"yolks" poems - Hello Poetry

"yolks" poems

We know you, and your little dark colors too. A picture book in your purse penned in mustaches on the full faces of your fare. We call you from bed, 8 o' clock in the morning, dog-light you slow wander the Peruvian darkness making jellyfish tentacles with your hands while you feel your way through Salem. We're colder than night and we wake thrice the bits of your day gig. You collapse in a green field of dandelion where thrushes drown you in Brown. We gorge ourselves on mango slivers, pineapple yolks, a half of grapefruit. We know you are close to your end. On the tops of the cities you call to your lycan friends, the half-sick and muted bray allures them to you, from Bratislava and Mimon, the thoroughfare through the suq. We wait. The foregone untold, the beep beep jug jug swoop sound of the nightingale, in all her dun glory, we wait. Then, as if descending through the moor-lounging silver smoke, the cool stickiness to your fingertips; the fog. We are there when the blue-less and smoky screen surrounds you, when you shank the auburn Scot hair of the sly fox that stalks, say, a cigarette from your lips. When you take the corners swiftly, gadding the streets. The prize king of vulpicide. You rub its matte fur against your bristly gray beard. And while you lay in your lumps of twelve carat flesh you bleat and you nag. One day you will never come home.

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May 2, 2014

May 2, 2014 at 3:14 PM UTC

We know you, and your little dark colors too. A picture book in your purse penned in mustaches on the full faces of your fare. We call you from bed, 8 o' clock in the morning, dog-light you slow wander the Peruvian darkness making jellyfish tentacles with your hands while you feel your way through Salem. We're colder than night and we wake thrice the bits of your day gig. You collapse in a green field of dandelion where thrushes drown you in Brown. We gorge ourselves on mango slivers, pineapple yolks, a half of grapefruit. We know you are close to your end. On the tops of the cities you call to your lycan friends, the half-sick and muted bray allures them to you, from Bratislava and Mimon, the thoroughfare through the suq. We wait. The foregone untold, the beep beep jug jug swoop sound of the nightingale, in all her dun glory, we wait. Then, as if descending through the moor-lounging silver smoke, the cool stickiness to your fingertips; the fog. We are there when the blue-less and smoky screen surrounds you, when you shank the auburn Scot hair of the sly fox that stalks, say, a cigarette from your lips. When you take the corners swiftly, gadding the streets. The prize king of vulpicide. You rub its matte fur against your bristly gray beard. And while you lay in your lumps of twelve carat flesh you bleat and you nag. One day you will never come home.

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I was starving in Pennsylvania. One night, I had enough. Done with it all. The poverty and sickness. The drunken mad nights and dog-fight days. Brutality for breakfast. Served sunny side up runny yolks with butterflies trapped in the yellow sunshine. Spiders built webs in my soul. I stood on the torn-up couch in my living room and yelled at the walls. Listen, you devil. You want me, you better be ready for a fight. I paced the floor like a washed-up heavyweight champ, eyeing the ceiling like a drunken sparrow in a cat's mouth.

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Apr 18, 2025

Apr 18, 2025 at 11:59 AM UTC

Standing Eight Count

I was starving in Pennsylvania. One night, I had enough. Done with it all. The poverty and sickness. The drunken mad nights and dog-fight days. Brutality for breakfast. Served sunny side up runny yolks with butterflies trapped in the yellow sunshine. Spiders built webs in my soul. I stood on the torn-up couch in my living room and yelled at the walls. Listen, you devil. You want me, you better be ready for a fight. I paced the floor like a washed-up heavyweight champ, eyeing the ceiling like a drunken sparrow in a cat's mouth.

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There is no smell in all the world, None in the North or South, None in the East or West, None in the lowest places, None on the highest peaks, Like that smell filling the air, Filling the house, Filling my senses, That smell of spaghetti frying, Frying in the morning light, The smell so different from when it was first cooked, Moving the senses, Moving the mind, Anticipation in scent, The sauce sizzling, Changing, Changing in the frying pan, As the noodles turn crisper, Crisper, Crisp, With that crispness like no other, The noodles, No longer white, Made yellow, Yellow from the sauce, Fried onto them, One with them, Flavours seeping in, And the sauce, Orange now, Red orange but clearly orange, No longer the bright red it was when it entered the pan, And as the sauce and noodles change, Reach that perfect point, The smell just right, The colour just right, The texture just right, The sizzling reaching the perfect crescendo, Then, and only then, The spaghetti no longer stirring, Evened out, Temperature lowered, And carefully, Slowly, To keep them on the top, The eggs break, White running among the noodles, Filling the gaps, Turning from clear to white as they hit the hot pan, Yolks floating on top where they should be, The perfect drop, And the odours as the white changes, Filling the air with new scents, Mingling with the ones already present, And then the salt, disappearing on the surface, The black pepper, Black flects, Scattered evenly, Perfectly, The smell of pepper joining the egg and spaghetti, And a splash of Tobacco Sauce across the whole, That hot smell, That bright red colour, And the silver lid slips on, Over the top, Hiding, Protecting, Cooking the whole, Until it is done, And the lid set aside, The whole onto a plate, Perfect to the senses, The smell, The colours, The texture, Perfect, And the first bight, Heavenly, Like nothing else on earth, Almost sweet, But still savoury, Strange to those knowing bowled pasta, Strange to those knowing simmered sauce, Strange to those knowing fried eggs, But the tastes, Perfect, Blended, Strange but familiar, Many memories, Images, Experiences, All coming together like the different parts of the fried spaghetti, And the fork through the yoke, As it runs down, Bright yellow into orange and red and black and white, Perfect, Amazing, Done. ~The Smell of Fried Spaghetti by Bethany Davis, June 19, 2015

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Jul 19, 2015

Jul 19, 2015 at 12:40 PM UTC

The Smell of Fried Spaghetti

There is no smell in all the world, None in the North or South, None in the East or West, None in the lowest places, None on the highest peaks, Like that smell filling the air, Filling the house, Filling my senses, That smell of spaghetti frying, Frying in the morning light, The smell so different from when it was first cooked, Moving the senses, Moving the mind, Anticipation in scent, The sauce sizzling, Changing, Changing in the frying pan, As the noodles turn crisper, Crisper, Crisp, With that crispness like no other, The noodles, No longer white, Made yellow, Yellow from the sauce, Fried onto them, One with them, Flavours seeping in, And the sauce, Orange now, Red orange but clearly orange, No longer the bright red it was when it entered the pan, And as the sauce and noodles change, Reach that perfect point, The smell just right, The colour just right, The texture just right, The sizzling reaching the perfect crescendo, Then, and only then, The spaghetti no longer stirring, Evened out, Temperature lowered, And carefully, Slowly, To keep them on the top, The eggs break, White running among the noodles, Filling the gaps, Turning from clear to white as they hit the hot pan, Yolks floating on top where they should be, The perfect drop, And the odours as the white changes, Filling the air with new scents, Mingling with the ones already present, And then the salt, disappearing on the surface, The black pepper, Black flects, Scattered evenly, Perfectly, The smell of pepper joining the egg and spaghetti, And a splash of Tobacco Sauce across the whole, That hot smell, That bright red colour, And the silver lid slips on, Over the top, Hiding, Protecting, Cooking the whole, Until it is done, And the lid set aside, The whole onto a plate, Perfect to the senses, The smell, The colours, The texture, Perfect, And the first bight, Heavenly, Like nothing else on earth, Almost sweet, But still savoury, Strange to those knowing bowled pasta, Strange to those knowing simmered sauce, Strange to those knowing fried eggs, But the tastes, Perfect, Blended, Strange but familiar, Many memories, Images, Experiences, All coming together like the different parts of the fried spaghetti, And the fork through the yoke, As it runs down, Bright yellow into orange and red and black and white, Perfect, Amazing, Done. ~The Smell of Fried Spaghetti by Bethany Davis, June 19, 2015

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the seduction of eternity ice house Shekinah sad hag with a revolver a carnival of skinned rats and bullets during the blood soil days pets left on the dark side of the moon a deluge of morality in a palace of tears structures of consciousness under compression the tongue of eternity a veiled Eros licking blood shot distant moons flickers a selfish dream serenade pollen of discontent like a pregnant superhero dressed in a candy wrapper treading a visionless ezoic brain bugs; war zones of memes and genes all matter is metaphor near death objects meteors of grinning spiked crowns we are memetic plucked limbs, clawed minds sulfurous dust short lived bloated yolks mice in a supermarket with tape worms and a trade mark we are something boiling we are memetic plucked limbs, clawed minds sulfurous dust short lived bloated yolks a holocaust in a supermarket with tapeworms and a trademark we are something boiling In the bowels of eternity graves of meat and mud crucifixes in a screaming abyss creations rabid belly of shadows

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Jan 17, 2019

Jan 17, 2019 at 2:35 PM UTC

the seduction of eternity ice house Shekinah sad hag with a revolver a carnival of skinned rats and bullets during the blood soil days pets left on the dark side of the moon a deluge of morality in a palace of tears structures of consciousness under compression the tongue of eternity a veiled Eros licking blood shot distant moons flickers a selfish dream serenade pollen of discontent like a pregnant superhero dressed in a candy wrapper treading a visionless ezoic brain bugs; war zones of memes and genes all matter is metaphor near death objects meteors of grinning spiked crowns we are memetic plucked limbs, clawed minds sulfurous dust short lived bloated yolks mice in a supermarket with tape worms and a trade mark we are something boiling we are memetic plucked limbs, clawed minds sulfurous dust short lived bloated yolks a holocaust in a supermarket with tapeworms and a trademark we are something boiling In the bowels of eternity graves of meat and mud crucifixes in a screaming abyss creations rabid belly of shadows

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Ingredients for 6-8 people • 4 egg whites • 2 egg yolks • 100 g (1/2 cup) of sugar or 5 tablespoons of fruit sugar (alter to your own preference) • 500 g (2 1/2 cups) of mascarpone cheese • 4 small coffee cups of espresso coffee • marsala wine (or brandy or cognac) • 400 g of savoiardi or lady fingers (sponge cake fingers) • dark chocolate powder Preparation 1. Make espresso coffee, sweeten, and add the marsala wine (or cognac) to it. Let it cool a bit. 2. Separate the egg yolks and the whites of two eggs in two bowls. 3. Beat sugar into the egg yolks. 4. Beat the mascarpone into the sweetened yolks. 5. Add two more egg whites to the other two and whisk until they form stiff peaks. 6. Fold gently egg whites into mascarpone mixture. 7. Quickly dip both sides of the ladyfingers in the espresso mixture. 8. Layer soaked ladyfingers and mascarpone in a large bowl or pan (start with fingers, finish with mascarpone). 9. Sprinkle dark chocolate powder on top. 10. Refrigerate for one hour.

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Sep 15, 2013

Sep 15, 2013 at 11:23 AM UTC

substitute nilla wafers for the lady fingers and ricotta for marscapone and regular coffe for expresso...call this the ship of elesium tiramitsu

Ingredients for 6-8 people • 4 egg whites • 2 egg yolks • 100 g (1/2 cup) of sugar or 5 tablespoons of fruit sugar (alter to your own preference) • 500 g (2 1/2 cups) of mascarpone cheese • 4 small coffee cups of espresso coffee • marsala wine (or brandy or cognac) • 400 g of savoiardi or lady fingers (sponge cake fingers) • dark chocolate powder Preparation 1. Make espresso coffee, sweeten, and add the marsala wine (or cognac) to it. Let it cool a bit. 2. Separate the egg yolks and the whites of two eggs in two bowls. 3. Beat sugar into the egg yolks. 4. Beat the mascarpone into the sweetened yolks. 5. Add two more egg whites to the other two and whisk until they form stiff peaks. 6. Fold gently egg whites into mascarpone mixture. 7. Quickly dip both sides of the ladyfingers in the espresso mixture. 8. Layer soaked ladyfingers and mascarpone in a large bowl or pan (start with fingers, finish with mascarpone). 9. Sprinkle dark chocolate powder on top. 10. Refrigerate for one hour.

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Coffee house windows drape litters of faces like teabags milk white but feature black yolks in sunken pits-- sinking pits, dip under the morning embers. Sunny side where? A day begins though you lot, out to dry, waiver it off; It's not ours, you say, It's yours and you's filling the streets below. We's wait for the sunny, we's wait for the up.

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Feb 16, 2015

Feb 16, 2015 at 6:10 AM UTC

Coffee house windows drape litters of faces like teabags milk white but feature black yolks in sunken pits-- sinking pits, dip under the morning embers. Sunny side where? A day begins though you lot, out to dry, waiver it off; It's not ours, you say, It's yours and you's filling the streets below. We's wait for the sunny, we's wait for the up.

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Eggs. Eggs have an equality about them, I know worked on a farm collected them put them on a tray, each one had thirty eggs they all had the same size, but some eggs had shells slightly darker than others boiled they tasted the same. There is a possibility that someone once said brown eggs where somehow inferior, one had a better chance find two yolks in a white shelled egg, we ended up with two prices for eggs, the white ones for breakfast, the brown ones for omelette. When I was an officer in the merchant navy I bought brown eggs mostly because they were cheaper. This has come to an end eggs are now mixed there is no choice, but in the end they all taste the same.

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Jun 9, 2015

Jun 9, 2015 at 12:39 PM UTC

jan-oskar-hansen

Eggs. Eggs have an equality about them, I know worked on a farm collected them put them on a tray, each one had thirty eggs they all had the same size, but some eggs had shells slightly darker than others boiled they tasted the same. There is a possibility that someone once said brown eggs where somehow inferior, one had a better chance find two yolks in a white shelled egg, we ended up with two prices for eggs, the white ones for breakfast, the brown ones for omelette. When I was an officer in the merchant navy I bought brown eggs mostly because they were cheaper. This has come to an end eggs are now mixed there is no choice, but in the end they all taste the same.

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Sarah Wilson's blouses and unmentionables hang one-hundred feet above the vacant stomachs of strays who sniff suspicious puddles of dumpster runoff and rainwater little broken suns drip down brick mountains beneath condemned fire escapes

0

Mar 13, 2013

Mar 13, 2013 at 10:41 PM UTC

alleyway egg yolks

Sarah Wilson's blouses and unmentionables hang one-hundred feet above the vacant stomachs of strays who sniff suspicious puddles of dumpster runoff and rainwater little broken suns drip down brick mountains beneath condemned fire escapes

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How to make nonsense out of bitter citrus fruits Leave them be, already a font of nonsensical egg yolks You do this for yourself, your own self, and no other self Endure another fortnight daliance, you dance forthrightly Absorb information like paranoia The facts are lying in bed with an orange banana How to make something lasting in a world cursed with impermanence It cannot be done. It simply cannot be done. The length of a breadbasket will often determine the size of the loaf The ratio of meat to potatoes makes nonsensical lemonade The worst kind...worse than the worst This document is not intended for distribution during the lifetime of the author Only with his passing disseminate expecting sympathy for the old poet's story, how rarely it truly changes The ingredients for the above mentioned nonsense have been properly proportortioned and mixed per instruction Take a wiff, you can smell the sweet aroma of their baking vapor As a child I ate spoonfuls of baking powder The aroma certainly saturates the proceedings Almost intoxicating how it smacks your heart with nostalgia The stupid cartoons, the National Lampoon stolen from the convenience store you hung out in Out in, Out in, Out in, Out in, Out in, Out in, Out in, Out in, Out in That, my friend, is the beginning from the end That, my foe, is the bleedin' end of the road I'm in Ian Curtis' voice, deadening repetion Day in Day out, Day in Day out, Day in Day out, Day in Day out, Day in Day out Ding, Ding, the timer in the kitchen chimes it's melancholy ring The nonsense is at this present moment complete Ready to serve, ready to eat and please don't choke on my words, I'm half asleep

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Aug 16, 2018

Aug 16, 2018 at 10:36 PM UTC

james-arthur-casey

Your Promised Serving of Nonsense

How to make nonsense out of bitter citrus fruits Leave them be, already a font of nonsensical egg yolks You do this for yourself, your own self, and no other self Endure another fortnight daliance, you dance forthrightly Absorb information like paranoia The facts are lying in bed with an orange banana How to make something lasting in a world cursed with impermanence It cannot be done. It simply cannot be done. The length of a breadbasket will often determine the size of the loaf The ratio of meat to potatoes makes nonsensical lemonade The worst kind...worse than the worst This document is not intended for distribution during the lifetime of the author Only with his passing disseminate expecting sympathy for the old poet's story, how rarely it truly changes The ingredients for the above mentioned nonsense have been properly proportortioned and mixed per instruction Take a wiff, you can smell the sweet aroma of their baking vapor As a child I ate spoonfuls of baking powder The aroma certainly saturates the proceedings Almost intoxicating how it smacks your heart with nostalgia The stupid cartoons, the National Lampoon stolen from the convenience store you hung out in Out in, Out in, Out in, Out in, Out in, Out in, Out in, Out in, Out in That, my friend, is the beginning from the end That, my foe, is the bleedin' end of the road I'm in Ian Curtis' voice, deadening repetion Day in Day out, Day in Day out, Day in Day out, Day in Day out, Day in Day out Ding, Ding, the timer in the kitchen chimes it's melancholy ring The nonsense is at this present moment complete Ready to serve, ready to eat and please don't choke on my words, I'm half asleep

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"Don't drink that coffee," my friend shouted at me, "That caffeine will **** you!" he said impatiently! Drinking water is bad for your health, the feds put fluorine in it to **** you by stealth." Paternally he whispered, "Whatever you do, don't drink cows' milk. the sucklings its made for aren't close to our ilk. The consumption of pigs and animals that **** most certainly will keep you from obtaining sweet bliss. And stay away from creatures that swim in the sea, their svelte tasty bodies are filled with deadly mercury." And then he looked aghast at my plate, "Tell me you're not eating that excrement," he sighed, "Do you really want to die... from eating french fries? Don't you know that fried things are the scourge of the planet, cooked in hydrogenated fats by some woman named Janet? Avoid eggs, if you can, and by no means eat the yolks, your cholesterol will rise, that's no funny joke." Then, with a scowl in his voice he said, "Avoid plants grown in this country, sprayed with pesticides and poisons by corporate monkeys. And stay away from foods grown in the East, they're probably fertilized by humans, dragons and beasts. Potatoes, tomatoes have starch and acid, that eats up your guts and make you grow flaccid. Lemons and limes will ruin your pretty white teeth, making you go snaggle right in your sleep." With a superior air he ended his harangue, "Beer, wine, and all forms of liquor, Can you think of anything that will **** you quicker? Don't eat rich chocolate--it'll make you a **** humping everything in sight like a mad deer in rut. Cakes, breads and cookies too, contain sugars and flours that's sooooo baaaaad for you. ~~~ I'm hungry and starving and don't know what to do, I want to eat something but afraid to give it a chew. Though all of this leaves me feeling quite uneasy and queasy, I'm closing the door and doing as I pleasey!

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Jul 19, 2010

Jul 19, 2010 at 7:58 AM UTC

Ain't nothin left to eat!

"Don't drink that coffee," my friend shouted at me, "That caffeine will **** you!" he said impatiently! Drinking water is bad for your health, the feds put fluorine in it to **** you by stealth." Paternally he whispered, "Whatever you do, don't drink cows' milk. the sucklings its made for aren't close to our ilk. The consumption of pigs and animals that **** most certainly will keep you from obtaining sweet bliss. And stay away from creatures that swim in the sea, their svelte tasty bodies are filled with deadly mercury." And then he looked aghast at my plate, "Tell me you're not eating that excrement," he sighed, "Do you really want to die... from eating french fries? Don't you know that fried things are the scourge of the planet, cooked in hydrogenated fats by some woman named Janet? Avoid eggs, if you can, and by no means eat the yolks, your cholesterol will rise, that's no funny joke." Then, with a scowl in his voice he said, "Avoid plants grown in this country, sprayed with pesticides and poisons by corporate monkeys. And stay away from foods grown in the East, they're probably fertilized by humans, dragons and beasts. Potatoes, tomatoes have starch and acid, that eats up your guts and make you grow flaccid. Lemons and limes will ruin your pretty white teeth, making you go snaggle right in your sleep." With a superior air he ended his harangue, "Beer, wine, and all forms of liquor, Can you think of anything that will **** you quicker? Don't eat rich chocolate--it'll make you a **** humping everything in sight like a mad deer in rut. Cakes, breads and cookies too, contain sugars and flours that's sooooo baaaaad for you. ~~~ I'm hungry and starving and don't know what to do, I want to eat something but afraid to give it a chew. Though all of this leaves me feeling quite uneasy and queasy, I'm closing the door and doing as I pleasey!

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At first when it happens it's like a spell, I cast it, it moves me, and I use it. To the youth with it. Some hollow-gutted frogs' yolks and thrice its weight in pigeon carcass and fly. Gruesome fruit loosies. Then somehow the trance begins, the anecdotal watch stopes moving, to the hedge-burn up to the meadow go the witnesses, moving under the guile of fresh addiction. Wicked words, fiery, a conflagration. Burning us up. Two in two out. And just as they get it right, the moon hollows itself out, the sky undergoes a change, a nuance splits open the gut of the world and comes indifference, apathy, anxiety. A poem comes. It crashes down over my head like an arrow-carved apple, from the Natives. Bending me on my side, my flat side, where I have lived one-hundred years on my side, my left leg nuzzled in between you and the blankets we bought at the thrift store on 26th and Valencia. And it worries me, now that they shift from top-floor to basement in some corner of the Salvation Army. No one owns that magic. They touch the bruised knots of its cotton fibers, and for what- a throw blanket in a common room.

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May 2, 2014

May 2, 2014 at 3:36 PM UTC

At first when it happens it's like a spell, I cast it, it moves me, and I use it. To the youth with it. Some hollow-gutted frogs' yolks and thrice its weight in pigeon carcass and fly. Gruesome fruit loosies. Then somehow the trance begins, the anecdotal watch stopes moving, to the hedge-burn up to the meadow go the witnesses, moving under the guile of fresh addiction. Wicked words, fiery, a conflagration. Burning us up. Two in two out. And just as they get it right, the moon hollows itself out, the sky undergoes a change, a nuance splits open the gut of the world and comes indifference, apathy, anxiety. A poem comes. It crashes down over my head like an arrow-carved apple, from the Natives. Bending me on my side, my flat side, where I have lived one-hundred years on my side, my left leg nuzzled in between you and the blankets we bought at the thrift store on 26th and Valencia. And it worries me, now that they shift from top-floor to basement in some corner of the Salvation Army. No one owns that magic. They touch the bruised knots of its cotton fibers, and for what- a throw blanket in a common room.

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**** It's funny how consecutive letters can bring about inspiration (I've learned to balance my concentration during this poetic intrapersonal conversation) its been a minute since I've had my feelings in it (this **** is never-ending so there is no end to begin it) I got time in my pocket and there is no better place to spend it than here on this mic... don't ask me how I am doing because I am not fine so I continue to work through my pain as I cry through my rhymes and I hate it and love it at the same time ****** me off, yet excites me so its chocolate covered honey baked ham served with raw egg yolks a perfect-disconcerted measure of pleasure and pain but I can't have the sweet without the salt cuz it wouldn't taste the same and the bitter-after taste of its reminder would not be there to sustain the hard earned lessons that are now burned into the brain casting these sad images of this life like a video on repeat and I can't run from my reality no matter how fast I move my feet in retreat So I use my spoken words to inhale its life into my lungs I open my heart and tune my ear to the song that is being sung inside me (God-- can you hear it?!) This birthing of my desire so rare; so hot that its cooling to the touch I love how I am powerless to it-- my appetite insatiable and can never get enough This thing is a love affair.... I don't think I ever loved something so hard that was so physically intangible but living without Word is most assuredly unmanageable wanting to abandon it all to be with it is a thought purely fanciful but its better than living here in this world without feeling -- with out its Love Word to me you're so healing-- gives me that feeling that keeps me reeling like no one on earth ever has Lost in my pages left to secure and blanket me I am comforted by your presence but the correct combination of itself can be found unlike the lips of the utterer...

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Jul 21, 2010

Jul 21, 2010 at 7:59 AM UTC

queen-poetess-b

**** It's funny how consecutive letters can bring about inspiration (I've learned to balance my concentration during this poetic intrapersonal conversation) its been a minute since I've had my feelings in it (this **** is never-ending so there is no end to begin it) I got time in my pocket and there is no better place to spend it than here on this mic... don't ask me how I am doing because I am not fine so I continue to work through my pain as I cry through my rhymes and I hate it and love it at the same time ****** me off, yet excites me so its chocolate covered honey baked ham served with raw egg yolks a perfect-disconcerted measure of pleasure and pain but I can't have the sweet without the salt cuz it wouldn't taste the same and the bitter-after taste of its reminder would not be there to sustain the hard earned lessons that are now burned into the brain casting these sad images of this life like a video on repeat and I can't run from my reality no matter how fast I move my feet in retreat So I use my spoken words to inhale its life into my lungs I open my heart and tune my ear to the song that is being sung inside me (God-- can you hear it?!) This birthing of my desire so rare; so hot that its cooling to the touch I love how I am powerless to it-- my appetite insatiable and can never get enough This thing is a love affair.... I don't think I ever loved something so hard that was so physically intangible but living without Word is most assuredly unmanageable wanting to abandon it all to be with it is a thought purely fanciful but its better than living here in this world without feeling -- with out its Love Word to me you're so healing-- gives me that feeling that keeps me reeling like no one on earth ever has Lost in my pages left to secure and blanket me I am comforted by your presence but the correct combination of itself can be found unlike the lips of the utterer...

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It's 9 am your throbbing eyes pull you towards awake The town hums hot outside to a tune of 13 minutes, buzzing nerves; roll out of bed and try to calm the ******* shakes and 6 times in the last hour, tried to swallow those distinct, familiar notes swollen throat won't go away You're drying out. You're mopping up the yolks of eggs with half-burnt toast And hearing snips of songs on radios down the alley from your home. But the paint's all dry on this one-- and this breakfast's monochrome One more time choke back the losses on a streak that's growing long and ever thicker It's 2 pm and coffee's tasty it's making your eyes ache The town shares your migraine And streets laugh at your footsteps. with the strangest sympathy Try to still the ******* shakes as you cross the Lewis bridge Just to shiver with the spirits while they howl about your head. But, outside, the town hums hot.

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Oct 28, 2012

Oct 28, 2012 at 11:42 AM UTC

Breakfast Got Cold

It's 9 am your throbbing eyes pull you towards awake The town hums hot outside to a tune of 13 minutes, buzzing nerves; roll out of bed and try to calm the ******* shakes and 6 times in the last hour, tried to swallow those distinct, familiar notes swollen throat won't go away You're drying out. You're mopping up the yolks of eggs with half-burnt toast And hearing snips of songs on radios down the alley from your home. But the paint's all dry on this one-- and this breakfast's monochrome One more time choke back the losses on a streak that's growing long and ever thicker It's 2 pm and coffee's tasty it's making your eyes ache The town shares your migraine And streets laugh at your footsteps. with the strangest sympathy Try to still the ******* shakes as you cross the Lewis bridge Just to shiver with the spirits while they howl about your head. But, outside, the town hums hot.

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you're so gorgeous in the morning the sun can't even stay away, spreading itself evenly across your sleepy skin in a way i can't even get peanut butter to... & i let the sun have you every morning & i watch you, like a pervert wearing sunglasses, as it kisses every inch of you. i mean i knew you were into older men but Jesus... he's more aged & damaged than the planet that we're dancing on, or drowning on, & i'm jealous of his yellow fingers lighting up the white hairs on your belly like his mourning dew defeats the dandelions, but when i scramble for your eyes' yolks, you're already gone! panic- i'm--rapidly-- building--scaffolding--past-- the--rafter--beams-- IN--HOPES-- that--i--can--catch--the--theif---- --- -- - but he sets ablaze my plastic wings & i come crashing to cat as trophy cases that i place you in because i'm so afraid to touch you in those moments you're awake, so i just whisper in your ear when your eyes are put away...

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Jun 5, 2011

Jun 5, 2011 at 6:28 PM UTC

you're so gorgeous in the morning the sun can't even stay away, spreading itself evenly across your sleepy skin in a way i can't even get peanut butter to... & i let the sun have you every morning & i watch you, like a pervert wearing sunglasses, as it kisses every inch of you. i mean i knew you were into older men but Jesus... he's more aged & damaged than the planet that we're dancing on, or drowning on, & i'm jealous of his yellow fingers lighting up the white hairs on your belly like his mourning dew defeats the dandelions, but when i scramble for your eyes' yolks, you're already gone! panic- i'm--rapidly-- building--scaffolding--past-- the--rafter--beams-- IN--HOPES-- that--i--can--catch--the--theif---- --- -- - but he sets ablaze my plastic wings & i come crashing to cat as trophy cases that i place you in because i'm so afraid to touch you in those moments you're awake, so i just whisper in your ear when your eyes are put away...

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I broke a chicken egg one day Found two yolks inside Amazing, the things that happen When Nature has her way.

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Jul 19, 2015

Jul 19, 2015 at 11:31 AM UTC

I broke a chicken egg one day Found two yolks inside Amazing, the things that happen When Nature has her way.

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Hunched over the stove top, meticulously folding melted chocolate over and over itself in infinite tides of glossy excellence. Incorporating yolks into sugar whips a wholesome protein into sweet thick ribbons that tumble from their metal beaters. Milk and cocoa powder whisked until ominous brown clouds explode into the sky. The slow incorporation of pieces climaxes into a smooth custard, so **** and luscious you'll lick it off your own fingers. Any attention that can be drawn to your mouth is good attention, particularly that of homemade ice cream.

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Jul 16, 2015

Jul 16, 2015 at 4:31 PM UTC

Homemade Ice Cream

Hunched over the stove top, meticulously folding melted chocolate over and over itself in infinite tides of glossy excellence. Incorporating yolks into sugar whips a wholesome protein into sweet thick ribbons that tumble from their metal beaters. Milk and cocoa powder whisked until ominous brown clouds explode into the sky. The slow incorporation of pieces climaxes into a smooth custard, so **** and luscious you'll lick it off your own fingers. Any attention that can be drawn to your mouth is good attention, particularly that of homemade ice cream.

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Like cats we move as shadows, rubbing past ankles down sandstone walkways with yellow windows spilling out into the night like running yolks sand on your tongue and in my eyes where you kissed them pink and sore shadows brushing my sides hissing in the human ants' nest. If we make it, through the dark we'll retreat into sheets they'll curl around our bones like milk

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Mar 6, 2014

Mar 6, 2014 at 9:08 PM UTC

Like cats we move as shadows, rubbing past ankles down sandstone walkways with yellow windows spilling out into the night like running yolks sand on your tongue and in my eyes where you kissed them pink and sore shadows brushing my sides hissing in the human ants' nest. If we make it, through the dark we'll retreat into sheets they'll curl around our bones like milk

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The wheels trample over hope, they ground human minds until they crack, until they exude diaspora, and become sidewalks again. The feeling of freezepops icing the tongue has been relinquished because of the engine's lion moan, suitable for flesh and vitality. We rumble over a bridge, the brakes reveal their mouths and the hurt inside of them. We lumber to a stop beside a park, beside a bridge, beside a river, beside oily waters and fire slapping the beach. You and I, are across the river. There is a fountain filled with marble men grabbing the thighs of marble women with eyebrows wrinkled towards their pelvis'. If our souls could be soft again, malleable, we could wrinkle them in our laps at pitstops. I look across the aisle, at a girl in a black pea-coat. She knots her hands in her laps and scratches her knuckles with white nails. I am looking for the soft ore of hope still nimble in the water fountain of her lap, your lap. The engine, this bus filled with bobbing eggs, can break yolks. This engine can grind love down to a talcum, a dust able to resign itself to knotted hands and the jewelry boxes of flesh. This engine works child's tongues in its wheels, churning out adults, churning out civilization, churning out nothing.

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Feb 15, 2012

Feb 15, 2012 at 7:57 PM UTC

The Engine Grinds Love Down.

The wheels trample over hope, they ground human minds until they crack, until they exude diaspora, and become sidewalks again. The feeling of freezepops icing the tongue has been relinquished because of the engine's lion moan, suitable for flesh and vitality. We rumble over a bridge, the brakes reveal their mouths and the hurt inside of them. We lumber to a stop beside a park, beside a bridge, beside a river, beside oily waters and fire slapping the beach. You and I, are across the river. There is a fountain filled with marble men grabbing the thighs of marble women with eyebrows wrinkled towards their pelvis'. If our souls could be soft again, malleable, we could wrinkle them in our laps at pitstops. I look across the aisle, at a girl in a black pea-coat. She knots her hands in her laps and scratches her knuckles with white nails. I am looking for the soft ore of hope still nimble in the water fountain of her lap, your lap. The engine, this bus filled with bobbing eggs, can break yolks. This engine can grind love down to a talcum, a dust able to resign itself to knotted hands and the jewelry boxes of flesh. This engine works child's tongues in its wheels, churning out adults, churning out civilization, churning out nothing.

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Your voice was never mine in morning You were a bird of later light And you would smile Each day Each day To say that you’re alright You needed your coffee To satiate your internal plight As hungriness Would sway Would sway Your mood ‘till your first bite The crunch of butter covered toast Your taste of the egg whites You chose the yolks To stay To stay Your breakfast at its height You’d smile and say good morning And there you were, my perfect wife We’d go outside Parkways Beach days Or an afternoon hike It’s been a month and you’ve gone now I dream of you at night I think of you Always Always As tears I consistently fight I sleep inside our bedroom I still whisper to you “Sleep tight” You went in your sleep No pain No pain After fighting with all your might Your voice was never mine in morning But you were my sun, so bright And I find I miss Your grace Your face Amidst the morning light

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Sep 7, 2020

Sep 7, 2020 at 7:48 PM UTC

Your voice was never mine in morning You were a bird of later light And you would smile Each day Each day To say that you’re alright You needed your coffee To satiate your internal plight As hungriness Would sway Would sway Your mood ‘till your first bite The crunch of butter covered toast Your taste of the egg whites You chose the yolks To stay To stay Your breakfast at its height You’d smile and say good morning And there you were, my perfect wife We’d go outside Parkways Beach days Or an afternoon hike It’s been a month and you’ve gone now I dream of you at night I think of you Always Always As tears I consistently fight I sleep inside our bedroom I still whisper to you “Sleep tight” You went in your sleep No pain No pain After fighting with all your might Your voice was never mine in morning But you were my sun, so bright And I find I miss Your grace Your face Amidst the morning light

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8:30 A.M. She wakes him up with breakfast on the night stand. Two eggs over-easy and lightly burnt on the bottom so the yolks don't run, two pieces of sourdough toast cut diagonally, and a cup of coffee / no sugar, no cream / brewed at 8:15, two hours after she got up to clean the house. She mopped the floors twice, tied the trash bags and set them at the curb. She tested, dusted, and retested the stagnant ceiling fans. She vacuumed the rugs and wiped down all wood, granite, and steel surfaces. She lemon Pledges allegiance to him. While he's at work, she cleans his laundry. She clean-presses his button-ups, making sure to cut any stray threads and neatly mend any loose seams. She irons a firm crease in his pants and shines his all-black wingtips. She doesn't use Kiwi. Something high-class that I've never heard of. When he comes home and sets his briefcase near the furnace vent to sulk in his leather chair, she consoles him. She pulls the lace hem of her sundress to her waist and ***** his **** until he comes to his senses. *You look like a billion-dollar, gold-plated monument feeding the world rosegold birdseed from your immaculate palm binding my hair like a Dutch Warmblood's tail, darling.* She dabs the corners of her mouth trying not to smudge her lipstick, straightens her dress, and hurries off to wash his car.

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Dec 18, 2014

Dec 18, 2014 at 2:53 PM UTC

christopher-cizek

8:30 A.M. She wakes him up with breakfast on the night stand. Two eggs over-easy and lightly burnt on the bottom so the yolks don't run, two pieces of sourdough toast cut diagonally, and a cup of coffee / no sugar, no cream / brewed at 8:15, two hours after she got up to clean the house. She mopped the floors twice, tied the trash bags and set them at the curb. She tested, dusted, and retested the stagnant ceiling fans. She vacuumed the rugs and wiped down all wood, granite, and steel surfaces. She lemon Pledges allegiance to him. While he's at work, she cleans his laundry. She clean-presses his button-ups, making sure to cut any stray threads and neatly mend any loose seams. She irons a firm crease in his pants and shines his all-black wingtips. She doesn't use Kiwi. Something high-class that I've never heard of. When he comes home and sets his briefcase near the furnace vent to sulk in his leather chair, she consoles him. She pulls the lace hem of her sundress to her waist and ***** his **** until he comes to his senses. *You look like a billion-dollar, gold-plated monument feeding the world rosegold birdseed from your immaculate palm binding my hair like a Dutch Warmblood's tail, darling.* She dabs the corners of her mouth trying not to smudge her lipstick, straightens her dress, and hurries off to wash his car.

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Exalted eggs sell lent egg salad to eggshells. Egg beaters beat her for the better of the better eggs. Yokes of the yokel yolks choke the yolks they’re meant to yoke. Though runny and broken, run he and broke in. ****** he, dumped he, leaving all the eggs in eggshells. These saddest fractions, in shattered silence, sigh “Let’s decompose. Let’s be compost. Let’s become a flower.” But on the wind they twist, they wind, they rose.

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Oct 23, 2013

Oct 23, 2013 at 5:17 PM UTC

Humpty Dumpty Jesus

Exalted eggs sell lent egg salad to eggshells. Egg beaters beat her for the better of the better eggs. Yokes of the yokel yolks choke the yolks they’re meant to yoke. Though runny and broken, run he and broke in. ****** he, dumped he, leaving all the eggs in eggshells. These saddest fractions, in shattered silence, sigh “Let’s decompose. Let’s be compost. Let’s become a flower.” But on the wind they twist, they wind, they rose.

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I can’t eat undercooked eggs with runny yolks, Maybe that’s why I always end up frying them a little too much. I can’t give only a little of myself to someone, Maybe that’s why I end up losing all of myself to failed relationships. But I can always learn. To like runny yolks and give only as much as I get. ~Gunnika

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Aug 25, 2025

Aug 25, 2025 at 9:47 AM UTC

Undercooked Eggs and Burnt Bridges

I can’t eat undercooked eggs with runny yolks, Maybe that’s why I always end up frying them a little too much. I can’t give only a little of myself to someone, Maybe that’s why I end up losing all of myself to failed relationships. But I can always learn. To like runny yolks and give only as much as I get. ~Gunnika

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Now! the damson crush of swallow wing to foal the brays of uwound April, in chattered sleeks of broom gleam hail that agitate these pagan grains. Where bud-nip rusts of Bullfinch creak the gates of prickled secrecy, the platted creed of wren-song yolks the whiting peeks of May. Where an absinthe canter quills a yarn of nether-world calligraphy with missives of anemone to prose the woke terrain, so a gattling shack of magpies prat along the miscreants of bine that heckle servile atrophy in lung sweet roots of anchored sage

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Apr 13, 2017

Apr 13, 2017 at 12:06 PM UTC

alistair-william-bullen

These Pagan Grains

Now! the damson crush of swallow wing to foal the brays of uwound April, in chattered sleeks of broom gleam hail that agitate these pagan grains. Where bud-nip rusts of Bullfinch creak the gates of prickled secrecy, the platted creed of wren-song yolks the whiting peeks of May. Where an absinthe canter quills a yarn of nether-world calligraphy with missives of anemone to prose the woke terrain, so a gattling shack of magpies prat along the miscreants of bine that heckle servile atrophy in lung sweet roots of anchored sage

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so far, my life has been a series of extinguished flames, pity parties, crossed-out names, clogged arteries, temporary highs, unread notes, hollow eyes, anti-jokes, spoiled egg yolks, abandoned homes, invisible cloaks, & inarticulate poems

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Nov 21, 2014

Nov 21, 2014 at 8:56 AM UTC

stutteringintestines

so far, my life has been a series of extinguished flames, pity parties, crossed-out names, clogged arteries, temporary highs, unread notes, hollow eyes, anti-jokes, spoiled egg yolks, abandoned homes, invisible cloaks, & inarticulate poems

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