I Must Have One

I Left My Heart in Sam Clam's Disco

Just when I thought I had really run out of food poems, I found one that seems to be inspired by a pasta package ... and Satan! Originally the two different versions were side by side, but it doesn't fit that way here.  I would like to say that it is just fun and free of any deeper meaning, but you never know. 

Cool photo.  I added some Photoshop effects.  Great, now I'm hungry for clams.  Mmm... Rocco's in Little Italy has a great vongole appetizer.  

 

 

                        Linguini 17 Clam Sauce Recipe

In the seaport city of Naples they use fresh clams in this classic White Clam Sauce.  Canned clams make a quick and easy – but still authentic – and delicious variation.
– Ronzoni package 

 
 In Shreveport sin it’s not please            
 thank you it’s flay my flesh crams          
 it in claws slick wit I                                  
 Can’t Cause dem lambs make cake        
 clot an deez evil buts all frantic              
 hands they lash for reason.

In a Sleeze port, sit’n ape the eels they 
flow scram slick through sewers
blames crêche Franta Claws and
Clama Cause pees in deep
Zees but still gawks the takes
bans the fishious vary barely ates them.

Heads will roll

Since the lovely alliterative Laura Lee liked the last one, I'm posting another word salad surprise.  Deal with it.  You'll thank me later.

One problem with this blog site is that when you copy text onto it it loses all the formatting.  This next poem was a pain to recreate the formatting.  I'm not sure it matters, but hey, you don't want to piss off a sensitive artist.  The font was too small yesterday.  I fixed it.

    losing our heads (over Cuba)

Ooops! all heads fall off
             passengers seat backs fullupright 
             blood-less detachment with massive
             jerk over Cleve(d)land roiling
             boling a round aisles not properly
             stowed under seats
             and                    nodded off no noggin bodies
                                        snooze on end others flip
                                        through Time Life People
                                       &
     heads head will roll thanks my
     God to turbulents and rollicky
     tumblepath flight of headless crew
(now)
besuited MBA baldly grapplechews 
                pantleg teeth(c)limbing
                to reattach but not attracts
                no attention of bodymate
                        Hello
porcupine haircut w/ stamenthin
‘stache corners stewardess
                                                  in: corner licks off blush
while& she tongues into aisle,
           crew…is…bowling into
          cabindoor but no body heeds
DISNEY®bound vacationeers       MOLECULING 
around in Avoga(u)dry mirth AND     
                a wilted vegetarian a
                lounge singer lock:mouths
    behind the 1st Class bulkhead
make neck-breathing whistlehums 

American Air 321 pinballs the Caribbean
                                                 ignoring the gravity of it all
just displacing entropy with clutter and 
the head          (of an) accountant 
                         unties women’s shoes 
                         tongue and t-t-teeth who-cares

 

1998

Sub-Bourbon Dreams

I really tried to find something happy and interesting for today.  I can't quite make those two things work together.  Calling Doctor Bombay ... I'm afraid faithful reader and adroit commenter Laura Lee might be having nightmares about her kitchen by now.  I did find this bit a hallucigenia (is that a word?).   I hate the suburbs so I'm okay with letting the dogs take over.  I wasn't convinced about this one until I saw the (sub)burban/bourbon wordplay.   Hmmm ... I think my title is better than the one below. 

 

  When the dogs take over suburbia

Black stuttered shutterds nailed
opento bricks not shutup
ornamuhmental howhowse
with squirrelrobins stapledto

oaktreelawn ornamuhmints
ceramicwhite kittypaws fixed
to bricks backtacked as the 
lackeredblack stutters unhide

the burbanslob bourbonflesht
unrealing inside
  fuh fuh
whatthe fuhfuh hesays asthe

neighbuh borhood dogsnot 
pokerplaying drive a toothpicksharp
(Milk Bone trained dogeschewed)
picketwhite stake inna the

velveeta painting of 2dogsuit
people buttsniffing bumperchasing
pierces the fabric HeyHoYipYip
so Luckycracks open a bottle uh

bloodNsprays down the wallpaper 
cuz he shookitup & fizzed
fuhgleeing over the smattered

melancolliemood of the staketosser
as his muhmuh aster limps
from the frame.

 1998

If only...

Slakey Whispers, I knew him from rodeo school

I had a dream last night that involved taste and smell (and ghosts).  That seemed odd since one's sense of smell is turned off while you sleep.  I guess this is as good a time as any for this poem about dreaming of food while you succumb to the smoke of a house fire.  Macabre?  Indeed, but I really like it.  It has a disturbing beauty. 

                    fire!

sleep slow smoking
mountain trout tender
languored fumes snake slakey
whispers over the transom

we dream-collaborate
in rapt synchronicity
lungs smoke us inside out
as skin mediates wicking

egg shell white bubble & blister
we slowly slow turn jerky
as toes curl, fingers gnurl
to an old man’s clawfist

the closer the flame the farther we are
strnuggling tender loins in sizzle
dreaming hollandaise and horseradish
singe-mingling in burnt communion

the dream we dream
contains us
cradles us

 

2002