I saw a bottle of acetone.
Thought id give a squeeze.
the toxic nectar was on my hand
and now my hand is white.

I know a guy,
he is a friend.
Whom the cops often have to,
apprehend.
He used to do
some crazy ****.
But now he doesn't do most of it.
I know you are thinking,
who is this man.
He is a friend who drives a van.
Although not to pick up kids with treats,
he uses his ride to satisfy his needs.
Which includes dolphin collecting,
live or dead,
he's always selecting.
Vaping real hard
every single day,
is how he spends,
his hard worked pay.
His job is selling,
illegal pelts
of rare albino beavers.
He sets up traps
and waits in the bushes
with an over sized cleaver.
Stalking and waiting for the perfect catch,
he watches the ****** closely.
And right as it comes into reach,
he slits the baby's throat boldly. (baby ****** not a real baby.)
My friend makes his way to the flee market,
where he sells the pelts.
He greets his customers happily,
as the beavers hang from his belt.
Blood on his hands and pride in his eyes,
he knows he's got a great prize.
The money rolls in,
and he know it is true,
that night he will party
until his lungs are blue,
(due to the fat rips he'll be vaping)
On the weekends when he's not working,
he hops into his van,
and drives to the border,
to make sure no illegals are lurking.
Loving his country with deep passion,
my friend protects us,
with the guns he has stashed in. (his van.)
After his duty is fulfilled,
he spends the rest of his time,
all alone,
drinking gallons
of acetone.
Then in the big city
he streaks for hours,
with bags of broken glass,
that he likes to devour.
I totally agree,
my friend is insane,
and on his family,
his acts cause great pain.
Although,
he treats his slaves
with a lot of respect,
and he gives porridge to the
needy and other rejects.
He's better than me,
because I like to suffocate,
small injured birds.
And barge into restaurants,
to steal cheese curds.
But my friend is the best,
friend he can be,
as I described in this poem,
that you can see.
Unless you are blind or stupid,
or don't have anyone to read you this,
just know that my friend,
has your children in his shed,
and they'll sadly be missed.

Our houses, spitting-distance close
Feet propped on railing
cold beer with fresh lime
watching robins flung in flocks
to the failing of August

Too close-- Really?
John, on his cell
is fu_king the world again
from his garage
Why not-- squeeze in pool or a dog
Lawn mowers and **** whips tune in to whine
late Friday afternoon 'bout dinner time

Clinking silver, scrapes of plates
Running water for suds
through open windows to the thunk of pots
Doors bang behind on pathway to garbage
or joint in the woods
wafting over all
wordless squeals of delight from autistic child

Meanwhile, the odor of nail polish removes
all doubts of--
--Gawd!
lodging low and toxic
as the sun dissolves orange
in its acetone setting

Kids playing Man Hunt as darkness falls
Leaping hedges, slamming gates
No yards can contain these kinetics
restless legs, furtive minds

Muttering wind chimes
from four different porches
above the drone of highway
a half mile yawns

Pieces of talk
flipping the crickets
over--
Why or who or at what time?

Other-worldly glow from The Mall
dims stars
outlines mountains
brightens the horizon behind

Mosquitoes coming in for a landing

Some children wondered why the grass is green
or the sky blue
Well, I wondered why your touch was made of ice
I learned of gravity and the f word
and decided
your presence felt like ******* free fall

You say you've changed
I know you have
but your kindness
still turns sour in my mouth

I want to love you
but how can I?
When I accidentally wiped your poison kisses
with the same sleeve I wore my heart on

you call me a coward
for confessing my heart
through a piece of paper
rather than with my lips
perhaps because
ink dries much faster
than these tears do
acetone can disguise the truth
at the tip of my ballpoint pen
and paper may be shredded
for these feelings to not exist

Dreamt

I drank too much coffee,
I'm talking, way to much coffee,
Kind of like drinking too much gasoline,
I am currently on fire.

My pulse,
Scary repetitons

My heart,
Spinning andromeda like.

My legs,
Tired like mile walks in wet sand

My eyes,
Closed shut like too much of whatever you like

My fingers,
wet from the acetone
But it's not so, because there is NO acetone.
Just this lingering smell of manufactured chaos.

Of course you figure I like the smell.
That its a blooming poppy
Pheromones and such.
It is, and
I do.

Acetone

You're my hopeful undertone
and *that is where
all this love is
vulnerable like acetone,
because if one day
this all ends,
where will hope go?
I must place my hope
in the stars,
because even if all else crumbles,
they will still be there,
shining, burning,
reminding me dead
things in your heart
get lighter the more it gets dark,
reminding me that a star lit sky
is capable of fixing
a person's broken parts.

the mange of our fuzzy logic is squandered on the imbecile.
and genius is the gene splice of twelve comedies.
a rogue moon in a hooligan.
it jumps the fence and can't jump back. lacking the tool
that undoes the beauty of the obvious.
that quaintly dismisses the Oh ! My ! God !
we cringe in the ether of our ignorance, spooning the villain.  
the Mind is the Common Sense Killer....
it dives and triumphs in the acetone conundrum
of our proximity to dissipation.
the bold features of our doldrums
are the perfect ugly perfection
of our flaws.
our love is the rigid agenda of a massacre.
we the people, are the juvenile, sprained wrist of a boggart !
a Fae dreary.
we have our business in the withers of dead horses.
we are well versed
in the tundra tongue of our flat humor.
we assume the rumors are true.
and the tyranny that freed you
is the misery you
love with
and your beautiful
doom
kissing
a
mirror...

a Thing.

I am a silent monstrosity in the heavy and deep belly of the earth
I sit, carving my teeth out with
Nail clippers, chiseling bone like soap
I melt through my tongue with acetone
Like wax
Like wax, I am, like wax
Still and dripping, falling faces and hiding places in the darkest parts of museum floorboards

It’s a daughter’s prison
A school run by the rainbow nun
Without recess
Without recess
Inhaling acetone
From toes of pearls I’ve come undone
Without that high
Without that high
Be gentle to the stranger
For he too fights a battle
Someone said that
Someone said that
Existing to amuse them
They hand you exit signs
Muddled masses
Muddled masses
Here’s a ******* and a pen
And breathing holes
So take advantage
Take advantage
The stale egg floats and it
Boosts her confidence
What a plan
What a plan

Thinking there was nowhere left to go
With tears streaming down her sickly pale cheeks
The torn threads she will not sew
While much needed help she refuses to seek

She plucked each pedal with frigid fingers
Ingested the sweet scent with a nose much too pink
Yet the smell of unforgiving acetone still lingers
Further into loneliness she begins sink

As if she were being lured by an anchor
Down to the bottom for eternity
Now numb, the heavens will take her
And return her endangered sanity

Acetone

I'm sorry I didn't
quite know what to say
when we were sitting in
the backseat
and your mind was driving you
a million miles away,
I'm sorry he broke your heart,
how dare he take your smile apart?
I know you're coated in pain,
so I'll ask it to
slowdance with my name:
Just tell me where it hurts
and I'll bandage your wounds
with these words,
I'll bury all your rage in my hearse
where my bones will
one day decay.
And I pray no one else will ever
rip you apart
because I love you and
watching you hurt
is the hardest part.

- Crimsyy

*A/N: Oddly timed updates but that's because school has began (: Please vote and comment what you think of this poem or any constructive opinions...thankyou for reading!♡

The dragons of Eden
Are forking their tongues
Along the silver edge of acetone rain,
Foreclosing yesterday’s shop-fronts
In favour of a clean white page.

They smoke in tailored suits,
Blackening their lungs
And toasting freedom with afternoon champagne.
They took man to the moon, they say,
And gave light to the modern age.

They tweak offshore accounts
With battery farms
Of the hardly living, and hardly human.
Forfeiting progress for profit,
They scandalise the streets in debt.

The dragons of Eden
Are flexing their arms,
They’re setting their minds from union, to fusion.
They’re alighting our memories,
But it is our choice to forget.

There is pretty
bubbling
a faulty science experiment
on the verge of the most compliant shade of peach
blanketing itself even beneath the dirt
of my fingernails.

Daddy can you open this?
Because spoonful’s of
Mommy can’t
Never sat well
on the tip of your tongue
nor the bottom of your stomach.

The click
Resonating in my ears like a clatter
of spinning off the head
Of a bottle of red polish
Black clouds of acetone
and nights worth drowning
in salty tear-duct rain
spill over your fingers flawlessly
the way you wish pretty would
on every square inch
of your not-pretty-enough.
But pretty is all sealed up
In the same transparent plastic wrap
That clutches each brain stem
The way grubby clawed tentacle-men
grab your ***
choke every dose of ill-met
red lipstick mirror encounters
from you
and every you
ten-years in the making.

You look so pretty
on the outside
but no one wants to see
your landmines
zip modesty up to your neck
every morning
before you leave your apartment
to enter a circus
the confines of impending death
each man and each billboard
equally a lion
but please
for the love
of your ugly-*******-face
ugly-*******-face
ugly-*******-face
be pretty
hold white teeth to your skull
and your skull to a fragile pair
of rose-meadow-shoulders
remember to ignore the thorns
relentlessly.

Pretty is easy
as a puncture wound.
Pretty is the only green light
In one thousand miles.
Don’t be a girl—
You’ll be okay.

Acetone*

It wouldn't take
a simple overnight
to have enough of him, now;
You miss him,
isn't that right,
as you tie your shoe laces
and clench your jaw tight.
How long is soon?
The waiting party's over,
your resistance, a deflated balloon.
You're running out of air, silly girl,
too attached with your care.
You're a switch and he flips you
from nothing to everything,
and you're weaponless.
So, do yourself a favour,
and stop counting all the seconds
you've waited for him,
stop wasting your 11:11,
or else when the clock
finally breaks down,
the time might just **** you.

A slow ritual of praying at her bare feet had begun on the occasion of the first time he saw her apply chapstick —
the linoleum floor wiped with acetone, her cucumber skin, sacred red, bleach white and oiled slick.
He found that it suited him to be that close to her black toe nail polish, his eyelashes lying perfectly on the glossy finish
and even as he kissed the paleness of her soft marbled skin, all he saw was black as his eyes fell shut with hers.
They dreamt of perfect oceans and places inside the piña colada glasses where nasty secrets didn’t seem all that bad.​
​
~ fin ~​
– Martha Grace Hsieh and Daniel J. Flore III

Let the flowers crown your crown
with life, leeway, and lust

Let the blossoms crowd your crowd
in your mind, marked and mine

Let the starlight head your head
from dye, disaster, and divinity

Let the acetone guard your heart
because when it comes to breaking patterns
rhymes
and constancy
you seem to be
holy

Acetone*

I spend a countless amount of time
daydreaming, picturing, imagining
small moments that could have
the ability to fill my heart
with such happiness,
people would inquire if I were a firework.
My mind carves my face, relaxed against your neck,
the ultimate safe place for me to be
when I can't run from the weight
of achievements still waiting to be accomplished.
My mind carves you, holding me,
our movements synchronizing,
we're anti-socializing,
enveloped in our world where no one, no future, could touch us or break us apart.
We're dancing to the lack of melody,
focused on feeling the beat of our hearts...
But that's just silly, just a fantasy
because I don't suppose the world
could stop spinning for just enough time to let us figure it all out.
Will the distance be insufferable?
Will this eroding earth leave our hearts vulnerable?

I want to write you poems and bury you flowers
Put acetone in the foundation of all the pretty girls you envy
Dismantle every claim to beauty besides your own
Clip the wings of your insecurities and plant raspberries on your scars

I want to love you
From wherever you will have me
Very near, or even further far
With glamour gaze or diverted eyes

Never yours and always mine.

I was afraid to put that next cigarette to my lips
For fear of washing away that lingering taste
It wasn’t the 7000 chemicals from the smoke
It wasn’t the 70 some cancer causing agents
It wasn’t the carbon monoxide, nicotine, tar, arsenic, ammonia, freon, cyanide, or the acetone
No it was you
It was the lingering taste of you
and your cherry red lips
It was the taste from where your lips pressed on mine
Completing my puzzle
That taste I’ve been chasing since the tenth month twenty first day of seventh grade
And if you add ten and twenty one you get thirty one
And if you flip that you get thirteen
Thats how old I was when I first kissed you
It had been a dare
And back then my ****** lips
Did not know about poison
My christian lips
Did not know how addicting you were
My collar bones were unexplored land discovered by your wondering hands
My chest was a new world after you
And now standing here
Standing still
Watching you walk away
I put the next cigarette to my lips
And try to chain smoke my way over you

in my heart, there's a hornet's nest
But we can still be together I promise
the only difference is, it might
sting once in awhile honey - and
I chase toxins like a lit match
I used to read my thoughts aloud
with metaphor, and wit
And nowadays it's like I barely get,
A chance to step past this shadow
I blame the acetone in my sleep -
I blame the lights down on me
Like a hospital table

Acetone

The places where you
lit fires just for me
begin to dismantle themselves
as soon as your absence is felt;
Your hands were the stitches
that held them together.

Vulnerability inevitable,
yet somehow it feels
safe with you,
close enough to fire,
close enough to be highly
flammable when
exposed to air (love),
close enough to reveal
parts of me I'd always conceal.

This love is
violent and gentle,
somedays, an arrow to my heart,
others, unbearable to pull apart
and I guess though
that's what love means;
taking the euphoria with
the smoke,
staying through merciless
days of bloodshed,
just to keep a throbbing beat alive
and kicking to the gut,
adding salt to a bleeding cut;
I could bleed myself dry for you.

rip all my hairs out hoping they access a brain cell to help me wipe my memory like a shaun white, snow tidal wipeout

strand by strand hoping to find a destresser to pull the plug of my brain's photobooks

you catalyze my grief and a cobweb nostalgia
silk an admired commodity yet **** out by a creature who has it handed to it at aggregated birth

stuck in this mess
but i have my fist clenched around a web which is as adhesive as a 48 hour hardened glue

glued to you but i'm acetone fused and it's only a serum's distance to an isle of distant cries , haunting melodies of  f# major vocal hymns and

a sand filled paradise where wild life flies and quick sand awaits to offer a gorgeous, satin, embodiment of warmth.

yours deceivingly..

that good old horrendous feeling

Acetone*

I don't hesitate like I used to;
I know nothing of grey,
grey knows nothing of me.
You're a cigarette lighter,
your name slowdancing in my mind,
a violent waltz.

I tiptoed around you,
afraid to be set ablaze
but now my extinguisher's
not working
and I can't help but hold your gaze.

I've been told we're too young,
too young to set ourselves alight,
and too fragile for exposure.
But I also know if I'd never tried
I would have never found closure.

Red, raw skin from trying to wash
away last year's acetone fingerprints
littered on my body. We were born
as paper air planes in spring,
destined to crash
at the end of winter in a landslide,
colliding with the base of the calendar
that hung around my neck like a noose.
Brittle bones with no marrow: I am physically,
emotionally, mentally, spiritually
hallow.
That was last year.
I'm trying to learn to be more introspective
without looking inwards through the barrel
of a gun. Last I checked my bruised and bloodied
heart was dangling out a second story window
tempting me to jump out and save it.
I'm done pretending now.
My paper plane may have crashed
but at least I'm on the ground.