Speak such as mine.
C pers 2.2. Dumpling
26.25
13/12.5
7,5/6.15
3.75/3.025
1.875/1.51425
_____________________
3 cups of blackberries
5 cups of white grape juice
1/2 cup of congac
1 3/4 cup of sugar
1/4 t salt
2 cups of water
Simmer til purple sauce forms
Tame sweetness with
2 teaspoons of lemon juice
__________________________________
Dumpling mixture
__________________________________
4 cups of selfrising flour
1/2 teaspoon of salt
1 cup of sugar
3/4 cups of almonds chopped
1/4 cup of melted butter
1 egg
1 teaspoon of vanilla
1 teaspoon of almond extract
1 t of cinnamon
1 teaspoon nutmeg
2 cups of buttermilk
Mix thoughly adjust moisture
Drop dumplings into simmering berry sauce
Add white grape juice to readjust sauce
Cook dumpling done about 15 minute
Thicken sauce with 2/3 cup of heavy cream
Plus 2 Tablespoons of cornstarch slurry
And 5 tablespoons of butter.
Serve topped with slithered almonds and ice cream.
Passionate drunks singing bar karaoke
There once was a man from Surrey
Who was rather fond of a curry
But when he overindulged
His trousers would bulge
Producing something that looked like a slurry.
I never liked tomato soup -
that thick slurry of red
in a white bowl - childhood
winters, Friday nights
with a menacing dark
pressing against the window
as if trying to get in.
Tomato soup looked too much
like blood poured out
of that suffering
pictured in the vivid imagery
hung along the stations
of a child's mind no matter
if blest by grace.
When older and wiser,
I had lamb shank soup,
clumped with celery, carrots
and loads of gelatinous meat.
Each heaped spoonful
was a precious gift,
a celebration of life.
My mind is tribal, I hunt in the mud and slurry,
I track the stars in a wooden chariot
made from the ribs of a blood-clan crib.
My thoughts are armored, yet as articulated
as any youthful flesh, they cannot be washed,
or manipulated, I have an ax for every hand
against them, a caress for those
who choose to fight on the battlefield
of inspiring ideas,
a painted arrow and shield to defend
the commandments of ever-mutating gods.
A green tree within a high mountain
is my mind, a solar flare of endless creation
are my barbaric prayers,
the same orisons that now civilize the corrupt
and morally spent.
I am the heart of existence, my tribal markings
cannot be scrubbed away, by smooth-skulled
manikins or the slick prattle
of any grandiose legion.
I’m listening to a song,
that’s captured my mood.
What’s the singer saying?
If it knew, I’d sing along.
but the slurry words elude.
It’s an artistic choice, I suppose,
and I don’t require deeper meanings.
A squirrel stands defiantly in the middle of the path,
A tiny, furry-tailed, usurper - quite out of the routine.
“Hello fluffy rodent,” I baby-sing, as it watches me,
“What an odd meeting, are you hoping for a feeding?”
I try to pass but it jittery-scampers and cuts me off.
"I have a test, get out of the way, you crazy nut-thief”
I glance at my watch; l might really be late to lab.
So, I leave the path to the possibly rabid rat.
if it comes at me, on-God, I swear I’ll kick it,
launch it ballistically into the evergreen thicket.
How I long for a coffee, hot and sweet,
or a sandwich and salty chips - that would be nice -
but then I would be late for class. I sigh in defeat.
It started to drizzle. This afternoon will be miserable.
.
.
Songs for this:
Out of Myself by Bebo Best & The Super Lounge Orchestra
Jettin' by Digable Planets
.
Oh, and a Christmas playlist because—it’s December!
daweb.us/xmas/Christmas_15.mp3
BE NICE AT HALLOWEEN
Trick or treaters were having a good time
Grumpy Joe said you aren't getting a dime
He swore then he went inside
Kids were upset and some cried
So, on his porch they threw foul smelling slime...
THANKSGIVING HORROR
For Thanksgiving Pete asked Sue to his house
For eats he had ice cream, turkey, and grouse
Sue let out a loud scream
When out of the ice cream
A small head appeared t'was a baby mouse...
CHRISTMAS DISASTER
Fred went with pals for a Christmas curry
Felt pains and said guys "I've got to hurry"
But Fred was left enraged
All the loos were engaged
Felt warmth as his trousers filled with slurry...
Whirling flakes of fantasy softly tango,
cheek to cheek, or modestly waltzing strangers.
Blizzard whiteout buffaloes moon and starlight,
cloaking the lovers.
Frozen fountain, brazenly fetching, catching
coins of ice, those stupefied flattened pennies.
Queen of snow and fairies do bluster shavings.
Breathless the statue.
Snowmen slurry tottering, wayward listing.
Melting, baring, chattering cherub crystals.
Water flowing merrily whistles sport at
winter’s undressing.
Brainstorm
faith’s open palms
vigilant in drought
sunburns brighter, moonshines boozy
grinning
Rainstorm
rustling the leaves
slurry stirred by lightning
overindulging town prayers
applause
in a large roasting pan combine
3 cups of aundoille or polish sausage bite sized
3 cups of peeled diced carrots
3 cups of peeled red bell peppers diced
1 cup of peeled diced sweet potatos
2 sprigs of thyme
2 sprigs of rosemary
8 cloves of garlic
1 cup of diced onion
1/2 cup of diced fennel bulb
1 teaspoon of turmeric powder
1 tablespoon of cayenne pepper
2 tablespoons of salt 1/2 cup of olive oil
bake 45 minute or unt fork tender
remove from oven remove rosemary and thyme
puree smooth.
in a large pot mix 5 cups of pork stock
1/4 cup of lime juice
2/3 cups of sweet marsala
2 cups of smashed cooked white beans
(potato masher with a sift and plunger)
1 cup of smashed cooked chickpeas
( use a mash potato masher with sift and plunger)
1 cup of heavy cream
1 cup of cream cheese
1/2 cup of parmesan cheese
bring to a boil and add pureed veggies
thicken with a slurry.
serve over rice with sliced roast pork and shrimp!
Or substitute pork broth and roast pork with chicken
and chicken broth.
serve with shrimp or by itself
I fell in love with a Drunken Poet
When with light My Grail He fills
Lyrical Creativity intercourse with pen and paper spill
With Rhymes and reasons salutations
Filled so full, Colorful My imagination
Drunken poetry obliteration
He drinks sooo much, his touch Intoxicating
Slurry words with breath of sweet Rum
Penetrating and Pouring light until I succumb
He woos with words and stirs Me up
I have gotten addicted to his Liqueur syrup
Transporting my mind to Celestial Bliss
Overflowing with every Drunken Kiss
Drunk in Love, my heart Enshrined
Top shelf Libation pours, He wants me to Shine
He slurred" let go baby, I'm yours, You're mine"
I got sooo drunk, couldn't hold My liquor
Fondled My Pen, vomit on paper
He slurred, " Go on baby, it's best for your liver"
Now my speech is liquored sweet ingredients to my potion
Drunken poetry creative recreation.
Shout out to Elliott Bowe>>>creator of drunken poetry.
Your hairy brown exterior
Belies the sweet interior
A gift to humans culinary
Or cocktail quite extraordinary
Your oil it smooths, caresses
A babies bum it blesses
Your cream is heaven slurry
As I add it to my curry
In short you're what we all need
Though your stature for a plant seed
Might be intimidating
I'll still give you 'A' star rating
A humid day,
mosquito clouds swarm along
a red dirt road to the farm.
There are grimy rows of pig pens,
hazed dark by humming hordes
of black fly.
Bob (an old friend), chuckles.
“Man, you picked the wrong time of year
to come visit.”
The hogs grunt and squeal.
He waves,
“be with you soon.”
It’s slop-time - the air is turgid
with the many notes of a stale miasma,
everywhere there is the splatter
of slime and muck.
He carries smeared green buckets;
a deleterious, partly consumed gunk
that reeks of that semi-solid swill
hogs grow fat upon.
On the low walls
there are slick stains, layers of grime;
a smeared feculence
corrugated into noxious layers.
Even behind the stalls
there are a heaps
of sludge and slurry.
Bob flushes surfaces down
with his long hosepipe.
He bends to his tasks whistling happily
while I explain to my new wife
that he used to work for the C.I.A.
I can see she’s surprised,
maybe impressed.
Long pause…
watching Bob wade knee deep
into his labor of love.
“Yea”, I sighed,
“he got real tired of all that."
```````````````
an edit
Going home
across the Shard bridge
spanning a rattle-snaked river
that bites into the Irish sea
cold-bloodedly pumping
into Fleetwood's gaping fish-mouth.
Here birthmarks
are branded with icons
like beach lighthouse at Rossall Point
as Northwesterly winds
whistle across the dinosaur ribbed sands.
Yet towers still sentinel
over the dark valley
riveted in iron, rusted russet
like warships wrought from steel,
but aspire
like a winged-spirit
above backstreet's cobbled lanes
that echo with drunken frenzy.
The river's stenched breath
perfumes the breeze with sewage leaks
as passing tankers head north
and farm slurry seeps into pure veins.
Distantly,
Alveley's coalfields fade
whose ashen sides once licked
red ulcers with embered tongues.
Their slag banks were stacked
near St Michael's
whose hidden eddies still swollow
many a beautifully troubled mind.
Now the future skies
spread star-spangled
glowing with fractured light
sparks that guide strangers
embracing Morecambe bay's wide
open seas
Sifting slurry through my word sieve
occasional bright flashes give hope
but there is so much dross and the
yellow flakes in my quicksilver amalgam
may be naught but fool’s gold.
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