You Tuber watcher
me a Tuber watcher
I watch it most nights
then some of the days
I watch it from June
till the end of May
Yes I am a You Tuber
been since 2004
and you know something
it opened many a door
from metaphysics
to Palaeontology
you really can see all
so tonight dear friend
go have yourself a ball


By Christos Andreas Kourtis aka NeonSolaris

Billy loved his parsnip
He'd tend it day and night
To keep it safe from prying eyes
He stashed it out of sight
But one eventful morning
He awoke to such alarm
His parsnip had gone from puny
To the size of a baby's arm

Such growth was nigh unheard of
In a vegetable or fruit
So he bore it proud before him
Grasped expertly by the root
When he showed his doting mother
She was mightily impressed
So screamed a lot then swooned a bit
While clutching at her chest

The people at the bus stop
Shared his mother's admiration
But advised him that his tuber
Needed urgent relocation
So he took it in a taxi
Wrapped up in folded gauze
To the Guinness book of records
And he pushed apart the doors

His parsnip held protruding
With a confident advance
Like a knight atop his charger
With a huge organic lance
But security had seen him
They quickly knocked him flat
A policeman saw his parsnip
And he hid it with his hat

Billy served his sentence
For unsavory displaying
He changed his name to Danny
There's no record where he's staying
The moral of this sorry tale
Is far too dull to write
So learn your ****** vegetables
And know their names on sight

**

O indiginous tuber to Peru,
Now in nations' daily stews,
From the Polar South to Timbuktu,
Ranked with rice, wheat and maize,
Oh staple potatoe
You grace our table.

We plant seed spuds,
Red, yellow or brown,
Harvest the new ones,
The remainder mound
To thrive in leisure,
As buried treasure.

Heel the spud *****,
Unearth your trove,
A gatherer's surprise
To woo true love.

We slice, dice and mash,
Roast, deep-fry and bake.
It's not an egg,
It'll never break.

     Medium-rare, please.
     And make mine a baked.
     Oh, and don't forget the butter,
     Oh, and sour-cream, just in case.”

It hasn't got *** appeal,
What you see is true,
But make no mistake,
I swear by what's holy in taste,
It only has eyes for you.

Pharmaceutically,
It soothes,
Burns, itches, puffy eyes,
Migraines and headaches.

Make a stamp,
Make silver shine,
Clean your windows with its brine.
And potatoe muffins are simply divine.

When blight strikes,
When crops don't thrive,
Many starve,
Many have died.

So, I raise this toast
To the lofty Tuber,
And I dedicate this Ode,
To the one,
The only:
*Mr. Potatoe,
This bud's for you.

Trembling,
you said to me
“Put the potato down”.
I examined the raw tuber,
clenched tightly in my hand,
like the first man
on a distant continent
to discover
this strange and ugly meteor,
with earthen smell
and cold rough skin;
it’s dead eyes staring back at me.
“Please, put down the potato”
I glanced at you,
wordlessly,
unfurling my fingers
the potato fell to the ground
in an unceremonious
thud.

First name:
A fire red, carrot orange, and dull rust
A dusty-on-the-outside-bright-spicy-and-wet-on-the-inside tuber
A dancer and cartoon
Second name:
Three short letters, one tonal syllable
From my mother's motherlanguage
Joy
Last name:
Hill of deer in German
(Also a Jewish name?)
Sounds like a chocolate sandwich
Makes my name a score of letters long

His sister Culo
Had it much worse than he
He, blind and bound
By cool moist earth walls
Wriggled
With such downward mobility
Only to flower backwards
To watch as his legs rose higher
Until they pierced the surface of the world
And his toes became weeds
And his head became a potato.

'Listen, now, verse should be as natural
As the small tuber that feeds on muck
And grows slowly from obtuse soil
To the white flower of immortal beauty.'

'Natural, hell! What was it Chaucer
Said once about the long toil
That goes like blood to the poem's making?
Leave it to nature and the verse sprawls,
Limp as bindweed, if it break at all
Life's iron crust. Man, you must sweat
And rhyme your guts taut, if you'd build
Your verse a ladder.'
'You speak as though
No sunlight ever surprised the mind
Groping on its cloudy path.'

'Sunlight's a thing that needs a window
Before it enter a dark room.
Windows don't happen.'
So two old poets,
Hunched at their beer in the low haze
Of an inn parlour, while the talk ran
Noisily by them, glib with prose.

i am buddha and i am ok, you see i am the coolest dude oh yeah any day

you see my hooligan is trying to catch me yeah

but i am too cool for that, my friend

you see dudes, i party right up here

showing the after life how to party, yeah

it’s good to see tony abbott lost his battle

you see he is such a two faced old ****

working hard to make a living, putting shelter over our heads

i have found a way to party in ****** bed

everyone is living in the past with my actions, yeah mate yeah

like they judge me from when i was scared running up to my nanna

my brother stayed down there, i was a scared little ****

but i am still a good you tuber and writer and artist

and i will be the best i can fucken be

i look at the palm of my hand, and it says i have a long life line

and i have got big things happening for me mate, yeah that’ll be so cool

i am flying ,around outer space trying to catch the villain

the evil hooligan who i causing all the crime on earth

you see for i am cronus, i am saving the world

every idiot at a time

i have a triangle on my palm which means love life no matter what pressure your under

and the fact the triangle is on both palms

means i really love life, despite my schizophrenic brain saying i hate it

you see i know i am not a hooligan, but i was one in the past

but if i had my time again i would undo all the hooligan out

you see my hooligan is the itchy rashy fungus coming into my body

i don’t want it, but i have got it,and unless i try and relax, i will have to live with it

you see i really loved foxtel back then, showing all my mates some shows that are on

and i felt so normal, because people were wanting to come over to watch pay TV

because they were too poor, and i had a technology family and i was fine showing people all the good things about foxtel

you see i had my problems way back in 2004, when the ghosts kidnapped me away from foxtel

and took me to the psych ward to meet the people who are suffering, yeah

you see i liked to drink with my workmates after work ya see

cause i was a party animal, you see right now i am leaving my nasty man up here

while my nice man comes back to earth

i remember steven gasparic came to my house after getting ****** with me

we watched the footy all weekend, he left on sunday afternoon

this was back in 1997, the year the crows won the title against the saints

i said, come on sainters come on sainters you must win today

on that saturday night ya see, the broncos beat the sharks in super league

super league was ok, but the NRL is better

you see we get drunk, as we drink our hooligans away

yeah we feel so cool

the robin came down as he cleared the ground,
all red chest, pretty eyes.

we discussed the earth, rich now, without
the stones. we could grow potatoes as they
did here in the war. i have the photograph.

these are fortunate times, while have disliked
the tuber since the flu struck.

there has been a lot of it this year here.

we plan a pretty little greenhouse, all white
with embellishments, red geraniums.

the robin watched, i am told he will like mealworms.

sbm.

I can recall a simpler time
when just spelling was the problem.
But now D.C. has doubled down
and is really scraping bottom.

What did the humble Potato do
To draw Pelosi’s ire.?
Why are white potatoes banned
From school lunches I inquire?

Sweet Potatoes are welcome still
on school kids’ lunchtime plates.
But Idaho’s may not be served-
That makes Michelle irate.

Baked, mashed or fried There’s good inside
the humble white potato.
Potatoes of color are welcome too
upon my dinner table.

The Tuber is a starchy treat
with vitamins and fiber.
Whatever will the Irish eat
If you toss it in the Tiber?

i slice wedges
and suddenly realize
i am not unlike
the tuber i'm cutting so
-maliciously-

this chunk of earthy flesh
takes many shapes&form;;
constantly changing
yetalwaysstill
a potato

a seed unto itself
ready to spread roots
wherever it may land

living in dark solitude
yet always reaching up
towards light-
towards life-

i find a hidden bad spot
and carefully [eradicate it]
such a good potato
should not go to waste

You eat a lot of things from tuber ware containers with a ***** fork
you haven't washed in weeks.
You pile mounds of ketchup on anything
literally everything you eat,
and you hold your utensils like a sandbox shovel
just stuffing the food in your mouth, filling your cheeks like a chipmunk,
yet somehow you still think you have the ability to talk.
You wash everything down with beer.
One kind of beer- nothing else.
I always ask for a sip and you just pull it away while pulling me in.
Your lips are warm and taste like venison, and the yellow light
of the kitchen makes your complexion look a little off
but your eyes are bluer than they've ever been.
You should see yourself stand there at the counter
trying to tell me some story I can't understand about what happened to you that day,
or that night, or maybe it was last week.
Your timeline's never been quite accurate, your memory skewed.
Sometimes I'll look at you in moments like this and mumble, "you're so ******* weird"
but truth is I love all the things you do.

It's bits like this that I miss when you're not there.
Like how you sleep with your elbows under the pillow, snoring so loud
I can't hear myself dreaming.
How you think just because you've memorized every movie ever
that means I have too,
and why it is I just laugh when you quote something I've never seen.
Especially, those times you look at me with this quizzical look
a great idea just sitting on your tongue, expecting something
when really it's just some silly thing you've thought about all day
just didn't know how to say.
I tell you constantly that I can't stand how you wait until the very last clean shirt
before you do the laundry,
how those loads and loads are a ***** to fold
but truth is I love how worn everything is.
I even love the way you sing in the shower, or in the car, or in after dark, or all the time.
I love the way you moan as the sunlight peaks through the window in the morning.
I love when you rustle up my hair after I just did it.
I love how you smear my make-up.
I love you all the time, when you're smart, a *******, rude.
And even though I'll say 100 times in a day that you drive me crazy.
I love all the things you do.

boiled
naked

South American tuber

whipped into a frenzy

dairy alterations

makes
a creamy smothered

tongue

dressed in a
silken coat of
carbohydrate glory.

Duchesse bought into the room upon a silver platter.
Cried a tiny tear.
The diners cried,
Oh my, what's the matter dear.
Duchesse replied through egg streaked tears.
They've gone and mashed my family.
My sister's stuck in boiling fat.
Made her crisp and crunchy.
My brother darling, my sweet brother.
The sent to the land of France.
Where as Dauphenoise.
He will entrance.
My cousin's she's not feeling good.
Chipped as choice.
To fill the tums of ravenous children.
Me.
I Overhead a conversation.
They said I was a tuba.
Thought I was destined for a band!
Then I realised from a tuber I'd be growing.
Not being played
I had to feed the land!

Good grief... I'm in a really stupid mood tonight! Livvi x
By ladylivvi1

© 2013 ladylivvi1 (All rights reserved)

while at the christmas party this week
still with painful feet
from the day before
but still i smile
and look like i am having fun
most of the females to young for me
but i can still show them some moves
or at least i think i can
they love the rumba on the tuber down in cuba
and think i heard no AC/DC at all.

A tisket, a tasket, tinker with the aforementioned
I can see I have missed an engagement.
Expect to establish a celestial tuber, reflecting only
the light of a dark white inference.
AMPERSAND, bitchez

a man and the household, and how a woman should run one;
please don't...
              i rather cook my own meals...
and i don't mean 15 minute ready meals...
                  i mean: tina turner poaching this lobster
crying... type of meals... a...
           oh **** me... i'm getting all sentimental...
i'm jizzing out tears into a hanky... hanley?
       no! a chief! a chief!            it's the 1980's all over again...
              it was some you-tuber asking women to
become housewives... no... no! please no!
              i want to cook my own food... women use too
much salt!
                 i can't stomach woman's cooking...
                 i don't need that much salt!
   what, you had your arab *******, you live in the desert, right?
you are all: alcohol is bad... ooh... alcohol... ba... ba... bad;
         alcohol dehyrdates you... you're in a desert...
       vectors? pointers?
         no?           you don't drink alcohol in scandinavia
   to party.... you drink it so you don't end up eating snow.            
                           bangladeshi slaves working
on the towers of dubai; fair enough,
                   and the northern ****,
            with the "mystcism" of the eastern wind...
            **** me!    is that συλ(θ/φ)(υ/o)ρ γας?
                      mustard?
                            ­                     sulphur...
                     or...     one of them... how to be a good woman...
cook for him!
            no... really... thank you... i'm not going to
exactly cook a michelin duck...
                   but now... i know how much salt i need...
   and now i'm going to listen to some tina turner,
               and feel like one-hundred-dollars...
      then i'll eat some food i prepared earlier...
     and try to fall asleep with a 9kg maine ****
                                                           ­          ginger cat;
so, hmm.

A tuber of sobriety
sprouts in the mind
It swells and thickens
from a root to a vine

A tendril meanders
and wavers
but all the while
still climbs...

The impossible
becoming possible
with discipline
and time

Full Sun

Into delicate aerated soil
an age-old seed was planted,
an eye destined for greatness.
With the slightest spillage of
amendment an adventitious
spore awoke.

A tuber started to grow;
a thriller spreading into the
beautiful composition of
a bicolourous family.

Pollination is a pest known
to most every gardener,
but propagation shall subside.
Mulch to conserve is a heavy
yolk to bear, but,
with determination,
pistil too shall become weary.

O, Biennial,
how I beg thee for more time.
Clench thy inflorescent fist,
a catkin do not become.
Thou hast spread thou roots
into my being as an epiphyte.
Lo! Single flower, wear thy crown
and top-dress with pride
- thou art everblooming!

I often feel not quite a poet
All I seem to have in it is a flair for the dramatic
Because half of my account is rants
I'm just another white teen girl with nothing traumatic
And I only seem to write about my parents
When I've had a fight then
Like my muses seem to constantly forget
All the good times and support from them
And I write about problems I haven't been there to see
And compare places I live to where I've yet to be
I say I'm a loner with no one to talk to
But the truth is I stay away and hide my face in YouTube
Because I've got the social skills of a rotten tuber
And I seemed to have learned that chitchat doesn't help me
To see into the root of the issue, it's just more clutter and clatter
And if the people around us are all that matter
I'll be looking for all ways away from the prattlers
Because I love them with all of my heart
But good god, we need some years apart
They call me bubbly, smart, loving, and a doll
But some day they're gonna see through it all
To the weirdest hypocrisy that lies within
That while I'm living near the top
I've been feeling like I'm about to burst without stop
In spite of all of the luck I've got
So I put in my earbuds, tell them I'm fine
And I try to think of accurate, fitting, and chipper rhymes
Maybe I'll put blue skies straight into my lines next time

Raking autumn leaves
the color of sea stars
mottled on moist ground

I watch them fall
spinning slowly through blue sky
as if the breeze was a tide
ebbing and rising

the rake feels like a paintbrush
collecting color
muddied by mixing
into a fall palette

a still life with fruit
pears and apples still unblemished
on branch attached
but mushy and vinegar smelling

our big white Pyr
helps herself to fallen fruit
laying claim to each orb
her huge paws on either side
moist nose buried
in the rust of the Bosch
the red of the Delicious

we fill a wheelbarrow of leaf draped fruit
to bring below for coyotes
we trap on camera
motion sensed
but motionless

Malama the Pyr
waits whining wondering
if our chill morn together has ended
but the leaves are piles of the fallen
our task is not yet done

more are gathered on tarp
and dragged to garden bed
to blanket wintersleep of bulb and tuber
to feed in their decay
the new blooms of a next spring day

I have always raked
far preferring the quiet metal combing
through grassy tangled tufts
over motored loud blower’s hum
sending Moore's leaves whirling skyward

but I am no longer  tempted
to jump in the pile
gathering armfuls whose yellow color
is a child's crayon sun
and toss them for a second fall

no longer are they bagged  
in thick black plastic to wait
decomposition amongst the landfill’s
less pastoral refuse

nor are they burned
sending acrid leaf spirit smoke
into the cold pale blue
of October afternoon

now their raking is not a ridding
a discarding of what was season’s decoration
soon useless brown
but more of a farewell
a leaving of the light

an offering of what is still of use
in the aged for what will be
a period of cold and dark
and winter's rest
before the next season of green
begins

This body is the
Flower of the Soul,
Critical Mass desirous
Of Being.

No shame in the Flower,
Full blooming or
Fading,
Petals droop, running to
Seed.

The End comes swiftly,
Nitrogen gravitates to
Tuber.

O Flowering Soul,
Dead and Alive-
Your Beauty fumes as
Spirit to Sky

.wow... 28 facebook notifications, i.e. friend suggestions... i knew the hack would work... so i'm looking at 28 girls looking at my profile... how? i used to have around a 300 people network, school friends, uni friends, etc... but before the whole Silicon Curtain came into play, i en masse purged the, "useful" contacts... i wasn't planning on the screening process to be this effective... as one you-tuber pointed out: it's not the number of subscribes, or the number of watched said material: but the time spent perusing the material... hence? writing out-compete(s) video production... after all... i'm pretty sure people who read me, require more time to simply, passively, watch a video - i'm behind a piano maverick maestro typing away like Vishnu, a pair of eyes and a sluggish cognitive tongue is not match, in terms of speed when a pair of eyes and a pair of hands allows the tongue to be swallowed... "fwend" suggestions are not exactly suggestions, they're indicators of the people who viewed your profile... but you have to be low in networking numbers... after all... facebook is still relevant, in how it can be hacked... i have a minimal standpoint on likes, always have... these friend suggestions are hardly random... after all, these social media sites are interconnected... and then there's Brody: mind you, the hack is available when all your content is public.

watching him running around frantic
with a lamb bone -
    cackling like a fox is supposed to...

three days solid,
  prompt come 8pm -
   and he's in my garden...

kaiser chiefs' song
   ruby... changed a little...

  rudy rudy rudy rudy
   (which means ginger in ****** spreschen)

****... now i have to give him
a name...
   famous ginger politicians?
can't think of any...

****...
   actors!
    
        famous ginger actors...
damian lewis roles...
   axel from billions...

           bobby...

n'ah...
   the forsyte saga:

          soemes!

   no... sounds like a butler's name...
aha!
    
   homeland!

   the character brody!
   that's it...

   my Saturday night is already brimming...
turns i own two cats,
   and on the odd occasion a fox.

O FRUITLESS YAM!
(a soft woman's voice)
"potatoes are usually
grown from other
potatoes..."
YOU, CANNY, in
a jam "...while several
recessed dormant
buds..."
ALL MOUTH AND
NO PLAY
"or eyes on the
surface..."
BORN OF BOREDOM
INVERTED EYES
"on the surface..."
OF HIS DECAY"
"perennials that grow
close to the ground..."
THE ONE THAT CRaWLS
NEVER STRETCHED TO
HER FULL AND FOOLISH
POTENTIAL HEIGHT
"it's called a tuber..."
MAKE THE SHAPE
WITH YOUR UGLY
MOUTH AND NO
END OF ROTTEN
WORDS
"from the end of underground..."
LACKING ENOUGH MIND
TO STAND ON TWO LEGS
"we call these vines..."
THESE ARE THE SPROUTS
WE CALL EYES
"these are the sprouts
we call eyes..."
WHY O WHY DID
YOUR POTATO DIE?
"verticillium wilt..." WILT
SHALL, DID, AND DILT
"these fungi can survive
in the soil..." OF COURSE
SHE OF THE WILTED
EYE, THE FACE AND
THE MOUTH FULL
OF DIRT "but will
eventually die..."
HERE'S TO YOU, THAT
SHALLOW GARDEN, THAT
DEEP MEASURED HURT
AS SOON AS SHE BREAKS
THE SURFACE "wilted
plants will eventually die..."
HERE'S TO YOU, NEXT
SUMMER, NEXT RAY
OF SUN, HERE'S MUD
IN YOUR EYE