It was those blue eyes, sparkling with words
I dreamt about reading but believed it impossible
Too beautiful to be seen with nuclear nerds
In my breakable beaker, you'd never be soluble.

A mismatched juxtaposition, atom for atom.
Even if I permutate, molecule by molecule.
We could never have struck stable equilibrium,
I could never escape the premise of ridicule.

Spent too much time postulating the unknown
Spent far too long balancing tricky equations
Head dug too deep to realise a factor that had grown
An external variable that had encroached with similar intentions.

My hand slipped from the scale when your finger touched my own
I forgot the words "controlled reaction", momentarily
Seeing goosebumps on your skin, and other bumps now shown
I gently pushed your wayward hair behind your ear, daringly

A moment frozen in the range of sub-zeroes
Dare I forgo the mandatory steps and arrive at a conclusion?
If I do I'd garner the title, "the nerdiest of all heroes!"
My "spidey-sense" failed me this time, and awarded me with a "fist-meet-face" reaction!

Happened in a blur, nanoseconds that sang in mock.
What was it that left me in a twirl?
Propped myself up to see the wrath of a crimson-faced ****.
All fists, no brains who yelled, "Hands off my girl!"

All this hilarious yet passionately painful hullabaloo
Let me drop the beaker of sodium in the zinc basin
Forgetting not to get it wet, the moment, clearly now unglued
When suddenly, "BOOM" it sounded like a pending cremation

Jocks, and nerds, and screaming cheerleaders
Hit the ground like a lunchtime scene from downtown Baghdad
And Blondie whispers in my ear, like a gypsy mind reader
"Maybe we should cool it, for I am in love with another lad"

Her words hit home and burned like The Lindenburg on fire
Amidst the fracas, cracked voice stammered to mask my bruised latent ego
"Nothing improper... Just an attempt to save your locks from the Bunsen burner
Science is my only love, just so you know"

Thanked God for my eyes and the need for correction lenses
Those thick convexes made it easy to not reveal
Steadied my frames and packed in hasty pretences
Accusing eyes followed as I exited the room with tears concealed...

Pieter Meyer
**ryn

i get to be ridiculous, i'm an artist, it's only that my ridiculousness doesn't border with the Vatican City, or Switzerland that it's deemed "weird" (symbol use, also know as passing on misnomers, ~ - that's ambiguity, a stranger punctuation construct from the hyphen), it's weird because i'm attired in familiar clothing to an Essex loafer, i don't have the currency to buy fancy Pompidou mascara or lipstick and stroll with other drag queens at gay pride... i'm back-of-the-woods type of guy, on the Cartesian Libra heavyweight to the side of 'i think' than on the pigeon-**** weight side of 'i am' - mathematically speaking that's like 2 + 1 = 3 - "schizoid" thinking coupled to non-schizoid behavioural patterns therefore means... an increased threshold capacity for experiencing pain.

the first time i smoked marijuana
(and i didn't know how to roll
a joint of marijuana and tobacco)
was the happiest time of my life,
i exercised a lot, practised Roman bulimia
unconsciously - no pills, nothing,
******* down my throat, later
i trained the *suprahyoid and the infrahyoid
muscles so well that
i could just throw the chocolate bars up,
trained them so well as if i was gagging
on a *****... but to keep a body image,
well, you know, to look **** (add sarcasm
with the italics) you have to do what women
do, for me it was a Roman Bulimia,
for them, dieting - it was weird owning
a different body from the one i own now,
c.c.t.v. Narcissus-shadow stalker was all a craze back then,
too much self-conscious ******* wrapped in
a ***** and sent to a daycare centre -
it feels great these days, drinking 70cl of whiskey
a night, and why would i be bragging without
a bowler hat and a cane a butterfly prim
on my neck and a neat suit?
i read Bulgakov, that'll do, i have an operatic
cat at this moment, i've never heard so many variations
of meow after the doors to the garden are closed
and he's told to remain indoors after 9p.m.,
he sits on the bathroom windowsill and wants
to be nannied in the lap while someone smokes
downstairs... 'fella, same fresh air down here as up there'...
it's more of a fox than a cat...
he matured to be ~10 kilograms, and so's a mature fox,
i know, i weighed one, cutting a work's pay for
some sanitary worked one night
when i was eager to buy a few beers... mature foxes
~10 kilograms minus 21 grams (you know, the
Higgs' boson of soul, alejandro gonzález iñárritu -
but why add ñá so close? it's -nia- anyway,
so Mexico or e ** ** **, the Mexican Hew, huh?
ah... Habana!)
swear to god, never heard so many variations...
where was i? ah, adapting Bach's polyphony within
poetry, could have been a king david, but i smashed
my lyre... i never liked the cheap one-man tennis
and a brick wall of poetry within claim of stiffening repeats:
rhyme... bounce... rhyme... Bunsen! rhyme... bounce...
rhyme... Bunsen! ya-d'ah ya-d'ah ya-d'ah...
a carousel in Golders Green where all the payots
flew off and made french pastry curls... cinnamon... mm.
and two books i wish i'd written -
closed society and it's allies, the alt. to Popper's
antonym based yawn-epic - Karl, falsifier -
and anger and restlessness, the alt. to a Danish
epic by Kierkegaard, Fear and Trembling -
alt. say it as it is - ******* is like a bow-tie event,
a moth a butterfly event - the ******* was
there for a reason, pleasure from *******
when your *** partner was "feeling tired",
men and women are both libido struck sometimes
to extremes, they mentioned f.g.m. but didn't mention
m.g.m., with ******* you ain't chasing, you ain't
playing the dating game - circumcision gave
women the upper hand, the toy machine of manhood,
you have ******* for a reason, it's not in line with
ancient Hebraic laws where you have to do 613 things
to obey... and with ******* you're less likely to
go Boko Haram cuckoo and steal girls for their ******* -
i believe the fabled conversation between Zeus and
Hera is necessary - women derive more pleasure
from ***... but men derive more pleasure from life -
well, if you have *******, see the image problem?
i'm dressed... you're undressed... i have two capacities
and a tool to curb my libido, you have jack and a stockpile
of nukes - with a cigar smoking duke on percussion
that only takes one press and the whole orchestra starts
up with a crescendo rather than a build-up.
oh right... the first time i started smoking marijuana i
was 21... i remember it clearly, i don't know how i managed
to roll a joint... Edinburgh 2007, Montague Street,
i rolled one... smoked it... lay on the floor...
and giggled my way through Daft Punk's album human
after all - giggled and danced horizontally...
solipsism at it's finest... later i met a girl who said that
*** after marijuana was so much better than sober...
i beg to disagree... given that solo moment,
and ******* prostitutes drunk, esp. in Amsterdam,
where i don't have to feel any English sensibilities on the matter.

i read stories of angry drunks and wonder:
           why am i so "pathetic" reading into calm?
don't know... truths by a millionaire
might make more sense...
mix ***** with coke watch
the icecubes melt and then take another
sip and it's harsh, pinching like
a crab's signature...
         but then alcohol formulates
around me like a memory tool,
gone are the lessons of school,
      gone the need for arithmetics that
lead to no hoard of gold of erebor -
just that cinema and standstill -
   like my genesis of memory,
  with a great-grandfather in kindergarten
him playing the piano and me playing
a toy piano aged 4, and in my memory
he representing no clear image
but a mere shadow / merely a shadow...
               or laughing at my great-grandmother's
funeral, then sitting up at night
   gnashing my teeth so hard
until i managed to bite off a piece of my
left mandibular central incisor...
         and in the mourning crowd
  when close family members were throwing
flowers into the grave unearthed
and being asked to do likewise
i shouted no!...
                      and took the intended flower
to be thrown into the grave
   to my grandparent's home and sat there
with a candle, gently burning
     the petals with the flame until
the petals, originally red, turned purple;
it seems i can't forget my education in chemistry,
that's not me saying i prefer thought "experiments",
i find them abhorring,
             it's still perplexing how that rose
that was intended to be thrown into the grave of my
great-grandmother ceremoniously
     turned purple from red when gently
applying fire from wax...
        i'm sure a bunsen burner flame of blue
flame would have scortched it...
    as i'm sure you agree, there are hues
to fire, blue flames and very engaging chemical
experiments... in all honesty?
   i did the best chemical experiment in school
and not at university... thanks to mrs. khan...
it involved extracting polyethylyne
in an in vitro environment...
               what you might call an event horizon
akin to physics...
                    oh physics, and the fact that
it's focus on procuring adherents does not stand
within an in vivo environment they propose
to speak about it...
          oddly enough, chemistry does not
popularise itself, only biologists and physicists
popularise themselves,
         chemists usually turn into amphetamine
pushers...
  like: because it began with a ****** name
     and an even ******* primate, do i care?
no... i'm getting drunk!
  why do physicists and biologists get the *******
high-ground in culture and chemists get
the sub-culture? oh right... poetry and
the counter-culture...
      i own the literature:
a. atkins' physical chemistry
          b mcmurry's organic chemistry
c. shriver & atkins' inorganic chemistry...
   from experience though:
    organic chemistry is where you have fun...
it's almost culinary in nature,
   and the patience involved...
sometimes an experiment can last for days...
i find the other two environments too sterile,
well... inorganic chemistry is spectacular,
i'll just add that it's flamboyant...
             physical chemistry is a ******* graveyard,
that **** is so sterile that you don't
   even know whether it's physics or just
applied mathematics...
               but how electrons travel in
organic chemistry's textbooks?
            i could do that **** for ever -
                    the nearest thing to x-ray vision
of what is formed and how it all seems like
quasi-robotics of something taking off a faulty
limb and asking for a more manageable counterpart,
it's all metaphor though, evidently not literally
applicable...    but that doesn't say it's not similar
in the case of having such a point of view...
  but yeah... why do biologists and physicists
think they can speak about their theories
  as populists might speak their political agenda
when they're forgotten the principum in vitro?
                 what they are doing is what
current right-wing political movements are doing,
giving them a platform akin to populism
     i.e. via the principum in vivo...
                    i mean it's there, including chemists
running amok shoving toothpaste and petrol down
peoples' lifestyles... and sure, pills...
    but i find that less demeaning than showing
ideas into peoples' heads... like it might
       change their narrative skills for the better...
still...
        now i'm tempted to find the third alternative
to vitro / vivo...
                               in mirror, a replica,
    something that can compensate the phenomenological
groundwork for, say, the punk or goth movement...
     trouble is, what could be resurrected from latin
to derive the word mirror...
     mercury?                           it has to be,
given in silico, so there must be a counter-elemental
derivative working from that...
thus -                                             in mercurius,
     that ought to prescribe the x            definiton
     to a situation                  where + is rarely
                       attributed to the movement of the canvas;
and yes, writing can also imply
serving the dish neglect to all wordly affairs.

"Angels of the love affair, do you know that other,
the dark one, that other me?"

1. ANGEL OF FIRE AND GENITALS

Angel of fire and genitals, do you know slime,
that green mama who first forced me to sing,
who put me first in the latrine, that pantomime
of brown where I was beggar and she was king?
I said, "The devil is down that festering hole."
Then he bit me in the buttocks and took over my soul.
Fire woman, you of the ancient flame, you
of the Bunsen burner, you of the candle,
you of the blast furnace, you of the barbecue,
you of the fierce solar energy, Mademoiselle,
take some ice, take come snow, take a month of rain
and you would gutter in the dark, cracking up your brain.

Mother of fire, let me stand at your devouring gate
as the sun dies in your arms and you loosen it's terrible weight.



2. ANGEL OF CLEAN SHEETS

Angel of clean sheets, do you know bedbugs?
Once in the madhouse they came like specks of cinnamon
as I lay in a choral cave of drugs,
as old as a dog, as quiet as a skeleton.
Little bits of dried blood. One hundred marks
upon the sheet. One hundred kisses in the dark.
White sheets smelling of soap and Clorox
have nothing to do with this night of soil,
nothing to do with barred windows and multiple locks
and all the webbing in the bed, the ultimate recoil.
I have slept in silk and in red and in black.
I have slept on sand and, on fall night, a haystack.

I have known a crib. I have known the tuck-in of a child
but inside my hair waits the night I was defiled.



3. ANGEL OF FLIGHT AND SLEIGH BELLS

Angel of flight and sleigh bells, do you know paralysis,
that ether house where your arms and legs are cement?
You are as still as a yardstick. You have a doll's kiss.
The brain whirls in a fit. The brain is not evident.
I have gone to that same place without a germ or a stroke.
A little solo act--that lady with the brain that broke.

In this fashion I have become a tree.
I have become a vase you can pick up or drop at will,
inanimate at last. What unusual luck! My body
passively resisting. Part of the leftovers. Part of the ****.
Angels of flight, you soarer, you flapper, you floater,
you gull that grows out of my back in the drreams I prefer,

stay near. But give me the totem. Give me the shut eye
where I stand in stone shoes as the world's bicycle goes by.



4. ANGEL OF HOPE AND CALENDARS

Angel of hope and calendars, do you know despair?
That hole I crawl into with a box of Kleenex,
that hole where the fire woman is tied to her chair,
that hole where leather men are wringing their necks,
where the sea has turned into a pond of *****.
There is no place to wash and no marine beings to stir in.

In this hole your mother is crying out each day.
Your father is eating cake and digging her grave.
In this hole your baby is strangling. Your mouth is clay.
Your eyes are made of glass. They break. You are not brave.
You are alone like a dog in a kennel. Your hands
break out in boils. Your arms are cut and bound by bands

of wire. Your voice is out there. Your voice is strange.
There are no prayers here. Here there is no change.



5. ANGEL OF BLIZZARDS AND BLACKOUTS

Angle of blizzards and blackouts, do you know raspberries,
those rubies that sat in the gree of my grandfather's garden?
You of the snow tires, you of the sugary wings, you freeze
me out. Leet me crawl through the patch. Let me be ten.
Let me pick those sweet kisses, thief that I was,
as the sea on my left slapped its applause.

Only my grandfather was allowed there. Or the maid
who came with a scullery pan to pick for breakfast.
She of the rols that floated in the air, she of the inlaid
woodwork all greasy with lemon, she of the feather and dust,
not I. Nonetheless I came sneaking across the salt lawn
in bare feet and jumping-jack pajamas in the spongy dawn.

Oh Angel of the blizzard and blackout, Madam white face,
take me back to that red mouth, that July 21st place.



6. ANGEL OF BEACH HOUSES AND PICNICS

Angel of beach houses and picnics, do you know solitaire?
Fifty-two reds and blacks and only myslef to blame.
My blood buzzes like a hornet's nest. I sit in a kitchen chair
at a table set for one. The silverware is the same
and the glass and the sugar bowl. I hear my lungs fill and expel
as in an operation. But I have no one left to tell.

Once I was a couple. I was my own king and queen
with cheese and bread and rose on the rocks of Rockport.
Once I sunbathed in the buff, all brown and lean,
watching the toy sloops go by, holding court
for busloads of tourists. Once I called breakfast the sexiest
meal of the day. Once I invited arrest

at the peace march in Washington. Once I was young and bold
and left hundreds of unmatched people out in the cold.

there are certain feelings that have no parallel
moments that can't be replicated
like the last class of the day on a friday
it's chemistry class, and your teacher is speaking in his thick raspy voice and the words flow through you
you recognize that he is talking but you don't take in the meaning
your eyes and mind are focused on the clock
forty minutes forty minutes forty minutes
and the promise of the weekend fills your body to the brim with a hope that cannot be matched

you are sent to the back of the room to do a lab
and your partner is the same scrawny boy with the chestnut eyes and the softest blond hair that you have ever felt
he's lighting the bunsen burner while you fiddle with the fraying elastic on your decade old goggles
he turns to face you and smiles and you note that his smile encompasses his whole face, his brown eyes beaming at you behind the yellow tint of his safety glasses
you smile back at him and the idea of who this boy is begins to sink into your thoughts
this boy is neither friend nor foe
he is potential
he is a boy you never speak to except to copy notes and you realize that depending on a series of choices this boy could be either everything or nothing to you
the thought is overwhelming so you shove it away
right now, you are lab partners
and the simplicity of that makes you grin

there is sunlight pouring into the chemistry room on the west side of the third floor and it dances across the black lab table where you and the boy are fiddling with a test tube of copper sulfate
you do not speak, just work
hands in perfect synchronicity as you adjust the utility clamps and let the burner ignite
it is almost like a dance, a ballet of hands as your fingertips do pirouettes around each other, recording and observing and adjusting and other science class endeavors
there is a certain intimacy that goes with looking into someone's eyes through the glowing orange of fire coming from a secondhand bunsen burner
both of you are buzzing with the energy of friday but neither of you rushes, wanting to gather each detail, to memorize each beat

it goes fast anyways, and soon you are scrubbing a still warm test tube in the sink next to a girl with hair the color of the night sky
you let out a gust of air to dry the glass and the girl's onyx locks flutter in reaction to the newfound breeze
with one more glance at her, you turn and take your seat, tapping your foot to the rhythm of  the clock, and sitting silently next to your lab partner
you watch as his wide eyes dart back and forth across a page of a book as though he is a cat trying to catch a mouse
chasing the poetry and attempting to trap each word in his mouth, exploring the letters with his tongue

he smiles when he sees you watching and you smile back
then lean into your desk, close your eyes, and capture the moment

10 Things I Wish I Could've Told You...
but never did.

1: I used to fantasize about us listening to that song that always reminded me of you and we'd be laughing and singing and we wouldn't have a care in world except where we were gonna buy our french fries. I'd feel as free as the snowflakes that never fell while we coast down the boulevard.

2: I snuck out of class one time to text you. I thought I was super cool for doing something bad... but then I had to do the entire science experiment with my phone in my jacket sleeve. I came pretty close to lighting it on fire with a bunsen burner, actually.

3: I remember how you could make anything hilarious. Whether it was laughing about overrated jokes from the internet or ironic things we probably shouldn't even be laughing about, you'd turn the situation upside down because that's the way you liked to see the world. You taught me that just looking from another perspective could make the ocean and sky switch places.

4: I lost sleep of worrying about you - I would awake in a cold sweat worried that my biggest nightmare would come true.

5: I would always push accusations of this happening to the back of my mind, but little did I know that when I thought I was protecting you I was really protecting myself.

6: I miss your laugh

7: I miss your smile

8: I miss the way you cared about everyone. Your heart was so big that all the 7 billion people on this earth could have a piece of it, a chance to taste the love and sweetness that resided in there, and when all the sugar saturated in the bottom you always knew how to shake it back up again, but man did they take every last piece. They took it all so that you were left with an emptiness that you had to fill with something else. And you filled it up, but it wasn't with love.

9: I can't live in a world without you

10: You were the first and only person I turned to for a very long time, and you were the only person who I could really trust. You gave me a piece of your heart too, except that I cherished mine. And to this day, I wear your heart on my sleeve.

Trial i: Crimson


By: The Mad Poetess


Purpose:

I shall birth
a new colour.

Sprung from the womb
of passion & rage--

cacophonous.

The name of the labour:
The Crimsoning

after the spawn:

Crimson.

Hypothesis:

from the quill
baptized in crimson ink

to the torn parchment

poetry shall hail down

like a meteor shower.

Materials:

- Sewing needle
- Blood
- Berries harvested from the Belladonna plant (devil's cherry)
- Teardrops
- Artist's palette
- Inkwell
- Bunsen burner
- Quill pen
- Parchment


Procedure:

1. With the needle, ***** finger; remove needle at the first dewdrop of blood
2.  Crush and mix devil's cherries with teardrops upon artist's palette
3. Add dewdrop and rest of concoction on to palette and mix using whatever is convenient (fingers, paint brush, hair, etc)
4. Transfer Crimson to inkwell
5. Place in well above bunsen burner
6. Burn for 40 days and 40 nights until Crimson is matured
7. Dip quill into ink
5. Press quill to parchment
6. Write poetry


Observations:

The parchment kindles
beneath the ink

pages curl up
at the corners
like Medusa’s hissing serpents

every gawking
letter
a petrification of
what could have been

every lowercase t
crucified

every serif
a burning branch.

Is this the context
of a self-fulfilling prophecy?

To write poems about forest fires
and then

burn?

~

My poems and I:

on the cusp of extinction.

I throw my head back
at a ghastly angle

like the ancient
Ornithomimus.

Last night the truth was in the bottle. It may be a tad bit cliché, but the stripping away of my cognitive functions was a relaxing endeavor. Okay, there’s nothing cliché about that last sentence. Still, there I was past the crowded living room, cluttered with soda cans and people, past the small kitchen and the three guys playing cards, past the three wine coolers sipped through a straw, and the mixed drinks, pass all that there was the truth.
Dropping the regular essence of me, I slid behind the idiot clown. I tripped and stumbled, babbled and mumbled. My emotions unguarded, I spewed love almost as much as I spewed chunks of a greasy sausage pizza with little chewed up black olives. It was fun. One moment of not thinking. One moment of not dealing with the concrete and the abstract, the struggles and oppressions, my realistic paranoia and dark observations. I plopped limply down on the couch then slid off the side of it jokingly. The ground shuddered with a soft thud.  My friends laughed. I laughed. The truth is I like the sound of innocent laughter. It is a relief. All those synapse spitting out calming fluids. Till, what little stress that was left disappears.

     Before that the truth was in caffeine induced writing frenzies. There were small interludes of creativity swirling around dark depressive moods. I pushed and prodded the black keys as if I was chipping away chunks of stone on a marble sculpture; exposing myself and my truths.

     Someone told me that to be a great writer doesn’t require me to suffer. I thought it’s a good thing they’re not mutually exclusive, because the truth is I was suffering long before I started to write. The doubt which comes from learning more and more bled me to the verge of insanity. Maybe it was vanity that pushed me to seek the truth.

     Before that the truth was in quiet walks. The strolls down old dirt paths and memory lanes, crossing the mental traffic of past and present. I lingered at the jagged grey sparkling stone markers, sitting on newly grass covered plots, just hanging out at the graveyard because it was quiet. I wasn’t some emo kid. The truth was that I just preferred the quiet. It was the same reason I raced through the day to get to the night. Night was as nonjudgmental as the pine infested graveyard. No harsh sun glaring down. No strangers staring at me until I had to turn my head to the ground. The truth was the quiet, and the quiet was liberating.

      Before that the truth was in books. Kernels of wisdom locked in works of fiction. Little leather bound universes creeping in and transforming my mind.  Now, I prefer biographies; back then I loved the fantasies. Though in truth all nonfiction is fiction, because all reality is perceived relatively and written thusly. So, I stashed book in my back pack and back tracked down old alley ways to read away the lonely days. I sat in those dark corners, the dusty gravel biting my big bubble ****, but I was there for the quiet.

      Before that there was science. Beakers and Bunsen burners burning out atoms, and chlorophyll. I never really felt I had a talent for their postulates or formulas. Yet their subtle certainty, mired in uncertainty was appealing. They offered ever evolving truths. The strange transition from one logical position to the next and I was willing to adapt to any new facts.

      Before that there was god. I was his egotistically elevated idiot child. I could converse with adults on their level because in this they were as juvenile as I was; those ancient books that no longer make sense to me. Then it was the emotion of loving unearned certainty. The comfort of cowering beneath the awe and love of an all-powerful and all-knowing father figure, I called it the truth.

      Sometimes, when I couldn’t sleep, cause a life’s worth of anxiety was hounding me the truth was in the music. Soft sounding syllables serenading me to sleep, moving to the rhythm of a calmly flowing beat. The music gave me something to focus on. It was a converging point to calm the chaos. Once in a while the music would play out some story or point out some struggle. My Tracy Chapman that was the truth.

       Sleep was preferable to the waking madness of daily living. So, if I was tired I slept. People used to make me feel guilty about it. However, I realized that sleep healed the body and the mind. Sleep let me dream. Dreams let me do things beyond reality. They directed me to grand fantasies, or pointed out painful truths about myself. I could wake up crying, or I could go to bed sad and wake up content. That was the truth.  

       In-between all these things I pondered relative and certain truth. Was it constant or changing based on perception? People passed, none returned. I got older. Now my teeth are starting to rot right out of my face, but I still devour information; listening to the wild tales of strangers. Sometimes, I trust too much, other times I trust no one.

      The truth is I exist, amidst whatever this existence is. Beyond that I cannot clearly define this reality. What is the truth?

for KA*

There is something in this for both of us. We have chemistry, let's be lab partners. Help me with problems like which would make a better poem: a pandemic, a wolverine, or a broken heart? You know I only chose you because you enjoy my fondling your blond *** as you lean over the Bunsen burner, because we have flammable *** on the periodic table, but this is more serious than calculations or *******. As a poet, I need to access the deeper moaning of reality, but you are a screamer, not a moaner. Let's experiment anyhow. Lift that skirt and let's explore something elemental, make a new molecule, feel the reaction. Help me probe the fundamentals of creation and I may love you, though surely not enough, as we are both non-valent. Even though we may never bond, we are in this together, partner. Lift your beaker to my lips. Outcomes are never certain.

The quiet shuffle of
Those two people in the hall.
The sound of the chalk pieces falling
As my teacher grinds it
Into the board.
The shouting of the man teaching next door.
The ruffling of papers when my teacher tells us to take one out.
The jangling of keys out in the hall.
The clicking of calculator keys
(Even though I'm in Chemistry).
The squeaking of various doors.
The three people who all just cleared their throats
At the same time.
The unevenness of the bell tones
(One's a concert A).
The flower resting in it's
Bunsen burner vase.

I love being an
Introvert
And noticing.

rig was fair
spiked hair
big like an oil rig
six foot tall
square shoulders
coffee-stain birthmark on his cheek
the rest of him freckled
too feared to be fought
betrayed by his own intellect
pacing the lino tiles like a zoo wolf
wrapping tape around pins
to make blow darts
firing them from rolled-up worksheets
sticking in smelly teenage scalps
sticking in the hived cheeks of the quiet boys
muttering accusations
at the closeted gay english teacher
total immunity guaranteed
through hulk and bulk and brazen cruelty
and the fear and the jeer of the crowd

bevans was dark
six foot one
thick black brush hair
face like a gnarled foot
broken nose with one nostril welded shut
nasal jackal yap-yap-yaps
manic eyes with natural mascara
giving the girls piggy rides
to hold their sunned hockey thighs in his dinner plate hands
bevans of the dark monster ****
flashed around the library
the dinner hall
bevans and his boys
pulling themselves
behind the science desks
wiping their *** on the curtains
squawking, crying with laughter
while the rest of us set fire to peanuts
on tripods with bunsen burners
our pale shrivelled pride
tucked away in the underwear
our mothers bought us

for years rig went with a girl
who looked like a pretty frog
‘i’ve been with her so long
i’ve literally felt her ****
grow in my hands’
she lived in a small village known for its golf course
and when he discovered ecstasy
and diazepam dissolved in buckets of lager
and dumped her without warning
she turned to older boys and farmers for comfort
she became known at school
as the nineteenth hole

rig and bevans
were friends of mine
i kept them close
with quips and hoots and indifference
begging each day
would provide some amusement
some mouse in the grass
to draw their keen eyes
and sharp tobacco tongues
to keep their necks from
twisting back
to snap and bite down
on the weak of the pack
which happened, of course, every few days
when my mother asked why
my shirt was soaked in slashes of blue ink
my hair was burned
there were blow dart spots
of dried blood
on my neck and hands
i told her it was a game

And see, this cold ice
that lives in the test tube
is so in love
with the Bunsen burner
and coming near
it exclaims in intense love:
“O flame – eternal flame mine –
O my roaring blue flame, my hot love
Oh see how I melt
whenever near you!”

“Oh, cool it,” says the flame
*“It’s just a phase
you’re passing through”

Dear underclassmen,
You will learn so much.
You’ll learn that when seniors tell you the main stairs are only for upperclassman they’re lying, that freshman Friday isn’t a thing, and elevator passes aren’t actually real.
You’ll learn WWII started in 1939 and it was the bloodiest of them all.
You’ll learn that sometimes, things don’t have to be ****** to be painful.
Sometimes sterile wounds heal the slowest.
High school will teach you to love with a vigor you didn't see coming and to hate with a passion you never saw possible, and you’ll find that after feeling them both so deeply, it sometimes becomes impossible to tell the difference between the two.
You’ll learn about drugs- that they don’t always come in little ziplock bags or orange pill bottle.
You’ll learn that often times, they don’t come in powder or pills at all- they come in words on a page or in blue eyes staring at you through wayfarer glasses that are so clouded you find yourself wondering how they can even see the world around them.
You’ll find your drug- everyone does. You’ll know you’re addicted because to you, it's what keeps the earth spinning on its axis; it's what puts the stars in the sky; it's what you see when you hear the word love.
You'll get addicted to something, and you’ll lose it, and you’ll move on.
You’ll learn that things can change in the blink of an eye, which is just as fast as we are to post our emotions in 180 characters or less, just as fast as we are to scrutinize others for who they love, what they wear,
and what they’re addicted to.
Things change as fast as the speed of sound: 186,282 miles per second.
I learned that in chemistry.
I also learned that Fleen Dog wasn't kidding when he said if you lean in too close to a Bunsen burner your hair will catch on fire.
I've learned that if you don’t stay in the inexhaustible realm of school dress code, you’re a delinquent, but if you wear hoodies everyday, you’re a scrub. If you don't, you're a try-hard.
I've learn that for some reason the word try-hard is an insult.
I've learned that stares can be so heavy you can physically feel the weight of their eyes pushing down on your back as they watch your every move, but more importantly I've learned that those stares only matter if you actually let them.
You’ll learn that often times- there is no correct answer and sometimes you just have to choose what you believe is the most right option because it’s better to guess than to do nothing at all.
You'll learn that even in science, not everything is black and white,
that sometimes the best way to learn is by diving in head first, and if you feel your skull crash into the bottom of the pool, know that you will resurface.

I drew pants out of my backpack
like a well bucket brimming pennies.
Legs upon legs tied together
in a campfire circle and sitting
on moss'd rocks, listening to rock
music, drinking Rolling Rock,
and nothing else. I pulled up
on inseams to a single black
pocket liner sixteen cents richer,
but the fire. Oh, that fire, flames whipping
weaker than slave drivers weaker
than the wind bailing low-lying
lake water to the faux Dover beach
mound of sand by the mud shore
like the crayfish were drowning.
The sand was like trampled
"welcome" mats worn-in by sidestepping
horseshoe players setting down
their tin cans by the mound.
A pitching machine on the pitcher's mound.
Machines have made the big leagues.
I quit baseball when Coach Seth castrated
my half-friends with a robot.
Some took red stitches to the face,
the lucky ones. But the fire—if you could consider
a Bunsen burner-esque flame a fire—turned
our burnt sienna bottles into burning-out beacons,
tiki torches between pine trees, street lamps
kicking off in four hours, a box of matches,
and a lightning bug's ***.

The **** Name List*

The Alarm **** - This is a good **** for the beginner. It is easy to identify. It starts with a loud unnaturally high note, wavers like a siren, and ends with a quick downward note that stops before you expect it to. It sounds like something is wrong. If it happens to you, you will know right off why it is called the Alarm ****. You will be alarmed. The alarm **** however is rare.

The Amplified **** - This is any **** that gets its power more from being amplified than from the **** itself. A metal porch swing will amplify a **** every time. So will a plywood table,and empty fifty gallon drum, a tin roof, or some empty cardboard boxes if they are strong through being amplified in this way can be called an Amplified ****. These are common farts under the right conditions. For example, if you're sitting on an empty 55-gallon steel drum.

The Anticipated **** - This one warns that it is back there waiting for some time before it arrives. A person who is uneasy for a time in a crowd and who later farts at a time when they think no one will notice has farted an Anticipated ****.

The Back Seat **** - This is a **** that occurs only in automobiles. It is identified chiefly by odor. The Back Seat **** can usually be concealed by traffic noise as it is an eased-out **** and not very loud. But its foul odor will give it away, due to the way air moves around in a car. It is often followed by someone saying, "Who farted in the back seat?"

The Barn Owl **** - A familiarity with owl calls is helpful in identifying this ****. Almost any morning if you get up just before daybreak you can hear one of these birds talking to himself. It's a sort of a crazy laugh, particularly the way it ends. If you hear a **** that has about eight notes in it, ending on a couple of down notes, and it sounds maniacal, you have heard the rare Barn Owl ****.

The Bathtub **** - People who would never in their life know one **** from another, who would like to act like **** don't exist, will have to admit that a Bathtub **** is something special. It is the only **** you can see! What you see is the bubbles. The Bathtub **** can be either single or multiple noted and fair or foul as to odor. It makes no difference. The farter's location is what does it. Maybe there is a kind of muffled pong and one big bubble. Or there may be a ping ping ping and a bunch of bubbles. The sound I should point out depends somewhat on the depth of the water, and even more on the tub. If it is one of those big old heavy tubs with the funny legs you can get terrific sound effects. While one of the new thin ones half buried in the floor can be disappointing.

The Biggest **** in the World **** - Like the great bald eagle, this **** is pretty well described just by its name. This can either be a group one or a group two **** and can occur just about anywhere. I heard it one time, a group two identification, in a crowded high school auditorium one night, right in that silence that happens when a room full of people has stopped singing the Star Spangled Banner and sat down. It came from the back. There was not a soul in that room that missed it. A **** like that can be impressive. The most diagnostic characteristic of the Biggest **** In The World is it size.**** freaks who go around showing off, farting like popcorn machines, and making faces before they **** or asking you to pull their finger and then they ****, never have what it takes for this one, which is rare even among your most serious farter's.

The Bitburr: Sounds like just that--you're walking and the initial explosion "BIT!--" during one step is followed by a more gentle release of the rest of the volume during the next step: "brrrrrr..."

The Bullet **** - Its single and most pronounced diagnostic characteristic is its sound. It sounds like a rifle shot. The farter can be said to have snapped it off. It can startle spectators and farter alike. Fairly common following the eating of the more common **** foods, such as beans.

The Burning Brakes **** - A silent **** identified by odor alone. Usually and adult ****, occurring while the adult is driving a car or has a front seat passenger who farts. The Burning Brakes **** actually does smell a little like burning brakes, and seems to hang around longer than most farts Which gives whoever farted a chance to make a big show of checking to see if the emergency brake has been left on. When he finds it hasn't you know who farted. A common automobile ****.

The Car Door **** - Either a group one or a group two ****. Very tricky. It is meant to be a concealed ****. A matter of close timing is involved, the farter trying to **** at the exact moment he slams the car door shut. It is usually a good loud ****. It is one of the funnier farts when it doesn't work, which is almost every time. It is a desperation **** and not too common.

The Celestial **** - Not to be confused with the Did An Angel Speak ****, which is simply any loud **** in church. The Celestial **** is soft and delicate, surprising in a boy or an adult. It is probably the most shy of all farts and might be compared with the wood thrush, a very shy bird. It does not have the sly or cunning sound of the Whisper ****. It is just a very small clear **** with no odor at all. Very rare.

The Chicken Soup ****: One day I had chicken soup for lunch at work and then stopped off at the gym after work. When it came on, I eased it out, covered by the gym's muzak. It smelled exactly like chicken soup. A few feet away some woman sniffed and said; "Is somebody cooking?" I had to turn to the wall to hide my laughter.

The Chinese Firecracker **** - This is an exceptional multiple noted **** identified by the number, and variety of its noises, mostly pops and bangs. Often when you think it is all over, it still has a few pops and bangs to go. In friendly company this one can get applause. Uncommon.

The Command **** - This **** differs from the Anticipated **** in that it can be held for long periods of time waiting for the right moment. Unlike the Anticipated ****, it is intended to be noticed. Harold Tabor recently held a Command **** for the whole period in history class and let it go right at the end when the teacher asked if there were any questions.

The Common **** - This **** needs little description. It is to the world of farts what the house sparrow is to the world of birds. I can see no point in describing this far any further.

The Crowd **** - The Crowd **** is distinguished by its very potent odor, strong enough to make quite a few people look around. The trick here is not to identify the **** but the farter. This is almost impossible unless the farter panics, and starts a fit of coughing or starts staring at the ceiling or the sky as though something up there fascinates him. In which case he is the one. Very common.

The Cushioned **** - A concealed ****, sometimes successful. The farter is usually on the fat side, sometimes a girl. They will squirm and push their **** way down into the cushions of a sofa or over-stuffed chair and ease-out a **** very carefully without moving then or for some time after. Some odor may escape, but usually not much. Common with some people.

The Did An Angel Speak **** - This is any loud **** in church. This **** was first called to my attention by my father. He probably read about it somewhere. For **** watchers who go to church, this is a good one to watch for as this is the only place it can be found.

The Dud **** - The Dud **** is not really a **** at all. It's a **** that fails. For this reason it is strictly a group one identification ****, because there is no real way you can identify a **** that somebody else expected to **** but didn't. It is the most private of all farts. In most cases the farter usually feels a little disappointed.

The Echo **** - This is a **** that can be wrongly identified. It is not some great loud **** in an empty gym or on the rim of the Grand Canyon. The true Echo **** is a **** that makes its own echo. It is a two-toned ****, the first tone loud, then a pause, and then the second tone. Like an echo.

The G and L **** - This is one of the most ordinary and pedestrian of farts, known to everyone. Certainly it is the least gross. If you have not already guessed, G and L stands for Gambled and Lost. One of the most embarrassing of all farts, even when you are alone.

The Ghost **** - A doubtful **** in most cases, as it is supposed to be identified by odor alone and to occur, for instance, in an empty house. You enter and smell a ****, yet no one is there. People will insist that only a **** could have that odor, but some believe it is just something that happens to smell like a ****.

The Hic-Hachoo-**** **** - This is strictly an old lady's ****. What happens is that the person manages to hiccough, sneeze, and **** all at the same time. After an old lady farts a Hic-Hachoo-**** **** she will usually pat her chest and say, "My, oh my," or "Well, well." There is no reason she should not be proud, as this is probably as neat an old person's **** as there is.

The **** **** - The **** **** is a **** by a **** who smirks, smiles, grins, and points to himself in case you missed it. It is usually a single-noted, off-key, fading away, sort of whistle ****, altogether pitiful, but the **** will act as if he has just farted the Biggest **** in the World ****.

The John **** - The John **** is simply any ordinary **** farted on the john. It is naturally a group one identification, with the sound, whatever it was, somewhat muffled. If it is all the person's trip to the john amounted to he will be disappointed for sure. Common as pigeons.

The Lead **** - The heaviest of all farts. It sounds like a dropped ripe watermelon. Or a falling body in some cases. It is the only **** that goes thud. Except for the odor, which is also very heavy, it could be missed altogether as a ****. What was that, you might think? And never guess.

The Malted Milk Ball **** - Odor alone is diagnostic and positively identifies this ****. It smells exactly like malted milk *****. No other food works this way. It is rare.

The Oh My God **** - This is the most awful and dreadful stinking of all farts - a **** that smells like a month-old rotten egg - as the Oh My God ****. If you should ever encounter it, however, you may first want to say, oh sht, which would be understandable.

The Omen **** - This is the adult version of the Poo-Poo ****. About the only difference is that the farter will not say anything. He will just look kind of funny and head for the john. This one is easy to spot if you pay attention.

The Organic **** - Sometimes called the Health Food Nut ****. The person who farts an Organic **** may be talking about the healthy food he eats even when he farts. If he is heavily into health foods he may even ask if you noticed how good and pure and healthy his **** smells. It may smell to you like any other ****, but there is no harm in agreeing with him. He is doing what he thinks is best.

The Quiver **** - A group one identification **** only. When you ****, it quivers. If it tickles, then it is the Tickle ****. If you have to scratch it, then it is the Scratchass ****.

The Rambling Phaduka **** - You must not be fooled by its pretty-sounding name, as this is one of the most frightening of all farts. It is frightening to farter and spectator alike. It has a sound of pain to it. What is most diagnostic about it, however, is its length. It is the longest-lasting **** there is. It will sometimes leave the farter unable to speak. As though he has had the wind knocked out of him. A strong, loud, wavering ****, it goes on for at least fifteen seconds.

The Relief **** - Sound or odor don't matter on this one. What matters is the tremendous sense of relief that you have finally farted. Some people will even say, "Wow, what a relief." Very common.

The Reluctant **** - This is probably one of the oldest farts known to man. The Reluctant **** is a **** that seems to have a mind of its own. It gives the impression that it likes staying where it is. It will come when it is ready, not before. This can take half-a-day in some instances.

The Rusty Gate **** - The sound of this **** seems almost impossible for a ****. Is is the most dry and squeaky sound a **** can make. The Rusty Gate **** sounds as if it would have worked a lot easier if it had been oiled. It sounds like a **** that hurts.

The S.B.D. **** - S.B.D. stands for Silent But Deadly. This is no doubt one of the most common farts that exists. No problem of identification with this one.

The Sandpaper **** - This one scratches. Otherwise it may not amount to much. You should remember that if you reach back and scratch, it automatically becomes a Scratchass ****. Common.

The Shower ****: These are a lot worse than bathtub farts, due to conditions of humidity and heat. George Carlin once said that you can tolerate the smell of your own farts, but shower farts are the exception to that rule.

The Skillsaw **** - A truly awesome ****. It vibrates the farter. Really shakes him up. People back away. It sounds like an electric skillsaw ripping through a piece of half-inch plywood. Very impressive. Not too common.

The Snart: This is a **** that you succeed in suppressing so as not to not to offend, but then a sneeze jars it loose.

The Sonic Boom **** - The people who believe in this **** claim it is even bigger than the Biggest **** In The World ****. The Sonic Boom **** is supposed to shake the house and rattle the windows. This is ridiculous. No **** in the world shakes houses and rattles windows. A **** that could do that would put the farter into orbit or blow his crazy head off.

The Splatter **** - Unfortunately the Splatter **** exists. It is the wettest of all farts. It probably should not be called a **** at all.

The Stutter **** - If you think stuttering is funny, this is a very funny ****. It is a **** that can't seem to get going. The sound is best described as pt,pt,pt-pt,pt-pt-pt,pop,pop-pop-pop-POW! It is usually a forced-out **** that gets caught crossways, as they say, and only gets farted after considerable effort.

The Taco Bell **** - The Taco Bell **** is far richer and full-bodied than your ordinary Junk **** and takes longer to build up. Sometimes hours or even a day. But it will get there. And it will hang around after, too. Even on a windy day.

The Teflon **** - Slips out without a sound and no strain at all. A very good **** in situations where you would rather not **** at all. You can be talking to someone and not miss saying a word. If the wind is right he will never know.

The Thank God I'm Alone **** - Everyone knows this rotten ****. You look around after you have farted and say, "Thank God I'm alone." Then you get out of there fast!

The Tickle **** - A group one only and one of the easiest to identify. Usually a slow soft sort of ****. If you like being tickled this is the **** for you!

The Unconscious **** - My friend is asleep and snoring and they let out a couple of farts without know it.



Other Names For Farts

nouns
verbs
aerosolized stool
after dinner mint
air
air attack
air biscuit
air monkey
air ****
**** acoustics
**** announcement
**** escape of wind
**** emissions
**** oxide
**** retreat
**** evacuation
Arkansas barking spiders
ars musica
**** blast
*** dropping
backblast
backdoor trumpet
back draft
back end blow out
bae
barking rats
barking spiders
bean bombers
bean fumes
****** leaver
beer ****
belching clown
big spit-up
bilabial fricative
blampf
blare-***
Blat
blow-by
blow fish
blue angel
blue bomber
blue darts
blurp
bologna sandwich essence
boomper letters
bork
bottom burp
botty burp
botty cough
bram
brewer's ****
brown-body radiation
brown haze
brown mist
brown speckled mallard
brownster
brun canard
bubblers
buck snort or bucksnort
bull snort
*** and flutter
bunsen burners
burners
burp that went astray
burp that comes out the wrong end
**** burps
**** cheek squeak
**** moose
**** mutt
**** trumpet
can o' chedder
carpet creeper
case of swamp ***
cheeser
cheese toasty
chert
chold
chou pi
chunder
churchhouse creepers
******* tremor
crepidus
crunchy frog
cushion creepers
davebrok
deer snort
dej
desert varnish
doofu
doozer
doozy
double flutterblast
drifters
dr

6:00 AM

I wake to the sound of my grandmother's voice announcing the morning long before the first rooster crows to the open countryside. The sun is still in hiding as I dress in the dark, already dreading the day's events. Shuffling through the empty house, as I attempt to force my frizzy hair into some kind of order, before giving up and slinging a backpack over my shoulder as I walk out the door.

6:45 AM

I stumble on the bus, still half asleep, as the havoc of the the night before has kept me from ever allowing my body a reprieve. Constantly moving, yet I still somehow manage to gain weight. I drop into a seat, my ever growing thighs pushing together as I lean against the cold glass of the ***** window, not daring to look out upon what my world has become.

7:30 AM

I amble my way up expansive staircases and through crowded hallways to my locker, tucked away in a tight corner next to the English office, where I find a semicircle of people waiting for me. We mumble our morning greetings then part ways in our minds long before our bodies move in opposite directions.

7:40 AM

The late bell rings, and I ease into a seat near the front of the class as one of my three good teachers begins to animatedly shout about expressing ourselves and setting our minds free and I'm always tempted to ask her how exactly I'm supposed to do that trapped between the four walls of this mighty mind numbing institution. Because even though this school may have been built like a castle, anyone whose read "Rapunzel" knows that a castle is just a prison where they hide away women.

8:25 AM

I leave one of the few decent classes of the day and enter the chaos of the hall where people are screaming and running and kissing one another, human interactions that I never seem to be a part of. I sleepwalk through the dull drone of teacher's voices, as they rant on about the importance of my "education."

10:00 AM

I reach my fourth class, the day is nearly half over, and I try as hard as I can to listen to the women at the front of the class as she expands logarithms on the page, but the numbers fog up my mind and cloud my vision. I start to feel dizzy, like if I see another equation I might faint. So instead I pull out a notebook that's nearly falling apart, and let the thoughts fall from my mind, making much more sense on the page as I scribble my feelings in a desperate attempt to be poetic.

10:50 AM

The moment I step foot into the cool auditorium it seems to get a little easier to breathe. The corner of the school I have carved out for myself as a home has opened up to me for midday drama class, and I smile at the sight of half-painted scenery littering the stage. But still I wonder how my creativity is supposed to flow between these walls, and how I'm supposed to allow my spirit to be lifted when every single scene we play out has been one hundred percent scripted.

12:30 PM

Finally, lunch arrives and I rush to the courtyard, hoping to soak up the social freedom of these forty five minutes as my friend and I ramble about things that matter and things that don't and I never remember any of the conversations but they're still important because they're the only things that make me feel sane.

1:20 PM

I find myself in the third floor chemistry classroom where I will sit for the next hour and a half wondering how I could make my death look like an accident from an untested chemical or crazy bunsen burner reaction.

2:45 PM

The school day draws to a close, but still I stay in the building where my dreams have come to die, slaving away in a poorly lit auditorium, giving my life and soul to the theatre. Not for a chance to be on stage, but to be behind the scenes, weaving together a musical with the smallest of roles, and it doesn't seem to matter how insignificant my job is, because it takes a lot of small people to tell a good story.

5:30 PM

I exit the sanctuary of the theatre and walk to my mother's car. I choke as the cigarette smoke fills my lungs, while we talk about both nothing and everything. I find that this is the best conversation I'll have all day.

6:30 PM

I'm called upstairs for dinner, my grandmother insisting we all eat together while we scramble for polite conversation topics. My angry political disputes and uncensored ideals of the future are not welcome here, so I keep my mouth shut, tugging at strategically placed articles of clothing made to hide the few secrets my body has managed to keep.

9:30 PM

After hours of pointless false conversation and staring at a flickering screen, I jump into the shower, loving the blissful in between state it provides.

10:00 PM

I go to bed, but not to sleep, my phone hidden under the sheets, sending secret messages to my friend across the universe, like whispers in the dark. When I finally shut my eyes, all the insecurities crawl into my mind like little insects of anxiety. My throat closes up and I can't breathe. I feel as though I have been tied down, and I thrash around the bed until I tire myself out and slowly succumb to sleep.

12:00 AM

I dream.

6:00 AM

I am ripped out of the one pure moment in my 24 hour cycle, ****** awake by the sharp sound of my grandmother's voice shouting the time. I get up to repeat this never ending monotony of my everyday life.

Between me and her there were lots of fireworks
and that is to name but one of the lovely perks
we created and ran through by being together
feeling warm and secure, whatever the weather,
we felt heated and glowing in every single trot
but there is one day in particular we were both very hot.
We’d spent a lazy Sunday  watching the television
eradicating our hangovers after a ***** collision,
didn’t move from the sofa unless to go to the loo
lay in each other arms, we knew love was true,
looking into eyes with synchronicity’s kiss
knowing full well the meaning of bliss.
As time went on we started to feel lewd
but before those fleshy moves we thought  we’d get food.
I sauntered off to the takeaway with both our requests
for me kebab and chips for her fried chicken breast,
I was in a spicy mood as later I knew later we’d get course
so I asked for my meal to be smothered in strong chilli sauce.
When I got back we scoffed our purchases down fast
the thought of our steamy coupling already had me at half mast,
we dabbed away the remnants of our grub with serene care,
“right now you, get up them stairs!”
We tore off our clothes with the speed of a cheetah,
I licked my lips, I couldn’t wait to eat her,
down south I went and started lapping away
“baby are you in for a sweet treat today!”
My jaw was working hard, I had drool from jowls
when suddenly from her came a blood curdling howl,
she screamed, “have you poured lava on my ******, it’s burning like flames
If this carries on I’m going to go lame,
I’m all for red hot passion but this is too much
my ***** feels too volcanic to touch,
It’s like on a Bunsen burner I sit
I’ve got Mount Vesuvius bursting out of my ****.”
I thought what could be the cause of this fiery malaise,
I pondered and mused as in pain she was glazed,
then I found the root of the problem as she shouted her self horse,
I didn’t wash my mouth out after that hot chilli sauce!
I said, I’m sorry, I’m sorry we should have waited until the heat had died down!”
She writhed around and hit me with a furious frown,
“well think about that next time, you ******* clown!”
An hour later when her agony had subsided
we sat on the couch and stroked each other’s eyelids,
she said, “although that hurt, I suppose it’s quite apt.”
surprised I remarked, “how do you figure that?”
She looked and me and smiled thru her winning smirk,
“because between you and me baby always fireworks!”

There was once a boy I sat with in science,
He couldn’t tell the difference between a Bunsen burner and a kitchen appliance.
I didn’t like him and he didn’t like me,
This forced upon seating arrangement made neither of us happy.
I found him arrogant, a pain in the ***,
He had no motivation and didn’t care for a pass.
Yet others still saw him as something of a god,
I still couldn’t stand this full of himself sod.
He questioned me why? I gave zero *****,
And I told him, you’re rude and clearly lack wits.
He seemed so surprised, not knowing what to do,
He simply replied "I’ll work on you"
And too my amazement he started to try,
I couldn’t understand for the life of me why?
He asked me questions about my life and my day,
Seeming genuinely interested for what I had to say,
And we started to work more together in class,
Maybe he’s not such a pain in the ***.
My respect began to grow for him,
As what I see now is far more genuine.
Then one day he sat down and said,
Looking down at the table his cheeks turning red,
"I had to work really hard for you,
You weren’t another beggar lined up in a queue,
But I’m glad you made me work for this friendship,
With all of your sassy comments and giving me lip,
Because I feel like now you like me for me,
Not the pretty boy most people see."
I replied with something I never thought I would say,
I’m so glad I was made to sit with to you that day.

-NCx

Pew, Pew, Barney, McGrew.
Trumpton's poor firemen are cyanotic blue.
Had to tackle a blaze at Windy's mill.
The local teens all held a rave.
Teenage gals and teenage boys with no regard,for flour and mills.
Wanted to manufacture wicked pills.
Chemistry sets and bunsen burners, thought they'd cook some rocking earners.
Boom, boom, bang the mill is exploding.
The mill's all full of smoke.
Firemen are trapped.
The kids are in a manic panic.
Theyall escape.
Teenage party people.
For heaven's sake.
Listens and learn, before you choke to death or burn.
The firemen they got rescued by their team commander,
His name was Lucky Lee.
In the fresh air the comical funny firemen breathed fresh air.
So glad to be free.
And the poetic woman will create poetic positivity.
The glass is full up with various optimistic stuff.
(c)Livvi

Seeking for destruction
Underneath the world
You wish everything engulfs
Flames of hell shall rise
When everything dies

You seek no reward
Nor a monetary claim
Just to see things die
Inside the sinful heart
Through the devil's eye

(Chorus)---

Light up the town alive
Roast humanity to arise
Light up society again
Roast them all with pain
-------------------

The evil heart
Does not relent
Until all is charred
Like the soul inside

He shall set all to fire
As the flames glow higher
With smile many shall be slain
As the victor of the day

(Chorus)

(Guitar Solo)

His name of fire
Shall eternally remain
Above comes the pyre
Dub thee the one and only...
SATAN

(Chorus)

We all get rich, it fixes every thing, c'mon

Initial Public Offering.
Made inclusively to
all the children of all the wombed men,
but one,
by now, none else, for eons, unmarked
save in ashes under ancient tells,
none of these people, these *** of the gods,
and the one,
daughter of man who signed off on this story.

-live forever-

Thinking attracting needs,
deeds done that send funds, to wipe debt from mind.
Bring the wizard,
strip him bare, grind him  to gore and gristle,
bone blood and all the biles, shake it up,
jiggle in the sack of skin, watchit
burst and puddle
in the flame,

is this pyrex? See

Bunsen burning in my brain, a mixture now,
oh wow
Schmachten-burger, cheese, *** of enlightened
hippie jews, shapers shaped in common fashion,
after the sixties finished, there arose guides to the goy
who knew nothing of the mystery,
save that Alice Toklas was not gay, in the Nineties way

Oy-vey, cultural appropriation, Jah, Jah is ours, as you
well know, we have esoterica galore, here buy
a mezuzah, ya, gutglück - all ah, ala phylacteries
raditional-rootish,
and these use that same parchment, goat skin,
very kosher halal and all, done
under strictest supervision, seeing super see, is
something the literate,
Phoenicians, Shem shah-mans, and their accountants,
first
discovered the territory within the skull of man,
was open to other minds,
in matters of wit
inventions'nshit, set a will to a way, watch,

come the future, we are famous…
who invented the wheel?

watch, watch, it winds around, a motion, anchored
to a plain truth in the left cerebral sorting station,
reflecting back,
******-rectumly linearly right co- oh, I see

cor-rect or co-recht, co-right, if nobody's wrong.

But there is no hateful god who made hell for those
who,
honed as honed may be, in punctual efforting
so
sharp, even on thorny issues,
motes
floating in the occular consomme,
slightly briney aqueous humor,

ha

to make a point in time to pierce anything
in my way

see clear,  plumb the depths truth's base idea,
some things wish vehemently to be known,
must-er-ion, quest, ionic tipping
point whence the ring of eight
slips a point, and specs call
ion ion whither went thee?
ion, zion sion, see the gleam,
golden oil,
yes,
yes indeed, I did, I did pray
for this,
or something sorta like it,

peace on earth, good will toward man,
reconciliation complete perceived as done.

Can you hear me?
Did I lose loose links to long lies, left tied
to the stakeholders souls?

When did we realize the difference?
It must have taken years, and now, we see, match
the noses,
the eyes, or deeper even, look into the whites
of their mother's eggs…

see and know, or trust me, I know,
one wombed man's children, one,
the officially loneliest number. One
wom'man, woe,
science,
not Genesis, or Enuma Elish,
or the story from Braiding Sweetgrass,

but, old, old stories, told, once, at least,
by a witness,
-- it was as if the bone and all it was,
was altered, by a bit, a Y got a leg, or lost one,
I do not know, but bone of my bone,
was that one little bit,
more in one way, at the stem, and as branching
began, the one had daughters, who bhor daughters,
while from that generation forward,
the many others,
bore no children of any breathing form,
soon,
for this was not so long ago, mitomom, you know,
she had sisters and cousins and aunts
and a mother who had a mother
and a father who had a mother.
None
of the eggs in those wombs, ever lived to now,
but the eggs of the one wombed man we must
accept, she who shaped all after ever began
that instant when,
only one line remained, and there was no war.
No reason, at the time, but soon
in geo time,
we grew apart, branching on rivers
when we found them on our journeys from the east

- I think she
was likely deep dark brown, she links me to you,
stem cell level
and below,
logos in touch,
the code of silence. A cone, yes, the cone
of silence,
rolled from fool'scap, common in the great leaps
forward,
through the ages, as sons and daughters were born,
but
once,
something occurred,
a virus, or a leaven, or fish, perhaps,
rancid oil while the child waited for its form
to form in the wombed man, now known
as mom. She,
Mitochondrial source of the code that keeps us alive.
The same basic way batteries in blood
have been made since knowing
clickt.

Universes, realms of human reasons, piled in
lattice work bits and pieces,
joints and joiners,
that fit in particular places to form certain shapes
of things to come,
it is all very miniaturized, nano nano scale…

yes, did you know him, Mork?
I never did.

_ he does that so you don't think him arrogant,
ashamed to admit the use of the mind of christ
in a secular win the game way.

But what the hell, knowing ain't cheating, if you know
what's right,

wanna place a wager on the Robinhood IPO?
I gotta plan, see…
we go into such and such a city, we buy, we sell,
---intshallah
but this is the secret,
we sell debt,
you owe me, right, it works, it always works,
give and it is given unto you,
pressed down,
running over -- goods and services, nothing taxable
or tithe-able,
riches with no sorrow, added.

You interested? One time buy in. Two bits.

Smokey the Bear tried
to warn us
not to play with fire
nor matches
Never any carelessness
so near the flames
A Bunsen's burner
licks the glass
cesium
rubidium

I listened
till the dare
undid the bear
Consumed us
with its hunger
for the science
and the gases
instability
of it

Flicked us out the window
of a sunny day
Cricket dry
the grass
Knee deep in *** butts
in litter
by the underpass

Flames trespass
explode beyond us

Let us all be equal now which is a sequel to let us all not,
son of some gun don't you want me to run with the idea of a nuclear family where each has enough to get by on and we all get a living we can try out and live on?  equality under the sun.

Every Autumn that strips the trees bare I am there letting leaves through my fingers to fall, where I wear the crown of a fool, they never taught nature at school nor *** education or pollution just adherence to rules and now the rules have all broken as we are all taken to the next stop on the road, but
the next season explodes exposing even more roots and the roads are all clogged up as we are all bogged down and the leaves are still tumbling down.

Down is recurring, a nightmare, unnerving but it's down where we go where the nights hang on low to the light in our eyes, dampened and cramped we are stamped disapproval ripe for removal and the leaves come tumbling down.

They burn bunsen burners to turn liquid to gold or that's what we're told, sows ears and purses, pockets full of curses and it's my mind full of verses that fires my sight

The quality of mercy being equality is strained and we the minority are being drained of all will, will the sequel be better, will we all get an Oscar an Emmy or doesn't anyone care?

In a room filled with glass and fire.
fantastic colored fluids to stare and admire.
Bunsen burners orange and blue flame .
Tubes that spiral around like a  game.

Steam and popping bubbles.
Brewing danger and trouble.
Potions here and potions there.
So many you lose all care.

Lavender, licorice and lilac.
Smells good, but the  liquids black.
Another red and shiny like a rose.
But it smells like piled compost.

On a table, glass tubes build a cube.
Just like a machine built by Rube.
4 places to pour liquids in.
Through the tubes they mix and spin.

A single spigot on the side.
Are you brave, open wide!
Pretty colors in the cup
Go ahead drink it up!
If you do, I'd like to see!
You are more brave than me.

miss petherick

miss ******

miss dawson who forced the showers



spit & dribble

latin & greek

sisters



i remember all of them not with fondness

not with happy days



she wore a tie you know

het blouse were white & sternly sharp

terrified we went in after games to run

naked whether warm or cold



some had flat stomachs

better quality knickers



dawson had a diary to check when

we said excused it was our time

so we could keep them on

if we cheated she poked our skinny arms sharp



&



we were scared & ran through by the wall hoping

the water would miss



us



she disapproved of me

i feel

i disapproved of her



i remember cold days

divided skirts

ice on the field



the line between genders



dawson brought fear

she wore a tie you know

navy blue



i failed in games in greek & latin



was interested in art & liked bunsen burners & wooden stools

****** dawson wore a tie you know



miss jackson had a pony tail

i bet ****** dawson hated that

Lab coat ....
Bench tops....
Floor,cabinets,
Pretty much everything is all white....
Except me ......
Bunsen burners
beakers,
Test tubes
Full of emotions,
Boiling .
Vamping off clues......
Of what is it?
Which drives me to be so bendable.
The subject ......
Timid, me.....
Lab Rat.
Find me lost in a maze or running
On the wheel.
In the cage.




Not really too.....
Anything,but maybe away
From
Something



Chemistry.......
Charts and
graphs
Elementary ....
Wall coverings
Crows feet.......
Deepening
Control group
Doin they're thing......
OH!
Here we go.
Controlling.....
Keep going ....
Please......
Keep my head down ......
Keep going .....
Please ....
Don't see me...
Oh ****.....
Hey ........
Whatchadoin?

Waiting here for you to come by and ruin my day .....
Is what I wanted to say.....
But didn't......
Smoke......
somethings.....
Burning internally.
Feeling sorta
In different....
Like madness
Has separated
Me...
Id.......
Me ....
Mamamama
My persona.....

Steeped in a white hot Seether.....
Could neither
Diffuse nor compromise...
Trepidation.....
Not  for persona  sake....
Panic.......
For the opponents.....
Being forewarned....
Chose ignorance.....
Ignoring
The desperate
Overtly obvious
Warning
Signs.....
⚠️
At the apex of max capacity.
two choices.
Guilt could expand the space
Where swallowed pride sits...
at the price of homicide....
Although
Tempting ...
Instead.....
Devise a compromise ...
Inspired  by both sides
And this fault line
Left from
A life time trying to be kind....
Meanwhile
Transparent
Perpetrators
Beguiling
......
Smil­ing overpitty-ing,
Drawing the focus away
From themselves passing the shame  
Character bashing
My friendemies,
For exactly .....
Precisely the
same thing they are doing
Saying sternly
HEY  !!!!!!!!!!?
Don't you go & let them talk you into anything .
Look at me
You don't owe them a thing....
I mean it ....."
As I listen to these wealthy friends telling me they feel so bad for me ....
And there so sad cause they wish they could pay me
But right now
Can only give me a couple bucks .....but in two weeks come on back
& They'll settle up......
Then they don't...
Stoke the fire
Start woofin
The bellows
Flames darker ...and rising
This is it .....indecisive decisions on which side of the schism to give or not to give in .......
A raging torrent is oxidizing
Standing on the fence line
I'm the accelerant....
The sparks the flames the maddening magnesium
The wind uprooting trees and burning them
Woofin big time ******* in oxygen .....
Like a constant burst that don't end .
So brightening

Suns faded out ...
And now it's darkening
As my psyche
Deviding

Split ......
id good ....
Id bad .....
Strange !.?.!.....
Very .......
News to me...
There is someone around here.....
Apperantly ....that looks just like me ...
Cause that's not like ????
I need hard evidence and need to be convinced
Without which ....
Recollection.....
Won't set in .....
Bewildering ...
If and when ...
I remember the checanery and shenanigans
I have allegedly done...
There comes this this image ..
Me now ...
At a good distance behind
"The" age 7 me... .
secretly watching ....
In the back yard    
Of the home predating
That age.....
At dawn...
And the warmth of the sun in my face and the fog
Dissipating
"In front"  me
Above the sunken marsh in view of the slough
And secretive
Personal trail
no one but me knew through
Those cattails
I loved so much....and my favorite carrion the red winged blackbird singing .....
Not a thought or care in the world
Taking a good healthy breath.
The overwhelming
Sensation of a satisfying grin begining to unfurl
Turning into a gratifying smile.