs singing loud
When we bring Tom's cake out
And his face is a chuffin' picture
At the realisation of the six-layers' topper
So throw him a Clipper

Good God - eighteen, eighteen, EIGHTEEN tokes to clear it!

So, will you?
Can we all get together? We'll feel alright
For just one more warm hazy night
And when we sing these songs
Of freedom, we'll laugh in peace together. So long
To misery, my brothers
Donall Dempsey Sep 2018
ARRIVALS & DEPARTURES

( for Bud on his birthday that was never to be )

Never to be
met by you again

at the airport
with a hastily scribbled sign:

"WAITING FOR GOD...
KNOWS WHO!"

Or telling me you were
expecting the Cat in the Hat.

One year a tip-top topper...
...the next a battered bowler.

Always. . .
your smile

my gold coin

your laughter
my treasure.

"Ahhhh Jaysus, Bud...tears?"
cries the ghost of you.

"It's all I get these days!
Dying is so...annoying!"

"Oh, before I go. . !"
the ghost of you smirks

before fading away
into an EXIT sign.

"I love the purple
fedora!"
It is an acrostic poem - "Two Thousand And Twelve"(2012)!

Two more minutes to say-" Happy New Year 2012"
Welcoming my friends with a bouquet
On came this year with a hurray!

Taking my tenth board exams
Happy was I flushed with charms
Only citing the advance of results..!
Unbeatable yet overjoyed to hear:
Songs about me so clear
"As I became the school topper",so sincere!
Next came the days without fear
Days composed of only cheer.

And it were these days
Now I tend to praise
Day by day  with full grace.

To all my relatives and friends
Who made 2012 more intense
Elevate your joy and blend-
Leave aside the latest trend
Vital times that we spent
End has come for that, friend!
Simon Soane May 2016
Being a weekend binge drinker I don’t really like Mondays
my poor fragile mind is in a alcohol daze,
my limbs are slow and heavy, each movement is a trial
I feel like I’ve ran a marathon after swimming the length of The Nile,
I lop around all zombiefied my legs are full of lead
my eyes are groaning loudly, like an extra from The Walking Dead,
I’m on the verge of snoozing, I do that sleepy involuntary ****,
I pinch myself real hard “Si you have to stay awake in work!”.
So I take a trip to the disabled toilet and have a nap on the ceramic floor,
hoping I’ll feel much better after this tad of a tiny snore,
I rouse after ten minutes and decide to control this ***** ridden strife,
I must get a grip soon, I want a grasp on this Monday life,
a light bulb pings out of nowhere to brighten my maudlin mood,
this sweet recovery will be engendered by lots scrumptious of food,
so I indulge in a savoury overload and gorge on toast and crisps;
Discos, Hula Hoops, Quavers and defo tons of Frisps,
on my dinner I scoff a Mac Donalds and then a Greg’s sausage roll,
this hungry Homer gluttony helps to sustain my whole,
the calorific sustenance does it’s job and my hangover starts to diminish,
I gaze at the computer’s clock and think “hey it’s time I finished!”.
I ponder “ohh I can glide home knowing my day is done
and if it stays sweet and bright I can enjoy a few hours in the sun,
after that I can watch Breaking Bad and catch up with Coronation Street
while busting out the texts and having more to eat,
yeah I’m see what Walter White’s up to while being really greedy,
wait a ******* minute, tonight’s when I’ve said I’d help the needy!
*******, **** **** **** ****, that’s my evening of chilling down the spout,
rather than a hammock night in I’ve got to venture out
and feed a load of ungrateful gits who don’t even clear their plates
and ask me if I’m a cross dresser while sniggering with their mates,
rather then see if Jesse gets caught by Hank and how the story unfolds
I’ll have to scrub those scrubbers dishes pristine while wearing marigolds,
as oppose to nodding off reading with a Rustlers under my front room lamp
I’ll have to put a load of cutlery away after making a 20 sugar brew for a *****!"
So I decide the Wellspring is off tonight as I really can’t be assed going
I’ll just graft extra hard for *** next week and keep the drinks a flowing,
so I’m just about to pick my phone up and call in with a excuse that’s pretty lamey
but then I realise if I don’t go I won’t get to see Amy!
Suddenly there is a spring in my step, my motion feels on point
I shower very quickly and post drying roll a joint,
I have a zip in my posture as I sail and blaze down the road
all my thoughts of staying in they instantly erode,
I think “Amy is ace and topper, in her company all is fun
she’d make a day of gloom resplendent with the sun,
her chirping silly noises are always brill in the air
she turns my giggles to def com one, I laugh without a care,
I mean I know I'm hilarious, I can feel my own strengths in my head and tummy
but when I'm with Amy I'm even more funny!  
She makes it all sunny!
Cos we can berate that gormless Declan who eats with the speed of a cheetah
say he's troffing all the time, like a professional eater,
we can spray a bit of water, have a lot of chat
teleport through nonsense with the free degree of claptrap,
chill around the washer where all the cool kids hang
kicking back like Gs, knowing all the slang,
flick a fleck of sausage then have a speaking swirl
flex the talking muscles with sweet balletic twirl.
I mean she's not perfect, she could improve her lot
she's pretty immodest, always going on about how she's so hot,
alright supermodel, calm down, yeah, okay you were blessed with good looks
be you know being arrogant really ******* *****.
And she don't like the ***** cats, her brain must have a feline blur
how can she not warm to their whiskers and their contented little purrs,
her eyes sometimes don't always work and she is optically infirm
and she steals pies from the scrotes, she don't know to wait her turn,
she'd stab you in the back for a go at the counter, she's always trying to grab the lead,
and added to all that she can't even ******* read!
(I'm surprised you can read this actually.)
But i'll overlook these foibles, her flaws aren't yet that drastic
she has to merge some yang in there to be so yin fantastic!
Ahh, in this life where what was can no longer leave a reflection
it's always super to feel the natural flow of connection;
glowing with simplicity
our joyous synchronicity!"
So i approach the door of The Wellspring and feel sweet and glad
and think, "you know for a Monday you aint turned out too bad!".
Tad of context, Wellspring is a homeless shelter place I work at, obvs I don't really think they are all tramps, just fun for the lols of the poem!
Sara Caccavo Nov 2011
Shall I compare you to wonderful things?

I’m not so sure.
Likely you’d find it
Slightly off-putting
Or maybe emotional,
Too seriously gossamer
Like a blueberry muffin
Dressing up
In a bride and groom cake topper.

So I guess
To hell with you anyway
One day you’ll have a box full of
Printed concert tickets
And all of silicon valley
filled with e-mails
Random statements exchanged for nothing
Placeholders of what we might have actually
Said
To each other

Letters that smell like incense and lotion
And sketches that smell like beer
Are outdated
But kisses in a library are better
Than *** in a dance rave.

And you’d rather be someone’s lover
Than to be loved by someone.
Or be preferentially bombarded by
Tones alerting you of some alternate reality
Because I’m just talking to you without intention
but that’s not true
and I’m not wires and gears
and maybe you should find
someone you can write checks for
and I’ll die
without finding a soul
to love me in a poem
Anastasia Ejov Jan 2016
Impulsive drones, these machos you have flimflammed,

Wolfing your proportionality like a **** brewed nectar of grapes,

When flimsy limb frills no more interweave, expertise reprogrammed,

Are you the lone from infinite frames murmuring, “once more, he escapes”?

Indignation ******* broadcasted, ferocity wrought into the fiber,

Prior, where narcissistic pathway architecture once lodged aloft,

Calloused acknowledgement of her duffel, abrupt pang, necessity for a prescriber,

My mettle is feeble of the soap opera, hanging one’s topper in my breath, I coughed,

The cauldron perpetually gurgling with spume, mingling itself,

Gyrating with giddiness as if my noggin was a top trinket,

No dust crumbs in any bustle ever jubilated atop my pit-a-patting instrument’s

Masses are anticipating for my enveloping blanket,

I perhaps beam till the cattle wham the timepiece, though seldom do I chuckle,

Shall journey with the ensuing waft, no comma for a buckle.
Sonnet about birth and death.
Simon Soane Mar 2017
There are lots of topper things I adore on earth,
like cats, the moon and drunken mirth
or talking, the sea and a well buttered bun,
nights drawing in or long days in the sun.
Another thing I really like is having a shower in the morning,
it’s the perfect antidote to my just awoke yawning,
the aqua blast helps remove the yearning for more bed
the watery goodness bringing vitality to my head,
the soapy woosh invigorates and vamooses my alarm’s mesh,
I exit the bathroom feeling fantastically fresh
and when I’m sat on the bus to work I think “ohh, someone smells splendidly,
oh wait a minute, yeah, it’s me!
Now although I adore gliding into employment with the fragrance of roses
I don’t always heed my cleanliness craving after dozes,
If I’ve had a alcohol drenched Sunday with lots of venturing out
my wanting for a pre work bathe goes up the spout,
sometimes I’ll awake on Monday after a drunken slumber
and feel like I’ve been covered in a ton of lumber,
and think “right it’s either get up now and scrub myself clean
or hit snooze and have another 15”
as even musing on that is making what little energy I have sap
I pull the quilt tighter and take the nap,
the tiny jot of rest doesn’t even touch the side
and before I know I’m at the bus stop awaiting a ride,
I get on and sit down still knackered as hell
and think, “what is that that stale vino smell?
Ohh I bet someone unfortunate was sat here before me,
one of those who has to choose tween getting drunk and having their tea,
someone who everyday has to have more than a few,
then the penny drops, “Jesus Si that odour is coming from you!”
I’m weary, languid, my body is sore,
and because I didn’t shower I’ve got Pound Shop wine coming out of my pores
yeah 4 for tenner cheap plonk is great to toast the end of the paid employment week
but after 24 hours without a cleanse  it pongs pretty bleak,
I’ve got eau de toillete of rotten grape reek.
I hum like I’ve slept in a pre Herculean task Stables Of Aegean that’s been dosed in a dregs of wine pump,
or stench like a on the streets Oliver Twist spliced with a wino Stig Of The Dump.
The bus pulls up to work and before I head in I think I’ll grab something greasy to eat,
ohh, congealed fat mixed with a day on the beers stink, your mates’ nostrils are in for a treat.
I slob to my desk like the unbathed thing I feel
And ponder, “that shower later better be the real deal.”
But, I don’t always rue not having a shower on a Monday because sometimes it means I don’t have the aroma of a stale wine scene,
sometimes uncleansed has me feeling serene!
I remember one unshowered Monday as I’d seen you on the Sunday I smelt of that perfume you always wear,
cos as you’re huggy and tactile it was on my clothes, some of it was even in what was left of my hair,
and as that scent reminded me of you what swirled around me was your awesome breeze,
suffice to say that day of employment passed with ease,
as whenever I got bored of pretending to look at that work thing on Excel
i’d get a hint of your fragrance and my thoughts would propel
with,
your easy wisdom and penchant for a chats
how you like Amaretto and how you love cats,
how you help out animals when they’re feeling brittle
with the tender coo of a Dr Doolittle.
You can take a piece of junk that was discarded at leisure,
decorate it with aplomb and turn it into a treasure,
you’re a burst of energy, a buzzing sprite,
a pleasure to be around, a total delight,
you’re interested in the world, and quantum theory,
talking to you is never dreary,
you bounce around the pub fabulously gassing with the many folk you see,
opening conversations with your splendid key,
**** you seem as popular as me!
Ahh, your joyful demeanour and fantastic soar,
how could anyone fail to hear your wonderful caw;
Emma every time I see you I like you more!
And on those your perfume days when I do get home, hit the shower and feel cleanliness envelop my face
I think, “you know for a ***** day you turned out pretty ace!”!
NDHK Jul 2014
I am not a prim and proper wedding cake topper.
Nor am I the quick-time drop her, ***** girl offer.
Varied between.

My mind, blind to the shallows of relationship seas.
My feelings run deep like haunting melodies.
Honestly offered.

Complex in my simplicities and transparently guarded.
Running lava-hot inside these walls hard hearted.
Softly contained.

But like a second read to a book that has been skimmed through before.
Welcoming now a chance for someone to want to explore.



*©NDHK
kigger ind på lejlighederne og
gløden af følelser vælder i mig glimt af tårer glimt af
vægtløshed og mørkeblå og bålrøg
som om jeg nogensinde har oplevet noget der kører som en spillefilm i
mit hoved når jeg tænker på det perfekte
som om jeg ved hvad jeg egentlig tænker som om ord ikke dekonstrueres og knækker sammen ved blot et enkelt blik
verden er opløselig
ubetinget tidsløshed
livet er elastisk
hvis nogen fortalte mig, at jeg ikke har været på jorden i mere end fem år ville jeg ikke tvivle det
mine minder smelter ligesom under opmærksomhedens lys som gamle billeder af glemte mennesker som om nogen har plantet dem i mig som om jeg
aldrig har været mit eget menneske før
og alt der sker lige her topper ikke alt hvad der sker på gaden og i byen og i landet og i havene og på kontienterne og på kloden og i solsystemet og i galaksen og i universet og i eksistensen
det hele er slimet og formløst i min forståelse
jeg kan ikke forklare det for jeg ved ikke noget
jeg kan ikke forklare det men jeg ved ikke noget
som om jeg er et stykke tyggegummi på undersiden af en
sejlbåd midt i
saltvandet
hvis jeg kniber øjnene sammen bliver teksten fed
**saltvandet
James M Vines Oct 2016
Knead out the crust and fill up the pan. Prepare the fruit with just a hint of brown sugar. Mold the filling into the crust. Cover it with a topper and adding a little more sugar is a must. Working with a fruit that often taste like sour grapes, requires patients and skill to get the flavor just right. Not too **** and not too sweet, somewhere in the middle is where the flavor should meet. If all has been done with expert care, the smell will bring family and friends running from everywhere. Take delight in a difficult fall dish, made with love and care. Persimmon pie can be wonderful, just try a piece and see.
Simon Fernandes Jul 2017
She made him Punctual from a late latheef
An extrovert out of a lone desert
Chivalrous knight who was an insensible trash
Responsible man who always forgot the dates
Kind human whom world saw as a hooligan
Studious kid who was a topper in reverse order
Majestic man out of a whiny babe
 
 
She made him drop the Deadwing, which had his soul
listen to Chainsmokers which was once detested
share his share of chocolates and make an amendment
Let the pillion occupy the special reserved seat
Dump all the colossal ego just to see her grin
Ignore the friends as if some ***** jinx
Get drenched because she found bliss in it
 
How do you feel now, that the bait is consumed
There is no more interest, no intrigue left

Get the control of the handle now
Rev your ****** out on the road you like
Stop not till you find the the right place
Hope is what keeps us awake through ghastly nights.
Robin Carretti Nov 2019
Carol of the bells shes the lady
in her arm chair twinkles
Any state jeweled fair
Prayers of garland birds
Zip it Zircon pardon me
December remember the stone
Triumph tanzanite  He's

"Superman Crimsonite"
Debutante Peacock turquoise
Applause noise and noise
"Princess Owl State Fair"
Violin ballantine clock
Her heart key silent night lock
The artist ceilng sings
"Cheeks divine she blushes

Silk fine print brushes"    
Pointsetta ruby wings
"Thomas Kincade" walls
Light the promenade
Princess gown wanderlust
Power pride sleigh ride
Eyes of the owl lady stunner

Plays royalty no brainer
"Princess Owl" tree topper
Holiday lights  they shine the Princess comes through like the savoir any state of the affair eyes of the owl the painting refreshes the time of love the wings take flight so ever bright
Wk kortas Jul 2021
He had, when it became clear
The dog was on his last legs,
Went to a canine memorial concern,
One of those somewhat well-intentioned marketing brainstorms
Which operated under the assumption
That what was good enough for master was good enough for Fido,
And the folks who ran the place dressed in dark suits
Which accentuated the notion that what they did
Was no different than going through the paces
Of sending Grandma to her final reward
(Though the whole thing carried out
With a wink and a nod,
All of which by no means bringing credit to man nor dog.)
He'd been put off by the whole fol-de-rol,
Though he'd sat dutifully through the videos and brochures,
Being possessed of the same damnable politeness
Which made a place like this possible if not necessary,
And he'd ignored the two or three follow-up inquiries.
The dog finally came to his rest
On one of those gray silent November days
Which were the harbinger of the locking season,
And he'd taken him down to the back part of his property
Where he'd had the soybeans in this year,
A spot where three or four of his dogs already resided,
And though there was no markers or such on the spot,
He reckoned that the fact it was a good patch of growing land
Was sufficient testament to their standing.
Lillian Hallberg Apr 2015
NaPoWriMo  Day 7: write about something you value. This poem is from my Cherished series  http://lillianthehomepoet.wordpress.com

The Table

She found the table at Marshall Fields
in nineteen forty-nine, and pictured
her family at exactly half-past six each night
four plates, four forks, knives and spoons.

White oak, the Illinois state tree
with tight growth rings
durable, resilient, and
carved with artisan's care.

Emotions buffed artfully into lustrous patina
over years marred by scratches, chips and burns
tuna-noodle-pea casseroles set forgetfully upon the wood
and forks slammed down in anger.

Keeping up with Rita, Gwen, and Claire
teflon pans and a formica table-topper
emotions erupt with modernity as leftovers
disappear in a single swipe of the hand.

— The End —