"blowout" poems
the sounds are there, they come through walls
right around the corner
they're not visual, they're miserable and in need
they're equal opportunity exhibitionists
lovers of a family get together, taking everything in
parasitic and aware, destitute and stuck
but they're also there at the wrong time
the wrong time for the person who's alone
the wrong time for a person who's disconnected
because they want to be enjoying peace and quiet
alone
by themselves in an old house
with summer outside making its noises, crickets
trees rustling under a jeweled sky, the pinnacle of up high
breathing in the home air of cannibus, lotion and food
being disturbed is far from a thought, but unavoidable
simultaneously
because the house has a strange history
the basement floods, and the machinery kicks in
the mind ponders as the constellations wander
the nights grow and shrink, the body is dry, bone dry
the shower is turned on, soap, shampoo
lost in the mind on autopilot
until the spine stiffens
its without a doubt that I'm not alone now
a minute ago i was the master of this house
a minute ago I was naked in the hallway, smoking a cigar
now I've been usurped and I just want to barricade myself
in this house that I've live in for 15 years, now i beg for permission
to stay just one more night
I beg because how could I possibly fight
It's my conscious or the pontius pilate
I hope it's the former, because if not, blowout the pilot light
There's little hope for re-ignition or stellar recognition
Mar 29, 2012
Mar 29, 2012 at 2:30 PM UTC
This is the sparkle jams
the worldwide reunion
bossa nova bossa nova
and the spiraling citadels too
so we've left center sparkle
tippie-toed around barnyard animal numero dos
and now its frankincense
fester more please
best suit is now being worn and they really don't like it
I'm disappointed sometimes with my clothing choice but who cares
why not right go blowout fashion booming large
it's panic attacks and leftover cheese nugget from last saturday
now I'm with the in crowd
Oct 16, 2012
Oct 16, 2012 at 6:49 PM UTC
Never date a writer
Those ******** will remember everything
Like the way your eyes looked on your first date
Or how you wore your hair
They will store every bit of you in their memory
Like how you like your coffee
Or what kind of soup to buy when you're sick
And when something happens, you know you will become their next piece of writing
They will recall every word said
They will talk about how you lit up in the beginning only resulting in a burnt out match
Your story will become fuel
Your time spent will become hours of trying to capture every ounce of your beauty
Trying to hit every mark of how your face looked when you first heard that she loved you
Never date a writer
Because they will take everything in like vital knowledge
Collecting parts of you like old coins
Putting together the puzzle that will result in their most painful poem
Your story will last forever
You will see the shifts and turning points
From when love was so brand new and shiny
All leading up to the blowout
And there is nothing you can do to stop it
Because you decided to date a writer
So prepare yourself to become their most prized work
Oct 17, 2015
Oct 17, 2015 at 11:59 PM UTC
Civilized mankind has a unique way,
To party and celebrate a most special day.
Potassium and sulfur, mixed with some coal,
Can reduce a mountain into the hill of a mole.
Gunpowder is thought to have China as a start,
Ceremonies commence, fireworks a part.
I always thought, it amusing to find,
Warfare and festival are two of a kind.
Powerful explosions that disable and destroy,
Have the ability to give the masses such joy.
Here we go, let the bash begin,
Guaranteed to give, your face a grin.
Let's add some luminosity to this summer blast,
Firecrackers and sparklers make the jubilee last.
Pinwheels are nailed safely to a tree,
Furiously twirls colors for all to see.
An aerial assault aloft, hear them roar,
Yellows and greens, in the air they will soar.
Flash flaming fluorescence, blue and red,
Envelop your eyes, dancing in your head.
See the trail of a missile, zipping in flight,
Shiny illuminations, all through the night.
On the ground at the end of a fireworks show,
Blazing stars and stripes, a flag created, watch it glow.
The fourth of July is America's time,
A birthday blowout, drinks with lemon and lime.
This frolicking is filled with food, family and fun,
Independence day, I wish it never was done.
Please visit poemsbypaul.com
Jun 25, 2014
Jun 25, 2014 at 8:26 PM UTC
last time we spoke in person
you kissed a fogged up bus window
because you were sad.
the day was cold and gray and wet.
we were cold and gray and wet.
the bus had a blowout, there was smoke everywhere,
we pulled over.
everyone freaked out,
but we just sat there.
you were in front of me,
i was behind you,
texting each other, because we couldn't talk in person,
ever.
i had decided i was mad at you.
why was i mad, and not sad?
you had decided to make my mistake
of wanting something you just can't have.
why were you sad, and not mad?
the bus pressed onward on three wheels and a doughnut-
a wheel you want to think is there, but isn't.
and when we made it to the restaurant,
i sat alone,
and you sat alone
with friends you kept from inviting me over,
and you left
and they left
and i left.
the bus doughnutted it's way to some ****** play,
i sat on the far left,
you sat on the far right,
and they left,
and you left,
and i left.
we were waiting on something,
so you typed "hey"
and i typed "what"
and you asked me what i thought
and i said there was only one way it could have been worse.
and you asked what
but i didn't answer.
the bus doughtnutted it's way down the twisting, turning, hateful road that leads to my hometown where i can hardly pass a crack in the pavement without a painful memory, like a **** sprouting up.
it was cold and gray and wet that day;
the bus window was foggy.
you drew a heart and scribbled initials inside.
T.M.
+
A.F.
you kissed a fogged up bus window
because you were sad.
i drew a heart and scribbled initials inside,
of course you couldn't see me
(i was behind you)
V.T.
+
A.F.
i kissed a fogged up bus window
because i was sad
and wished you would turn around.
Feb 2, 2011
Feb 2, 2011 at 7:22 PM UTC
Behind the mask of darkness
Always lies the madness of one inner self
It is important to respect one fear
Around this time of Halloween
The autumn leaves had blanket the cold October ground
Covering the Jack' o lantern on the front porch,
And I wasn’t about to let nothing petrify me that cold night
I remember that morning had come a minute too soon
Before my R E M cycle kicked in
I wasn’t mentally prepare to face another day
But there I was once again: undone
In my country we were never allowed to,
Celebrate Halloween or dress up in
Anything, that resembles evil, ghost, globin,
Headless horsemen, or vampires,
It was known to be the works of the devil doings
My candid thoughts were on Halloween spooky night
The loud screams of trick or treats,
was heard all around this gloomy town of Collins port
Small tots all dress up in hideous costumes
I had allowed fear to control my thoughts and inner space
Black spiders, howling wolves and black coffins,
The creepiest sound and display on route 69
Grown folks hide behind the masks of darkness
While parading the street of Sotho in Manhattan
Another long night of evil spirits, witches and ghosts terrify the night;
Toddlers with Tiaras was on the verge of tears
what a lose-lose situation: From beginning to end
Close to ten there I was cruising down route 69
I check the glove compartment, took out a peppermint patty,
The rusty Beretta Nano pistol was still there,
snugly into my glove compartment
My pepper spray was close by my trigger fingers
Suddenly, I felt a **** scraping, and clunking, squeaking sound
My tire blowout in the middle of nowhere,
Behind the mask of darkness
Always lies the madness of one inner self
"Trick or treat!"
Oct 12, 2015
Oct 12, 2015 at 8:51 AM UTC
I was 15 years old
when I tried ******
for the first time.
I got it from an older girl
with a mane of obsidian
hair and a porcelain face
shaped like all
her teardrops.
She told me she'd let me
**** her
if I went to prom with her.
I didn't want to **** her;
she smelled like
the Boston Harbor.
I smoked the ******
that first time.
Gray smoke curled thickly
into the damp air of
a basement haunt--
in the Georgian heat
the rain had steamed away.
It tasted like the sands of Persia
or the ambrosia of Mount
Olympus.
It smelled awful;
burnt rubber after a highway
blowout.
I couldn't move;
I sat on my moth-eaten
sofa, dozing in and out
of life in a golden daze.
Everything was golden then
in that instant and I knew
the golden love of a mother's
glowing gaze for the first time.
Then I heaved and my stomach
purged itself.
Then I knew the black hate
of my own vicious glare
for the first time and awoke
an hour later.
Then I threw up my guts
again.
When I woke to the sounds of silence
once more I was confronted
with a golden warmth
and the feeling of the presence
of the Sacred Heart--
and I knew that I loved it.
Jun 13, 2014
Jun 13, 2014 at 10:42 PM UTC
I learned a lot about you today
and, let's just say, I feel pretty bad
not because of the things you did, I'm sad because I had no clue.
Sitting like I used to, with my Kellies, Barbies, and Kens
I paid no mind to how awful you used to dress,
how your blowout was always a mess,
or how you left our family stressed to clean up your mistakes
Yes, I had my fake and imaginary friends but you're 9 years older than me and had them too
I just wish I could've helped you through that time
the time when jail cells closed you in and trapped the smoke inside your lungs
like how every morning, I wash my face, teeth, and tongue
you would watch your back as you packed your bae, Mary Jane into your bag and hoped not to get caught.
And my 7-year-old thoughts couldn't have done anything to help
but, a couple years later, you gave up the kelp that lit YOU and smoked YOU until you were gone
But here you are, making songs and listening to the poems I write
and may I be right to say that I'm not 7 and you're not 17 anymore
the door of your false happiness has shut
but you're my brother and I love you
I just wish I could've been there for you sooner.
May 5, 2015
May 5, 2015 at 3:18 PM UTC
Flatulent Franky
Flatulent Franky now he is a hoot
every other minute he has to toot
doesn't really matter where or when
he'd run and hide in the bushes or den
clouds of blue clouds of green
clouds of every color you have ever seen
his face of red just added to the chart
people would gather just to hear him ****
shock waves tidal waves and waves in the stands
people were standing clapping their hands
but then run away fast run like hell
trying to stay far ahead of the smell
some brought masks prepared for the gas
the odor emanating out of his ***
he tried Pepto Alkaseltzer and Pepcid AC
but all they did was make him have to ***
there just didn't seem to be any kind of fix
sure wasn't helpful in picking up chicks
if he lasted five minutes without a blowout
he'd do a small jig and let out a shout
poor old Franky haven't seem him in years
last I heard he had ruptured his ears
from the explosion last year it was on the news
at a gas station they're still searching for clues
Gomer LePoet ....
Jun 1, 2013
Jun 1, 2013 at 8:00 AM UTC
They scream louder this time
And there’s nothing you can do
You know you’re everything they ever wanted
And it’s just so clear to you
Pulling music from your iPod drowns their voices out
But you know it won’t stop them from fighting
Just from you hearing their sickening blowout
You think of the days they were so happy
And wonder if it was your fault
Maybe if you had just been beautiful
You’re mom might have tried to halt
Maybe if you got perfect grades
Your dad would have cared for you
Instead of only hurting you
You have tried so long for them to see
All you have ever wanted them to be
What every other family always had
But your cries and pleas have only left you hopeless broken and sad
So once again you open that same drawer you sadly know too well
And grab that magical blade that’ll solve everything for now
You lift up your shirt and put your only true friend against your fair skin
Just one cut
You close your eyes shut
One tear slips down your vulnerable face
Just one tear you let escape
And you see those flashbacks once again
Of the times everyone made sure you knew,
No one will ever want you
So you let that blade break through your skin
And hope to god he’ll forgive your sin
And everything will be okay
At least for one more day.
Dec 17, 2014
Dec 17, 2014 at 3:47 PM UTC
Not exactly that swan
lifting white grace
to the heavens
Nope
but thud and tug and ping
and whipping thud again
taking flight out across the highway
in my rear-view
Scuttled dust
fiberglass flattened
by the truck behind
White-knuckling wheel while
mentally compute
split-second sounds and feels for damage...
I guess?
everything's
okay...?
First it was that blowout
Then one by one
the hubcaps lost their grips, their minds
and went their ways
to join the trash
of butts and chunks of mattress
fast-food wrappers, road-kill
by the guardrail
of another day
Most recent--
Antenna disconnect
Fixed with tape 'cause
Gotta have that music
heat, AC, tires, breaks
Ya know-- important things
like that steady humming engine
Destined to be--
buckboard to the beach or heaven
whichever's first
by the time its twenty
Much nearer than I'd care to say
Ode to Car and Driver
who get there--
in all good hope, together
:)
Apr 27, 2019
Apr 27, 2019 at 1:37 PM UTC
Dancing.
Dancing among witches.
Among fire and ashes.
Between demons who may have ravished souls.
****** the life out of thyself and made you mad.
Necromancy,is singing to ****** moons.
Old scripts still hidden under filthy cabinets.
The corpses are moving in perfect sync.
The cinematic atmosphere of the medieval times makes our stomachs turn black and sore.
You may be dancing among witches and warlocks and sorceresses but thou shall not forget how pure their souls are.
Energy!
Shooting stars,blooded eyes and sharp tongues are the gifts of tonight.
Enjoy this blowout before they eat you alive.
Before you become one of the dark ones.
Jan 14, 2019
Jan 14, 2019 at 5:41 PM UTC
one gallon,
31 miles or so the EPA
guesstimated--163,680 feet
54,560 steps if he walked
he avoided
the major "arteries"
damnable euphemisms
for interstates
for what lifeblood
did they carry and what
did one see at 110 feet a second
1.25 miles a minute
at mile 3,
he spotted a cur crossing
the asphalt, or perhaps it was a coyote;
and until mile 12 he wondered
why he wanted to know where it had
come from, rather than where it was going,
because aren't road trips about getting
somewhere?
at mile 15, he saw a farmhouse
abandoned before time--or maybe when
a feeble old man died on a sagging bed
the month after he put his wife
in the cold ground
and told his progeny if their homestead
was good enough to bring them into the world,
and for her to depart, it was fine enough
for him to do the same
at mile 21, he traversed a bridge
over Red Bluff Creek, and he knew
there wasn't a bluff within a hundred miles;
perhaps it was got its colored calling, after
a poker player named Red, known
for his bluffing
at mile 30, he had a blowout;
no, he didn't careen off the old road
into a ditch, but slowly rolled to an impotent stop
atop the only hill in 50 miles
a man in overalls with an ancient pick up
stopped and offered aid in a drawl thick enough
to slow time; together they put on the donut
from the trunk--the man wouldn't take a ten
but said take care
and our traveler decided his helper
had to have been kin to the old man
in the abandoned shack, and perhaps he had
been there in the end, watching the wheel spin
on a tick tock clock, noting the precise minute
the old man passed--to write this time
in a family bible
because that is how it should be
of all those things he would see--beasts going
nowhere, mythic rivers from everywhere, and behind
ghost painted walls, men dying, men whose
sons would stop to render aid to strangers
and help conjure the imagined tales
infinitely available of a gallon
of fossil fuel
Jan 5, 2017
Jan 5, 2017 at 5:07 PM UTC
Sure she’ll lose what she won’t take care of
She lost one, she lost two
Remorse, regret: She captured, she caught
Hence parties now aren’t just for celebrating
She’d blowout grief, she’d pop some tears
Here, she sings, she drinks, she dances
To forget...
Jan 16, 2023
Jan 16, 2023 at 5:08 AM UTC
There are the girls who are your boyfriends exes
That’ll come up to you and act all nice...
Then fill your head with ******** lies.
Because they’re jealous.
They’re jealous because you were able to work out your problems
Instead of having a blowout in the hall
Jealous because that boy cares about you more than he ever did to all those girls...
Combined.
Feb 3, 2019
Feb 3, 2019 at 5:24 PM UTC
trust me, i never want to
leave the poetic trance,
but tonight
i found out
everything about
the strain in looking straight,
we are nothing
but virgins for selfish desires.
look to your right,
who's with you?
who's that person
devotedly and passionately
holding you by the arms
and never letting go?
the hollowness in it
provides
no ledges or windowsills
to save you from the
survivable half-storey fall.
it's always shitfate,
always sullen aubergine
polaroid shots.
what shitluck to save you
from your yearnful desires?
head to the valleys,
the flood is tricky.
this poem is hiding something.
the heir can't be trusted.
the glimpse
is a catchy math rock jam
to keep you going
and going
and going
and going
and going
and going
and going. . . .
we both know all too well,
our pain never fails
to amuse me even at this point.
Dec 7, 2017
Dec 7, 2017 at 6:22 PM UTC
When I was younger,
I used to think that Oaken from Frozen
Was saying, " Yoo hoo! Pigs had to bow down!"
I now realize he was actually saying, " Yoo hoo! Big summer blowout!"
Oct 28, 2020
Oct 28, 2020 at 2:32 PM UTC