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"chlorine" poems
There's a yellow green gas, You can't see in your glass. Sometimes you can tell, It's there by the smell. It does a great job removing bacteria, Like Diphtheria, Or even Listeria. But what do you think, Happens to the chlorine in your drink? I don't want to alarm, But there's a chance it might harm. It protects at a price, Attacking our bacteria that are nice, And I'm sure it excels, At killing your own cells, Forcing new ones to grow, When a mistake could cause woe. Some studies have found it an enhancer, Of bladder and bowel cancer. Whether old or young, Do you want it in your lung? You have the power, To remove it from your shower. It's rather grim, To have to breathe it when you swim. You're more likely to wheeze, Or sneeze. Do you think it will please, Your inflammatory bowel disease? Perhaps it's the key, To why there's Crohns and UC. Do you think that your skin, Might become a little thin, And be filled with dread, As it starts to turn red. Can you not feel, How it's harder to heal? It makes our tissues grow old, From what I've been told. Our cells can only divide, A few times before they're stupified. With asthma and chlorine on a map, You can see they overlap. Sadly in the West, Not everyone has guessed, That there may be a link, With the gas in our drink. “But!”, I hear you cry, “Without it people will die.” Let go of your dread, We can use something instead. The answer is well known, It's called 'ozone'. Made from pure water, It's gone when it reaches my daughter, Unlike chlorine it's life is brief, What a relief. There's many a city, That make it with electricity, Splitting water into hydrogen, And best of all, oxygen! For ozone is made from O2, Yes, it's true! Imagine if you had, Water with nothing they add. Already there's Paris and Nice in France, Where people can dance. San Diego and Los Angeles in the USA, Have water that's ok. And Osaka in Japan, Now use this plan. But you don't have to be rich, To make the switch. Ask a clever committee, To stop chlorine in your city. See if you can arrange, To have your water change. I hear you shout, “Can 'I' get this chlorine out?” If you leave water in a jug overnight, What's left will be slight. Boiling will send it away in the air, So there's no need to despair. You can also remove it with a filter, Or a water distiller. To learn more have a look, At 'Question Chlorine' on facebook.
0
Aug 26, 2014
Aug 26, 2014 at 5:05 AM UTC
The Chlorine in Your Water
There's a yellow green gas, You can't see in your glass. Sometimes you can tell, It's there by the smell. It does a great job removing bacteria, Like Diphtheria, Or even Listeria. But what do you think, Happens to the chlorine in your drink? I don't want to alarm, But there's a chance it might harm. It protects at a price, Attacking our bacteria that are nice, And I'm sure it excels, At killing your own cells, Forcing new ones to grow, When a mistake could cause woe. Some studies have found it an enhancer, Of bladder and bowel cancer. Whether old or young, Do you want it in your lung? You have the power, To remove it from your shower. It's rather grim, To have to breathe it when you swim. You're more likely to wheeze, Or sneeze. Do you think it will please, Your inflammatory bowel disease? Perhaps it's the key, To why there's Crohns and UC. Do you think that your skin, Might become a little thin, And be filled with dread, As it starts to turn red. Can you not feel, How it's harder to heal? It makes our tissues grow old, From what I've been told. Our cells can only divide, A few times before they're stupified. With asthma and chlorine on a map, You can see they overlap. Sadly in the West, Not everyone has guessed, That there may be a link, With the gas in our drink. “But!”, I hear you cry, “Without it people will die.” Let go of your dread, We can use something instead. The answer is well known, It's called 'ozone'. Made from pure water, It's gone when it reaches my daughter, Unlike chlorine it's life is brief, What a relief. There's many a city, That make it with electricity, Splitting water into hydrogen, And best of all, oxygen! For ozone is made from O2, Yes, it's true! Imagine if you had, Water with nothing they add. Already there's Paris and Nice in France, Where people can dance. San Diego and Los Angeles in the USA, Have water that's ok. And Osaka in Japan, Now use this plan. But you don't have to be rich, To make the switch. Ask a clever committee, To stop chlorine in your city. See if you can arrange, To have your water change. I hear you shout, “Can 'I' get this chlorine out?” If you leave water in a jug overnight, What's left will be slight. Boiling will send it away in the air, So there's no need to despair. You can also remove it with a filter, Or a water distiller. To learn more have a look, At 'Question Chlorine' on facebook.
Continue reading...
87
chlorine is toxic hindsight is 20/20, but i never should have kissed you
0
Oct 31, 2019
Oct 31, 2019 at 8:53 PM UTC
waste
I tried to throw it out along with the bubbles, the yellow duck, and the knickers the dog crudely chewed pushed it amongst silled plants, now it stands, between Thick Cut Marmalade and Chlorine Free Baking Cups a token, painted green with white Maori dots, symbolizing the small dreamings of a tortoise                                                      and since this house is my body, see how I have placed you in the kitchen and I cannot get beyond, the simple meaning, of daily needing love like water, air and how I don't seek to see it fully yet often find myself checking if its there.
0
Jan 18, 2011
Jan 18, 2011 at 12:14 PM UTC
Need
i'm not sure what happened to those beautiful women i used & let live in my shivering veins synchronized swimming in my circulatory system sunken eyes brimming with that chlorine concoction they used to dip in i dug them & ditched them but i still recollect their quivering lips as i dispensed the final kisses & surrounded the spa with walls & fences i mean i wonder if they still exist with no lifeguard there to witness them?
0
Feb 7, 2010
Feb 7, 2010 at 7:47 PM UTC
backstroke
carcinogen fogs will cancer you thick you will dismiss the salt stain of a visitor you will pretend the Tuesday's are not boring the coffee is not weak the room smells like chlorine remember you are a girl. she smiles for money.
0
May 19, 2014
May 19, 2014 at 1:27 PM UTC
LIVE **** GIRLS GIRLS GIRLS
My youth was short and blurred. I imagine it felt like the last few moments of Kurt Cobain’s life; All light and no color. Though I was born a winter baby, Summers irrevocably held my heart. They tasted like the sunscreen that dripped onto my chlorine-damp lips And smelled sweet like the honeysuckles That strangled the Forget-Me-Nots, Whose roots twisted between the cemeteries Of our once-pets beneath.
0
Sep 23, 2018
Sep 23, 2018 at 8:14 PM UTC
Honeysuckles
As the hazy summer days flew by My heart still sang a lover's song Longing to retrieve pieces of a broken heart Perhaps forge anew withing another's arms But there simply is not enough time, the summer was dying. Much like the blazing fire within my soul Deep pensive thoughts, Concocted by this newly acquired sense of maturity, Took hold of my mind As the winter's grasp took my heart. All the while the scent of old textbooks, chlorine, and dead flowers Fueled my life. My legs were tired after constantly running. One boy to another And the embers begin to die. No longer does my heart desire the affection of another Why run to the beach? Why try again? It all ends in pain. The long hours of talking on the phone Sharing secrets Learning all there is to know about another Loving. Loving all there is to love and getting your soul torn? No, I quit this cruel game. Months pass and I am still hiding in the deep corners of my mind Trusting another with my emotions? What insanity I can trust myself, and myself alone The snow starts to fall and the cold reaches my core. I am alone. My fault? Perhaps I just gave up on the game of 'love' But all it really takes is little spark To make a fire once more. The new year is rung in with a bonfire under the stars Notes, cards, flowers...everything All up in flames. I watch my old year ablaze before my eyes And scratch open into a new notebook "2013" The blank pages stare back at me As I ponder which words to embellish the skin with More deep thoughts... What do I want? Having ignored all social aspects of my life, I was happy. Good grades, friends at my disposal, decent swim team times As my thoughts continued I ignored the feeling building up in my throat. "Nobody loves you." Independent, strong, beautiful, cunning, intelligent... Sure when you brake it down I have a lot going for me. But to take all these qualities Have someone love your every flaw, bizarre habit, and womanly curve... An impossible task. And so I put my faith in the starts Asking the universe for a miracle. And then I waited.
0
Jan 26, 2013
Jan 26, 2013 at 12:35 AM UTC
The Sanctuary Part 5
As the hazy summer days flew by My heart still sang a lover's song Longing to retrieve pieces of a broken heart Perhaps forge anew withing another's arms But there simply is not enough time, the summer was dying. Much like the blazing fire within my soul Deep pensive thoughts, Concocted by this newly acquired sense of maturity, Took hold of my mind As the winter's grasp took my heart. All the while the scent of old textbooks, chlorine, and dead flowers Fueled my life. My legs were tired after constantly running. One boy to another And the embers begin to die. No longer does my heart desire the affection of another Why run to the beach? Why try again? It all ends in pain. The long hours of talking on the phone Sharing secrets Learning all there is to know about another Loving. Loving all there is to love and getting your soul torn? No, I quit this cruel game. Months pass and I am still hiding in the deep corners of my mind Trusting another with my emotions? What insanity I can trust myself, and myself alone The snow starts to fall and the cold reaches my core. I am alone. My fault? Perhaps I just gave up on the game of 'love' But all it really takes is little spark To make a fire once more. The new year is rung in with a bonfire under the stars Notes, cards, flowers...everything All up in flames. I watch my old year ablaze before my eyes And scratch open into a new notebook "2013" The blank pages stare back at me As I ponder which words to embellish the skin with More deep thoughts... What do I want? Having ignored all social aspects of my life, I was happy. Good grades, friends at my disposal, decent swim team times As my thoughts continued I ignored the feeling building up in my throat. "Nobody loves you." Independent, strong, beautiful, cunning, intelligent... Sure when you brake it down I have a lot going for me. But to take all these qualities Have someone love your every flaw, bizarre habit, and womanly curve... An impossible task. And so I put my faith in the starts Asking the universe for a miracle. And then I waited.
Continue reading...
59
I've had **** Not *** Not ********** Not consensually. I've been ****** ***** abused. taken advantage of. whatever it is you want to call it I've had it done. I've been kissed Fingered choked hit spit on spit in I've been held, hostage with knives against my throat guns to my head, in my mouth drugs down my throat barely conscious I've been ****** I've been in love I've been heartbroken I've been touched consensually, let me tell you about the consensually. I've been kissed in the bathroom, lifting her up against the wall laughing when our teeth brushed against one another's hands fumbling up a skirt around a throat fingers tangled in wavy hair. I've been touched sitting in her lap outside on a hot day wearing her hoodie around children freshmen year. I've been touched multiple times by him in band rooms, away from prying eyes secrets to be kept and wooed over laying in a dress during a concert event head in the lap of my best friend underwear brushed to the side fingers thrusting in and yes, this was consentually. I've been touched in the school hallways every day after school or in between classes tasted and tasted he tasted me I tasted myself. And in the living room of our best friend's house even though I told him no I told him the safe word he continued. I say it was consensual because in the end, I said I loved it. Don't argue about it. I wanted it. and I've been touched in her pool heated ever so lovingly LED lights danced us into the temptation as did the alcohol on my part with her lips against my chest desperate to mark, yet not to show i mean, hey, my step-dad's homophobic though I'd love nothing more than to show who I belong to. We switched a lot, but ultimately I landed in her lap water licking up my sides, sending chills to ******* goosebumps and her fingers hesitating not daring to touch. "i'm going to need a yes." finally. Finally asked. I nodded eagerly and she treated me like a piano perfect notes though brief I know that I was drenched in all ways the chlorine water yes and of course the obvious. you see, we were going to do something that night we had the chance to I wanted to she wanted to In the end, she took something for her headache though it was a sort of similar thing to Nyquil We were going to. But we laid in bed and we molded against each other and sailed asleep. I've slept with one person. Her Sydney My Muse. But Still, A ****** am I
0
Mar 26, 2021
Mar 26, 2021 at 5:31 AM UTC
But Still, A ******
I've had **** Not *** Not ********** Not consensually. I've been ****** ***** abused. taken advantage of. whatever it is you want to call it I've had it done. I've been kissed Fingered choked hit spit on spit in I've been held, hostage with knives against my throat guns to my head, in my mouth drugs down my throat barely conscious I've been ****** I've been in love I've been heartbroken I've been touched consensually, let me tell you about the consensually. I've been kissed in the bathroom, lifting her up against the wall laughing when our teeth brushed against one another's hands fumbling up a skirt around a throat fingers tangled in wavy hair. I've been touched sitting in her lap outside on a hot day wearing her hoodie around children freshmen year. I've been touched multiple times by him in band rooms, away from prying eyes secrets to be kept and wooed over laying in a dress during a concert event head in the lap of my best friend underwear brushed to the side fingers thrusting in and yes, this was consentually. I've been touched in the school hallways every day after school or in between classes tasted and tasted he tasted me I tasted myself. And in the living room of our best friend's house even though I told him no I told him the safe word he continued. I say it was consensual because in the end, I said I loved it. Don't argue about it. I wanted it. and I've been touched in her pool heated ever so lovingly LED lights danced us into the temptation as did the alcohol on my part with her lips against my chest desperate to mark, yet not to show i mean, hey, my step-dad's homophobic though I'd love nothing more than to show who I belong to. We switched a lot, but ultimately I landed in her lap water licking up my sides, sending chills to ******* goosebumps and her fingers hesitating not daring to touch. "i'm going to need a yes." finally. Finally asked. I nodded eagerly and she treated me like a piano perfect notes though brief I know that I was drenched in all ways the chlorine water yes and of course the obvious. you see, we were going to do something that night we had the chance to I wanted to she wanted to In the end, she took something for her headache though it was a sort of similar thing to Nyquil We were going to. But we laid in bed and we molded against each other and sailed asleep. I've slept with one person. Her Sydney My Muse. But Still, A ****** am I
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112
Don't believe they've met This family matinee The kids come with guns But it's the roll-on wife who's loaded Beneath the rhythm and sound There's a sign saying 'POLICE – INCIDENT' Love may have the right to remain silent Yet when it ends, it ends badly Love motionless At the bottom of A backyard swimming pool Now quietly referred to As the crime scene
0
Jan 19, 2023
Jan 19, 2023 at 1:16 PM UTC
Chlorine Dream
Maybe someday we could have a picnic together. Sunlight always makes your eyes shimmer like public swimming pools with a little too much chlorine, and I’d love to see you dance nervously when you discover a line of ants marching up your leg. I’d like to kiss you with the taste of potato salad fresh on your lips with a twist of lukewarm lemonade; you’d probably push me away self consciously, but the fact of the matter is that your mouth would excite me even after eating ten pounds of garlic. The red checkered blanket would bring out the creamy tones in your skin and I’d soon find myself devouring your beauty rather than the pre-made peanut butter and jam sandwiches. Your voice and its stories are sweeter than any strawberries I’ve ever tasted, anyhow. I could plan our lunches together for the rest of our lives, but you’re not the kind of girl to settle down for a lunch with someone like me, let alone for a lifetime. So for some inexplicable reason I imagine myself at your door, wicker basket in hand, with no answer. As it would seem, picnics aren’t really your scene. And neither am I.
0
Oct 13, 2013
Oct 13, 2013 at 7:28 PM UTC
Picnic
Abigail slides the glass door shut. As beads of water percolate off her body and land on the faux stone tile, the smell of chlorine from her swim and the smell of coffee from my brewing *** blend. My uncle, Abigail's father, and my mother are seated at the sticky, spilt soda kitchen table beside me. "Go get ready for dinner," my mother's brother says, sending Abigail's bikini'd frame through doorway and around the bend. The brew idles, and I'm all porcelain and sugar substitute for a moment, then back by my uncle and mother. "Abigail has gotten so thin," my mother says. "Is she eating?" my mother asks. "I know it's tough for girls her age. When they're looking to marry," my mother says. I want to bash the smoking cup into her face. My uncle says she's been training for a marathon. My neurons get tidy and taper off. So, it's out of the kitchen and into an empty living room to park my *** on an empty piano bench. I set the coffee on top, and press eight of my fingers down on black keys. I hear toes-to-heels, toes-to-heels. I gaze over my shoulder. Now, Abigail's in a black, black dress. Mid-thigh. In her left hand, red fuck-me-shoes with a heel that could turn a curious man blind; in her right hand, black pantyhose and cherry lipgloss. "You should have swam," Abigail delivers with hushed precision, like she'd been reciting the line throughout the duration of her swim. Abigail has long brunette hair, and it's sticking to her neck. Deep permanent dimples frame her lips. She's a nurse in Waco. Each time I see her, I think about Bukowski's 103-pound "Texan". It makes me rash, violent, a heady monstrosity, and trembling sick. "I forgot my trunks." "That's no excuse." I would respond, but she's sliding the hose up her leg. In the living room. While my uncle talks a second mortgage around the bend. Her right leg crosses her left, an overpass and an interstate. My forehead overheats in a flash, and I feel like she's staring back at me. When my leering eyes shift from her toes to her eyes, the pupils beckon: "All roads lead to me."
0
Jun 18, 2012
Jun 18, 2012 at 12:48 AM UTC
**** the **** cousins
Abigail slides the glass door shut. As beads of water percolate off her body and land on the faux stone tile, the smell of chlorine from her swim and the smell of coffee from my brewing *** blend. My uncle, Abigail's father, and my mother are seated at the sticky, spilt soda kitchen table beside me. "Go get ready for dinner," my mother's brother says, sending Abigail's bikini'd frame through doorway and around the bend. The brew idles, and I'm all porcelain and sugar substitute for a moment, then back by my uncle and mother. "Abigail has gotten so thin," my mother says. "Is she eating?" my mother asks. "I know it's tough for girls her age. When they're looking to marry," my mother says. I want to bash the smoking cup into her face. My uncle says she's been training for a marathon. My neurons get tidy and taper off. So, it's out of the kitchen and into an empty living room to park my *** on an empty piano bench. I set the coffee on top, and press eight of my fingers down on black keys. I hear toes-to-heels, toes-to-heels. I gaze over my shoulder. Now, Abigail's in a black, black dress. Mid-thigh. In her left hand, red fuck-me-shoes with a heel that could turn a curious man blind; in her right hand, black pantyhose and cherry lipgloss. "You should have swam," Abigail delivers with hushed precision, like she'd been reciting the line throughout the duration of her swim. Abigail has long brunette hair, and it's sticking to her neck. Deep permanent dimples frame her lips. She's a nurse in Waco. Each time I see her, I think about Bukowski's 103-pound "Texan". It makes me rash, violent, a heady monstrosity, and trembling sick. "I forgot my trunks." "That's no excuse." I would respond, but she's sliding the hose up her leg. In the living room. While my uncle talks a second mortgage around the bend. Her right leg crosses her left, an overpass and an interstate. My forehead overheats in a flash, and I feel like she's staring back at me. When my leering eyes shift from her toes to her eyes, the pupils beckon: "All roads lead to me."
Continue reading...
50
I know what love tastes like sort of like the warm berries on your lips mixed with chlorine and cheap pink perfume from a plastic spray bottle like lukewarm coffee that was carried on a bike by a underage boy it tastes like jealousy on the roof of my mouth at the success and intelligence that sweats from him like pride that overwhelms me--a wave of warm sunshine like a cold metal ring in my mouth (biting it nervously--the raw disruptive taste of metal waking my senses) as I say goodbye for the day (or week)
0
Mar 4, 2015
Mar 4, 2015 at 12:34 PM UTC
taste this
If a world is known by its ideals Let mine be known as sanity Let all men be infertile And all women, stale Let streets be known for sanitation And all babies dipped in chlorine All talk, sterile and sufficient All excrement concealed Let the youth of my predecessors And their mocking vulgarity Drown in a town of minimal design And shocking similarity.
0
Sep 6, 2014
Sep 6, 2014 at 6:40 PM UTC
Suburban Blues
She reveled above the film of Central Park sun-rays Angel of granite, seductress of seagulls Perched above her iconic feathered fingers Angel of granite, enchanter of flocks of well traveled bodies flecked with salty sea crystals Angel of granite, fountain May Cascades dancing diamonds from her feet Posing for pictures, frozen in heat of Summertime sailboat breeze Angel of granite, goddess of brittle bird bones wading in chlorine puddles of tears
0
Mar 7, 2013
Mar 7, 2013 at 8:44 PM UTC
Seductress of Seagulls
I think I can relate you to vinegar. Bitter, noxious, not very useful all alone. I don't think I warned you, but I'm a lot like bleach. Caustic, corrosive, flammable, and absolutely wonderful with the right material. Now, put us together. Were we both so stupid not to realise that vinegar and bleach make toxic chlorine gas?
0
Mar 16, 2015
Mar 16, 2015 at 7:51 PM UTC
Toxic
Can you teach me how to smoke, At the indoor pool? Cannabis and chlorine On a night so cool. I can ditch the white pills Without crushing the moon, If you can roll something up Without killing the mood.          What's left to prove If it's just me and you? I mean, you and I Decide If we have any rules. We can feel, we can chill. We can deal with the truth.                    Cannabis and chlorine. Fuse green with the blue. Cannabis and chlorine. A mixture of hues. All you gotta do Is make my lungs so confused. Cannabis and chlorine, When it's just me and you. Can you teach me how to smoke At the indoor pool?
0
Aug 9, 2015
Aug 9, 2015 at 11:19 AM UTC
Cannabis & Chlorine
I plunge into the cold water on that warm July day no goggles, only the loose-fitting swimming trunks I swim through the blur of chlorine pushing through the water when a familiar tune I heard hours earlier traps itself in my brain and I suddenly become weightless, a plane high above in the air The water is pure blue sky, below me the clouds And at the bottom the city in ruins I take my plane and dive down below the clouds past the blur, until the city is in view just below me I level the bomber and let it soar low above the ground Over the pale white shells of buildings I remember the museum exhibit that inspires this flight I walk through, studying the pictures and the uniforms and the weapons on display when in the distance of the room beyond I hear the familiar tune: Brian Eno's "Ascent (An Ending)". It brings me closer, and I move past the exhibits at a quickening pace, past the slow browsers glancing only briefly to read, to catch a glimpse of an object, a photo, a map I keep going, "Ascent" on a loop, its minimalist beauty entrancing me until I find a large television in a small corner. A few people are gathered around, solemn, the television entrancing them, the music washing over the room. First the white words centered against the black screen: "The Bomb". The come the white-and-black photos and footage of the mushroom clouds hovering above Hiroshima, then Nagasaki, standing tall like ungainly trees in an empty field. The soundtrack to the short video before me is "Ascent", or rather an excerpt, a piece of it, stirring strange emotions Familiar ones that I give attribution to when I listen to it on my own. Yet it feels different coming from this; on the screen a few photographs of corpses and burnt victims flash by. And then the screen fades to black, a moment of silence before it all starts again I hear this loop and see these images before me as I fly above the imagined city in ruins And for a brief moment I am the Enola Gay; I will only know it at the bottom of a hotel pool
0
Mar 9, 2015
Mar 9, 2015 at 4:23 AM UTC
The Enola Gay is at the Bottom of a Hotel Pool
I plunge into the cold water on that warm July day no goggles, only the loose-fitting swimming trunks I swim through the blur of chlorine pushing through the water when a familiar tune I heard hours earlier traps itself in my brain and I suddenly become weightless, a plane high above in the air The water is pure blue sky, below me the clouds And at the bottom the city in ruins I take my plane and dive down below the clouds past the blur, until the city is in view just below me I level the bomber and let it soar low above the ground Over the pale white shells of buildings I remember the museum exhibit that inspires this flight I walk through, studying the pictures and the uniforms and the weapons on display when in the distance of the room beyond I hear the familiar tune: Brian Eno's "Ascent (An Ending)". It brings me closer, and I move past the exhibits at a quickening pace, past the slow browsers glancing only briefly to read, to catch a glimpse of an object, a photo, a map I keep going, "Ascent" on a loop, its minimalist beauty entrancing me until I find a large television in a small corner. A few people are gathered around, solemn, the television entrancing them, the music washing over the room. First the white words centered against the black screen: "The Bomb". The come the white-and-black photos and footage of the mushroom clouds hovering above Hiroshima, then Nagasaki, standing tall like ungainly trees in an empty field. The soundtrack to the short video before me is "Ascent", or rather an excerpt, a piece of it, stirring strange emotions Familiar ones that I give attribution to when I listen to it on my own. Yet it feels different coming from this; on the screen a few photographs of corpses and burnt victims flash by. And then the screen fades to black, a moment of silence before it all starts again I hear this loop and see these images before me as I fly above the imagined city in ruins And for a brief moment I am the Enola Gay; I will only know it at the bottom of a hotel pool
Continue reading...
36
Your scent has become chlorine to me. Every whiff, Every inhale, Burns through my nostrils And into my lungs. And yet I still cant get enough.
0
Nov 23, 2014
Nov 23, 2014 at 5:36 PM UTC
Chlorine
shirelles monday night alone in a big house light the candles another one of my rituals born one hour, dead the next to make room for other prayers postures pen tips but the way candles flicker in the sweet soul is not another ritual warm life to the tune of golden notes swimming through once bleak      once empty once impure        air and suddenly, I am baptized more than I ever was in that sterile, dead chlorine     more than spent hymns in drafty cathedrals        so, the sound lives. my bed would tilt            at twelve years old I'd wake                startled of the                        psychic death spread like bodies after             a paid for war I'd scream like the cats               fighting by the window at my aunts house                I would huddle with my childhood                      hiding from the puberty that stalked me like a jungle cat                the mind reeled with my spent pulse and                  at night                         under shamed                    covers                                  bitten fingertips the white light            on the street                               looking on
0
Nov 11, 2015
Nov 11, 2015 at 2:30 AM UTC
rituals
Seagull on rotting planks, bouy bells ding to fog and driftwood. A culling fire exploits the docking shire. Filled with chlorine shards, legs caught in the clap-traps. Friar palms glisten, Rage responds with frisson. Clear view over water. Feel your arms relax and slip onto your back while the culling fire attacks. Bulbous deadening brain chimes As the eyes slide down to your omission crimes. Leave me alone in my despondent company. Don't push the matter further let communication fail to nurture. A warm breeze carries me like a floating portrait towards unreal scented meats. I'm here now, alone in the corner, The greatest intimacy with the static patterns on the carpeted flooring. The king of this corner is the odor of plank seating and flowery detergent in this lonely corridor fluorescent light-bulb poles and old grain floorboards. Now the returning shards of panic to uncelibate strangers drive me up, far, deep in my own ribcage to something wholly non-organic. Time to clock-in, time to check out.
0
May 3, 2014
May 3, 2014 at 1:25 AM UTC
The Church of Privacy
twitchy sniffly noses silky bracelets woven a sennight of whispers and soft rains fallen bones strident ringing skins slow submerging bloodshot eyes and star-shot skies and cheekbones shrouded in staling chlorine sneaking syrup smiles under honey gold four tonics drowned to fight off the cold and fast fortune-telling for finites foretold trace the lines and face the folds, please hold both palms closer but leave them closed twitchy ditzy fingers ***** rings unspooled a sennight of stories and sinking in pools bones washed in phenol skins slick like ferrule bloodshot minds and star-shot why’s and wisteria lips speckled in the warmest shade of cool.
0
Jan 26, 2022
Jan 26, 2022 at 8:01 PM UTC
swimming lessons
I know you think I wear lipstick everyday And my hands always Smell like Chai tea and raspberries I know you think My tongue always Tastes like Melted sugar And peppermint I know you think I sleep in the same lace Underwear You find me in On certain Sundays In the spring When the air is light And my jeans Don't stick To my thighs I know you think I'm larger than life Above chipped teeth And bruises And cigarette ash And acne I know you think My eyes don't turn Blood red And poison When I cry I know you think My finger nails Are always Freshly painted And I always wear A bra That fits I know you think Yoga pants are My comfy clothes, Never gray sweat pants With a faded red stain Between my legs I know you think My calves are always Soft, hairless, and toned You think I wait by the phone With vanilla incense Burning in a red robe But you're wrong And that's impossible I won't let you in Cause I won't be The one To shatter Your whole Pretty, little world I'm disgusting Sometimes I sleep with Way too many Girls and guys And sometimes I cry so much My eyelids peel Til I look like Leather face And I don't leave my house For 8 days And in those 8 days I shower Maybe twice My skin gets rough In the winter Right now I have a Pimple on My left shoulder And every morning It looks a little Meaner My ***** spill Out over the top And the sides Of my favorite Sport's bra And I don't care I smell like burnt oil And cheap hair dye Half of the time I haven't washed My sheets in a while And they smell like Salt water And chlorine You put me up on a pedestal From which I refuse to fall So I'll stay here, Far, Untouchable You'll never love me With sticky tampons In my garbage can And half drank beer bottles On my bedroom floor I'll stay here, Far, Untouchable, Safe
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Nov 26, 2016
Nov 26, 2016 at 7:45 PM UTC
Cotton Candy ********
I know you think I wear lipstick everyday And my hands always Smell like Chai tea and raspberries I know you think My tongue always Tastes like Melted sugar And peppermint I know you think I sleep in the same lace Underwear You find me in On certain Sundays In the spring When the air is light And my jeans Don't stick To my thighs I know you think I'm larger than life Above chipped teeth And bruises And cigarette ash And acne I know you think My eyes don't turn Blood red And poison When I cry I know you think My finger nails Are always Freshly painted And I always wear A bra That fits I know you think Yoga pants are My comfy clothes, Never gray sweat pants With a faded red stain Between my legs I know you think My calves are always Soft, hairless, and toned You think I wait by the phone With vanilla incense Burning in a red robe But you're wrong And that's impossible I won't let you in Cause I won't be The one To shatter Your whole Pretty, little world I'm disgusting Sometimes I sleep with Way too many Girls and guys And sometimes I cry so much My eyelids peel Til I look like Leather face And I don't leave my house For 8 days And in those 8 days I shower Maybe twice My skin gets rough In the winter Right now I have a Pimple on My left shoulder And every morning It looks a little Meaner My ***** spill Out over the top And the sides Of my favorite Sport's bra And I don't care I smell like burnt oil And cheap hair dye Half of the time I haven't washed My sheets in a while And they smell like Salt water And chlorine You put me up on a pedestal From which I refuse to fall So I'll stay here, Far, Untouchable You'll never love me With sticky tampons In my garbage can And half drank beer bottles On my bedroom floor I'll stay here, Far, Untouchable, Safe
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