"burners" poems
her rigorous objections
are herded slowly down the sheep trail
by studious pencil thin men with stylish mustache's
who have deep pocket pickers for friends
they gather round the weak willed and the willing alike
looking for cheap thrills and spare change
everybody needs a new road
when the old one seems to never end
but she with eyes cast down
mumbles her unappeased desires
as she shuffles a little closer to the truth as she sees it
she has it all written out in secret languages
she has books filled with life's coded thoughts as she see's them
barn burners and dare devils grace the cover of her latest creation
self titled to her own romantic name
she is stylized in her own way
so she adores the pencil thin men
with their dashing devil may care good looks
i wrote her a letter yesterday
full of stories from the great highway
full of chipper go getters and the glum go gotten
she is a forever stone on a necklace
she is a moonstone on a bracelet
she is graceful when it counts and
thats more than enough for me
the pencil thin moustache men
come to conquer the all night diners
in the small shoreline towns
but slink away in dawns first light
with stolen smiles and borrowed kisses
that they promise profusely to return tomorrow
but never do
such is the romantic night by her side
such is the wonder-wheel days of our
journey on the great highway
Sep 22, 2014
Sep 22, 2014 at 6:08 PM UTC
the down keeps me up
needing to crash but thoughts beckon
i know i must pay tomorrow
full moon tonight
what’s your excuse?
if you’re a woman don’t misconstrue
i’m not a misogynist
true misogyny neccitates great admiration
full moon tonight
what’s your excuse?
i don’t care tonight
gonna stay awake till collapse
i dreamed Apple traded
$99.00 monday morning and i bought it
i’m not your type
not your type not your type
i read Flaubert, Zola, Nabokov
i know it’s hard to see
i imagine angels
what do you like in your cup of tea?
while taking care of neighbor’s cat Oskar
decided to replace porch standard white with green light bulb
i hope they like it
they’re burners
they’ll be gone for two weeks
Aug 30, 2015
Aug 30, 2015 at 8:14 AM UTC
We, the people of this country, in your eyes are:
babblers, bachelors, bafflers, baiters, barkers,
beakers, beaters, brawlers, blamers, beggars,
bloaters, bloopers, bombers, boozers, blunders,
bruisers, bafflers, bluffers, burglars and burners.
That's why you feel compelled to keep your foot on our heads
keep us down, put us down, push us down
subjugate us, belittle us, berate us.
We, the people of this country, in our eyes are:
butlers, bouncers, bakers, buyers, barbers,
cake-makers, delivery-takers, cocktail-shakers,
taxi drivers, cancer survivors, employers and hirers,
music makers, entertainers, window washers, foster takers,
plasterers, carpenters, scaffolders, sparks and builders,
boxers, carers, coaches, tailors, shoe makers,
designers, illustrators, multi-language facilitators,
dog walkers, dog trainers, bikers and cycle couriers,
doctors and nurses and all the emergency services.
We are the People, the reason you are where you are now
you sometimes forget that we exist as people, somehow
locked in your ivory towers with gold plated showers
and MP expenses and investment banker pretenses
this is not theater, its real life drama, its not just a bluff
its time to stand up
and say enough is enough.
Jun 27, 2014
Jun 27, 2014 at 9:54 AM UTC
I TOLD THAT ************ TO SWING ON ME,
TAKE A CHANCE
MOTHEFUCKER,
TAKE A CHANCE,
I WANNA GET MY *** KICKED,
LET ME
CHILL HERE ON THE EARTH
WHILE YOU STAND OVER ME,
SPITTING
AND
DISSING.
BUT WHEN I GET UP
IMMA BE MAD
ENOUGH
TO SCREAM
AND ****
IMMA BE
A MANIAC
ON YOUR DOORSTEP,
IMMA BE
A ******
WITH NO CHANCES
WHEN I'VE GOT THREE.
SO WHEN YOU SWING ON ME ************
SWING ON ME
AS YOU TRY AN CALL ME A *****
JUST KNOW THAT IMMA COME AT
YOU
WITH A THOUSAND GRENADES
IN MY FINGERTIPS,
AND WHEN YOU DON'T SWING,
AND DON'T DO ****
I'LL KNOW HOW YOU'RE MADE,
IMMA KNOW THAT ALL THAT **** YOU TALK
IS JUST A MISNOMER.
MY FINGERS GRIP MY HEART
AS MUCH
AS THEY GRIP FISTS.
KNOW THAT IMMA CATCH YOU
WITH A RIGHT HOOK
FULL OF VEINS
AND A MAGAZINE
WITH YOUR NAME ON IT.
CHECK ME,
IMMA HIT UP SOMETHIN TONIGHT,
IMMA BRING MY FISTS
LIKE BURNERS,
MAKE YOU FEEL THE FIRE OF HELL,
CAUSE I'M ON THE EDGE,
AND THIS GIRL ****** UP MY HEART,
MY GRAMMA IS AT THE END OF HER ROPE,
MY MAMA IS STILL POOR,
MY SISTER STILL DOESN'T KNOW HERSELF,
AND MY HOMIES
ARE FAR AWAY,
FARTHER THAN YOU CAN SEE,
SO IMMA CHILL ON THIS PULSATING LEVEE.
Feb 23, 2012
Feb 23, 2012 at 11:30 PM UTC
There is a Mouse in this House.
Insatiable,
He keeps me up at night,
thin fine claws on metal stove tops,
whispering to the birds what a fool he's made of me,
because I couldn't make the fibers of my home work with me.
There is a Mouse in this House,
Immortal,
I've fished him drowned out of drains,
fed him bleach on silver trays,
listened to him choke in air vents,
his chestnut jacket perpetually in the corners of my eye,
leaving reminders in my cereal,
this rodent he refuses to die.
There is a Mouse in this House,
Intangible,
he is not slipping through my fingers he's dancing on them,
quick petite feet tapping on my counters,
fleet and fast like smoke,
I've seen him seep through a clenched fist and still escape with wedding bands,
There is a Mouse in this House.
Impish,
he waits 'till I'm alone to play his music,
the crack and chew,
too early with the morning dew,
he will not play his song for you, it'd be too easy to be seen.
There is a Mouse in this House,
primeval,
he's been waiting,
mapped the walls and painted my flaws,
tactician skilled and iron willed,
this beast knows war far more than my militia mind was ready for,
plotting out insurgencies for restless and anxieties,
There is a Mouse in this House,
emaciated,
what's his is his,
what's mine is his,
there is no sacred to things with tails.
clearing out my pantry,
his jaws now tasting for my sanity,
finished with the:
Rye,
White,
and Sourdough,
he's fixed his tongue on sweat breads,
scuttling with unnatural flow,
There is a Mouse in this House.
Charming,
too handsome a creature to ever be singed,
he peddles on the burners simply too strut,
scampering through flames to test his luck,
There is a Mouse in this House,
Insomniac,
from now until each evening hour,
his paws touch turns time sour.
Ivory teeth clanging out a new ink-printed deed,
he owns the tenant and never even had to rent it,
There is a Mouse in this House,
arrogant,
too self-assured and clever,
cunning, devilish a creature he may be,
but he has yet to get a load of me,
holed away within his den,
his first mistake was not letting me win,
setting aria's on fly's wings to declare his victory,
this furry phantasm is all too aware of what he did to me.
There is a Mouse in This House,
sleeper,
I'm plotting my comeback,
sure-footed,
slow breathes,
and savage hands,
I'm ready,
silent and steady;
this beautiful monstrous mouse had best prepare for battle.
There is a Mouse in this House.
But it's my House.
Oct 27, 2014
Oct 27, 2014 at 3:10 PM UTC
I walk with eyes in a blur my world in a daze I've been in the land off the tree burners the truest learners of the game they ain't about to chase the fam they stay the same we got our minds trained ride or die down to sacrifice on the streets blazing watch us fade away in the rain yea let me release my brain today ya who's to say reality isn't the trip and the trip isn't reality man we on a cloud so high my heart start to race as a tast gods gift gave me wings to fly away to a better place left no trace of past ******** I stay ligit trippy minded just live the life you know and never pass up the show stay true lol
Jan 14, 2015
Jan 14, 2015 at 9:00 PM UTC
Stealing away from the noise and glare
I paced the aisles of an ancient library
Being worn and tired, indisposed to read
I sat in a corner, lost in half reverie
Around me were books stacked end on end
In safely locked glass and wooden shelves
And sectioned into different genres
Fiction, non- fiction, verse et al, in thinly layered leaves
I felt lost in this vast continent of erudite friends
Poet, scholar, philosopher and sage, each sat quiet
But those silent souls seemed to crave for human touch
Waiting to serve anytime learning’s lovesome diet
Closely sheltered from the tumult of the world
The place, though serene had an eerie air
And books like so many beauties in a harem
Were kept away in seclusion just to admire
The lifeless air and the long deserted look
Mildly disturbed my inner calm
Couldn’t digest man’s total disregard of books
Which for long, to many a lonely soul, served as balm
Sitting amid those gallant souls
I thought over the relentless efforts of sage like men
Who in the stillness of the night, in their cloistured cells
Plunged into research and meditative reflection
What knowledge is garnered in these tomes!
What all charms, encased in these pages!
To what magic lands they can carry us
Sharing with us the accumulated wisdom of ages
With the profusion of electronic gadgets
And information, readily available by a finger hit
Books no more are given a venerable treat
And fated to be stashed away in corners unlit
Heavy with the time tested wisdom of the wise
They sit huddled together in damp corners
Longing to get a little human warmth
But sadly neglected like rusted burners
After an hour’s enervating reprieve
While I was leaving that dumb world
In my ears, fell a faint sound
Of the agonizing cry of the Printed Word!
Jul 15, 2018
Jul 15, 2018 at 8:58 AM UTC
For a moment, right now, pretend that forgiveness will never feel like taking a bet. That the phrase, "I love you," Is not just another form of turrets. Pretend that you've got a pocket heavy with change and you walk like a wishing well wind-chime. And you've got a nickel in there for every time you cried for something. And your chance to change is as easy as flicking your thumb. Launching a coin into a pool of water. Pretend that you've got a penny melted and molded from the iron in your blood. Pretend that that wish will come true. Pretend that I just put mine down on a bet on you. Double or nothing, because ********* kid, to me, you mean something. And I don't mean any big life success. This is deathbed memories type **** Who was there when it mattered type **** Pizza on the car hood when the mice are asleep in the oven and the birds have nested in the old stove burners. Finding safety in a hammock held up by the corners of a mouth. Warmth in arms when you realized how cold it was actually going to be down south. For a moment right now pretend. That you've got a friend with a body made of drawbridge and hands strong enough to close it when you need to. Eyes like a moat. A blanket quilted from your lover's muscles. For a moment right now pretend that that friend isn't me. It's you. Forget God. Forget finding forgiveness and love there. On the inside that friend is you. Making penny bets like a Philippino woman in the smoking section of a casino. Double or nothing. 50/50. Pretend now that I'll be there too. Tossing coins in a well. Wishing only the best for you.
Aug 5, 2014
Aug 5, 2014 at 9:06 PM UTC
Periodically I hide myself from the world
Chastising them
Punishing them with my absence
My opinions are like bricks before the throwing
With little compromise, I roll my eyes
Hating them
The ones oblivious
Diesel burners, peaceniks, consumers
Sitting contradictions
Simmering catastrophes, an embodiment of what they’re making me
Powerless, with no resort
My impression on this society will be forever minimal
And I bite my tongue with every syllable
I type
Holding judgment, holding on
To the world I was promised
The world I was conditioned for
A world with angels, untouched by violence, corruption or greed
A world we defiled, without animals
A world achieved
Where grass is preserved in museums
In compartments behind glass
I see my part in the reflection, I hate myself more
My impression of this society will be forever minimal
Jul 1, 2010
Jul 1, 2010 at 12:14 AM UTC
He rolls out of bed
He drops out of his rack
He puts on his armour
He zips on his flight suit
He buckles his spurs
He laces his boots
He grabs his longsword
He grabs his helmet
And walks out to the stable
And walks up to the flight deck
To his steed
To his plane
He saddles the beast
He pre-flights the beast
Mounts
Gets in
Rears up
Kicks in full burners
And gallops forward
And takes a cat shot
Lowering his lance
Arming his missles and guns
He looks for dragons to slay
He looks for dragons to slay
Nov 30, 2010
Nov 30, 2010 at 9:16 AM UTC
let's talk about curiosity. let's talk about gas burners and sidewalk cracks and how there are french towns in canada where people who don't know each other greet each other with a kiss on each cheek. this is a collection of all the things you knew would hurt and then did them anyways but made sure i was looking. like all those kisses and trips to petco and looking at me from the drivers side-- don't take your eyes off the road, you'll end up like the rest of them did. let me tell you about how my favorite sounds include the following: crickets, gas burners lighting, coffee brewing, and you on the last train to god knows where but the train is coming soon. i can hear the trembling carts on the railway and i can hear you and your voice sounds like getting drunk off wine and witty jokes, sounds like the mantra of "temptation" but in the most subtle way as if i'd mistake it for something holy just to see if you'd notice, sounds like an epiphany i've waited too long to hear, sounds like every "let's talk about it" and "you look alluring" and "i just couldn't help myself" put into one. but mostly. this is what you're going to have to sit down for, because i won't repeat it. does perpetual comfort exist at your train seat? even when i'm not there? does she sit next to you? or is all the spilled tea pooling at my feet explanation enough? i won't repeat it. not even to the sidewalk cracks or the broken compasses or the birds or the torn down bus seat behind ours or into your voicemail. i won't. especially not into your voicemail. because here it is:
Sep 18, 2016
Sep 18, 2016 at 9:52 PM UTC
I think that a Bar-B-Q is an extension of a guys manliness.
Or manhood.
Now before all of you start disagreeing with me,
listen to this blondes logic.
When a man goes to purchase a grill
There are many factors a man has to take into consideration.
And they are, in this order, as follow:
1. Propane vs. Charcoal and Charcoal Fluid
2. The size of the grill
3. Rotisserie?
4. Accessories
5. Bar-B-Q covers
Let us take each consideration in turn.
Propane vs. Charcoal and Charcoal Fluid.
Propane men:
Some men want instant gratification. Twist a **** or two, push a button here and instant heat. Give it a few minutes to build to the right temperature and BAM! In with the meat. Once done, turn a **** or two and walk away. No muss. No fuss.
Charcoal men:
Other men are more inclined to take their time. savor the experience. They enjoy watching the flames build and turn into a glowing bed of meat searing heat. When everything is just right, they gently place the meat. They stand gaurd over it. Tending to it. Every once in a while poking it to test if it's ready. These same men will sometimes sit snuggled around the glowing embers afterwards. Watching the heat fade and cool. Then they will ask their woman they had served "How'd you like your steak babe?"
Charcoal Fluid And Men:
Some men should never be allowed near a Bar-B-Q that requires something to stimulate the flames. It always ends in disaster and or injury.
Size Of The Bar-B-Q:
O.K. Now this is a touchy subject for most men. It has been known to cause envy, jealousy and has broken up a marriage or two. Men think bigger is better.
When buying a Bar-B-Q , a man thinks about; cooking area, the possible need for side burners, portability, and the all important factor of presentation. That's right. How will it look to the neighbors and guests? Will they be properly impressed with it? Also, can it handle the extra meat when company comes over? Heaven forbid it should let him down and make him look foolish.
Rotisserie:
This is an important decision. Does having your meat spin make it better? I think that this is more of an individual decision.
Accessories:
Now we have reached a critical point. How to accessorize. Of course, every man needs the right equipment to ensure success. And all of the tools need to have a long reach and be durable.
Tongs, fork, knife, spatula, basting brush.
Some men even splurge and go for a flavor injector. Now that's a man who cares about his meat.
Bar-B-Q Cover:
Finally we reach the last consideration a man has to make. To cover or not to cover?
Men! Always, with out fail, should cover. It is for their own protection. And it shows you care.
Thank you.
Jun 17, 2010
Jun 17, 2010 at 10:50 AM UTC
In memory of the seven men killed in the after fire room explosion in USS Basilone (DD-824) on 5 February 1973
We live in holes,
Each one named,
Bravo One,
Bravo Two,
Bravo Three,
Bravo Four.
There are others,
But none are MAIN,
The rest are AUX.
We work at pressure,
Six hundred pounds,
Eight hundred plus
Degrees,
That's Fahrenheit,
Folks.
People like
To visit
Our world.
Makes them,
Feel special,
They see a world,
They don't dare
Live in,
And they leave,
Before they
Sweat too much.
Come again,
But not too often,
Have a salt tablet.
We're the only sailors,
Who must
Use our gear,
Twenty-four hours
A day.
Try letting the fires
Go out
In the
Boiler.
See what
Happens.
The girls,
Topside,
Would miss their
Movie.
They'd,
Be agitated.
Did we use that
Word?
Well,
Have a salt tablet.
We say that
Down here is where
The real men live,
That all the rest,
Are *******
It's a lie,
But,
It hides how hard
Life is,
In the
Steam world.
It's six hours
Of watch,
Six hours
Of sleep,
Six hours
Of watch,
Six hours
Of sleep,
Unless,
Something
Needs fixing,
Or
We're refueling,
Or,
We're getting ready,
To enter port,
Or,
Something else
Is happening,
Then there's -
No sleep.
There's no sun
Anyway.
You wanna see
Sun?
Look through
The scope,
At the
Stack gas.
It's a world of
Valves
And,
Burners,
And,
Sight glasses and,
Pumps and,
Pipes and,
Gauges everywhere.
A new guy,
Wonders,
How to learn
Them all.
It's an,
Incomprehensible
Forest.
And then,
You get to
Know it.
Now some other guy,
Is the,
New guy.
It's often a
Rain forest,
120 degrees,
That's Fahrenheit,
Folks.
95 per cent
Humid,
Since you're visiting,
Come help us,
Find
Steam leaks.
But,
Keep your head
Down.
Steam is clear,
You won't
See it,
Before it
Cuts you,
In half.
We'll use brooms,
Instead.
Just wave them overhead,
Along the pipes.
Have a salt tablet.
The steam
Snakes all about
The ship.
They need it
To live.
Not just the
Wake,
But,
Heat,
Light,
Water.
All life,
Comes from
The boiler.
You'd think they'd
Appreciate
Us.
The Navy says,
It's worried about,
Our heat stress,
(It's only 120)
And our hearing,
They want us,
Out of
The heat,
More often,
Nice.
Who will keep
The lights on?
Maybe they'll
Start a new,
“Program.”
Do the paperwork,
And just
Keep us in
The hole.
We've been down here,
So long,
We can't
Hear 'em,
Anyway.
Have another salt tablet,
And go back,
To your regular job,
Topside.
Dec 28, 2011
Dec 28, 2011 at 10:21 AM UTC
Sitting packed in the back
of a semi-decrepit white Subaru
belonging to the Swedish Harpist
driven by the Romanian Drummer
with a literal car-full
of perfectly tetrised musical instruments,
including:
Four cymbals, two toms, a hi-hat, and a stool,
a Celtic double-Harp,
an electric Piano,
and two guitars
(an acoustic-electric twelve-string and an electric six-string)
with a few days' clothing
and, not knowing where we're sleeping, a sleeping bag,
all the while
devouring Matza and pumpkin seeds
(that we bought at Trader Joe's)
as we barrel moderately safely
down various back roads and Highways
in this car weighted as a truck and driven as a motorcycle
towards enigmatic San Francisco
to play a couple shows,
two days in a row:
one, at a literally underground Theatre
(in which improv comedy is, apparently, king of kings)
smack-dab 'pon the border of Union Square,
and another, for a private birthday party
typified by oh so many avid Burners.
Surely, our Psychedelic Jazz Funk-Rock
will find some empathic ears!
Y'know, last summer,
when I said I wanted
to be in a Gypsy Band,
I sure didn't see this coming:
this is pretty ******* Gypsy,
in my observational opinion.
Well,
here I am,
and I even asked for it.
For us three,
this will certainly be
an interesting few days,
down in the Bay,
on our way to play
wherever it is we may,
and all I can say
is: "Okay,
this is the stuff
books are made of,"
and, "Well,
time to live
one hell of a story!"
Feb 23, 2014
Feb 23, 2014 at 4:46 AM UTC
Amid the glory times of darkness,
Sitting on the edge of the white tablecloth,
Brilliant white from bleached soaking, and stained with yesterdays
Clouds and air of desperation, was the cup, the coffee cup,
Its broken flower coloration, its yellowish hue,
Half full of what was once blistering hot, now the juice of warmth
And the morning begins its wakening time.
Four burners atop the gas stove, each with its black *** stand,
Covered with blackened skillets, grease from the bacon, popping
And sizzling and bringing the best of the day together,
With the tablespoons of lard, from the five gallon silver bucket,
Covered in white stained T-towels, and the shallow bowl in which you washed your hands.
You dried your hands, loosely, leaving each damp and warm,
As the biscuit dough was rolled, and broken up, and pinched into the skillet
And then placed, with ringing noise,
Deep within the ovens hole, no light there, and you could smell
It all cooking, and see the hands that made it,
With their wrinkles of days of and months and years,
Making the breakfast of today, just as if it had made, no; it had made
For many years.
Bacon grease taken up on the tablespoon, and poured into the other skillet
Black, and hot, and making that little sizzling noise, as the bacon fried,
The biscuits backed, and the flours was spread in the skillet,
Browning, hard little clumps; stirred around, spoon on the pan,
And the milk poured from the quart jar, which was left on the porch this morning with four others,
Before life as we knew it began, and the spoon turning, the heat from the stove
Almost too much, and the gravy was stirred and turned, and stirred,
Thickened up, burner down, and a dozen eggs cracked into the fourth skillet,
Bubbling and popping, bacon taken up, put on a plate, the gravy stirred again,
Biscuits pulled, placed on a potholder, their greasy tops looking fine and brown,
Fresh butter, salt and pepper, breakfast was made again.
For the umpteenth time in this umpteenth world.
Jan 1, 2014
Jan 1, 2014 at 2:05 PM UTC
Adam4's acquaintances who frequent
Foxholes as salivary soliloquy,
Usually suspected no second helpings
A dim ambience for an active bedroom
On battery powered candles
Concorde lighting
The carpet's edges chewed thin
Receding hairlines
And he uses me as bait..?
Our neglected puppy's teething
Nesting under California
King Mojo's hollowed cushions
Keeps him gnawing these nights
Misters and oil burners
I was mistaken, there are those
That revisit--reacquainted with him,
Must of shared a Starbucks,
As his Sasquatch hands
Rub wet platinum on his old fellow
Bears and their Cubs
Silicon smooth pets, house boys
Fished from the deep web,
Plagiarizing with their eyes the pleasures
Of Eurocreme
Bare back dreams, hours heave
The subtitled felatio scenes
I tell the old man, they only ***
After and mostly when
Most of the guest leave,
There is one hovering quick
To accommodate his
Ginger manly girth
I'll be out in the smoking section
At the side of the house
Through the slider door
From off the kitchen dining area
Where he had once
Replaced the table with billiards
For a Lenny and his troop...
His Samsung vibrates every time
I take a five to breathe
Chain smoke and self defocations grief
He posts another ad.
If only you heard
The vagrant shout
A banchee in my skull
For these off the street urchins
Plugged in to the internet's latest
For a place to squat
For winter will be cold
For them to just
****** off
And here I go again,
Assuming that these were decent folk
Come for the holidays
Between taint and pocket rocket
Wallets drain
When one lets the desperate
Indigents
Free range...
"What's there for dinner?"
**** chicken heads again?
Same ole same old dope...
Sep 18, 2016
Sep 18, 2016 at 7:50 PM UTC
Pamela, I suppose,
Has taken one too many lines
And has given birth to a child
With a few extra mental arms and legs.
Green trees and
Vietnamese agent orange
Fell into her lungs a bit early
As she painted her portraits
And found her ideal of love in mine.
Women, I’ve found,
Have quite the strange way
Of making change.
We can’t all be Elizabeth Stantons
And Sylvia Plaths.
We can’t all be the bra-burners,
The Vietnam-Veteran spitters
That this generation of tetosterone-enticers
Has emerged from.
Pamela, like so many other long-haired,
Nail-painted beauties before her,
Lost herself in an opus of *******
And promiscuity
That brought her down
To a level terribly under
Those of substantial criminals.
As Burgess wrote, “You were not
Put on this Earth just
To get in touch
With God.”
Pamela, I suppose,
Failed at just the same,
Became a Russian spy
And illuminated a flame of displeasing energy
In the heart of my breathless being.
Dec 10, 2013
Dec 10, 2013 at 12:36 AM UTC
Tetragrams and anagrams
Pseudonyms and sleight-of-hands
Betwixt the lines lie crooked spines
Textured, gestured, shamed and shrined
Functions, Factions, fabled fiction
Starred and Crossed, they're scored and stitched in
Faeries, furies, funded theories
Quantum physics, quarks and queries
Embers bright, a red clad knight
Winged cats with cubic heights
Flux your lux, set down your labels
Time entwines both swine and angels
Mumbled murmurs, lazy learners
Beacons, bosons, carbon burners
Codecs keyed for hertz and bytes
Ancient tones 'n pheremonones
Reflect,
Refract,
Retract...
Ignite.
Our shadow selves toll ghostly bells
Building walls, erecting shelves
Saviours, slaves, enchanted knaves,
'Tis man, himself, 'creates these Hells...
Apr 4, 2015
Apr 4, 2015 at 5:53 AM UTC
In the beginning, her sadness was plunging into a December lake, and the forest was the one she spent her childhood in--jumping off the tall rock so much there's a hole in the ground, and trailing behind the baby deer and her mother. She never forgot her green mittens but her mom would call out and tell her,“Mina, don’t forget your hat!”
And she would flutter back down the hill, grab the jingly hat and hug her mom just because, and her mom would kiss her forehead, then go back inside to set the chicken in the oven, thinking about her little bird.
Today is no different than the rest, she just wanted to ice skate today. This forest is her home. This lake is her fireplace. Her hearth. She just wanted to ice skate today. But, here she is, staring up at the tendrils of steam rising above chunks of broken ice, and she kicks her legs and she thinks, "you too? All along?"
She thrashes. She’s an animal. She is getting weaker and she calls for help (any animal's instinct.) But the chicken is burned and the house is burned down and the oven is still on and she can hear it ticking and the knobs turning as flames shoot out the burners, but her mother is gone.
Eventually, she becomes numb to it all--this hot black smoke that wears her like a plague, this biting white thrum. She sinks under the water, a separate peace from the world. She’s safe and she's warm and she’s numb.
[Strong arms]
[Everyone stay back]
[Keep her warm]
Sadness is a blanket,
happiness is a warm gun.
Sep 24, 2013
Sep 24, 2013 at 6:34 PM UTC
As I stand in the shadows of solitude
crying tears of ****** ******
I can feel the walls crushing the shield
around my heart with steel burners
I've tried so many methods but
I can't seem to erase the pain
that is clogging my arteries with
fatal portions of grains of
toxic salt as I bathe in a puddle of lies
so many words screaming at me
I'm screaming back but no can hear my cries
my heart was beating psychotically
I could feel the razor sharp edges of
the blades slicing open my finger tips
as I eagerly clutched my chest
lurking outside my window were black clouds
with angry red eyes
smiling at me with intense hatred their existence
I passionately despise
I annihilated those creepy ******** with
my lasers now they're dead and deep fried
I stepped out of my deceitful tub
punched a hole through the glass
letting out the ****** screams
that have been building up at last
I dived out of my window
straight into a bed of thorns
slicing my torso in half
I will return you have been warned
Mar 23, 2012
Mar 23, 2012 at 3:38 PM UTC
How dare he even try
To come back into her life
After he ripped her apart
every
Single
Part
Shredded her to bits
Every
Single
Inch
Picked at the seams
And didn't care for her screams
Layed her in hell
Broke his own spell
So please tell me how
Tell me why now?
After she's put her self all back together.
He left her before
Please shut the **** door
He doesn't belive in forever
She remembers his name
She's forgetting his game
Her heart is a hopeful romantic
Lock it up twice
He's got the same vice
He's using his regular semantics
Shut the door
Hit the floor
Go far away fast
Remember the past
He's a game of fire at best.
You'll get burned
Back in hell
He does it so well
Save yourself while you still can.
Jul 8, 2016
Jul 8, 2016 at 12:34 AM UTC
Sun, heart of fire, flames in the sky,
you, like a burning city-- am I then your scarlet silk Rome?
(I am everything for you, nothing next to you)
and the breath is knocked out of me by you,
my heart is clawed out for you and it is I, I claw it, with blood-red talons,
my blood is not for you, my blood is for the universe
and the universe is all you.
and for all my wit and words, daughter of fast-talkers and runners
breath and smoke and city-burners,
for all the words I've spoke and spun
there is nothing--
no words--
for--
you!
Nov 19, 2012
Nov 19, 2012 at 3:24 AM UTC
autumn comes with drooping arms
promises of stripped branches
shapes confetti & a quilt
rests on a carpet of dewdrops
bubbles melt with the dawn
drifting on currents
air carries leaves
another renewal
rains decompose browns, yellows, reds
winter greens sprout
soil fed & energised
vegetable flowers form
subtler seasons
easier sleeping, slower awakenings
leaves raked & piled
hot gone days disposed.
frost arrives in certain geographies
red replaces white
the tank is full & burners cleaned
warming gas is very close
Mar 24, 2015
Mar 24, 2015 at 8:34 PM UTC
It is raining but not as we know it
Raining moon beams and stars
Shooting across the night sky
Colourful rainbows in the dead of night
A jet engine had waxed burners
etching the dark revealing colour
Like a finger nail scratching the board
a painted dark board with wax beneath.
The sky, lined with violet and crimson
lime and yellow, a show for occasions
But it is an event especially for my friend
My life long friend, who is always in my heart.
The message in the sky reads like this.
Happy Anniversary to my friends Liz and John
May your day be filled with colourful confetti.
Sep 9, 2015
Sep 9, 2015 at 11:03 AM UTC