"butane" poems
I feel like going back to those days,
when I could feel and not fear it.
When I didn't know the world's ways
and I didn't yet need my fighting spirit.
When I could simply have a romance,
nothing complicated or categorized,
that would come up by happenstance
with no limits needing to be devised.
I miss those days, I could awaken
find another body next to mine,
and not even be mistaken
in thinking this won't be the only time.
I miss those days with a passion,
too often I feel like I'm crashin'
straight through the mud and the dirt
all the pain and the hurt.
I render my poems inert,
when I stare in the mirror,
see myself crying and dying,
insanity getting nearer.
I one day hope to rise from it all,
stand from the ash, proud and tall,
but I know that after I do
I'll eventually once again fall.
I miss those days
in more than a million ways.
Watching my eyes glaze over
thinking about days over
again.
I flow my heart into this pen
put my soul into what I write
now and then.
I know I'll be that happy once more,
I've got that joy kept in store,
for a future when I suture
this wounded pride and mind.
I've got a stride in mind,
for when I return.
See the surprise in their faces,
I bet they thought I would burn
up in the anger like butane.
I'm just too hard to contain
and I walk through cold rain,
thinking about once upon a time,
through sweat and grime,
You were mine, I was yours,
now it's vice versa.
Aug 31, 2014
Aug 31, 2014 at 9:38 PM UTC
Every ounce of pressure against my veins,
like the flood of heavy summer rains.
Trying to escape the coating of my flesh,
internal tensions I could not oppress.
I hear crickets, smell the morning dew.
All I can ever concentrate on is you.
Made to feel nervous but oh so calm,
sometimes even sweet like cherry lip balm.
A moment of combustion then release,
your tongue wanders onto my body, into a crease.
I'll never care if I get rich,
so ever long as you ease my twitch.
Stale smoke and the scent of butane,
breath seeps into me like a bloodstain.
You, a child at heart
and I, a freak into abstract art, like Ad Reinhardt.
What a fine creation, our own constellation,
an innovation, better than intoxication.
Dec 6, 2016
Dec 6, 2016 at 1:00 PM UTC
Click click click goes the lighter
I stare at my beautiful back bone as she breaks a part
She takes her poison just the way I taught her
But is time with her new lighter
Click click click
Tears run down her soft face
Click
Her nervous tick gets slower
No please keep going
When she clicks the lighter at least her mind is on something else
Just for that split second
Look forward, only a little longer
Why can't I help you like you helped me
I want to hear you trucking on strong
Click click click
That's better
Mar 14, 2014
Mar 14, 2014 at 2:44 AM UTC
When people say “rekindle an old flame,”
I find it very misleading.
That flowery wording
Makes it sound so
Musical
So Promising
What it really is
Is that *** lighter
That you sparked
And resparked
And swore wasn’t empty
Before leaving in your pocket
Sometime ago.
When you found it,
you lit up,
Friction flicked that
Wheel
And watched that
Flame dance once more,
Enough to ignite one more
Toxic thought
Getting you high from the
Smoke
Clouding the past
Leaving you
Staggered
When your fingers
Bleed
Begging for
Fire
And you crack it open,
Look for what’s more
Not even smelling
Butane
Just smelling
Nothing.
It’s empty.
Jan 5, 2016
Jan 5, 2016 at 12:26 AM UTC
Let’s **** through the issues
hash things out
zig-zag our way
to the carryout!
Powder some pozy
spark the butane
a platter of cookies
with sweet Mary Jane!
Mar 27, 2019
Mar 27, 2019 at 12:12 PM UTC
You came like wildfire
Indistinguishably incendiary
Struck my butane skin
With phosphorus fingertips
Clouded myopic eyes
Saw the ashes to ashes
Flushed lackluster lips
Whispered dust to dust
What you left me with:
A collection of burnt bridges
A drawer of regrets
A heart of hieroglyphics
Mar 25, 2013
Mar 25, 2013 at 10:15 PM UTC
We found **** in the den that day
high on gas, giddy at the sight, it was inevitable really
and at half past three, sometime in July,
I slide along the living room wall
wearing chintz paper.
In my room I pirouette as a jewellery box *****
Regal Kingsize, Butane and crushed grass
radiate like a Glade plugin (essence of rebellion).
Barbie snake eyes me “What have you done?
"Oh My God! You know how much trouble you’ll be in,
you shouldn’t have let this happen”
her voice is glacier planes and a million icicles form in my chest.
I tell her to shut her mouth while swallowing ice
before it melts into a puddle at my feet.
She never spoke again.
Dec 15, 2010
Dec 15, 2010 at 6:56 AM UTC
Your life is linear, but your mind is sporadic.
You could be anyone, anywhere.
Time stands still.
Suddenly you're seven.
Tugging on your mother's floral print dress and begging her for ice cream money.
Time speeds up.
Suddenly you're behind a register trying not to laugh at the bitter old man cursing you to the seventh layer of Hell for your purple hair and tattoos.
Time freezes.
Suddenly your ten and your mother is shaking you.
She wants to know, *where is her son?
Where has her baby boy gone?*
It's the middle of the night and she won't stop shaking you.
She stares out your window and mumbles something about drugs.
But you don't know what drugs are and it's three in the morning.
You're ten.
You blink twice and click your heels.
Suddenly you're sitting behind a desk,
And the school system is trying to tell you how to feel.
You don't buy into it, but you learned early on that fighting them will get you no where.
You play the game.
A snap of your fingers and once more you're seven,
And your mother is making you swear.
Not the "f" bomb or the "c" word.
No, she's making you say something much worse than that.
Swear you won't tell your father about the man she kissed on the park bench.
But you're only seven so the words flood out of your mouth.
Before you can even finish your story,
Your father smacks your jaw so hard that your head spins forward until you've turned fourteen.
Fourteen, and now you know exactly what drugs are
And why your brother does them so much.
Fourteen, and you hate your mother for making you lie,
And you hate your father for punishing the truth.
Fourteen, and the only way you can cope with all of the ******** that's written in the fine print of being a teenager is to annihilate your brain cells.
The memories swirl around and all you want to do is burn them down, but there's no more matches and the butane's run dry.
It's all happening in flashes.
Christmas cookies.
Late term papers.
Igloos.
Glass bottles smashed to pavement.
The day you got contacts.
Flip flops.
The icy chill of pumpkin guts on your skin.
Her overdose.
Hot tea.
New York.
London.
Maui.
LSD.
Alcohol.
Vicodin.
It all whizzes by, and you barely know who you are anymore.
Or where you've gone.
Or who you've disappointed.
And these people are still trying to tell you how to feel.
And then you're dead.
And all the memories add up, but it's not enough to fill your coffin.
There's all this space floating around.
All of those lives you could have lived if you just stopped for a moment.
Stopped letting them tell you how to feel.
Such a waste.
May 27, 2013
May 27, 2013 at 8:43 PM UTC
spilled butane from a refilled lighter
heat lightning in the humid air
cigarette butts in a ***** cupholder
— not sure if this is still your number. part of me hopes it isn’t.
hand-me-down jeans that don’t fit anymore
bleach fume-induced headaches
burnt plastic setting off the fire alarm
— i’m leaving soon. i won’t promise i’ll be back.
overgrown grass from 8 days of rain
singed skin over a candle’s flame
rotting meat at the bottom a trash can
— death doesn’t discriminate. i know that now.
*
Aug 12, 2021
Aug 12, 2021 at 11:43 PM UTC
You and I…
We could amuse ourselves
With a pocket-sized butane flicker,
A tall, jagged promontory,
A slip of favorite this-or-that,
Or a jubilant burst of notes.
Equipped with the bareness of life
- Hands, tongues, breath, stars-
We could still have everything.
You just don’t know it yet.
Oct 13, 2012
Oct 13, 2012 at 4:16 PM UTC
Where are you, O valiant knight,
riding on your quest?
Capturing your deadly foe,
your metal for to test...
O'r the mountains lies the dragon,
secure within its lair.
It's gloating over victory...
it ate the maiden fair!
And so you mount your steed,
silver glinting from your spurs,
sally off to slay it...
avenge the death of her!
Oh! Is not this dragon beautiful?
Yes! An AWESOME prize!
With crystal wings and citron scales
and sapphires for eyes!
Emeralds on its sloping breast
rubies are its claws
fangs of alabaster
line it's fiery maw...
Perfumed incense, spicy smoke,
from its mouth a butane flame...
Once you've tried the dragon once
it is hell to tame!
Have you your armor fast secured?
Does the visor block your view?
You may chase the dragon
or it could be chasing YOU.
When will you turn and rend it?
Tear the ***** APART?*
Strap your lance to your steed
and pierce it to its HEART?
Now, if you are victorious
you still must have a care...
for its blood is virulent
that cup you must not share!
You could quick behead it.
Mount it on your wall.
But it could poison you instead...
my! *How the mighty fall!*
So ride off in the sunset.
Leave the dragon where it fell.
It will slowly rust away...
*and blow back into HELL*.
SoulSurvivor
(C) 12/19/2015
Dec 19, 2015
Dec 19, 2015 at 9:27 AM UTC
i remember the night you called me and told me you are in love with me
the terror and panic in one's voice when they find their soul bound to another never ceases to amaze me
and i miss you enough to make the whole world feel lonely;
echo dances above my mind in my
subconscious attempts at pulling you closer,
sooner
but she only sits on the best post and combs
through my hair with her soft + unforgiving fingers
she says "you're losing your way + Loneliness stole your line of sight. you're not a bad person for the way you tried to **** your sadness. you're helping yourself survive."
i am alone and i talk to the parts of things that
have been destroyed by love-
the picked flower forgotten
the child's toy that no longer sings
the city benches written on with black and red ink-
"would you do it again? let the fingers trace
with butane soaked tips, let the intimacy ignite
the flame, let the scars raise so terrifying and
pure.
would you do it again?"
yes.
always yes.
Feb 10, 2015
Feb 10, 2015 at 3:21 PM UTC
she paces down the dimly-lit corridor of a modern day ***** den
in a corner apartment, situated on the intersection
of **** carpet and depraved junkies
she knows she was raised better.
guided over heaping masses of humans
cigarette butts
and the burnt carpeting they create
she knows it's only getting worse.
her hands are clenched in tight fists
awaiting the moment
when she can finally loosen up
she knows her father loves her.
her fingers run along the wall
awaiting for a familiar feeling
something to remind her of something she loves
she knows these walls are nothing like her bedroom.
she and he sit down before a snowy television
he reveals a plastic syringe
beneath flickering florescent lights
she knows it's late.
he flicks his lighter and burns the needle
to sanitize it
leaving a layer of burnt black butane
**she knows it's still *****
laying down, a the warmed needle is placed on her arm
she ties her little league shirt tightly
around her forearm
she knows her father wouldn't be pleased.
after leaning back
she's reminded of her last flu
by the initial feeling
she knows nothing now.
Jul 8, 2015
Jul 8, 2015 at 12:39 PM UTC
itself, it was much in comparison.
butane huffed thru handkerchief
blood-nose, brain-stem dripping
with a wet cleft hemorrhaging
knowledge like the internet.
billowing smoke from the
consignment allegory of
a whokah we all shared
'til confusion had us
asking. I waited
like a trail for
a ballerina
to tip-toe
her way
up my
spine
toward
a waiting lake;
cold and warm
in a nature so
solvent.. quiet..
peripheries embedded
with industry postured
on rocks, metal buddhists
asking all to vague-labor
meditate 8 hrs a day, 5
days a week == sleepless
like dreaming, sleepless
experience wafting
through an open
bedroom door
as chicken
dinner.
Feb 19, 2014
Feb 19, 2014 at 3:51 AM UTC
Roughly six-hundred-and-two packs of cancer sticks later,
I don't feel as sick as therapists have said I am to be.
That means twelve-thousand-and-fifty-three cigarettes have been consumed
in the past three years by me,
in which I'm surprised my lungs haven't had to be exhumed from my barreled chest.
I'm surprised I haven't died,
or contracted a malignant growth in my throat,
or excessive tar in these lungs that hold me up,
or haven't choked on the smell,
or haven't wrecked a car while dropping a smoke into my lap.
Now all of my cigarette burns are marks from the slight curve
of smiles I've found in sad people spending their valuable seconds on letting smoke settle in.
I've been using stupid cancer sticks to curb this constant anxiety I brought upon myself.
In prison they use cigarettes as currency, I always say I want to be wealthy with passing away faster,
it makes me feel oddly sentimental knowing I'll be closer
to friends I once hid away with and shared moments
over cigarettes.
But back to my point,
way back then, when I met you.
I didn't want to smell like smoke,
I didn't want you to hate it on me.
I didn't need to curb the anxiety.
I didn't want to taste like lung cancer.
I didn't want to remind you of what you hate.
It's late notice, but you were my nicotine sprinkled with cyanide, arsenic
(rat poison), butane, ammonia, menthanol, carbon monoxide, and paint,
but you weren't cancerous, contrary of what you always say.
I was the carcinogen that would've made you die if I had stayed.
You don't know I wanted to, though,
I wanted you addicted, but I'm a cigarette with remorse;
we both wanted more,
and I miss you like eight hours away from the seven minutes I take off of my day.
I didn't want to **** you, though you may be scarred,
I wanted you to be alive and generally unharmed.
Nov 18, 2014
Nov 18, 2014 at 10:15 AM UTC
Inspired by “The Burning Giraffe” by Salvador Dali
I am defined by what clutters my drawers:
• Aortic—a tattered matchbook with a phone number I never called
scrawled to the inside cover as an inscription to everything
I never wanted. A half-empty can of butane with a missing
cap alongside a dollar’s worth of pennies that weight a scrap
torn from a newspaper tragedy: four killed, faulty smoke
detectors to blame.
• Ankle—a charred picture, curled in upon itself and kept as a reminder
of what I could become; a blackened nest as an omen of
losing all I’ve ever known and an ointment tube, squeezed
in the middle as a talisman against blistering tempers.
• Thigh—an empty Zippo with a scarred case, dull and pointless; a coiled
stove element with an ashen haze that could testify that water
doesn’t douse all flames; and an oily fuse, plucked from the top
of my head to serve as a yardstick of minutes, seconds, then
nothing.
• Knee—a fine layer of charcoal dust and half of a briquette from last
summer’s backyard barbecue when the wind kicked up to spray
red embers into the air like a meteor shower, streaking in bright
sparks and fluttering to shrieks and stop-drop-rolls along dry grass
until the itching ceased and the bubbles formed in small foamy
patches along arms and strapless backs and sun-red cheeks.
Oct 11, 2010
Oct 11, 2010 at 5:30 AM UTC
The sun isn't shining,
But it will be.
The birds aren't singing,
But they will be.
The weather isn't sweet,
But it will be.
There's no dancing in the street,
But there will be.
The air is not filled with song,
But it will be.
I haven't fixed what I did wrong,
But it will be.
Even if it isn't
Who cares?
It's re-up day,
And when I open that zip lock bag, and inhale the fragrance of maddening bliss,
And pack up, spark the blue butane, and pull the essence inside me,
All the silly ******** will vanish, and I will smile, because Mary Jane always comes back to me.
And when she is with me
The sun shines,
The birds sing,
The weather is sweet,
there's dancing in the street,
The air is filled with song,
I've corrected all my wrongs,
And I smile like a man who is glad to die,
As I take that first hit, from my bubbling ****
Aug 21, 2012
Aug 21, 2012 at 5:00 AM UTC
Autumn leaves.
Autumn leaves us in a wake of what used to be, golden, brown, red memories fill our heads
with promises of a summer never to end.
But it did,
and now it's here,
and I'm falling down like autumn leaves.
Autumn leaves me questioning why those clouds ever had to move away from that beach house
and why the cold wind ever had to blow me away.
And why you never wanted to sit inside,
because we froze our ***** off just sitting on the rocks
and it didn't matter how much we shook, whether it be from the pills or the winter wind,
we didn't go inside.
Autumn leaves us with a bitter winter, pretty for a second, and then gone with the blustering wind
like some kind of ******** morning after.
Autumn leaves me with a heartbreak, not my first, not my last
but an in-between overdramatized romance novel
with a disclaimer at the beginning that said: This is not a love story. There is no happy ending. (Is there ever?)
You filled my lungs like smoke, and you made my head spin like butane.
You were my first drag of my first cigarette, and my last goodbye of the first summer I stopped caring.
You are this town, a whole lifetime of crushes and a coffee shop down the street.
You're no more than a paper heart, bent up and torn at the edges.
I'm no more than a pathetic piece of tape, trying to hold you together, trying to fit your mold.
Autumn leaves us with an awkward silence, louder than any concert I'd ever gone to with you, any concert I'd ever liked to go to with you.
We could've drawn straws in a steamy cafe on a cold night, but Autumn never gave us a chance to start over with September.
Autumn leaves us with damage-control after your calamity, and the irrevocable steps I took to fall into you.
Do you even remember how I was on that first day? Nervous eyes and conversations about colors?
Do you remember the talk about getting out, New York City in all its romanticized glory?
Autumn left me with an emptiness in the pit of my stomach, because I feel so lost without you.
Feb 6, 2014
Feb 6, 2014 at 9:35 PM UTC
With eyes turned up to the sky
In hopes to find that piece of pie
How many years of blood sweat and tears
Have you not yet made it out of here
Always asking for advice
When given saying that can't be right
All you've got, spinning like a top
Waiting for the ball to drop
You'll do this till the day you die
Wondering what is wrong with life
Feel the heat moving towards defeat
Press rewind and then repeat
Growing accustomed to the craziness
Pour more butane on the list
Stoke the fire, fan the flames higher
Situation is getting dire
How many times have you raised your hands
Surrendering over to life's demands
Always hoping for a change
Just this side of deranged
Moving along with the crowd
To the humming of the vacant sound
Religiously you find your seat
Press rewind and then repeat
Sep 1, 2016
Sep 1, 2016 at 8:13 AM UTC
Send me anthrax send me pain
Send me torture along with shame
Send me chaos fueled with butane
But please don't forget to seal it with flame,
Dec 27, 2015
Dec 27, 2015 at 1:56 PM UTC
Those eyes so mesmerizing,
Deep brown core so paralyzing,
Those lips look breathtaking,
My nerves shoot electrifying.
Arms high looking hot veins,
A body like making you insane,
Two times hotter than butane,
Nothing with him is plain.
His voice raspy and deep,
His smirk with so sweet,
Strumming guitar like heat,
An image you won't delete.
May 2, 2015
May 2, 2015 at 6:08 AM UTC
two a.m.
bitter winter wind.
lick the bag. acrid taste.
cold crawls in through windows cracked.
it's snowing in the attic.
angel hair on porcelain, oh point one.
frost blankets my nostrils,
my brain sharp as first step's breath.
i lighten.
ravenous, dip fingers in nourishment.
place on tongue: cleaning agent pixie stick.
it eminates. bright-light vigor emulates
childlike mindset, so wonderfully overwhelmed
yet standing still, rock-steady at the helm.
confidence swells.
the clock chimes. kneel this time
for the second line, a second taste.
dismissive sniff, as in a tiff.
oh point two; can't feel my face.
icicles melt, drip burning down my throat.
slick grotto-hands tap feverishly.
butane blisters nasal caverns.
i grin from the thrill of its bite.
alert, i bathe in every second of it.
much more for sentiment than any practicality,
would rather see beauty than this sorry reality-
would rather build castles than stay on the ground,
cause it's snowing now up in the clouds.
Mar 8, 2014
Mar 8, 2014 at 12:23 AM UTC
If I have a short fuse
then you are a lighter,
setting me off
and watching me sizzle and spark
while you flicker out as if nothing happened.
Staring at me with your butane smile as I blow up,
and I can only infect everything around me with my flames.
It’s hardly fair, when you’re the one that started it,
that I get blamed when the village is on fire and I’m shaking in the center,
wishing someone would throw a bucket of water on me.
Yes I may be the monster here
but I am your creation,
a product of your antagonizing heat that hides
the fiery Frankenstein that you really are.
May 22, 2013
May 22, 2013 at 2:47 PM UTC
languid eyelids flitter
****** coma holding sway
distracted by buzzing
too disinterested to swat
loose muscles bounce
to the gentle sounds of the passing road
breathing in deep the smell
old lemons and butane
slurry of black gold
thick mass enters the hollow tube
knees wobble with sick anticipation
blistered tongue
rest stop for residue
slight sting and intent focus
straight spike slides beneath the pink
disappearing silver
register in one try
like the angels granted a birthday wish
black showing a slight tinge
and the push begins
slowly at first, but gaining momentum
tossed away, the implement of destruction rests
on the passenger seat
only 14 hours to go
and ½ a gram in the eyeglasses case
Dr. Thompson got nothing on me
Vegas by dawn
Jun 19, 2014
Jun 19, 2014 at 3:41 PM UTC
When you asked me how I had done it
I stared at you blankly.
Were you trying to be funny,
somehow stuffing your face right in front
of mine and his at the same time?
I don't know how you even managed that
from halfway across the room,
but my skin was instantly
and irreversibly crimson,
as if you had just slapped me,
or if the faces of our friends
who were now choking on the laughter in their throats
had the visages of six suns
somehow packed into one dingy college dorm room.
Of course, they couldn't have been suns,
or else the whole **** building would have caught on fire
between the beer soaked beds and butane lighters
and desk drawers crammed with cannabis.
In one blunt
sentence, you managed
to push me outside in the cold
with just the burning coals of my flesh
and my fists clenched, ready to challenge you
to a fight that only I could win.
I could not help being angry -
anyone would be with such a mirror
placed so closely to them, my ego
crisply clarified, sharply dissected.
Finally, you let me back in,
feeling sorry for my cold fingers
and my colder heart.
For the record, I let you back in too,
since we'll both mess up again,
probably.
Jan 17, 2012
Jan 17, 2012 at 3:42 PM UTC