"ammonia" poems
I stood there,
Tall and proud,
Half yard behind
Death drop,
Vortex form at toes,
Put fish world in spin.
Crush moss trees with
Splashing feet.
One long gaze
Left to right,
Miles of pool and stream
Spelling poetry in cursive
Through eroded landscape.
Zip down,
Junk out.
Open gates of flesh tap
Muscle relax,
Fresh release
Of human nectar.
Light separation
Casting rainbow shimmer,
A dancing upright
Tower of liquid.
Gravity outstretch
Palm grip
And connect
Via web of
Golden pour,
Chaps eye to
Mother earth.
A converging
Of torrents,
Saturating transparent terrain
With saffron and lemon.
The taste in a frog's mouth
Of sweet ammonia.
Clench,
And donation over.
A momentary meld
Of man and nature.
Those few seconds
Putting context into me:
At one with the scenery,
An extension of environment,
A limb of creation.
Sep 20, 2015
Sep 20, 2015 at 8:15 AM UTC
Windex mice squeak through the windows,
biting newspaper as it scrapes across.
Soap from a new age fills the kitchen,
sheeps' fat long forgotten,
the sod-house of Laura Ingalls Wilder left behind
with its crumbling Lincoln logs,
the ceiling that drops dirt crumbs like a gritty pastry.
Our world is shiny,
so blinding that even the cough of newsprint makes it brighter.
A bottle sneezes across the counter, spurts those
bubbles of ammonia, gathers with the
rivers and tides that surge with ethanol,
it bursts the air with a neon smell and erases
everything that has come before.
Feb 28, 2012
Feb 28, 2012 at 1:01 AM UTC
I stand here poised
Like a bored gazelle about to leap
Not in the Serengeti
But leaning against a bin
Near Frankfurt
It is a wrought iron bin
Of fine craftsmanship
But all I can smell is ****
The **** of a thousand dogs
Over one hundread years
Marking their patch
And having no thought
For this man
Who would have his senses offended
By their ammonia picket fence.
Perhapse I will move
Jul 17, 2015
Jul 17, 2015 at 10:58 AM UTC
Her eyes burned from ammonia and snow as she shoveled the driveway
in the parts where the cat litter failed to appropriate traction.
This is what cars are for she said before she slipped away onto a twin mattress
next to pile of laundry and a pillow of books.
Sleeping with dryer hot clothes is only comfortable until you realize
you are still alone and loneliness is only formidable when you know it is indefinite.
So she folded each item into a pile and wondered if a suitcase wouldn't be better
than her dresser. But running away is not an answer like pit bulls and vipers having daughters, even though they ran out of formaldehyde and jars.
Aug 11, 2011
Aug 11, 2011 at 8:17 PM UTC
Its faded pink parka,
Stretched tight across its shoulders
Even in the summer twilight,
Crinkles, stale newspapers and plastic bags
Cacophony with the rhythmic
Thud of shopping cart wheels.
Its rotten malt liquor stench--
Astringent ammonia sweat
Runs in rancid rivulets down
Decaying skin on decaying face.
Pimples and pus and
Meth-notched teeth.
It offers a drink
In exchange for change.
My pockets jangle noisily,
But I offer only empty hands.
Aug 11, 2011
Aug 11, 2011 at 9:09 PM UTC
We sit cross-legged in the story corner
Breathing faint ammonia smells.
Table chants and hymns echo through corridor acoustics,
All creatures great and small.
We are wedged in a tangle of podgy thighs,
Grazed knees, scabs and warts.
And Anthony is sitting alone again
Where he can do no harm.
Yet he said he would bring it, and bring it he has.
Its tiny white head is nosing over
The hem of his pocket,
Whiskers a-twitch and
Eyes like tiny blood blisters ripe for popping.
A shudder of shivering whispers and
Nervous heads are half turned:
Yes, Anthony is smiling his special smile.
Mrs Lloyd has found the page,
My lids are squeezed tight
As I urge my mind to follow her away
From here, away from now.
For playtime will be ****** once again.
Mar 21, 2011
Mar 21, 2011 at 3:20 AM UTC
six-inch heels abandoned
in lampless corner grimy pennies embedded in carpet
rent's due
wedding band girl "fab polka dot frocks"
waterfalling past knees outta place
on casino bus destined for rest under Ft. Worth stars
now, now ********* borealis speckled dice
true love waits
socialite lip balm and bourgeoisie hips compete
in bidding war over which black face triggerpulls
which black face eyes the ground
passerby the red light the green light
all night diner egg on chin coffee-stained porcelain teeth
"I forgave, I think. I forget."
crowded and paranoid in the left lane the right lane
empty and weak and surrender and soiled underwear in ammonia nursing home
children is a word time is a lie the polka dot and the interstate ain't selling
divorce the consequence of acoustic shadows
reblog undo #sotrue reblog
living through x-ray radiotherapy the dotted gown
never the veiny calves or the blush or the eyeliner
somewhere in North Texas shawtys are in the club
shawtys are backin' it up shawtys are dropin' it down
hit me+hit me+hit me=blackjack mishap
the marvel of the wind and of wind turbines
cognac decade brides the epitome of class and natural elegance
standing like oil derricks and treated like oil wells
so secretive and philanthropic
this taxon remains nameless
casino turned dance hall dance hall skinny ties still a thing
this wine is good. is it a merlot? no. this is purely recreational
for birthdays for weddings and Ft. Worth missionaries
10-50 passengers we've got 53, no 54 #hahahaha #whoops #party
who needs unprescribed drugs? me, me (!)
decomposing mascara sweat on brow the interstate no longer lit
polka dots has got the suicide by Manet pulled up
on her iPhone the financial stress which shudders warm-blooded moms
on her lips every mother a librarian every mother a swing-pusher
but digression next to bitterness the lowest sin
edging the cultural gateway of the old west
miracles in and miracles out of tradition following
the slender bends of middle ancient Trinity River
children a word pattycake a game
and time time a lie we left to museum panoramas
Feb 2, 2013
Feb 2, 2013 at 8:12 PM UTC
Smoky pores: so familiar
sticky necks and inner elbows
alone I am a flamingo
in soft pink cotton
free chested
bare legged
artificial air
from blades spun wild-
a source for white noise
and companionship
I miss the greasy weather
take away my wired bed
shove it under the frame
to spend this time together
most exposed
as I sleep
admire my black heads
and the semi-permanent
smell of fire and ammonia
despite the bursting thermometer
and idle thermostat
your breath on my arms is no nuisance
wake me up at six in the morning
and kiss my smoky skin
Oct 21, 2012
Oct 21, 2012 at 4:41 PM UTC
Its sun-bleached pink parka
Limply hung over slumped, thin shoulders
Even in the summer twilight,
Crinkles, stale newspapers and plastic bags
Dissonance with the jarring
Rattle of shopping cart wheels.
Its rank malt liquor stench—
Astringent ammonia sweat
Runs in rancid rivulets down
Decaying skin on decaying face.
Pimples and pus and
Meth-notched teeth.
It offers a drink
In exchange for change.
My watch has never been more riveting.
Jan 14, 2012
Jan 14, 2012 at 1:15 AM UTC
In the days when dry ******* was as far as it went
I just fancied you more.
Strange I should think of this, after the one positive stick
in an ammonia scented carrier bag of negatives, or not.
Like a car salesman in a too often dry cleaned suit,
I enticed you with lurid banners offering years of hetro milage.
"££££££££££££££s of savings, no contraception needed,
this one wants a bun in it's **** loving oven",
and as I ***** down my eyes at the sound of rustling sheets,
signifying an imagined eroticism,
a rub down with an ******** my friends would squeal for,
I'm wishing you were a chick with a strap on.
Dec 14, 2010
Dec 14, 2010 at 11:43 PM UTC
o, rèmy martin dreamer,
with cheap hen on your breath.
the good brown is not the backwoods
or juul pods in virgina tobacco,
&
maybe the good brown manifests in my hair,
before the ammonia, touching my scalp
and turning it as red as my tongue after
a strawberry lollipop. everything
tastes like you.
&
i wish i could touch you again,
just hold your hand, brush your
elbow, play with your hair.
but i also wish i could drive a thousand
machetes into your flesh, while screaming
&
writhing with trash-sickened fervor .
you are vomit-inducing. you smell
like a thousand patchouli-burning
stoners, but you feel like velvet
and taste like sugar-sweat.
you might be popping a xan right now,
knee-deep in beautiful girls.
and i'm still dope-sick.
Apr 3, 2018
Apr 3, 2018 at 12:14 PM UTC
X marks the spot,
A man in overalls and rubber gloves tells me
Go stand there, son
And pick the bones & beaks
Out of the
Chicken press
The whole factory reeked of ammonia
I went home reeking of ammonia.
Chicken conveyor-belts
With upside-down chickens on hooks
Riding slowly over one master neck-splitting saw
Heads in baskets
For when the master saw cuts too deep
I watched them come
& go...
The factory was filled with silent mechanical drumming
Eventually,
I went home
Silent & mechanical.
Jul 30, 2012
Jul 30, 2012 at 6:55 AM UTC
Cosmic serpent
Flies in circles
Orbits earths
Visits vessels
Stings and wrestles
Prowls the plain
The desert arrangements
Faces fire no fear
Takes one look at the spider
Sees through the fire
Undresses the only envy
The necessity plenty
Of spiraling ascent
To meaning manifest
A plunge into the nest of the fortune cookie prophecies
Fate pulled from a hat
In the terraforming visions of the seven breasted harpy speech devours itself
The visioneer’s ouroboros precludes ovals of assimilation clinging tight to the exoteric
The vessel rejects the half digested
An ammonia laden upheaval
Dispelling folderol with blinding reverence
Inviting tragedy with nostalgic foresight
Wet nightmares
Logic abandons the visioneer ****** into the opposite of static
Sep 3, 2014
Sep 3, 2014 at 9:59 PM UTC
lavender
lilacs
blueberries and cream
the scent of you:
ammonia
sweet ether
acrid chemicals
the scent of us:
plucked, withered and putrid purple flowers, blueberry pie
and
***
Oct 2, 2013
Oct 2, 2013 at 7:28 AM UTC
Around 93 million miles from darling precious mother Earth,
First appeared glory sun,
In ecliptic stroll,
She'll orbit through her universe,
Dances past Mercury,
Stops for no party,
Cos this planet's party's lacking atmosphere,
Scally-wag sun scoots by Venus,
Burning hot herself,
Shining brightly in the darkness,
Phosphorescent glow,
Hesperus, the evening star, first one to be seen at night,
Phosphorous the morning star, the last planet to bid us goodnight,
When the morning comes in sight
Our lady home is next in line,
A planet rich with all life's treasures,
Mars she sits quietly dressed in red,
Has no water, not sure if she's always been dead,
Jupiter, has severe acne, shown in one red spot immense, she has no atmosphere, what gas she has is toxic, ammonia, methane, hydrogen,
The biggest baby of them all,
Saturn wears no wedding rings, has bands of ice particulate skirting round it's girth,
Uranus not much to say, he hangs around in space all day, as the Greek God of the sky,
Watching as the other world's go by,
Neptune, Roman God of the seas in planet form,
Pluto, chilled, the coldest one of all.
I hope you enjoyed this, it was extremely hard to write!!
By ladylivvi1
© 2013 ladylivvi1 (All rights reserved)
Jul 2, 2013
Jul 2, 2013 at 4:00 PM UTC
where? in a land far, far away
suburbia about to crack
every Jim, Joe and Jack
solicits money for dope
with no hope for a future
for his kids cause he’s broke
he hasn’t seen them in a couple of years
there are all
these mannequins
they walk around like they’re people
they got the houses like us
they got their malls and their steeples
imagine
the hand that feeds them buys ammonia
and they give it to the kids
yeah, they put it in the pigs
before they’re porkchops and ribs
they take
a little arsenic
and sprinkle it on carrots
because they heard the brand has merit
it's like
a different planet
once they had orange men and pink
and they didn’t get along
they said the colours were wrong
and they fought,
of course they fought
because that’s in all of nature
but they were given a few thousand years
they never quite figured
it out
it was a failure
and they never found a cure
and they never did mature
til the sky
came falling down
and it’s
a different time a different place
it’s not even the human race
but citizens get robbed by banks
held hostage with a gun in face
so I hope
that though the words I speak
are really just absurd
they’ll send a message that is heard
almost there
be the change
with your
words.
Dec 5, 2011
Dec 5, 2011 at 6:52 AM UTC
or like today, almost any other day like today,
but today i matched up two analogies
with cooking;
i once only stated that doing organic chemistry experiments
were like cooking,
broths of sweets and sours (esters and ammonia compounds
respectively) -
they did seem so at the time and still are,
while smashing vegetables dipped in liquid nitrogen against
the laboratory floor,
but today, almost like any other day like today
i started cooking a chicken makhani (indian butter chicken),
past the stage of frying onions, garlic-ginger paste,
past adding the spices: garam masala ground cumin chilli powder
cayenne pepper salt & pepper,
past the stage of adding butter, milk and crème fraîche,
and chopped tomatoes,
past the stage of then dipping the chicken in to let it poach for
more tenderness than if fried prior (as the recipe suggested),
then... when i noticed the spice colours diluted by the dairy ingredients
i peered into the culinary warlock’s cauldron and uttered
what fiction critics would have said of a bestseller spy novel...
‘mmm... the plot thickens.’
side dish? lemon rice.
Oct 14, 2015
Oct 14, 2015 at 10:20 AM UTC
the boy enters when he knows
others will not be there
in prayer--their silent entreaties
to a god he is not sure
listens or cares
morning after mass is best;
the bouquets are fresh
he can smell them once
the scent of the early
worshipers fades:
the pipe smoke from the old man's
coat
the widow's perfume which lingers longer than the ammonia stench
of the holy homeless who is there
every day
Christ watches over this:
a white marble man bolted
to a cross, witnessing
this spectacle for millennia
long before this cold statue
was placed in this cathedral,
he was there, the slaughtered lamb
cursed to die again and again
that is how the boy sees it;
not a promised life eternal,
but the same death anon,
anon
the pounding of the stakes,
the blood offering: the old man, the woman, the mendicant
all crucifying him again with
each plaintive prayer
once their odors fade,
the funeral sprays, the bouquets
remain--cut, dying flowers,
a fragrant impermanence
with no expectation for life
beyond their time in the
vase--no imploring a godhead
for forgiveness
no demand for blood
and perpetual death
only a little water for their brief journey
in fragile glass
Jun 23, 2017
Jun 23, 2017 at 12:54 AM UTC
Finally
Award moments passed
Bound in the future
Free of the past
Illiterate
Unable to read minds
Tell what your thinking
Crossed lines
Thin
Translucent
Visions crystal clear
Clawing out
Drawing near
Closets open
Step through
Experience
Passion
Pleasure
Emotions of your soul
I wont tell
No one knows
Friendly flirtation
Sticky situations
Tip of your tongue
Searching for explanations
Just having fun
Put in a box
Categories aren't me
Touch my heart
Little black sheep
Big lion roar
Spread your wings
Soar
Air breezing round
Sulking cross town
Tell that you feel
Kiss sof
Unreal
Dreaming up a lifetime
Seems laying here
Smell of ammonia
White everywhere
Your my lifeline
Broken pieces beating as one
They wont accept our love
Murray
Feb 26, 2012
Feb 26, 2012 at 12:29 PM UTC
we're almost nowhere. just one more block...
the town clock a white dot with prayer hands and a mute halo
we inveigle the fireflies in our mantis
our mantras throw tantrums in tandem
we polish lanterns and leave chrysanthemums
for Amish sirens. your wine a thick miasma of phantasms
a Cabernet of rich spasms in the delicate worm
your apple turns.
off again and another alabaster more pale than actual...
the fat uvula pendulum in the dark tower
where the bats nap in ammonia, fuming with green dreams
that turn black the clock, behind the white solemn.
a virtual girl.
an un-promise promised
one hand over your heart
indivisible
halfway.
Jun 10, 2013
Jun 10, 2013 at 9:56 PM UTC
Let blood be blood.
Let it not be a metaphor for coming of age.
Let it not be a phobia,
nor trigger nor gang.
Let blood be blood.
Let a cat be a cat.
Let your house smell like ammonia.
Let it claw your carpet.
Let it cure your anxiety.
Let it knock over grandpa.
Let ashes be ashes.
Let dust be dust.
Let a vacuum be a vacuum.
Let a soul be a soul.
Let blood be blood.
Let a baby be a baby.
Let it crawl around and do baby ****
Let a tantrum be a tantrum.
Let ***** be *****
Let a mother be a mother.
Let a bigot be a bigot.
Let an opinion be an opinion.
Let a fire be a fire.
Let an ******* be an *******
Let a woman be a woman.
Let a cow be a cow.
Yes he does use he pronouns now.
Let the utter be an utter.
Let the bull be a bull.
Let the cow be a bull.
Let a podium be a podium.
Let a speech be a speech.
Let a poet be a poet.
Let a revolution be a revolution.
Let blood be blood.
Jan 30, 2016
Jan 30, 2016 at 9:23 PM UTC
The Last Doughboy
went marching home
mustered up to heaven
to rest in perfect peace
never went over the top
when he was over there
drove an ambulance to save
the last dying bits of humanity
excavated from the craters
reeking with mud and blood
the turgid stench
of blessed death
wafts through the
muddled labyrinth
a ghastly kingdom
of rats and men
intractable mazes
of hate, hope and waste
led by inept generals
vainglorious politicians
promising triumphant victory
while begging disastrous defeat
bold shouts of advance
lead to routed retreats
global trench warfare
the sweet earthen coffins
empathy's last gasp
compassion's last stand
gurgling lungs
gagging on gas
imploding on
clotting blood
liquid ammonia
sears sensitive retinas
wafting flash of fire
burns eyes forever shut
concussive bursts
bludgeon eardrums
ripped bodies of friends
splayed onto comrades
the macabre rouge
a terrible war paint
liberally applied
with stunning result
by the industrial rattle
of cantankerous Gatlings
better minds thought it
the war to end all wars
the horrific scenes of waste
the pleading lips of starved children
the last Doughboy saw it all
a lucky Johnny who marched home
he thought the horror of WWI
would be enough to end all wars
yet all is not quiet
on the western front
Johnny's still got lots
of gruesome guns
distressed humanity
remains very busy
carting away human rubble
from our apocalyptic trenches
go to your reward
valiant Doughboy
*"leave us citizens
of death's gray land,
drawing no dividend
from time's tomorrows."
Siegfried Sassoon*
Dedicated to
Frank Buckles
(February 1, 1901 – February 27, 2011)
Godspeed Beloved
Oakland
3/1/11
jbm
Nov 11, 2011
Nov 11, 2011 at 9:11 AM UTC
Finally
Award moments passed
Bound in the future
Free of the past
Illiterate
Unable to read minds
Tell what your thinking
Crossed lines
Thin
Translucent
Visions crystal clear
Clawing out
Drawing near
Closets open
Step through
Experience
Passion
Pleasure
Emotions of your soul
I wont tell
No one knows
Friendly flirtation
Sticky situations
Tip of your tongue
Searching for explanations
Just having fun
Put in a box
Categories aren't me
Touch my heart
Little black sheep
Big lion roar
Spread your wings
Soar
Air breezing round
Sulking cross town
Tell that you feel
Kiss sof
Unreal
Dreaming up a lifetime
Seems laying here
Smell of ammonia
White everywhere
Your my lifeline
Broken pieces beating as one
They wont accept our love
Murray
Feb 26, 2012
Feb 26, 2012 at 12:29 PM UTC
First cigarette of the day:
In goes the toxic particles,
Everything from ammonia to yeast all rolled up in a white and tan piece of paper.
Out goes the smoke, along with every negative feeling your body has ever been laced with.
You'd blow it all out,
hoping the smoke would take your problems away
and let everything disintegrate into the wind
as if you'd never see any trace of your issues again.
But if that were true, you wouldn't need another one.
Don't you dare touch another one.
Second cigarette of the day:
The smoke and feelings that you exhaled earlier in the morning,
Is now a ghost that's haunting you,
Slowly taking over your body until you're withering away into dust.
It's now a trail that follows you around and makes you stand out,
There is no escaping it.
Your problems are still relevant and floating in the air,
And you wonder why you can't **** them.
You inhale the ghosts that were once just mere feelings,
And you exhale an active tornado.
Third cigarette of the day:
Your ghosts have become demons that have broken through your protective rib cage into your lungs,
Which are now barren and wilted from setting them on fire,
Over and over again.
They tear past your heart and soul to make you cough up your anger and regret,
Just to have you swallow it again.
Your clothes reek,
Your teeth are yellowing,
And it's all because you wanted to breathe out your mere issues,
That just turned into haunting memories.
Feb 20, 2014
Feb 20, 2014 at 7:01 PM UTC
This useless meat sack. I am the thing watching behind the eyes of this empty meat sack. I am the one piloting this sausage of a body, directing it to walk, talk, smile.
Sometimes I wish that I could reach into my chest and tear it open. I want to rip and tear and slice past the epidermis, watch the white fatty cells and veins and arteries moving. I want to see white, bone-white, a cage for my useless heart. Watch my heart pump like those sheep hearts we used to dissect in science. I remember how they looked, white fat clinging like ivy, and greying in the cool room of the labs. Nothing but a cold, clammy lump of flesh. Maybe death smells like the butchers. Like bleach that can’t cover the festering smell of rot and ammonia.
I’m heavy on my ankles. I remember the last time I starved, and I felt as if I could fly, balanced on my tip-toes, poised to fall. And maybe falling felt just as good.
It’s so unbearably soft. My chest, my arms. I can feel my cheek meat. Fat on bones. Scrape it out with a spoon like pork cheeks, soft, tender, delicious.
A chrysalis. A cut-out, a hollow man wearing hollow shoes doing hollow things. How did that pupa feel, I wonder, trapped in darkness? No way out but forward. The growing pains, tendons and bones and muscles warping. Twisting and crawling but transforming, little by little. Into what, you can’t possibly imagine. The uncertainty, it’s almost as bad as the darkness. No change even when you open your eyes, like colours have frozen into little dizzying pixels. You can’t stop, but do you want to? On the precipice between weakness and a terrifying something else, what can you be but monstrous? Not one or the other but neither.
What are you turning into? A butterfly? A monster? Neither?
You can’t stop.
Dec 30, 2021
Dec 30, 2021 at 2:39 AM UTC