I shoot only to prove I've missed
I still don't get it
The way I see things, one way
Point being, I don't get it
By the time I get a clue
You'll bury you
Taking my waffle, and forking your toaster
Things like that get me all toasted
At about the moment I pop up, and dish
Ass down face up, taking your butter
Spreading out more than your flat
average fucking pancake
You'll be doing the large
intestine polka,
and I'll be like Mike
and Tiger
and Joan Rivers
and Bob Hope
on dope with no rope
in this cell carving soap
Cum, filling the mouth of the Pope,
and thinking to myself...
Hey, I'm a waffle, a waffle in a world
full of pancakes, but I won't let that
get me down -- I'll show them. I'll shine
my grasp upon reality upto a high luster
And do the General Custar'
Right down your
fucking throat
in slow motion
horizontal
With replays
and cheer leaders.
Oh, and with the
confidence of knowing
my great fore-fathers
killed the buffalo
raped women,
murdered
children.
Strip mined
Land mined
Fine dined
Nentwined.
And ruined the last
greatest nation of finks
Where no one can mind their
own fucking business
No one is safe
Privacy is a brand of
shoes you buy to
jump higher when
they say "jump".
And you my friend?
Are a stuffed animal
You are pink like
a baby mouse
shaped hemorrhoid
like a little girl's bow...
Or the whore down the streets
carnation colored corvette.
But don't let that get you down
Fucking A, I'm just a sad waffle
in a world full of lazy bastards
palming cold cereal
and just waiting to see
who we're meeting
for lunch.
Author notes
Written April 8th, 2004
In a list
A contest entry
- Keep it Nutty by Diseased144.
300 points, ended June 5, 2006, 26 entries
• next poem in this contest, remove from contest
What did you think
Comments
1 - 17 of 17
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Good - could be great
I'd like to see this poem start where you say, Hey, I'm a waffle. From there on you take the ridiculous subject and make it mean something. Before that, there are some great lines that should be included, but some that I can't find any point to except to be silly. From the point of "my fore fathers..." onward it is really a great poem. -
Think the comments are worth an applause - this poem certainly fits into the weird category - toasters, and forks, and waffles, along with this picture? Good luck!
-
Well, it sounds like you're signing your name as if I'd care too remember who in the hell you ever were. With curly things and everything jessica. my my you plugger.
Edited on May 28, 10:35 p.m. because ''. -
Not Your Greatest
I thought it was kinda childish...the rhymes, I mean.
"You'll be doing the large
intestine polka,
and I'll be like Mike
and Tiger
and Joan Rivers
and Bob Hope
on dope with no rope
in this cell carving soap"
It seems like you're just putting in words because they rhyme and that they have no sense to them. I am sorry, but that ended my reading right there. Good luck in the contest. Best wishes
~jessica -
hah haha, never a dull moment here.
A brand of shoes that make you jump higher when they say jump, carnation colored corvette...
Before you get that syrup, I'd go for some whipped cream on that waffle of yours.
-
...
-
I'll just call you Greaser then....was she complaining about the cold hearted bitch that Bobo is?
She probably was all fluffy talking to you....
Negotiating on your own.. sigh. I'm going to be out of a job soon...sigh
where's my beer..
-
resend her the contract, I spoke to her today and greased her up a bit. Also send her a cd contract for 2.50 cents a cd and we send her 50 of each. and than her next batch is at 2.00 and the next 1.50 and then we bottom her out at a buck a pop at the four hundred mark.
Edited on Apr 09, 7:13 p.m. because ''. -
I'm seriously concerned about her mental heatlh. Not only did I leave my telephone number TODAY on her answering machine - it is on all the Bobo Marketing shit I've sent her including the contract renegotiation memorandum. I should open up a fucking publishing company and make oodles of money off of punks like you...
Hi. So great to talk. Did you like my Madonna card? You only scolded me in your emails .. I'm a needy bitch what can I say..it's Friday and my car exploded entrails all over the pretty Main Street of the quaint town in which I live.
Sigh. Write me a haiku would ya?
-
Dude, what's up? Donettes like in a stupor, you want me to handle this? Does she have the contract revisions? She seems to be in the dark judging from her message. If you are too busy let me know, because this FUCKING NEEDS TO BE HANDLED. Now, this needs to be finalized with her. I personally can handle it in one fifteen minute phone call, and plan too. I understand we are all busy, very, very busy, but this hypnotic manipulative energy enhancement that needs to occur in Donettes mind will now be being handled by ME, to repair this hopelessly confused midwestern women. Lisa, I'm ashamed of you, now I actually have to get out of bed and make audible noices from my face hole, bitch. Say you LOVE ME BITCH!!!!! NOW!
-
waffles have depth - crevices to catch life's syrup drips and puddles. i think you have captured that essence very well here. pancakes serve a purpose - but waffles are the metaphor of the world.
-
Yummy
I like to put steel wool in my waffle iron and make man-hole covers. They're very crunchy and taste great with 30 weight oil.
Edited on Apr 08, 9:00 p.m. because 'caunt speel'. -
Waffles are weird.
Square syrup-catching divots.
Who wants to catch the syrup?
Why not just let it slide right on off?
Soak it in as a matter of course
and interation with your immediate environment.
Who would want to catch the syrup?
Study it?
Make a poem out of it?
Make a meaning out of it?
Sweet, sticky, seemingly lacking in substance...
what's hiding in there?
(sorry, random) -
Yes.
-
let go of my eggo before I fork you with my spork. Right on you ! good luck I'll be my pinching panties...
spank you naughty -
hey man, get your motherfucking hands of my eggo. Leggo my fucking waffle. Hey man, i thought this same fucking thing, more or less, give or take 200-300 words, yesterday when we were doing lines off of that red rhinoceros chick's ass, and then you went and stood in the street with the firehose, inhaling bloody marys at 200 paces. It was then that i had an apostrophe not unlike the epiphany that you have had here with the toast and jelly. but i lost it, and my mom always told me not to stuff my dick in the toaster to retrieve lost waffles so you got there first. One of the many benefits of being a Christoon i suppose.
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Yah..Waffles!
Just lie there while they pour syrup on your head and eat your brains with scrambled eggs. Momma said this day would come and by God...I wish I hadn't handcuffed her to the city bus. She would have gloried in the waffles and blood and run screaming to greet the liberators and the bombers and the tanks that offer freedom from daily monotony and salvation from the oppression of the soul. Yah.
But as I gaze upon this offered feast, my eyes are turned inward, contemplating the golden toast of the soul and wandering with the running rivulets of yellow artery clogging butter of your words. Can I do no less than to tuck in, savoring each whimsical phrase and laughing with the truck drivers at the counter? Nay...call me Billy Bob and pass the syrup. The long night is coming and the road calls in a seductive whisper of exotic tongues.
Best of luck in the contest. Shave your head and wax the skin.
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