I have a desire to burn things.
I want to feel the heat of the flames
destroy what’s around me—
no i’m not psychotic.
I want to feel the burn against my skin.
The sizzle of wood in a fire,
ignites my passion to forget my feelings.
The red and orange flames fuel
my anger and hatred.
I want to see the burn
and feel the pain within.
The burning makes me feel like i’m dying,
but dying is the only time i feel alive.
The flames hurt me,
but take away the pain i’ve been feeling.
I’ll let the fire burn me,
until there is no longer pain.
Let. Me. Feel. Something.

sun rays reach down and
hold my body in a warm embrace

as a light breeze puts rhythm in
the trees and whips my hair around my face

i feel at home in this place.

When we get closer
Our hearts pounds louder
We dance tango on the beat
Because this song
Plays our heat.

In the Boondocks of the Ozarks
Salty caramel smelt of August
Swathes stench of rotten trailer parks
Imprisons barren mid-west dust

Feral fevered kids a hunting
For to cool; shoot up, or drink
Arthritic railroad; tie and shunting
Ferrous old town wretched on the brink

Since the cease of mine and logging
Depletion of iron lead and zinc
Nag horse too dead for flogging
Folks futures draining down the sink

Some respite in the summer heat
RV’s; tourists and campers for trails
Like blackfly plague pick off the meat
Fly fast; escape as another harvest fails

Dark currents pepper darker mood
Intolerance grinds in the daily way
Resentment bread as only food
At someone’s door the blame shall lay

In the graveyard of the Ozarks
Rednecks dance on industry tombs
Burn brown smoke spice. Moonshine sparks
Oblivion; no life. Back to mothers' womb

©pofacedpoetry (Billy Reynard-Bowness 2018 – All rights reserved)

MINESTRONE NIGHTS (on the summer of 2018)  
              
Deep in the incubus of fantasy
As torrid painter makes its art
Rips a flash of an epiphany
A plaintive whisper of the heart
Hobgoblin summer full of slobber
Beget febrile reveries unkind
As dance character’s macabre
A three-ring circus in my mind
Each minestrone moldy night
When body craves boreal slumbers
Akin cat on hot tin roof I fight
Dank sog my sleep encumbers
Comes morn aft time eternal
Half charged at start of day
Abscond sodden dreams infernal
Tormenting orb is up to play
I was hot before I even knew
Never really did cool down
Too warm again, for morning dew
Vague slumber’d avec frown
Haven't slept for an age or eon
Cadaver tacky to the tepid touch
Arise, trepid to perspire, like peon
Labour in this broil is just too much

©pofacedpoetry (Billy Reynard-Bowness 2018 – All rights reserved)

We looked into the darkness
You said it was bright
I trusted you
And thought myself blind
We stood out in the cold
You complained of the heat
I trusted you
And I removed my jacket
We were submerged in water
You said it was land
I trusted you
And I stopped swimming
Trust is not truth.

Jellyfish clouds in drift,
Their invisible tendrils,
Zappin’ n' trapin’ air,
Leaving the sedentary dead weight,
Directly on my shoulders.

The nostalgic Sahara heat,
Travels through time and space to Ohio,
Where a younger me swam in the,
Not actually cold but cooler pool.
Ten years but two seconds later,
I work there, Date there, Talk there, and eventually
Leave there

This muggy, sultry sun is no fun:
Longest sustained heatwave for over forty years.
Suffocating Sahara with Death Valley cracks
In the dry arid soil.

My electric fan shattered with a power surge
Into fragmented plastic shards.
I so miss it now.
It’s oppressively tropical,
With volcanic heat
And Pressure bearing down on us.
The clammy mugginess of a sauna.
Not the clean dry air you find abroad,
Yet still that remorseless torrid scorching,
Roasting and toasting.
Just too much.

Hot air clothed in humid moisture,
Stuffy and sweaty,
Steaming to a haze
And later
Thunder storms.

I long for a cool brew
To freeze my throat
And quench my raging thirst:
Ice cool, ice cool, ice cool.
I’m sure not talking
Of tea.

Paul Butters

© PB 6\8\2018.