"backfiring" poems
Pinto?
No, not the wild-spirited, color-splotched mare
with mane streaming like flames-thrown
behind in the wind
Taking desert inclines
with scuffing hooves on rock
catching her balance in mesquite
curbing?
The sage, dust
All
that nature throws in its pathway to knowledge
toward treachery of crosswalks?
“P-l-e-a-s-e don't slow down!
Stop signs--?
”No!
Just keep going!
Don't slow down now!”
“They'll hear us coming
3 blocks away!”
Pinto?
Clogged carburetor--?
No one much-mentioned
rear-end inferno reputation??
A mere twinge in my signature
Woman-without-a-clue
“Hey, it runs, right?
Gets where we're goin'?”
Kids duck in back seat
so as not to be seen
In the cloud of smoke
We make our approach
Hiss Spitter, Belch, Pop
and--
BANG!
--Like a gunshot
Kids take cover
on street, in backseat
duck down
so not to be noticed...
“Oh Ma!
MA!!!
Not right here!
Farther down!”
...so not to be seen
...by friends that matter...
in this ride
from hell!
Backfiring Beast--
“Friends”
skitter away
from what will emerge from the smoke and fumes
of high-risk-situation
Kids spill out through jammed door
to unexpected accolades
onto equality's curb
of laughter
Public school's
wake of exhaust and relief
I drive mercifully away
Start of another school day
Aug 7, 2018
Aug 7, 2018 at 1:11 PM UTC
How horrible the plot
the hem, the haw
of the incessantly violent
torture ****
How sad the politic
the row, the scorn
the media howl, the noise
the storm
We are drifting in a sea
of bobble head puppets
backstabbing, mass murdering
mask-faced tyrants
and we are loosing the battle
before it's even begun
So go ahead now
and trade in your votes
sell off your rights
buy a backfiring gun
Because nothing is worse
than trying to reverse evolution
and you can't crawl back
into the womb of your Mother
once you've destroyed
the primordial ooze
of creation's lubrication
for a dollar and a cheapened dream's
inflation
Jan 11, 2017
Jan 11, 2017 at 5:08 PM UTC
Does it look like I'm having fun?
Far from shore in midst of bottom shelf ocean,
Holding me by my edges, afraid I'm about to go off.
"Papa, you're a gun," you rattle off for your friends to hear,
"I feel so reckless with you by my side."
Clasping my edges tighter,
I dream of backfiring into a passing thought--
I dream of backfiring into good times--
lift up and into your purse I go,
with a zip the party softens to a buzz,
with a zip I cozy up to velvet darkness.
I gleam in the fluorescent light of a bathroom
and when you wrap your lips around my barrel,
it's you I want to blow off.
I look away when you find my trigger--
I look away, and pretend another's doing the pulling--
"Papa, you're a gun," you whisper especially for me,
"I feel invincible with you by my side."
You won't when you realize the chamber has gone empty.
Jun 8, 2012
Jun 8, 2012 at 12:38 AM UTC
The magnificent burden, of a gentle touch
could it be I care too much?
could my actions lead to distractions,
and wind up backfiring on me?
I long for you as far as the eye can see,
but does my own vision deceive?
Am I blinded by lust and confused by love
or do my words mean nothing
because my actions mean everything?
The only thing we can hold true to us,
is sight, and sound and taste and touch.
But what happens when I’m just too much?
Am I what you bargained for,
or were you hoping for something more?
I have given bits and pieces of myself,
to everything I’ve ever loved
and taken back the same.
But what happens
when you end up forgetting
why exactly these pieces remain?
Parts of me, aren’t apart of me
and apart of me is missing.
Seems to me, what’s left
is just a puzzle with history.
So will you take me
in all of my glory, and sorrow, and despair
or will you throw away the security blanket
and tell me what I don’t want to hear?
Don’t tap-dance through my tragedy,
and try not to console my wounded soul.
Tell me what you feel and fear
and maybe, potentially,
you could fill this hole.
Dec 10, 2013
Dec 10, 2013 at 12:49 PM UTC
Forgive
biases,
backfiring
from
blurred vision,
racing
against time's
antithesis.
Oct 9, 2012
Oct 9, 2012 at 6:13 PM UTC
Strange feelings swim inside me,
confusing and alert.
Prodding me to make a move;
assume, affirm, assert.
Yet these tones only arise
within the realm of me.
I'm building solid structures
from only misery.
Misery imagined
Misery, elusive
Why do I question everything
being inconclusive
Like happiness backfiring
scrutinizing itself
to pick apart perfection
and pity all the wealth
To find a problem buried
where graves have not been laid
and ravish in the thinking
I should be getting paid
I'll sit and whisper to myself
I should be getting more
of everything completely
as if love is but a chore
He tells me things I know.
The things my heart is saying.
Why does the mind escape the heart
all certainty decaying?
But he is right
and I am wrong
I love all of this man.
Expectation kills livelihood
He does everything he can
Overthinking hurts
when none of it is true.
We cannot build reality,
fake disappointment--brewed.
So holding hands with him
and I love you's ARE enough.
The feeling IS the knowing.
Uncertain, true and tough.
Dec 16, 2015
Dec 16, 2015 at 6:43 PM UTC
I hope he's wearing protection
As he ***** you over.
Hypocrites,
Loud trucks backfiring,
And poor choices.
I thought by the time you hit this age,
You would have ended your rebellious teen stage.
But I guess it's a permanent personality trait.
Feb 1, 2016
Feb 1, 2016 at 7:29 PM UTC
I have been shallow, I realize that now
Considering my impact on others first
Leaving the concerns of materialistic importance for myself.
In this double life I have been leading I have fooled myself
Trying to find reason to believe in others
I ignored that it is myself that needs believing in.
My critical eyes have become my enemy
Rendering me blind to obvious faults
Without knowing, I have trapped myself deeper in their clutches
Focusing on disconnecting from my mind
Backfiring because I'm back in their world
Unintentionally, it's all I think about.
It's time to rethink my strategy
Take a refresher course on my mission.
Attempts to suspend the command unwanted have been countless,
And unknowingly, I have deserted control of the living, breathing, me.
I blindfolded myself, but still peered through the gaps
So I'm closing my eyes, and pray sleep stays for a while.
Keeping finger and thumb apart
That is the one connection we shall still share
But no longer will i try to believe in my two selves
No, I will start believing in the person
The being that my movements and choices will give effect and reward to.
Me, out here. Living and breathing.
The ghost of me will never cease to exist
She will float, and I will let her continue for a while.
Don't fret, my beloved enemy, I'll be back soon
A Wendy to this Peter Pan story
Returning with needle and thread to sew my old shadow to my feet.
But now, I'm flying, no, walking back home.
Farewell.
May 24, 2013
May 24, 2013 at 6:24 PM UTC
Cataclysm at its finest is it?
Catastrophe galore
Crisis & calamity
Beginning of
humanitys' war
Great nuclear holocaust,
Mother natures devastation
Festering with inhabitants of the era of degradation.
Where we are the parasitic infestation
numbly oblivious to backfiring ruination.
Our world is a gas chamber
with poison - being suffused & saturated.
A toxic wasteland for our toxic souls
heartless ghouls ought to be annihilated -
obliteration sounds tempting...
'mass suicide of this vicious nation'.
Black death couldn't quell us malicious beings
No virus contagion in existence ever would -
eradicate a species, this selfish & grim
Should we blow the world up if we could?
All the Atomic & Nuclear could be put to good use
Escape the mess we made & ignite the fuse
As the grotesque & gory go up in flames
vanquish every origin of mans evil games
Watch Earths inferno,
much better than Hiroshima or Chernobyl
Lamenting on the barren face of Mars,
Of the spectacle 'it' could've been but never will.
Aug 18, 2021
Aug 18, 2021 at 2:10 PM UTC
The ringing of a telephone
A simple knock when I’m alone.
Someone just calling my name
And screaming seem the same.
A loud noise when I am sleeping,
Someone throwing open my door,
A car backfiring close by home,
The sounds of steps across the floor.
These are the normal sounds
The symphony of people living.
These sounds don’t normally
Carry terror along with the giving
Like someone living in a war zone
A place with mass invading troops.
They are isolated common things
Unless they arrive in huge groups.
Yet these things still bring me
A painful pounding in my heart
And it goes on for too long
From the moment it starts.
It is the gift of abandonment
Of childhood neglect and abuse
And is viewed by most adults
As ridiculous and abstruse.
But many survivors of childhood
Of threat and pain and fear
Will tell you the horror remains
After the passage of many years.
It has to do with the inner self
Being robbed of a basic trust
Of life itself by their care givers,
By God himself, if you must.
Because there feels a solid knowing
That truly, deep inside the child
There is nobody to save them
From creatures near and wild.
Nobody will come to rescue us
When the bad things come to bite
And everybody knows they come
In the deepest part of the night.
Oct 21, 2015
Oct 21, 2015 at 8:08 PM UTC
Mrs Squires and Benedict
at the cheap hotel
in back street
off Charing Cross station
and she said
come on in
let's share this bath
and so he undressed
and there she was
in the water
waiting for him
and he climbed in
and sat opposite her
in the big bath
her shorter legs
between his
his longer legs
outside of hers
she lay back
her *******
sleeping puppies
her hands touching
his feet
come on
she said
don't be shy
and she tickled his toes
and tried to lift them
to her lips
he laughed
I see Percy's moving
she said
he looked at his pecker
rising in the water
needs a wash
she said
and that was that
and after in the room
by the noisy gas heater
in front
of the double bed
he dried
and watched
as she lay there smoking
her hair brushed back
her nightdress
covering her
and she said
wasn't the show good?
yes it was
he said
toweling his pecker dry
the dancers were good too
she inhaled
he studied her
wondered what
her husband would say
seeing her there
what he would have thought
of her bathing
with some young dude
in some cheap hotel
once he had dried
he put on
his dressing gown
and lay on the bed
beside her
and she offered him
a cigarette and lit it for him
and they watched
as their joint smoke
rose in swirling patterns
later
when the lights
were out
(except for the on and off
neon lights
from the street outside)
they made love
in the double bed
the springs going some
the gas fire hissing
like a box of snakes
and he thinking
of her husband
lying in some
other bed alone
with the lights out
and she thinking
of the best ***
she'd had in years
and more to come
and the on and off
neon lights
and somewhere
a gunshot
or car backfiring
and he wondering
what her husband
would say
or think
her having
a young stud
and a good lay.
Sep 29, 2013
Sep 29, 2013 at 11:35 AM UTC
I knew what the outcome would be
But I still continued with my curiosity
Fate lying there like an invisible open book,
How I wish I could just take a little look.
I knew the path I took was hurtful,
Now I am the one who's resentful.
All my intentions backfiring on me,
I've tried so hard - can nobody see?
How can I move on with a chapter missing?
How can I let go when I only know how to hold on?...
©Maniba Kiani
Jan 23, 2014
Jan 23, 2014 at 4:45 PM UTC
here the sunshine patriot, bright and bleached –
they plucked the stars
to hang them from your chest. the rest are
gone, hidden by light pollution
and concrete skies.
your eyes reflect the blank face
of stopped clocks; steps from the car,
summer soldier.
but winter hides in
the cold metal of the trigger
a bang –
it echoes in fireworks, spatters the street with
blue white red red red.
the stutter of a gun,
or just a backfiring car?
sunshine man melts in a puddle of gaudy red,
the colour of sticky ice lollies
and patriotism.
here the newscaster, weeping tirelessly
for the camera.
“he was our country,” he says, and wasn’t he just?
back alleys and sunshine and
wanting to go back, wanting
to hide in the past.
and here the politicians, mourning loudly
into crisp white handkerchiefs. oh, how i wish we could
freeze time, draw grimaces in markers
on their painted faces
and watch them point fingers.
they use pretty words
heroic, or tragic
and pat their sweaty backs.
meanwhile,
sunshine man bleeds into the gutter
red white blue
the colour of freedom.
Mar 17, 2020
Mar 17, 2020 at 3:00 PM UTC
I unfold in the Summer.
I collapse, piece by piece
into myself
I stare at the ceiling for days,
else pace the floorboards
getting splinters in the soles
of my feet
I mix a drink over the plate filled sink, I don't take care of the basics.
Washing, cleaning...
I neglect it all. I stick to drinking gin from ***** mugs. I was drunk then and I don't think I've sobered up
a decade of paint striper and counting coppers, of wine soaked breath and flinching
sometimes I eat. Swelling my stomach with half baked bread. Too hungry to let it rise
I stand, stock still, under the moon. A whisper between man and man. A backfiring car. A memory...
it still hurts sometimes, when I move. So I wear cotton. Do fabrics have innocence? Do colours?
lemon and orange. No more siren red
(I spread)
He must have loved you, they say to me now. People only **** the ones they love
or the pretty ones
(and I am not a pretty one)
Mar 26, 2016
Mar 26, 2016 at 3:10 PM UTC
There's something alluring about
losing yourself in thought
I did that once, and found myself
falling in love
as dangerous and as reckless as it is
today my heart felt like pouring itself
filling an ocean of emotions
As I sat on the shore, seeing the space
in front of me fill itself with my feelings
I felt my color returning, my skin reacting
my heart has fallen
for life, for her, for him, for it
my heart decided to drug my mind
and let go for once
Aching to ride with the rebels
to drink with the misfits
to dine with the careless
and to fall with the romantics
I decided to get up
give routine the finger
and walk out
with that satisfying mischievous smile
that I and only I
feel such elation
exposing it
I decided to swing like the olives
in a martini, in a haze of transparency
exploding with colors
as I smash from one edge of the cup
to the other
I feel all my blase emotions
relapsing, transforming, reacting
backfiring and stripping me
of things that killed me
aiming and shooting at them
with bullets of revival
bullets of excitement
that inject my muscles
with steroids
pumping them with whatever it is
that makes them human
what the f*%k is happening
this chemical reaction
after weeks of depression
is exactly what the doctor ordered
Scream, yes, do it
Let it start from your toes
let your body quiver as it makes its way
to your mouth
let your corpse feel the injection of life
Wake the hell up, no one is going to do it for you
rub your eyes, make your coffee
and change your commute,
You're not going to work today
You're going
to
scratch all that out
with a permanent marker
look forward
get your pens ready
this is going
to be
one ****
motherF#%king
CHANGE
Mar 16, 2016
Mar 16, 2016 at 9:11 AM UTC
There are lies in the words
that scatter these pages
I want to be viewed as a poet
but creativity only flows with certain phrases
There lies a victim
in-between these lines
she misconstrues my conflict
and unravels my rhymes
Hidden agendas
to manipulate and deceive
wanting the reader
to identify with me
My attempts to impress
with beauty and grace
receive passerby glances
and a pie in my face
Backfiring motives
a shot through the heart
critique, the smoking gun
my ego blown apart
Although I have failed
I haven’t given up hope
there’s a victor pending
and it’s gonna be dope
May 31, 2017
May 31, 2017 at 12:17 PM UTC
The Grave is hard to find
so many of them all identical.
I sit down next to you for our chat.
Sis its mothers day
I was just thinking about you.
How you used to bring your kids
to visit their single uncle
.
Your old station wagon
Pulled to halt in my driveway.Sis.
Your five children fall out
of its rusted doors.
shouting and laughing.
Backfiring as you turn
off the noisy engine.
You slipped ghostlike
from the driver's seat
After five hours of driving
In a bedlam of children’s noise.
you looked so slight and frail
The very sight of you Sis,,
Melted my heart again.
You tell me your husbands left you.
And you have nowhere to live.
I enfold you in my arms
And whisper you always
have a place to live in my house
And in my heart honey
We have lost you now sis
The crab sign won that battle
Don't worry honey
The kids are fine with me.
They started calling me dad
Over a year ago.
They are great kids Sis.
You must be so proud
watching them from heaven
Angel is fifteen now
she looks just like you sis
I look at her sometime
And mouth out your name.
No I never did get Married Sis.
Don't pretend you never knew
I was gay .
I must go fix the kids dinner
Honey I will be back to see you soon.
I love you Sis
I always will
Jan 25, 2019
Jan 25, 2019 at 4:09 PM UTC
Fell through the alligator’s snout
Picked his teeth clean out
Landed on a duelling banjo's tail
Herein a Minneapolis trail
Piously thumbed a black crested wave
Buffeted by the pick up from the bridge
Seized by turbulent string vibrations
Singing to survive; drowning in awkward silence
Cajoled and plucked on a tight-rope score
Pounding pain within lifes neck
Mics backfiring: boardwalkers selfless feedback
Toe tapping, heel thumping discontent
Fighting for humanity
Evil running through crashing cymbals
Miasmic lyrics pushing to survive
Trade winds heading south
Thrown ashore in the gutter
Soaked from harmonica to soul
A sliding quiver shackles societies skiffle
Now climb your fretboard to heavenly freedom
Those who cannot breathe
Legislate in due measures: equal rights and respect
Civilisations blues are out of tune
Levitate the knee of wilful contempt
Dec 10, 2021
Dec 10, 2021 at 9:28 AM UTC
time can be seen
out of sorts--
in a motioning
image a step
behind its light.
a man made
of lightning,
backfiring strong
points of a
thunderous
sensorium.
profusions of
present tenacity--
pursuant echoes
of perfection.
lost in the nick
of time.
May 8, 2018
May 8, 2018 at 1:46 AM UTC