"waffles" poems
like cellophane wraps hard candy
like ink loves to dry
like hot sauce drenches noodles
like sunrise casts shadows
like band-aids sooth cut flesh
like irons crease linens
like origami folds paper
like water floats boats
like a tempest loves a teapot
like syrup and bananas drench waffles
like spoons love soup
like cats love fish
like french fries love ketchup
like wild girls dance
like a crow loves road ****
like eyes love beauty
like a circle loves a square
like buttered buns fit a bikini
like a kissed mouth hungers for wet lips
like moths love a flame
like dogs love ********
and like ******* hug butts
like howling ******* pulse hearts
like vampires love blood and castles
like dark grapes ferment in bubbling cauldrons
like madness loves a straight jacket
like a ***** loves a ****
and music gets you dancing
like suns fall through cobalt night all smashing diamonds
that's
how i love you
Jul 19, 2018
Jul 19, 2018 at 2:53 PM UTC
everything is on sale
and I eat and eat
and yell at the couple
arguing in the ATM line
and smirk at the pharmacist
as I toss my meds in the
can behind the counter
king soopers
my realm
of crushed potpourri
honeycrisp apples
black cocktail dresses
stuck
shut with
peanut butter
I love grocery
shopping.
Oct 28, 2015
Oct 28, 2015 at 1:00 PM UTC
Stop resenting me
For the way I shop
The things I do
To make sure
My food is fresh
I confess I feel blueberries
In my fingers
To make sure they are firm
Not too ripe
I confess I shake
Cans of spaghetti and ravioli
So that I know
The sauce is not
Congealed
I confess I pull frozen waffles
From the back of the freezer
Less likely that they thawed
And refroze into
Oddball shapes
I confess I smell trout
Before I buy it
Placing it against my nose
In the most unabashed
Way
Spare me your hate
About my consumer habits
When I know it has nothing to do with
Food
As long as I bring you warm release
In the darkness of your desires
Pull your tangled hair the way
You like
Bite your darting tongue
In mad hunger
Deep appetite
As long as I reawaken the
Woman
Primal animal hidden
Within
Turn your heat into a river
For a long passionate
Swim
As long as I attend quickly to your
Every ***** command
The craving of your ******
Insatiable
Demand
Then I can squeeze french bread
In quiet and peace
I can sniff cantaloupes
Without suffering ire
Or grief
I’ll take you tonight
In that filthy way
You like
Until then
Leave me alone
I’m shopping.
May 25, 2014
May 25, 2014 at 6:15 AM UTC
while I may do you perfectly. the snow angels on gasoline st., did you
see them? All of the houses were dripping wet too, one girl with gold laces on her leopard shoes wore red plastic pants; totally soaked to the bone.
to train ourselves to brave the heat of each others' bodies as we awaken in one small bed, one small blanket. the both of us yawn. it's so fun to make waffles but neither of us like to eat preference. I love you to death but prefer to brush my teeth alone- one tooth at a time.
embrace your new t-shirt, even though not everyone enjoys a good show of a flock of crows. hand drawn indie wicker-hipster prints. coffee by the pint. you crack me up like vitrifying glass sheens of the individual bubbles in a bubble bath or the ****** glazed eyes of the monsters' eye while a shark attacks.
creaky sounds of bodies mapped by fingers, tickled tummies rippled by listening to witch house singers. you crack me up, count chocula. It's Saturday, I love to laugh while laying down. everybody's funnier when they're laying on the ground. we toast to ghosts.
luminous lengths of birthday candles
lickediddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddd d 0 y0urself as best you can
May 11, 2014
May 11, 2014 at 3:55 AM UTC
I'm craving for food,
maybe some eggs
or waffles.
Maybe a bacon on the side
and a sausage.
A huge pancake
with a lot of syrup,
strawberries and bananas on the top.
A piece of bread
with ham and cheese inside of it.
A side of fruits of different kinds ,
chocolate
or an apple pie.
A big glass of juice,
it could be orange or cranberry.
The cup of coffee... Oh, I want a cup of coffee.
I want something that makes me feel better
in this cold and hungry morning.
Why not everything mixed?
Why not make a big breakfast buffet?
Scrambled eggs,
waffles with bacon,
pancakes,
the sweet syrup,
some delicious strawberries
and bananas as a topping,
a mini sandwich,
fruits with chocolate
and another dessert.
The glass of juice for the end,
the lovely cup of coffee to begin.
I want to do a breakfast party, I'm starving.
Apr 10, 2015
Apr 10, 2015 at 9:53 AM UTC
Black girls are the most juicy and sweet candies in the world: melanin masterpiece of nature, bubbly as sweet soda. Dark skin color is the most pleasant and sweet light color. Skin is like chocolate candy, sugar-marmalade taste of lips, only a dark-skinned girl can give the most juicy, juicy and sweet kiss with her big sensual lips. The skin is soft as chocolate sponge cake. Her skin shines beautifully in the light like jam, soft body parts like pudding. Lips and intimate places are so sweet as if juicy, hot, hot dark chocolate, feet like ice cream waffles. The color of her skin is like a sweet delicacy, a gorgeous dessert, sweet chocolate cream, chocolate mousse, an unforgettable sugar taste and you get into the taste, skin as if emitting hot moans of *** The blacker, the juicier and sweeter the skin, juicy relish, the hotter its sexuality and passion, like a panther with strikingly beautiful eyes, like a powerful magnet beckons to itself, fascinating for its beauty.
Author: Musin Almat Zhumabekovich
Feb 18, 2019
Feb 18, 2019 at 12:52 AM UTC
tattooed girl
hello kitty
in need of a purge
she **** first
in the whip me
with a wet noodle
pain Olympics
her fruit launcher
like a summer papaya
***** gush
kissey squirts
candy crush
all gobbledygoo
and lickyfu
ooow she swayed
to the whip back crack
her torso bent
heaven sent
dipped in hot ***
and laughing lady sauce
she squealed
for
bok choy
eel ****
and slippy toy
**** buttered waffles
and gummy worms
lime and cherry *****
with candy sperms
you can find her
in the bend over den
eating puffer fish
so very Zen
toes gooey wet
spread on a cot
oh so high
**** and squat
******* baby
tied in a knot
**** bobba bubble
and chrysanthemum tea
nut scented black beer
and milk pearl ***
its the end of the line
ready to dine
get the gag
flex the spine
face to the ground
feet to the sky
held like a dove
***** splash cry
Aug 6, 2017
Aug 6, 2017 at 12:16 PM UTC
Third weekend in July
I love canoeing out on Northwood
Lake, early morning hours melting
into the pines, as I head toward the
island where the wild blueberries
lie. Tiny morsels, abundant and packed with
the taste of summer and beepollen and freshwater
and snow. Minnows nibble my toes, each one
a solid worm for the biting, as I slowly
fill a one-gallon jug, berry by berry,
to use for breakfast pancakes and
Belgian waffles cooked golden from
the waffle iron. Some of the ripest
berries plop into the lake. I swipe
them up before bass or sunfish
see them; always leaving the
green berries behind.
Pausing to taste some, they
split between my incisors;
I marvel at the flavor
while a loon’s haunted red
eyes stare at nothing.
Blueberries split like
relationships
occasionally do,
sour at times, always
leaving a taste on your
palate. Families, young
lovers picnicking on the
beach lake, confused couples;
they branch off, moonlight
silhouetting their outlines;
silent elegy softly blossoming
downward as their paths skew.
They won’t cross again.
My jug filled, I oar
back to the dock,
ears filled with
humming of birds,
insects, boats;
brimming with
the bream from berries
splitting apart,
and the intense
silence of blueberry
picking in late July.
Feb 26, 2015
Feb 26, 2015 at 3:09 PM UTC
╰⊰✿´ℒ♡ⓥℯ'✿⊱╮
Crisp on the outside
Soft, fluffy inside
Vanilla blooms on my tongue
Maple syrup drips
Strawberries, whipped cream
Dust sugar
Stack!
╰⊰✿⊱╮
Aug 16, 2018
Aug 16, 2018 at 3:33 PM UTC
The monotony of adolescence is a laughable oxymoron.
My mom keeps saying to me,
"Caitlin, you're in a state of flux. Just wait."
Little does she know
I'm waiting for anything
to ebb.
Flow.
Twinge.
Any lurch of impulse of life
in this constant static lullaby.
Maybe I'm just itching to slough off my skin of content
and breathe in a fresh new disposition.
Become intoxicated in the maybes,
and the possibly's.
Embracing the oh-wells
and the never-enough-times.
Eschewing the feeling of everything I've missed
by having it near.
Having him here.
Getting trapped in the crinkles of his smile
and the freckles on his shoulders
that navigate me to the spots I feel most comfy.
Losing regard for the world as I become transfixed
in us
and our patterns on his couch.
Tumble into elation.
Quirks transpire the me's and you's
into the us's and we's.
To think... I was so scared to hold his hand.
Not knowing at the time
how great his waffles would taste
after a night of holding him.
Sep 23, 2012
Sep 23, 2012 at 4:27 PM UTC
Jane the economy toaster
Was cheap as appliances go
Her unpolished sides were all greasy
And as grey as suburbanite snow
The edge of her slot was all melted
And her tray was encrusted with crumbs
Her lever was missing a handle
And would nibble at fingers and thumbs
She lived at the back of a cupboard
With some rusty old pans and a spider
In the gloom she would dream that somebody
Would hammer a muffin inside her
That some special son-of-a-baker
Would fill up her dusty old holes
With croissants and baguettes and bagels
With waffles and tea cakes and rolls
But alas with her family broken
The whisk and second-rate kettle
Her owners replaced the whole set
With something more classy in metal
And so in her murky wee crevice
She wept and she twiddled her ****
She twitched her lever with envy
Of the toaster that lives by the hob
Jane faded away and she vanished
But in silicone heaven she boasts
That she's Jane the economy toaster
The maker of muffins for ghosts
Feb 9, 2013
Feb 9, 2013 at 6:14 PM UTC
Staring at a blank page
Why won’t my brain fit into you?
Poetry’s my new ****
I hope the cleanup’s easy
Jazzy enterprises
It’s time for some improv.
Do I look like a **** to you?
I say to my stepmom
If I wanted my comeback
I’d get it off your mom’s chin.
I love it now,
That faded, stupid grin.
Go **** your high horse,
I bet it’ll reach you.
Horses have big *****
Like the people who win web arguments
Congrats to you,
Oh ye fake SOB
Shakespeare, rather queer
Bites his thumb at thee
I can’t say I enjoy this
Painting on paper
Words being the brush
To which I’m engaged by
I’m doing this for you
You better know
I find no joy in this
Like war on veteran’s day.
Nov 28, 2012
Nov 28, 2012 at 6:02 PM UTC
Bobo's kitchen
in the kitchen
icebergs rampage from the freezer
burying pizzas and waffles
in a glacier jungle
Bobo swings forks and knives
at the ice until the maintenance man
cusses in Polish
gallons of water
dripping downstairs
sizzling Bertalina's soul
the fiery bilingual single mom
living in fear
below his fear
of noise complaints
she sends tape recordings
to the landlord in her
cute red faced anger
loud people! and bongos!
guitars! stomping! laughter!
nightmares for her boys
who think they hear ghosts
her tight black spandex
drives Bobo mad when she runs
drifted scents of her food
sift in through his windows
knocking him out
in hungry frustration!
¿Como estás? he asks her
I speak ******* English! she barks back
back up the stairs Bobo goes
to his own kitchen where
the mice crawl out the stove tops
and potatoes grow tree roots
clear through the window
toward another life
Jake Mahaffey
Copyright (c) 2013 Jacob Mahaffey
Jan 23, 2012
Jan 23, 2012 at 12:28 AM UTC
Round or square.
I don't really care as long
as they're there. Crispy and
golden, filled with sticky syrup.
Topped with butter which melts
like ice. Take one bite and you
are in love. They are the best
breakfast to ever be on
one's tongue.
Jan 1, 2015
Jan 1, 2015 at 2:43 AM UTC
I'm always thinking of you,
For all the imposters I say shoo.
You always know what I need.
To be with you I plead.
With blueberries, or syrup,
I always cheer up.
Waffles are my weakness.
Each and every one is full of uniqueness.
Mar 9, 2013
Mar 9, 2013 at 9:58 PM UTC
The gurgle of the coffee maker,
The clink of your spoon on the frigid counter,
The sizzle of bacon residue in a frying pan,
and an egg cracking over it.
The murmurs of the news reporters on the tv,
The distant roar of a train in the background,
The dive into sensory pleasure,
while reality dissipates.
The smell of hazelnut creamer and cinnamon,
The taste of a waffle with buttery syrup,
The warm sun on your face through the window,
today is good; today will be different.
The giggles of the waffles and coffee,
The light conversation and hard laughter,
The feeling of home... within them,
a sudden shift in atmosphere.
The sharp loss of appetite
The grieving of what wasn’t lost
The shared remorse for nothing you’ve done
they tell you that you’re pathetic.
The despair in your mug dropping into the table
The swallowed tears and screams
The chaos that covers every square inch of you
distance between you and hope still stands.
The ***** kitchen and your empty stomach
The distressing moonlight that creeps in the window
The anger in thinking you’re liberated this time
sounds of an empty home stir.
The cold seats that have accompanied nobody
The wallowing roar of silence
The jacket of despair that wears you
your average day.
Feb 3, 2021
Feb 3, 2021 at 4:37 PM UTC
this is not a ******* poem, but you could see it anywhere else i could post
and we can't have that
we can't have me talking to you, texting you, writing about you
and it's not ******* fair
i miss you
you won't talk to me anymore and i don't know what i ******* did
no one talks to me anymore
and i guess i'm not fit for ******* friendship
and i said it was okay if you don't always wanna talk
but you were supposed to still stick around!
i'm glad you're ******* happy
really, truly, i am.
but ******* i just wanna talk to you again.
you're driving me ******* crazy
and you're not even doing anything (but that's the problem isn't it?)
i wanna talk about when i'm scared and tired
and i wanna talk about when you're scared and tired
and i wanna be there for you
and honestly i want more than you just being there for me
when im about to throw myself out of a window
cuz everyone's ******* there when im about to **** myself
i want someone to be there when i'm not, too
i want someone to like me and talk to me (and keep talking)
for some other reason than
"you looked scared"
"i just didn't want you to be completely alone"
"you shouldn't **** yourself, i'll miss you" (well that's sudden)
and i thought you did. i thought we could talk about stuff that wasn't that
i thought we could talk about waffles and popcorn and annoying perfect people
we could talk about parks and rec and about being gay
we could talk about skateboarding and first kisses
and i hoped it would last more than just a little while
but i guess i was ******* wrong
and i always am
and im so mad at you for not responding except when i tell you
im gonna die
im so mad i never wanna talk to you again
**** you for leaving without at least telling me why
but please come back
i thought i had a friend
May 2, 2016
May 2, 2016 at 8:48 PM UTC
Noun.
The mother of ones father or mother. (mother)
Elderly. (Died December 28, 2011)
Kind. Sweet. Gentle. (If there is a paradise, she is there.)
Bright. Thoughtful. (She made me a Snoopy apron one year for Christmas.)
Loving. (She raised 6 kids, took care of her husband for 55 years, and always made waffles for breakfast when grand-kids came to visit.)
Loved. (by all who knew her)
Missed. (by just as many)
Survived. (1 husband, 6 kids, 4 grandkids, many friends.)
Dec 29, 2011
Dec 29, 2011 at 1:45 AM UTC
Angie
Random
Divergent
Harry Potter
Percy Jackson
Anime
Pastries
WAFFLES
ANGIE IN DA HOUSE! BOOOOOOM!!!! :D
Apr 12, 2014
Apr 12, 2014 at 4:37 PM UTC
waffles, waffles a real great treat.
I cook them for breakfast as their fun to eat.
Buttery and light, my taste buds take flight.
In fact, I just might eat them tonight!
May 3, 2018
May 3, 2018 at 11:07 PM UTC
Turn the tables
tumble through tears
totalitarian thespians trying tired themes
Tanned tenants thrive
trespassing turtles turn towards tornadoes
Tested trees tower tall
tomorrow terrifies Timetraveller Tom.
Again and again
I have to make my choice
between your fiery face and the endless maze
But then I remember
my heart is made up of
a thousand tiny
Belgian Waffles
A thousand tiny Belgian Waffles.
Jan 30, 2016
Jan 30, 2016 at 11:06 AM UTC
Wisconsin, fine--
We sit on state lines.
Across the street, Rodeo Drive.
Move a little bit
and East L.A. makes you feel alive.
Go to the diner
where the mermaids wear aprons
and hold out menus like personal stock.
Where the surfer-rama drama in the diner deep
allows them to let go of those they keep.
And you and me and those we love,
keep us finite, because why not.
I could tell you how to eat your waffles
if you will be the spoon that stirs my coffee.
Listen to me,
"Rachel, there's no one, right now,
that I'd rather sit and eat breakfast with than you.
And if it doesn't work out,
and we choke on our meals, that's fine.
I just want to try when I'm with you."
We exchange glances
and I'm sure, then,
that I adore the aplomb,
for your smile leads myself
into believing and being more.
Mar 8, 2015
Mar 8, 2015 at 1:27 PM UTC
Babe you are worse than late night ****
Sinful like fried chocolate cake
Ironic like chicken and waffles with a diet coke
Or using lard based dressing on a salad
You bad
Like menudo without lime
Like hot cheetos to my kidneys
My desire for you is like:
That nostalgia you feel like a lump in your chest
The first time you smoked ****
The first time you came
The first time you fell in love
I’m sad cuz you ain’t here
And glad you’re far away.
Jan 21, 2014
Jan 21, 2014 at 11:48 AM UTC
Every Friday night we
hang out and make out.
We talk and listen to music,
and we know the night isn't getting younger.
When you're asleep at my house I always think about sneaking a cigarette,
but I know you can't stand the smell, so I don't.
I end up falling asleep.
Every Saturday morning I awake at your house
and sometimes mine.
You're always the first awake,
playing on your phone.
You lie next to me,
and I put my head on your chest.
I love the sound of your heartbeat.
We eat breakfast, get dressed, and go out sometimes.
By the end of the day, we end up at your house on Saturdays.
We fall asleep like we normally would, cuddling.
On Sunday we wake up,
the normal routine.
We always eat waffles or pancakes with your mom, dad, sometimes your brother and ALWAYS Gary.
We always go somewhere on Sundays,
whether it be New Orleans, the Mall, or the lakefront.
By the end of the day, we go to our separate homes,
and Monday comes.
Jan 28, 2014
Jan 28, 2014 at 9:22 PM UTC
"I smell waffles",she said.
"It's just your hair",laughed her conscience.
That was the day she went bald.
Oct 11, 2013
Oct 11, 2013 at 2:16 PM UTC