"bombshell" poems
I came only to watch one person eyes open and peeled.
The Blonde Bombshell was her name and O, what power did she wield!
One look and the explosion of her beauty could soften any heart of steel.
I knew nothing of softball besides the name,
but the blonde pitcher inspired me to change my game.
As I watched she seemed nervous on the softball mound.
Her first few pitches practically never left the ground.
The game continued and she pitched better in each inning.
Each throw as beautiful as she was and secured her team in winning.
She looked more confident as she began to smile.
Sending each batter back to the bench crying like a child.
As I prepared to leave I waved my farewell.
To a blonde beauty who looked and pitched exceptionally and gracefully well.
Jun 12, 2016
Jun 12, 2016 at 10:23 PM UTC
2002:
today i kicked the door
to history off it's hinges
my jealous frame:
still too proud to say a word
it seems my folks forgot
to pencil in growth marks
cause they thought their boy
would never grow out of small breath
******* dead, years now buried
and i bare his name
too many syllables
for my father to go back
fish & play football
to stand in the yard and play catch
1994:
my mom, the bombshell in retrospect
broke her back in her sleep
a thousand times
since the stairwell in 87'
she still sits for spills
post nuclear about settling
now from the couch
she's a weather report
spouting nonsense
that makes my father
grow grey, crack remotes
& slam doors to dark rooms
abandoning ship
for "cheers" & "scienfeld"
while my mother
sometimes forgets
and sets his place at the table
and my appetite is abducted
by family photos
my mother says things like
"go see your brother today"
-- Johnny's long gone
don't you remember?
we buried him
the day your smile died
2014:
you are inches from me
********* a stray hair
caught in the fabric of your coat
the last remnants of a dog
we laid to rest last week
and here we are
in the hospital again
people don't shake like dogs
finality is found
in the eyes of humans
passing archways
into shallow rooms
where plague and prayer
are the only songs sung
round the stagnant clocks
it makes me wonder
if the clipboards cry
over being the last thing
someone ever writes on
take a number, have a seat
stay a while
i am back, 7 years old
& there are different doors now
they buried the ones
you kicked in that night in '92
when my lungs
were filled with holy water
you never stopped smoking
i never grew out of asthma
Mar 26, 2014
Mar 26, 2014 at 12:39 PM UTC
Now I'm tired of romance and I just want
a gorgeous naked bombshell to ****
I see those water-filled balloons.
I see the slit of a navel.
Those sultry eyes speak of betrayal,
but those are the kind of eyes
that tell of the hottest, sweatiest love.
Her fake blonde hair gives away her cheapness.
I just want to take off her bra and *******
I see no vein or artery of life in her.
I remember beer and bars.
I affix my eyes to the shadow made by a ****
I see the silk lines of her collar bone and neck.
I realize she's standing in front of a window.
I meet her eye of innocence with mine of admiration,
and I tear up.
You look like you'd take me to court
because I haven't touched you yet.
You look like you'd smoke a cigarette with me.
I imagine she's hiding a ***** she's not fond to look at.
Your chin reminds me of a pickup truck.
You look like you have a baby inside,
then I look at your eyes,
and I realize,
if we really ****** it could be true.
So much for chivalry.
Sep 28, 2020
Sep 28, 2020 at 4:35 AM UTC
The African American Blonde Bombshell on ya TV screen. It is I, ya younger victim of the bullying you caused me to suffer in our younger years together and now I am the #WCW on ya Twitter, Facebook and Instagram. She's bad huh. Too bad you lost ya chance with her and if only you knew her top secret. Maybe I should give u a chance to apologize and give me the love and respect you wouldn't give Adrian. Now that I am Alexis you want to cater to me and get my ******* down to my ankles. You want me to be ya main chick and you wanna put a ring on it. Well little do you know I am the Transgendered Barbie I always wanted to be. Oh now your surprised. Didn't know I was born a man.......or should I say your punching bag because you loved to use me to hide your real sexuality. Now the jokes on you.
May 20, 2015
May 20, 2015 at 10:18 PM UTC
You reasonless hate me in manner devoid of vogue,
Coz you are threatened by my skin color,
Utterly refusing to appreciate my melanin humanity
Your faith lulls you that I am a Tarzan,
Dwindling away from humanity,
My poetry to you is only bombshell
Of dangerously vulpine civilization,
You solace yourself in your miss-audience to me,
Wistful in your hearty that your detest for me
Will become a force enough to counter my being,
You are very wrong my brother,
Goofing in full measure of your idiosyncrasy
In its present grammar of dance banquet,
I only pity you as none will ever be able to heal you
To free you from your silly bug of desperate racism.
Apr 3, 2014
Apr 3, 2014 at 10:22 AM UTC
what if i were a blonde bombshell
would it be different if i changed
would it be a little better
could i be a pulse on your radar
a blip on the screen
a little bit of static flipping through the channels
or maybe just me
could i have a place in line
a moment of your time
would it be different if i changed?
patient yet forlorn on saint valentine's day
May 13, 2013
May 13, 2013 at 7:32 PM UTC
like a whisper
is loud
on the backdrop
of silence
like a crocus
is a colour bombshell
in the sterile white
of snow
my darkness
is a chaotic horror fantasy
in the blissful calm
of day
May 7, 2013
May 7, 2013 at 3:53 AM UTC
Untrodden silver cesspool,
Darkened by bombshell blast,
Riding in weathered abyss,
Covered with killer cannon fodders past.
Black battle went into starstruck night,
All started to fall, but not all fast,
Over tricky time they all did fight,
With wind guiding bloodstained mast.
Lovers light broke with rising sun,
Gleefully gallivanting through hours passed,
Tediously tiptoeing with hopes to run,
Over red salty sea made infinitely vast.
Jun 27, 2015
Jun 27, 2015 at 6:15 PM UTC
Before that August--
(strange month echo)--
bloomed in the east
sunrise bomb sunset dawn
you sometimes
rose
(unbidden)
to the surface
of my mind.
These were some of my triggers:
Calgary (always Calgary)
me too
Christmastime.
And all the times you attempted
to reach out to me
(sucker punch sleep ****
And then that August--
(good mornin' bombshell)
the news--
for shame.
For I had fallen for the lie
(while you talked all the while
in your human voice).
So you like 'em young.
So you like it rough.
August sun beat me down.
It took this glaring
of a light
to show me
the darkest of men's natures--
and that I knew them
intimately.
May 18, 2021
May 18, 2021 at 7:55 PM UTC
Sitting in that cafe
was like sitting atop the tower of Babel
a cacophony of language
like a hurricane was going on all around him
the homeless black men
who spoke with their own jive and jib
he knew some of the language
but was far from fluent
there were the Arabian men
talking into blue tooths on their ears
or into cellphones
or arguing with each other
outside over cigarette after endless cigarette
nothing but harsh blunt sounds,
it was beautiful in a way
and there is the Russian couple
bombshell athletic blondes
it was hard to determine whether the relationship was
Mother and Daughter
or coach and athlete
they were seemingly
all business
broken with interspersed bouts of laughter
and their were the Asian boys and girls
coming from Korea or Japan or China, or some other place
talking fast and easy
gesticulating wildly with their hands
and of course their was English
thick and arrogant in its tone
it was a language for movers and shakers
money makers and deal breakers
it sounded nowhere near as special
as the other languages
And there was him
sitting silently in the corner of the cafe
his language
the chitter chatter of the keyboard
May 2, 2013
May 2, 2013 at 10:39 AM UTC
I'm calling you out
Of my mind
Manifest yourself
Come on, blow up in my face
To the:
Bombshell
With the short fuse
I'll be your Molotov cocktail
You be my fiery muse
I keep seeing your face
In sepia torn scenery
In the art of my dreams
trying to photoshop reality
To the:
Dream Girl
With her totem locked
I'll join you in a free fall
As I violently shake back awake
Alone
So it goes...
You're dancing my imagination
Heart-beating my soul
Tango of illumination
I felt your grace
In telepathic foreplay
My little mind-fu©k
life's stranger than fantasy
To the:
Princess,
Crowned in roses
I'll savor you as a Goddess
When you open your sweet blossom
So it goes...
You're dancing my imagination
Heart-beating my soul
Tango of illumination
Fire of my *****
Rising up my spine
We could be enlightenment-to-be
Like Nirvana
Come on blow my mind
Jul 16, 2013
Jul 16, 2013 at 9:58 PM UTC
I
Originations of consciousness whir into a moan of torment.
A sudden bombshell of consternation;
her eyes burst wide.
Baby?
Sleep-laden, post-finals brain gravy:
No, can't be. Could be. Shouldn't be. Want to be? No, can't be.
Lurking beyond the reach of terror, realism slithers closer.
The hysteria deteriorates as deduction brings lucidity.
******* eggs.
They are abolished, and never heard from again.
II
Suitcase tetris, smothering each layer.
She moves without direction,
or a lazy child with ADD.
At long last, the shimmering sink full of death beckons...
Dissatisfaction erupts in a symphony of fragmented drinkware.
Her assumption lingers, cresting into prediction.
Her expectations are met.
A thorn in her paw.
The dishwater weeps.
III
Her rage is tangible, hissing in her ears,
bashing her skull when it is ignored,
clawing at her spine.
She abandons the silverware.
They never did anything for her.
The loathsome bag swings threateningly.
She ignores it, giving it a silent challenge.
Fate strings before her eyes, yanked taut and thrumming
with inevitability.
Crimson satin sheets tangle lovingly from the rift of tender peel.
Cake-batter-in-a-mixing-bowl splatter,
the dissimilitude of children's laughter.
Wobbling, fawn-like under the density of rage gnawing at her lips,
she retreats, acknowledging her submission.
She begins as a tree, but rapidly degenerates
into grotesque dysmorphic spasms on the cheap veneer.
Hysteria threatens to burst forth, frothing, but no.
This is not my day.
Sep 27, 2012
Sep 27, 2012 at 4:47 AM UTC
all secrets
are open
and there are
no longer secrets in our
world;
and that’s not because
of Russian sirens
or American bombshell blondes
or Chinese academics
or Japanese robots
or smug British 007s -
but because, plainly,
secrets are no longer secrets
See, I’ll show you;
easy and logical
Everybody knows secret, right?
whoever kept it secret
since the word first appeared?
every teacher
goes head over heels
to put it on the vocabulary list
so the word is no longer secret;
also ‘secrets’ and ‘secret’
appear in every dictionary
and they appear everywhere
and everybody has them;
and even a child knows secrets
thanks to those
eager teachers
and the do-good moms and dad -
so what’s so secret about secret anymore?
Yes?
Logical?
I told you I’ll show you.
But not to worry;
we’ll bring back secrets
Ssssshhhhh!
not so loud….
we’ll bring back secrets –
it must be something nobody knows
not in any dictionary
not something public
not something you can google
and make it so easy
so it’s: secuzinis
Ssssshhhhh!
Not so loud….
What’s wrong with you?
See, nobody knows the word
and so secrets are safe and back again…
Yes?
Logical?
So secuzinis
Ssssshhhhh!
Not so loud….
Oh God! – there’s
something seriously wrong with you!
Well, be quiet
and all our secuzinis are safe
and unknown as secrets before
as only you know this
and I know this
that is, if I can trust you
and you can trust me
with secuzinis….
Ssssshhhhh!
Not so loud….
you see, it’s not even in the dictionary
and Google hasn’t even got a clue!
Oct 14, 2010
Oct 14, 2010 at 1:52 AM UTC
Half sweat, half sweet, her sea-salt skin,
My sun, my star, my scorpion -
Is tarot-tongued and tiger-tame,
And pink, and pure, and so profane -
A painted, pagan, poetess,
All dizzy depth and paper dress -
And carousels, and cigarettes,
On cloudless skies, her silhouette -
Is scissors through the sundown silk,
She moves like molten mood in milk -
All infernos, and ivory,
And orchids, and obscenity -
And brothels full of butterflies,
She steals the starlight from the skies -
Her whisper makes the world wet,
My ****** velvet, Violet.
Mar 22, 2013
Mar 22, 2013 at 10:17 AM UTC
Love me for my destruction, for my mayhem --
after all, loving you isn't so much different,
I could have chosen cigarettes, smokey ashtrays over your
smokey eye make-up,
Or maybe alcohol, sip at lukewarm beer, and become embittered by how
your lips are stained elegantly wine,
and then again, I might've had the opportunity to inhale car exhaust
but your breath is much heavier than monoxide
and much more deadly--
turns out nuclear warfare is much more easily attainable by
your explosive needs
for genocide -- you love those broken hearts,
you little radioactive succubus.
Knives, I could have made love to a knife, but I guess your nails served the same purpose, you've left your mark, okay?
I have a target in the shape
of little crescent marks on my back from you and
people keep
staring.
And yes, I could've injected myself with something stronger like morphine, but
you're already running through my god **** veins --
I looked up "infatuation" in the dictionary but the words kept
blurring because all I could see was your blushing expression
when I used my fingertips like paintbrushes
on your cheekbones.
Nov 12, 2014
Nov 12, 2014 at 12:28 PM UTC
my cheeks are blushed in the glow of your midnight kiss
i stand blinking in the corner
i am a smokestack, i rise above roofs and water towers
the space above this city is never populated by heaven
fear of ****** in the streets
in a hotel room
or a bus
bombshell crawling over flesh flashes metal neon
i am a coffee mug gripped by puncture-marked knuckles
exuding white dreams and pursed lips
I went into the dripping door
I drank the yoke of an ostrich egg
I am a hog in sunlight, a dead rabbit on asphalt at dawn
I lift a palsied hand to beg a cigarette.
Dec 8, 2011
Dec 8, 2011 at 12:44 AM UTC
My imagination
is the all-encompassing *****
Composed of touchable red curves,
she speaks
in dark, melted tones that drip
& cool to harden at their destination.
She’s the sort of insatiable pursuit
most boys are taught to desire.
She’s the well-spoken lady
most gentlemen deserve.
She transfigures into
the most verboten temptations
& acts as the pair of arms
that will suddenly slam you up against a wall.
She eases into you with her starved gaze
& examines your every possible inch.
She leaves you with nothing to hide.
Scrupulous? Undeniably so.
She touches whatever she wishes
with gloveless fingertips
& ***** your mouth dry
of all bitter objection.
She leaves you speechless--
but smiling.
My imagination?
She is a bombshell,
& I think I like her better than me.
Aug 27, 2013
Aug 27, 2013 at 6:02 PM UTC
A two timing bombshell, is still a two timing *****
Forgiving and forgetting
Laughing at suicidal thoughts
I don't cringe at pain
I infect it with my own remedy
Distilled spirits- The poison of solitude
I haven't yet decided if you are a gift
Or a curse
Your hands seem calm enough
Your lips are steady
Two eyes focusing and focusing under the bar lights
Calm
Collected
Childish infatuation teaming from your words
Is this really happening? Are you really here?
No, you are a figment of a figment of a figment of my imagination
You wrote a love letter
Copied it
Faxed it
Signed it with a flourish
You need love with notorization
Stamped
And approved
I need nothing but your hands
But your eyes
The devil of your tongue
The Sharp stab of pain
The gigantic cool of finite ecstacy
But no
You must break me down
Piece by piece
Marking me off on your checklist of (love)
I failed
I didn't care
I love you anyway- (I am a moth
Terrified of the flame
But I cannot leave it be
For it is much, much too beautiful)
Feb 1, 2012
Feb 1, 2012 at 5:35 PM UTC
If your looks could ****
I would already be dead.
Your eyes are dangerously beautiful,
One gaze would blow my mind.
If your glossy lips were poison,
It would paralyze my body.
Your body is a bombshell,
Holding you might cause explosion.
If your voice was the sound of a siren,
My mind will be lost in your grasp forever.
I tell you what though...
if our hearts weaved together,
we would surely die together.
Aug 1, 2010
Aug 1, 2010 at 1:28 AM UTC
The quiet servants to a neon god
walk beneath blind stars.
The sightless man sits, as two lovers pass
him by, under his feet the ground the changes colour,
Off time with the chatter that surrounds me.
He takes the hand of an elderly celestial
and they exit the scene
the way of waves.
Laughter explodes like a bombshell
the only casualty is silence.
Through the steel arch I watch
ivory wave burn the black
rippled
sea.
A child chases a seagull
through the slits of sea-fog
caught in the light.
The barmaid leaves and my eye follows her,
resting on the corpses of our modern age;
bullet ridden with boredom and the chill,
swathed in the sear cloth of modernity
and eyes glazed by ***
They wait.
The "Sons of the Silent age"
who's thoughts are as stolen
as this line,
stolen from greater men.
The Lindbergh baby has grown up.
I bear witness to the silence and pressure
of the girl to my left, it encroaches this space as
her gaze encroaches the distance.
These streets were once filled with the
flotsam
of wasted youth,
the steady stream of touristry.
Now, in the winter
they lay empty, cold and pecked
by the multitudinous hordes of bird and man alike.
Where once they writhed with life
now they sit dormant and sleep atomic
on a chill stream,
at once both mirror and glass to our
wonderous world.
If we are the dreamers and music makers,
then our instruments sleep in dust
and our dreams walk silent in this defeat
of waking.
May 21, 2013
May 21, 2013 at 11:52 PM UTC
There's always been something
so Hollywood about her--
and I don't mean
21st Century ********
I'm talkin'
Judy Garland,
you're the bee's knees
type of Hollywood.
Now, listen'--
this girl--
I'm talkin'
Bombshell-Cutie
(she'll blow your
fuckin'socks off).
I'm talkin'
Cinematic Beauty Queen;
skin freckled with film grain
the same way the night sky
is freckled with constellation,
mouth parted like velvet curtains,
only to reveal the sweetest prose.
She is Mystique-Fatale,
blazon in colour
among dull, sepia tones--
an Oz among all
the dreary Kansases.
She is allure and poeticism,
hair curled grand,
dressed to the nines
in lace and satin
(they wonder
what lies beyond the
half moons of her *******
and the slit in her gown,
if the butterflies
run rampant
between her knees
like everyone says).
Do not underestimate her--
she is both
Shirley-Temple-Sweetheart
(her kindness
does not falter)
and Pinup-Girl-Honey
(one would not think
to challenge--
to break--
a woman
so prolifically brazen,
but they try anyway).
In a world filled
with actresses--
please, darlings,
save the acting for
the stage,
******* it--
she is so ineffably herself.
She does not reserve
her emotion for
the theatre alone;
she is not afraid
to cry, and--
Jesus--
when she cries
the earth shakes
with the very profusions
of an opera singer's vibrato.
And, God,
you should hear
her poetry,
brimmed with images
picturesque and tragic,
straight outta the movies
it would seem.
Yet, her words
ring with something
so inconceivably real.
And that's what
you've always loved
best about her--
she is the truest person
you've ever met.
It's a shame, then,
that you wouldn't stay
for the grand finale.
But,
with or without you,
this show must go on.
(and it has).
Jan 15, 2019
Jan 15, 2019 at 9:34 PM UTC
I first saw you walking down the street
I don’t know when you first saw me
maybe at home
in the mirror of your memory
maybe in the pages of the book
you were reading outside in the winter
at that cafe
You had me all smiles
and I had you
all similes
a pretty little thing
to stroke my pretty little thing against
You in your fashionista bombshell outfit
me in my childlike excitement
as I walked on past
and I wonder
if later that night
you were in your bedroom
which is just as messy as mine
I wonder if you thought to yourself
“well hot **** that was one hot ****** guy”
if not that’s fine
my words are subjectively an object of your subject
Does that make sense?
I seem to do that a lot
rambling over myself and over myself
as if you caught me in a lie
I hadn’t yet told
I hold on to the belief
that You caught me in the corner of your eye
and decided to save me for later
It’s the only thing us passing strangers
have really got
Jan 17, 2014
Jan 17, 2014 at 4:20 PM UTC
Charged neurons firing,
Bombshell ideas explode,
Rifting old beliefs.
Oct 8, 2021
Oct 8, 2021 at 12:26 PM UTC