Long Salivate Poems
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With every gust of wind, secret taboo,
secreting a web a cocooned prison
of liquid knowing, flowing,
emulsifying impossibly old and new.
In the beyond of the known, stair-stepped,
desert bone flashed into
your consciousness a confident cajoling.
To stew, on the broth of you.
A teasing shot across your bough
of lost resistance and preservation
your eyes rolling white to the out of blue.
Sailing magnetic across it's salivate maw
and unflinching gaze
You are its pupil satellite Positron of drug,
positioned, strung shift of phase shift
of new vistas of truth and beauty unsealed,
inlayed in the naked language of the Angels, stage.
You are, quickened.
Quickened-Quicksilver, tuning, dimensionality,
Principality.
Hidden depths of self,
trigger emotion and thoughts
of infinity divided by three.
A black hole of obscene curiosity
swallows your mind.
Consciousness crests
in trans-mission inflated verbose
relay of Celeste divine? Freet?
You are a place of shipwrecks and mires,
Vagabound desires.
Who dares to sail beyond the horizon of the known retreat.
You come to an isle
of Precious golds and silvers
in frequency bands of holo-hold.
Land of spellcraft, music, heresy, thrones.
Centrigual placement of palaced
internment, camp of strange instruments,
beautiful adorned accoutrements, and contrived designs.
Rune of keys you can feel, the need.
To play them, a feeling, freed.
You shape the music into an arch entity
that offers you it's drink.
You become a dizzy swirl, unable to think to speak...
Of
Silk robes of every delicate fabrication of sin.
Jewels undone, in mythos biolocationed- transmogrifliquesatisfactions.
Yet the symbology remains constant
in it's sustain of visual topology.
Guiding you through the choppy waters
on ethereal landing
in land of the cloud of uncertainty, in hymnal,
refrain, refrain from it's hypnotic beat.
Hold on tight, Jane, Jason of the
foams and eddys and strangered things.
The exhilerating peril, in para parable.
Epic Tome, seasoning tomb of forner deed, denial plausibility causible.
Be ye not
thirsted for the salts of her drink.
For these are the Seven Seas.
My stomach
and lower core rumblings
and dis-communionations
hope for some further feeding
consuming way
to not merely tolerate
but gratefully digest
what my gut
won't easily
organically appreciate
and comfortably eliminate
Can only traumatically depreciate
Has trouble resonantly ingesting
what eyes and mouth
salivate to masticate.
Chewing
swallowing massive trauma
to consumers so enlightened
and healthily empowered
we cannot bow
to southern fried chicken-wing
mighty bite makes digestive right
toxic dogma
not nature-spirited
indigenously bright
Confused by preachy facile spirits
inexperienced with deep resilient peace
digestive therapy
Not ingesting further
poison punishments
Blames
and shames
against restoring strong stomach
and deeper digestive flowing innocence
Unconditional regard
for nutritionally healthy
nurturing
natured grateful spirits
Long experienced souls
avoiding win/lose congestion
indigestion
by choosing win/win
cooperatively immaculate re-conceptions
Well chewed
and communally swallowed
bread and wine
of full-bodied
root health chakra souls
exploring neuro-sensory communion
Anticipating panentheistic
intra/inter-personally wealthy
sacred pre-inceptions.
Warm buttery flakey croissants with almond filling,
Homemade sugar-laden donuts, hot out of the frying vat,
German chocolate cake with loads of scrumptious sweet coconut,
Sweetened graham cracker crust key lime pie with a sprig garnish,
Peanut butter cookies, oozing with chocolate morsels,
Grandma’s sugar mints, in pinks and greens, pretty enough for a wedding,
Delicious apple cobbler, crisscrossed with cinnamon and sugar crust,
I salivate my feelings toward these favorite foods.
You may keep your vegetables and your fruits, your seafood and your chicken.
The only vegetable I want is mashed potatoes, and please do not ruin it with garlic.
Instead, stir it into a giant vat of butter, so much you have to re-heat it.
Your beef can wander down by the barn and sit on a stump for all I care.
Unless I am in the mood to make my famous meatloaf with the diabetic-coma-brown-sugar topping.
It will knock me out in seconds, and I am re-thinking the vegetables.
I would like a big cob of Iowa sweet corn that has been bathing in butter for a week.
With so much salt and pepper, most people would turn their noses up.
I am a food connoisseur; can you tell?
Black Gold, French haute cuisine, that is!
Truffles - Black, White and Brown!
These humble amorphous lumps of fungi fruit dung,
are diamonds in the dirt,
much coveted by chefs all over,
for their taste and nice aroma.
But, wild truffles on the loose in the fields,
elude the foibles of weak human nose sniffs.
So, rout out the dogs and pigs!
Blow the horn, rustle them up.
Get the hunting hounds out,
the sniffer pigs, the horses.
The hunt is on!
We're hounding down the truffles,
buried deep, down among
the dead-men roots of oak and hazelnut trees,
hidden subterranean.
Watch the sows, mind their grunts,
for pigs devout, with sniffer snouts,
plough up the soil to root them out.
Beware, look out, watch them!
For sniffer sows also eat what they rout.
They love their truffles, au naturale, dirt and all.
So take care you rein them in,
and muzzle their sneaky snouts,
Dogs are better truffle hunters than pigs,
when the hunt is done and truffles dusted.
For, dogs are sniffers, not snout routers,
pointing paws at truffle lairs,
and not clawing prey out.
Better still, dogs don't like the taste the truffles.
Leaving pigs and human taste buds to
to titillate, salivate,
and devour the truffle hoard.
I experience inappetence, yet nevertheless hunger for victuals
Mine corporeal complex edifice
unleashes convulsions of anxiety.
Lack of appetite
to savor even smallest bite
unlike Pavlov's dog,
I neither salivate nor excite
at prospect (parking) body
against table not low but fahrenheit
unfair punishment fates did indict,
whereby yours truly decreed
to suffer wraith inflicted
akin to ghastly revengeful Jacobite
asitia struck with vengeance
sucker punched pit of stomach
with furious dog forsaken might
unsavory predicament figuratively
eating away me passion
to relish comestibles day and night,
hence feeble effort to craft poem quite
lame rhyming for no reason right?
Yours truly cannot remember,
how many days, weeks, months... ago
elapsed, whereby with voraciousness I ate
(above mentioned statement veracious -
food for thought) I plainly communicate
hoop fully buzzfeeding, dishing out quandary
in fortified effort to elucidate
thee dear anonymous reader great
if newfound (albeit tenuous) intrigue
awoke courtesy mine artful ruse to initiate
reciprocity, cuz regret iz the stealer of joy
thus verbally athletic, cryptic, enigmatic,
generic, idiotic, kinetic, magnetic, opportunistic
quixotic, solipsistic (ha) troubadour
who heartily hales within
southeastern keystone-state
dares himself to reach out across cyberspace
in an cautiously optimistic effort to mitigate
and extend his metaphorical (albeit empty) plate
maintaining netiquette, an amorphous,
yeah flirtatious nebulous groovy savoir faire,
which mine body, mind, spirit triage
suddenly seems restoration of natural craving
toward sustenance doth oscillate.
What relief long starved taste buds to appease
cuz methought (courtesy obsessive compulsive
worst case scenario catastrophizing)
one garden variety guy
acquired some generic disease
A deep sigh of relief he dryly heaves!
mama’s pies were the best around
her crust was flaky and sugary
no one could bake a pie like she
she never baked a pie
she always baked three or four
I guess she only knew how to make lots of crust
there was enough left to sugar and cinnamon
for my sister and brother and I
she baked that on a cookie sheet and it was delicious!
her lemon meringue was a delicacy about which I still salivate
hot rhubarb pie with a tangy zesty zing, oh, my,
she could bake a terrific pie!
her pudding pies were enormously successful
she dolloped whipped cream on those.
I have not had a good pie since she left this earth.
Looking forward to more of mom’s pies in heaven
one of these days
Forkaroon : I hear we are in for a big treat tonight forksie
Forksie: Oh Ya ! I was hoping for something exciting and juicy
Forkaroon: I'm going to give you a little hint darlin, it once was alive
Forksie: hmm, that rules out cheese and dandelion greens then
Forkaroon : Your such a silly one Forksie, salivate mama cuz its comin'
Forksie: you mean it has legs ! Ah, I better go polish my glow then
Forkaroon: its a big fat juicy steak forksie, beef was on sale this week
Forksie: you mean to tell me that porker bought the biggest steak?
Forkaroon: it was so big he had to strap it to the roof of his car
Forksie: Oh my, we are going to die two happy forks tonight
Forkaroon: Before we get all bent out of shape, you wanna spoon?
Forksie: I thought you'd never ask.
December 12, 2022
All of a sudden (upon
immediately arising refreshed,
whar these lovely
bones did not ache
getting shut eye lasting
amply time for
fatigue to brake,
long enough for tear ducts
to generate sandy granule
size piece smaller
than a Jimmie
sprinkled atop piece of cake
an inexplicable fanciful
notion gripped me
to circumnavigate the globe
(then during or after
write a poem or journaled)
possibly like Sir Francis Drake
who lived (circa?1540 –
28 January 1596)
alight to adventure found
yours truly though
no longer tired
i.e. once adequately
rested and awake,
(despite sleeping respite
did reckon asthma
second daily nap
no...no...no...,this not "FAKE)"
ah ran to the community room,
cuz sigh did hanker for coffee,
sans one of the (perky,
finely grounded, Earthy)
residents, who faintly resembled
a (Lake Woebegone)
Minnesotan from Land o Lake
did brew, filter, and invoke love
said coffee she did make,
tubby extra sure boundless energy
would keep me alert for:
long day's journey into night
and while walking briskly
(this took about a bajillion
orbitz round the sun,
cuz ah...unfairly small feet
for this opaque
grown man hoop ping to partake
of sipping a hot cup of Joe,
(despite the outside temperature
feeling like a bajillion degrees -
courtesy of global warming)
mouth (analogous to
the dog of Pavlov)
started to salivate
for desperate caffeinated
thirst to slake
after a couple swallows...
ah (no idea why butta)
Zarathustra channeled
thru me didst spake.
At around a quarter passed 6AM from the 2nd floor window,
I inhaled a most lovely view. So, I had to exhale and share with you.
My eyes beheld the canopy of blue so clear, pristine, and free of all clouds.
All around, I was enraptured with a view of trees as far as I could see.
Just inside the border of green trees was a rail line and also highway 49.
As I took in this spacious panorama of quiet and tranquility, with poise, I paused. It was a beautiful fence of green, a natural encasement planted by the hand of God. Inside that picturesque blue and green were crop-lands of brown, drying from multiple rains. These fields of future grains of beans and corn lie still, fixed in time, awaiting their turn, as at times, we must.
On an electric line, there sits a black bird that I often see who seems to lite there so faithfully. Breath in this scene
my friends and salivate these moments with me.
As an old TV host used to say to your kids and mine, "It's a beautiful day in the neighborhood". And as a great newscaster said every night as he signed off, "That's the way it is.....". I hope things are well in your neighborhood, and I pray that things go well for you today. I just wanted to let you know before I go. In my neighborhood, 'That's the way it is on Wednesday,
04/27/22, at 6:57AM.
042622PSCtest, A Brian Strand Premiere Choice Poetry Contest
Brian Strand
My love...let me explain this situation,
I had no intentions of cheating on you.
I didn’t mean to hurt your feelings.
You saw me with her and it meant nothing,
I just held her for a moment in my hand.
Your skin glows like the moons reflection on water,
She looked anorexic sick...and pale green before vomiting.
Your scent’s like liquid caramel whenever you move.
She smelt like salty...sweat on a hot day.
My yearning heart throbs to your sloshing voice,
And I salivate to the sound of your name.
The evening flutters like butterfly wings.
I am calmed by your taste that I carry into,
The twilight of my soul and hold dear to my heart.
I’m filled with hope, may I dry your condensation tears,
That steadily stream down your plastic face?
I didn’t mean to make you cry...my love.
As my taste is satisfied, it reminds me
Of your moistened contents when I first met you.
In the hush of night, hearing you psss... turns me on,
My taste...buds leap to my mouth‘s palate.
I wait in the moonlight for your secret 23 flavors,
So that we may merge as one, liquid to stomach.
In the search of glorious satisfaction,
Of having my life...moistened by your touch.
Please believe me...she means nothing to me.
I just held her in my hand for a moment,
I’m loyal to you with all my heart and soul,
My lips never touched hers, I promise.
I would never switch to Mountain Dew.
I’m in love with you and only you,
Satisfy my life with your liquid...love.
I longed to hold you in my hand,
You...my Dr. Pepper...come here let me kiss you.
I'm in love with your cool and refreshing taste.........ahhh.