No Love for Mustard

Mustard contest or fraternity dare?
The fact that you can't tell the difference
tells you everything

In the spirit of my other food sonnets, I have penned this one about my least favorite of the condiments, mustard. This one I wrote with some imagery help from Janessa, a well-read sixth-grader with equally disapproving tastebuds. If this poem pleases you, you might also enjoy the vituperation of another would-be food, white chocolate. Anyway, my apologies to all the mustard lovers out there. No, I take that back. I stand by the poem.

No Love for Mustard
by Gideon Burton

Let's just be honest: mustard is a slime,
a sour, gooey, beige-brown-yellow paste
ground up from foot-long garden slugs who dine
on maggot larvae and on cabbage waste.
That color --oh, so cheery. Neon fraud
disguising moldy pesto, eye of newt.
But go ahead and lather up your dog
or victim burger with that poison stew--
that con of condiments, a pretzel's bane,
that choice of kings (if kings have gone insane),
that turdy must that does all food profane,
that musty turd, so wrong except in name.
   If heaven's food is fair, then oh, not this--
   the bug guts Satan smothers on his grits.

image: creative commons licensed by Swamibu (Flickr)

There Will Be Fries

There Will Be Fries
by Gideon Burton

Tonight there will be fries, and fries aplenty.
I'm driving to McDonald's with my craving.
I'll get three orders, four -- or maybe twenty.
In vats of ketchup soon we will be bathing.
Don't talk about the salt, the clogging fat,
my arteries constricting with each bite.
Shut up about the carbs, enough of that!
I'll gobble up some more just out of spite.
So savory crisp, deep fried to beige nirvana,
each one a blessing from the fast food gods.
Like bits of meat tossed to a starved piranha,
I will devour all these starchy rods.
     Wolfed down while driving, lest their heat is lost,
     there will be fries, or Daddy will be cross.

Photo: flickr - shazam791

Cold Cereal

Cold Cereal
by Gideon Burton

Cold cereal, my morning's grainy ration,
why must you sog so quickly in your bowl?
Your sugar melts, your fiber loses passion
(unless dyspeptic hurry is my goal).
Allured by spongy marshmallows or frosting,
I yearn to savor flavor, feel the rush
of icy milky sweet, each crunching costing
a heightened timeliness for fear of mush.
Nabisco's shredded, Cheerios expire,
and Special K limps dull and ordinary.
For milk's a solvent, taming crunch and fire
with strength to squander, terror in the dairy.
     If ever I can feel it firm and fresh,
     I'll know at last I've bought the very best.

Photo: flickr - jek in the box

A former student of mine has done his own remix of this sonnet. Check it out , "A Grainy Test" on his blog.

Garbage Truck Apocalypse

Garbage Truck Apocalypse
by Gideon Burton

A parable: You lie there in your bed,
half-sleeping, half-awake beneath the sheets,
a distant birdsong breaks the fog, it spreads
in broader swaths along the morning streets--
no bird, perhaps a train, the far off rumble
in rhythms punctuates your waking drift.
Then suddenly, you flee your bed, you stumble
in instant panic, just next door the lift
and slam of trash truck limbs has emptied all
the neighbors' refuse while your can remains
unmoved beside your house. In shame you haul
your can across the street. Ah, waste, ah shame.
     This is the sinner's end, or so it seems:
     jerked waking, unrecycled, unredeemed.

Photo: flickr - katypearce

Ribs

Ribs
by Gideon Burton

You vegetarians -- just walk on by.
You do not want to see this slab of meat,
dark charred in carnal lusciousness -- not dry,
but robed in tangy-smoky sauces sweet.
Utensils -- I don't need your girly aid;
I rip, I gnaw, I tear the carcass tangy,
You want to interrupt me? Be afraid.
No time for napkin nonsense, manners dainty.
I toss the whitened bones into their place,
sucked clean of any morsels I could chew.
A reddened ring expands across my face,
the beast has left his mark in barbecue.
     Self-tortured on the rack of fleshy bliss,
     Oh, trousered ape, have you evolved to this?

Photo: flickr - jk5854

Manta Ray Love

Manta Ray Love
by Gideon Burton
after Shakespeare's Sonnet #18

Shall I compare you to a manta ray?
The manta sucks salt water all the day
to siphon plankton from the waters temperate;
while you upon a straw make dainty sips.
The manta stretches twenty feet across;
your girly girth is slender in the hips.
He has a stinger; you? I'm at a loss.
But if by some dark trick of radiation
you are transmogrified into a fish,
I'd still feel flush with maritime elation:
to swim with you would be my fondest wish.
     So long as sharks can swim or algae breed
     So long I'd paddle after you with glee.

Photo: flickr - massdistraction

White Elephant

White Elephant
by Gideon Burton

A velvet Elvis bought in Mexico;
a stack of dusty, five-inch floppy disks;
a moonshine still, a book to learn Morse code--
these are the Christmas party's gifting risks.
I've taken home the bowling ball named Sherry
while lucky neighbors kept a better prize.
I've swapped the towel embroidered DIRTY HAIRY;
a "CLOWNS KILL PEOPLE" tee shirt seemed more wise.
The diaper filled with Tootsie Rolls was crass,
much better was the box that hid a kitten,
or maybe Coca-Cola in a flask,
but not that apple basket with all bitten.
     Collecting kitsch, a sort of Christmas sport.
     Sometimes I would prefer to have a wart.

Photo: flickr - cypheroz

Chewing Gum

Chewing Gum
by Gideon Burton

Asleep in tropic sapodilla trunks,
the chicle trickles once the bark is lanced.
Collected, boiled, coagulated, chunked,
it's bounced to Wrigley's where it is enhanced.
The milky latex, kneaded, sugared stiff,
with peppermint anointed, pressed and wrapped,
is shaped and shipped, now ready to be sniffed,
remoistened, all its sponginess untapped.
A nasty mass of tangled tissue, dense
yet yielding; sweet, but then a cardboard glue.
Resilient resin, tenderized yet tense,
a rubber plug fatiguing as you chew.
     With chomping, snapping, spittle, wearied jaws,
     Unpeaceful gum breaks all of Buddha's laws.

Photo: flickr - canonsnapper

 

Thanks List

Thanks List
by Gideon Burton

For chewing gum, whose minty fibers scrub
my after dinner plaque. For asphalt, smooth
and new, replacing random rocky nubs,
allowing swervy-rapid skateboard love.
For polyester in my cotton shirt
unwrinkling mornings with its magic thread.
Formaldehyde, that keeps cadavers pert,
and students weeping as they probe the dead.
For tutus, tap shoes, cheese that comes in cans;
for popsicles and broccoli and paint.
For sneezing dogs, samosas made with lamb,
for teachers not too proud to say they ain't.
     For pageant teens who speak in gnomic riddles,
     For muscles I have found to make ears wiggle.

Photo: flickr - clrcmck

Kiosk Fiends

Kiosk Fiends
by Gideon Burton

A rack of scarves, a little cell phone bling,
a bank of sandals, bumper stickers, dolls,
some rows of cute stuffed animals or rings.
These used to be the kiosks in the malls.
No longer, now that convicts are employed,
who dare you to decline their free massage,
accosting you until you are annoyed
with stuff you wouldn't hide in your garage.
I've seen poor shoppers caught within their snares,
compelled to be strapped down in torture chairs
for dental whitening in their kiosk lairs
while teens and neighbors pass with smirking stares.
     Stay back, you hucksters with your spritzers cocked;
     the next troll that approaches will get clocked.

Photo: flickr - wisefly

Don't Snicker

Don't Snicker
by Gideon Burton

Today I found a candy bar, forgotten.
It somehow made it's way beneath my bed--
a no-man's land where food goes to go rotten--
a place of dust and junk, ignored or dead.
I thought it would be harder, firmly stale;
I thought I would just huck it in the trash;
I thought my better thinking would prevail;
but I have done a thing both sweet and rash.
How easily its wrappered skin gave way;
how readily I tore the nougat's tissue;
how quickly spiked my gloucose in that spray
of burning chewy sugar -- how I'd missed you.
     So many things when lost dissolve to dust;
     a few, preserved like nectar, you can trust.

Photo: flickr - jennratonmort

Asteroid Peach

Asteroid Peach
by Gideon Burton

A peach is like an asteroid except not hard,
much smaller, rarely tumbling off in space,
quite softer, really, fewer nickel shards
throughout, and smoother, kinder on its face.
A poor comparison? Digest it further:
once all the orange sugar globe is eaten,
a pit remains -- a horrid thing, like murder,
distorted, scarred, as though too often beaten.
Of course, when tonguing peach flesh on parfaits,
aglow with fruity perfume sweet to taste,
we act as though all peaches come our way
without that gnarled nut, that pitty waste.
     Both peach and planetoid have darkened cores
     that cling and cut: sharp pods of alien spores. 

Photo: flickr - verysubmm

Burning Sugar

Burning Sugar

by Gideon Burton

I won't pretend those marshmallows aren't mine.        

For one thing, sticky-fingered, I'll confess            
That something gooey sounded mighty fine.                

Forgive me for that smell and awful mess                 

Inside the microwave. You see, I thought                 

With heat I could make smooth and luscious cream         

From hardened sugar balls. You're right, I ought               

To check with you next time. At first it seemed               

They were invincible. But then I heard                        

A pop, a splatter. Sweetened rivers streamed
Right out the oven door. I think it burned.              

    I promise, next experiment I'll ask;
    Some taffy just might be a better task.

Photo: flickr - jessamyn

Vegas Buffet

Vegas Buffet
by Gideon Burton 

Enough. You've had three plates and it's enough.
A caravan of carbohydrates washed
in gravies, sauces, sloshing over puffs
of pastry; kilocalories accost
your system, pancreatic panic sends
along the lubricating insulin
outpaced by fresh eclairs stuffed end to end
as meats and buttered breads try to fit in
your gasping gastric track that chokes and squirms
accommodating seconds' seconds, thick
in naughty, knotty fats not making firm
your figure as desserts arrive in sucrose bricks.
     Great bargain, endless courses till you cough;
     Whatever -- oink your way back to the trough.

Photo: flickr - Librarian Avengers

Goodbye, My Love

Goodbye, My Love

by Gideon Burton

I trusted you and now it's torn apart:
My happiness, and worse, my trusty truck.
You broke my new transmission and my heart,
And now my cash skeedaddles with my luck.
Oh, Cherry, one part reckless, one divine,

you turned my motor once, I do confess,
but how am I to pay your massive fine?
I'm dubious our gears again will mesh.
The wilted pistons are as good as dead,

and so is my affection, dear, it's true:
I picture your sweet face beneath my tread.
These things aren't fixed with kisses and some glue!

   Forget the church, I'm going off to Napa
   And as for you and me--it's in the crapper.

Feel free to copy, imitate, remix, or redistribute this poem as long as you give proper acknowledgment of authorship. Photo: flickr - Carin Fausett

Alien Invasion

Alien Invasion

by Gideon Burton

The aliens descend with shrieking glee,

their saucers spinning hot with dire intent.

Their ray guns slice down people, buildings, trees;

no end of cosmic anger yet to vent.

Artillery is useless, as are bombs--

one might as well dry oceans with a sponge!

The siren screech of fire-fight is their song,

while those too close suck death into their lungs.

Bacteria, our microscopic friend,

you must arrest the Martians in their plunder.

The earth is ravished, we behold its end,

unless your subtle poisons do their wonder.

     The sky's alive with Armageddon's smell.

     Dark creatures, may you crumble into hell!

Feel free to copy, imitate, remix, or redistribute this poem as long as you give proper acknowledgment of authorship. Photo: flickr - kevkerkev

Gummy Bears

Gummy Bears

by Gideon Burton

The gumminess of gummy bears is vital:
too warm, too soft, they're but a viscous goo.
The opposite needs no profound recital:
too old, too hard, as tasty as my shoe.
One's teeth must squeeze and pierce, and yet rebound

(a tangy sweet's released as form resists).
The candy abdomens no longer round,
saliva's fast corrosions will insist.
At times they're squirming, squeaking as they die.
If so, their passing souls unmask all flavor.
Their little limbs dismembered seem quite spry.
Who'd think that amputations had such savor?
    My mouth has conquered zoos of hapless bears,
    and will again: no other sport compares.

Feel free to copy, imitate, remix, or redistribute this poem as long as you give proper acknowledgment of authorship. Photo: flickr - Rachel Lake

Watermelon

Watermelon
by Gideon Burton


What is the watermelon? I will say:
No reservoir of red and cooling fruit.
Do not be fooled when tissued sweetness sprays.
For heavens sake, don't gnaw it like a brute!
This rindish pod, this green ellipse of dew,
has swallowed rivers to preserve its ounce.

This garden sponge to just one thing is true:

a thirst that will on any droplet pounce.

I have a theory, pause and hear me out:

These lumpy water jugs are not from earth

at all, but come from distant lands of drought

to where they will return to ease that dearth.

     Before you smile and taste this summer treat, 

     remember, thirsty Mars has sent its fleet.

Feel free to copy, imitate, remix, or redistribute this poem as long as you give proper acknowledgment of authorship. Photo: flickr - S n o R k e l

Mucus

Mucus
by Gideon O. Burton

Lugubrious and patient as he slimes
his dark and viscous weight within my head.
He tugs his bitter taffy mass in crimes
of pressured pain and dripping dread.
A hundred tissues bruised with blasting blows,
and yet he lingers, stranding strands of crust;
gelatinous stalactites, grainy flow,
replacing brains with miles of muck and must.
In sour thickness smears my throat and lungs,
his wiggling jelly clogs each passageway–
I cough up gooey golf balls on my tongue;
in rasping pleas my alveoli pray.
     My phlegmy enemy, you shall not run:
     with antihistamines I end your fun.

Feel free to copy, imitate, remix, or redistribute this poem as long as you give proper acknowledgment of authorship. Photo: flickr - G.J. Charlet III

Okay, let me explain. First of all, this is not a photo of me, nor of my children. I'm grateful to the photographer who reached for his camera before a wash rag. The little nipper has a kind of world-weary stare on him I find authentic, something akin to the exhaustion some of us have felt from the drain and pain of this particular bodily fluid. "Why should I wipe?" he seems to say. "More will just be coming." Indeed. Maybe he is just braver than the rest of us. Keepin' it real.

Why write a poem about snot? Is it not a cruel bastardization to transform a sonnet into a snot-et? Perhaps. I wrote this when I felt a lot like this little kid looks, and my defense is that I believe that literature is equipment for living (as Kenneth Burke said). Some people cope by way of heavy doses of decongestants; I cope with stanzas of iambic pentameter. So there.

A word about the first word. I had no idea what the word "lugubrious" meant when I wrote the poem. Don't even know how it popped into my head. Turns out it means "overly mournful." Go figure. The opening image of my poem is about a grieving booger. How tacky (literally!). But I left the word in there out of sheer sound value. I mean, listen to that word! Looo-gooo-bri-us. That is the sound of snot forming, an aural snapshot of that dark, goopy reality. So the word stayed. And I'm done apologizing. If you hate the poem, sneeze at it and move on...

Spam Sonnet

Okay, so I've been doing too much of the moody-heavy-abstract kinds of sonnets. Any moment now my nine followers will drop to four. Can't have that. Solution? Spam! (the kind you eat or don't eat; not the kind you filter)

Spam Sonnet

by Gideon Burton

Third cousin to a pig and twice removed,

It oozes, goopy, from its squarish tin;

Thick film conceals the lard with which its grooved,

Intestines pureed mottle its pink skin.

Would ancient man have glorified the spam,

In pictographs preserved its conquest sure?

Or would they shrug at its smooth texture, bland–

No boxy graphic to make spam endure?

In industry the spam is thrift itself:

No bones or organs spill aside as scrap.

Once salted, lives for decades on a shelf;

Discerning palates know its kind from crap.

     Maligned, despised, yet all the while consumed

     If spam’s eternal, earth itself is doomed.

Feel free to copy, imitate, remix, or redistribute this poem as long as you give proper acknowledgment of authorship. Photo: flickr - AJC1