"combusts" poems
The fiscal snare is drawing tight
Putin’s day... now courting night,
Rouble tilts vertiginously
To Satan’s **** religiously.
Fiscal snare is drawing blood
A trickle then... is now a flood,
Russia’s central bank adjusts
But ineffectually, combusts.
Hard line prospects elbow dance
Aligning for assasins lance.
Perhaps….
Better now, the Devil known
Than facing down an Unknown throne…..
Facing down an Iron call
With finger poised in nuclear thrall.
What choice now for ego’s Prince
Retreat from Eastern Ukraine’s wince?
Retreat Crimea’s balmy shores
To face the nationalistic howl of hordes?
Brinkmanship…the other way
A gamble that the West might sway?
Either way the game is up
Now bitter wine brims Russia’s cup.
M.
Dec 17, 2014
Dec 17, 2014 at 11:39 PM UTC
From nothing but
Cerebral constructs
Mind becoming
Matter
Spontaneously
Combusts.
May 5, 2017
May 5, 2017 at 10:43 PM UTC
۞ ۞ ۞ ۞ ۞ ۞ ۞ ۞ ۞ ۞ ۞
When the Mahdi returns to smite Dajjal,
When the Antichrist in his temple of lies
is vanquished by lightning from God’s black skies
as the shuddering stars blink, waver and fall,
When JAH Rastafari, Lord Jesus (and Paul)
With Isaac and Ismael – even Jibril
Cash in on redemption and pay up the bill
(no longer in discord, but harmonized all) –
When the Jinn (and the tonik) have thrown in the towel
as libations are served by the Heavenly Host,
while Apollyon’s watchdog combusts with a howl
and the demons and dhimmicrats give up the ghost –
only then shall we learn not to entertain doubt.
But until that apocalypse: vote the clowns out !
Sep 17, 2015
Sep 17, 2015 at 8:47 PM UTC
The green combusts, the cherry sclerotized mask dances above
the invisible paper carapace.
Stuffed full with Rotten skunk innards and burning,
tongues of heat sweat away its crystalline hairs.
Aren is hunched and crooked, all teeth and lungs,
under the mixed halogens of suburban porchlight,
being bathed in bluescale waves from the
strobe of the neighbor's telescreen.
Ropes of smog pour from the slats between his picket fence ivories and get frayed.
I drink the filth, choking down the viscera of the vermin.
It doesn't seem to get easier.
Stumbling inside, my feet detach and I throw myself on the door
until I've locked out the sickly tide pool light of dawn,
and I'm rolling toward his bedroom.
Jolting and sputtering, and
grasping at the hands of the clock,
listening for the steady metronome to
count me through.
And then numbness.
I know the feeling, and next come the
pins, digging into my
fingertips and the pads of my
toes, and then I'm all body and silent prayers.
And I'm whispering sick thoughts to Aren -
*"Those adrenaline demons
will do me in,
and if only I could relax,
and my dear mother
used to have a stalker,
and I almost got run down
by a car on the highway when I was five,
and asthmatics are five times as likely to have a
generalized anxiety disorder."*
The adrenaline demons gather my tendons in pincushion palms,
tugging at the strings,
panicked arthritis and my fingers are
twitching and curling backwards
while I glare on with shallow breaths and cataracts.
The organs moan in the cavern of my body,
with thick wet air pouring from the opening.
I'm standing now,
a fetishized devil doll,
shaking out the pins
and the needles
and the sick splinters of glass
and the long holy skewers
and I'm breathing again
and I sit and
I breathe.
Nov 1, 2013
Nov 1, 2013 at 3:05 PM UTC
To pick my brain
I'll just lay here
Have some pins and needles
It's so fun walking on them
Reeling
Like a kick right to the feels
In my heart
In my soul
Or, maybe my nuts
As I grow old
I've grown more cold, to the terror
It whittles away
and I simply admire it, vacantly
It happens on the daily
Change the ******* channel
Every morning I look in the mirror
And tell myself, "Life's a **** **** it."
You **** that **** duderocketship.
Filthy *****
Bawling my eyes out
With a coat of smeared lipstick
streaking my face
It's my birthday.
What a beautiful day for nuclear holocaust
Good a day as any, I reckon
To wine and dine on a feast of destruction
While the world spontaneously combusts
Somebody hand me a beer
And we'll scale my collapsing cognitive function
With a middle finger to The Man!
I got a whole fist I'd fancy to ****** inside him
This end of the world clock is broken
and keeps ticking
And I just listen
Tick tick tock
Waiting for the bomb
Losing hope
Idly twiddling my thumbs
To go out with a bang is my lone desire
It rattles my bones
Set the world on fire
Light up the night
I just want to watch it burn
There's a pretty nice view
from my back porch
Replacing the stars with torches
Scorching a ravaged sky
It's a party
****** Gandhi, & The Pope are coming
Bring your friends
I'm cringing yet effervescent
In supple prepubesence
His dead eyes ****** me
Jesus wept
Nov 14, 2015
Nov 14, 2015 at 5:06 PM UTC
The sadness that resides within me is gone;
there is hope etched on my every rib
that combusts my fuel of desire
to burn the negativity of this world!
Aug 23, 2019
Aug 23, 2019 at 6:28 AM UTC
*Through the stormy desert
Your thirst staggered for days,
And ends up sipping
Fresh experiences as consolation.
An ocean of memories inside heart
Constantly combusts like wild flames,
Yet seems so peaceful
Like the rough skin of an extinct volcano.
You believed in my words, that,
One can’t grow larger than sun,
Or be more skillful than Orion,
Weaving luminosity over
The edge of eastern horizon.
But one can be the daisy in a vase
Who dreams every night of blooming
Like a star, with shimmering aura,
Writing fates of humans,
As if she can pick them, pluck them now,
From life, whenever she wishes.
We are all like her,
Craving for a ****** dream to live with.
And in the mirror of life,
Trying to reflect it time after time.*
May 2, 2016
May 2, 2016 at 3:21 AM UTC
The farmer and the poet walk side by side.
The wind is blowing and with every grain of sand approaching their skin, the kettle moves closer to boiling.
The farmer with his miniature mule in his palm sweeps in motion with his other hand, the one with golden rings and chewed nails.
He shows the poet that the land must be toiled.
And sweat must mix with blood to form meaning to one's life.
The farmer combusts into ashes over the poet and the untouched bloodless ground.
There is no anxiety.
The poet and the glassblower walk hand in hand, shoulders pressed closer, finding rhythm in each other's differences.
Warmth and love shine from their portrait.
And the poet thinks as he walks.
The thoughts collapse and the glass blower breaks into sheets.
Furthermore into jagged shards and then, into pieces too small for a human eye to see.
With each step the poet contains his winces and his groans.
Walking his every step, a moment closer to suicide.
I'm aware this is temporary.
The solution is permanent.
Stay as permanence, pouring as warm oil from the eternal lion's mouth.
I grow uncomfortable.
Distance yourself and twist language.
Pull yourself together.
Jan 21, 2015
Jan 21, 2015 at 6:04 AM UTC
Movement stirs within womb of thought;
spellbound in fluid sac, fetally curled in
warmth; neither blooming in mind or
heart as host is indecisive; concept mote.
mind blank; confused as...
dubious action causes shame, bearing of
birth unwanted; incestuous violations,
sexually abused as crimson feather blooms
within body too young to blush; thoughts
in flaming anger flushed.
drenched in attrition...
passionate disdain of horrid disgust; in hand,
hanger of mass destruction; a fetal demise
plays against familial distrust, inside mind
combusts; a finger pointed, says, young eyes
beguiled and flamed their lust.
innocence stolen..
in back alley clinic, I extract what is just,
aftertaste, body refuting life flushed;
pysche destroyed, used like someone's toy,
chastity drained from eyes; no longer angelic;
turned cold and coy, ambivalence to destroy.
devious ploys invade anima of woman-child,
turned frigid of emotions; used and abused,
even though given emancipation rights; making
fledgling choices; in voices, now foul-tongued.
still young....
dumbfounded within...
yet, fetally unsprung...
Jun 12, 2012
Jun 12, 2012 at 3:02 AM UTC
Dog days fly dust to dust over a hick
pit sardined between corona bikinis that house
the unmistakable stench of lukewarm apple
sauce in the c-cup padding and toothless
******** sitting indian style. Graveled friction
fading the back pockets of their overall
dungarees. Amongst them a settler on their native
turf accepting a Jim Beam peace pipe while above
the influence commercials march in protest claiming fried
egg consequences from engaging in the act. The culture
shock is worth the weekly once-in-a-lifetime chance
to sip the tabasco-glazed opening of my chemistry
teacher’s flask while he schools me in perfecting
the cotton eyed joe. A muffler spontaneously
combusts, melting the raybans off the face of a tragically
hip spectator taunted with “that’s why dad named you Joe Dirt.”
Nov 3, 2011
Nov 3, 2011 at 11:44 PM UTC
Lives clash like cars crash
On black ice we spin
Cash my poker chips in
& Monopolize on my sins
Cause now she's my best friend
And we both win, ayo
Sometimes life's okay-o
What's a perfect day
Without a bad reference point
What's a beautiful soul
Without the bad men life appoints
For every cosmos that combusts.
Beauty coats the rust
For every argument we have
Her concerns cloud the fuss, ayo
Sometimes life's okay-o (ayo - ayo)
Karma's no buzz-kill for me
She straightens me out and opens my eyes to see
She keeps me aware of my lows,
Man, she keeps me on my toes.
Oct 1, 2012
Oct 1, 2012 at 7:55 PM UTC
My god
It CLACKS like a
************
Every key
Combusts like a homicide bullet
Hacks like a machete in 100 degree
Heat
Every word brings
Guilt,pleasure
The neighbors will surely
Pound on the walls
Going insane
From the power of
The typewriter.
I'm 24 in 2015
I've never touched one of these
Things.
When I brought it up to the counter
Of the 2nd hand store
The clerk was a few years younger
Than me
He looked at me like I was catshit
Crazy.
I also bought 2 1940s editions of
The Bronte sisters
That did not help my
Questionable sanity...
I like this old thing
Every key is ******
And you must live with all your
Mistakes.
Dec 26, 2015
Dec 26, 2015 at 11:14 PM UTC
I am feeling myself float
Haven't been so out of body in quite a while
Haven't felt so emotionless in quite a while
Freeze.
The ghost hanging over me is not mine
I smell your skin like basement musk
And the fertilizer on mushroom fields
Mr. 2004
When I was seven and you locked me in a dog cage
When I was seven and you made my body your jungle gym
It was the year of feeling sick to my stomach
Even when my food agreed with me
It was the year of going to the nurse every day in first period
You see,
Even second graders know what is and isn't supposed to happen to their bodies
Even when they don't have a name for it
Didn't have a name for it until I was fourteen
I told my guidance counselor every crevice your hands found
Every game you made me play on your body
He called it molestation
I had to excuse myself and *****
All over the white porcelain walls down the hall
He called my daddy
It was the first time I'd ever seen the man cry
I felt my body become a gun that was wielded against me
I could not hide from my own existence
So I became a ghost again.
Now,
Morphing into a spirit has become my superpower
I feel my body shaking
And I rise up to the ceiling
Watching myself self-destruct before my own eyes
Only offering a helpless hand
But, like Ebeneezer Scrooge to his past self
Remaining invisible
My body combusts under pressure
Crumbles with heat
I am my own remains
Dancing in the rubble
I feel my Winnie the Pooh shirt I wore to his house
Become a noose, tied tightly
I long to feel in my own body
So I look for feeling in someone else's
Anyone else's
I lie beneath his jutting hips
Moan the names of the ones I remember
They keep ******* back for more
Create for yourself an alter ego
Jane Doe?
That is the name they will brand to you
When they find your body
Still lifeless, with him still between your legs
Don't die, girl
Pick yourself up, girl
Stop being stupid, girl
Why, when I tell this struggle in a poem is it eloquent
But when I explain it to people in real life am I a ******* *****
I lie in the dirt
Remember how to say my own name
Life reparative therapy, show me how to breathe
Form letter into thin air
Remember, excellence is relative
Remember, you are more excellent than this relative
Remember, you still exist, dear woman
Create a fist
And rise.
Feb 28, 2016
Feb 28, 2016 at 3:46 PM UTC
The lust,
that combusts,
when I ******
my hips forward.
As she grinds
her body toward,
Me,
sets me free.
Makes me lose all inhibitions,
Making
insane decisions,
together we slide.
The right conditions,
when our bodies collide.
All throughout the night,
we twist, tangle, and ride,
Until the dawn meets day
and she has to go away.
7/19/13
Jul 27, 2013
Jul 27, 2013 at 12:00 AM UTC
Each court crowns a fool
Some wear it too well
I danced for his rule
Now I rot in his cell
A fool for the plot
He praised me in jest
But dead men still dance
When denied their rest
So I wait for a storm
To darken the land
Till cracks start to form
Beneath his command
Till the famine-worn tread
With their torches held high
To harvest the crumbs
Of a banquet denied
They carry my pain
In the heat of their cry
For the crown and the chain
And a kingdom awry
My cell starts to moan
As the ramparts collapse
They tear through the stone
And free me at last
I walk through the blaze
As the palace combusts
They gave me a stage
Now revenge I shall ******
He begged for his life
With tears on his cheek
I offered my knife
And let silence speak
No need for a trial
His crimes were well known
So I asked with a smile
Who had the last laugh
Jul 27, 2025
Jul 27, 2025 at 2:38 PM UTC
Deep royal purple bags under my eyes.
Hair that carelessly does exactly what I want it to.
To look perfectly exhausted.
Eyes that are overdriven
and burnt out.
A terrible demeanor
that idiots find charming.
A necessity to break something,
or a pent up anger that combusts
an engine of ill intentions;
Not just for me,
yes, for all of us.
Death howl
porcelain fingers
wooden spine
slightly violet.
Glass heart.
To kiss *** when pressed
and beg yourself you'll
give it hell later.
Pull the curtains off
and still see nothing.
Somehow useless like
a god or angel of death
or mercy.
Fantasy realized in the mind
that refuses to become reality.
A promise no one keeps.
Words spoken yet empty,
feeble, and without presence.
No sleep.
Trying to find the conscience.
Seeking the moral compass.
Where were you supposed to be?
Where's the wall and am
I against it? Buried in art,
"criticism of art", failing to hear
your laundry list of shortcomings.
Reading to yourself out loud
to see how ******* awful it is.
Pinching yourself.
Chewing your fingertips to stumps.
Seeing things.
Hearing things.
Dreaming things.
Wanting things.
Hoping for things.
Wishing for things.
Begging for things.
Waiting for things.
Getting nothing.
Jun 24, 2014
Jun 24, 2014 at 1:07 PM UTC
and it happens like this —
youth like the matches that make up your rib cage,
black smoke breathes in and out from your chest.
inhale, exhale, they call this a flashover.
the room combusts, and i am running for the door.
armor made of leather and air tanks.
it was not enough to rescue me from the intensity of your flame.
they sound off the alarm.
once, twice, three times.
you carry the ashes, you sing to me once more.
and how could this be?
the structure collapsing below my feet, and i imagine falling into your hands.
but there are tools in place and the weight of your exhaustion.
pulling at the air above and exposing the danger unseen.
but you see, you and i, we were forged from the most violent fire.
our bones in pits and veins feeding the gasoline.
days shaped by your heat —
they taught me how to prevent burns.
gear up, lead the way, extinguish the threat.
but, babe, they did not go over how to survive the flash of light,
the scorched throats and screams of 'mayday!'.
no, they did not prepare me to face the intensity of high tempatures in the form of your absence.
they taught me how to be blind in the dark,
how to pull you from it's depths.
but not to survive your structure's demise.
they did not teach me how to live when you set everything aflame.
Mar 3, 2015
Mar 3, 2015 at 3:31 AM UTC
the anti-siren alarm song
collapses the dimensions of the oneiric realm,
fidgeting infinitesimally,
the tangled engine of acidic tubes
combusts last nights pepperoni bacon chorizo pizza
all of sparta trembles
stalagmites shake loose and dust the bedclothes,
cemented eye-lashes decalcify and split,
as two stumbling gargantuan steps
off the promontory of your bed
lead an unguided hand to the light-switch
the florescent hum gnaws at you
a singular parameter in the speaking mind's running mouth
“caffeinate me”
a hill, no, a mountain, no, a sheer abyss
'the stairs', a godly ascent
an ascent for winged creatures of light
creatures with legs for arms, zeppelin-like centipedes
legs whose construct are Dalían,
nightmarish vaulting apparatuses,
whose step is a bound and whose bound is a flight,
as if all of the thirteen foot-tall steps become cliffsides
and all of the cliffsides become interdimensional worm-holes
as the distance between two mustard seeds grows
and exceeds the circumference of the universal ellipse
we see our premonitions are of infinite potentiality.
resignedly, we take the first step
the next twelve follow succinctly.
we reach the ochre chamber of caffeine
only to be halted by a question
a sempiternal question,
a question of mythic, unverifiable stature
a plaguing question,
a question rooted
in our achey-breaky hearts and nigh-arthritic bones,
rooted in the seeping pathos
of our ritualized morning zombie-shuffle:
but it doesn't get asked today, we drink coffee
the world is right-side up again.
Feb 1, 2017
Feb 1, 2017 at 10:47 AM UTC
Static crackling ecstatically; manic pop
Transistor hissing and spitting; sideboard atop
First when there’s nothing…
But a slow glowing dream…
Pirouette such as whirling dervish makes
Adolescent prancer twirls; leg warmer fakes
All alone I have cried…
Silent tears full of pride…
Breathless incantation; future forged in dance
Performance fascination; leap upon the chance
What a feeling...
Bein’s believing…
Neon flashes bedeck wrists and bonce
Peers laughter flash like fire; a ponce
Take your passion…
And make it happen…
The music shields, deflects. Antacid; taunts abate
Rhyhmic dreamer energized; blind to all the hate
Pictures come alive…
You can dance right through your life…
As Bergen-Belsen ghost yet still aware
Lost dreamer segues silently on fetid air
Bruised and battered, I couldn’t tell what I felt…
I am unrecognizable to myself…
Shuffling as garish Geisha; white but not with paint
Breathless as fifties bombshell; heaving sick and feint
At night I could hear the blood in my veins…
It was black and whispering as the rain…
With steel partner; straight firm and slim of hip
Rigid in rigor’d waltz; moving labouredly with drip
I walked the avenue, ‘til my legs felt like stone…
I heard the voices of friends, vanished and gone…
Faithless rusting engine combusts toxic blood
Failing sack of sinew lies where dancer stood
Night has fallen, I’m lyin’ awake…
I can feel myself fading away…
Monotone white noise; assuring beep
Dancer dreams in endless sleep
There was a time when men were kind…
There was a time when love was blind…
©pofacedpoetry (Billy Reynard-Bowness – 2018 – All rights reserved)
Acknowledgements:
1. Flashdance… what a Feeling (1983 – Giorgio Moroder, Keith Forsey & Irene Cara)
2. The Streets of Philadelphia (1993 – Bruce Springsteen)
3. I Dreamed a Dream (Les Miserables – Claude Michel Schonberg, Herbert Kretzmer & Alain Boubil)
Aug 24, 2018
Aug 24, 2018 at 8:28 AM UTC
Merging minds through confluence of time
Streaming into vastness of space
Piling on the eons we climb
Subjective to a human race
Evolution is nearer to nothing plasmatic
As brain tissue melts loosely away
Finding transformative signs galactic
A robotic mechanical sway
Electrodes and microbes in fervent fusions
Find waves upon air and streams
Static electricity combusts allusions
Eyes disintegrate, fried by laser beams
No ointment to existence as we are lard
The oil for machines to profit
Toil long and toil hard
As progressive adaptation won’t stop it
For the gravity of this juncture upon us
Climatic epoch in measure
As ethical questions confront us
What gains from the yield of treasure?
May 9, 2016
May 9, 2016 at 11:30 AM UTC
Gunshots pierce through my ears rendering me deaf
The amount of carcasses leaves me speechless
A bomb combusts before my eyes and I am blind
Gas fills my nostrils and I can now no longer smell
So much pain from the wounds and now I can't feel
Senses of war
Aug 7, 2015
Aug 7, 2015 at 4:39 AM UTC
The water drips,
The air purifier withers,
The dryer combusts and the airplanes slither,
Breaking sound barriers I cannot fathom,
I sit here in my bed.
To fall asleep,
To all the sounds that I use to count sheep.
Dec 4, 2015
Dec 4, 2015 at 9:53 PM UTC
I love the way
your breath tastes,
and how it
feeds me life.
.
I love the way
your hands talk,
and the things
they say to me.
.
I love the way
your eyes smile,
and how they
always match mine.
.
I love the way
your legs shake,
and how strong
they always are.
.
I love the way
your chest listens,
and sets the pace
for my own heart.
.
I love the way
you move your toes,
whenever you feel
you're so close.
.
I love the way
you hair falls,
and it hides your
face from the world.
.
I love the way
your back moves,
and how it feels
so warm and strong.
.
I love the way
your neck beats,
and how it
helps me exist.
.
I love the way
your mouth stutters,
when air and words
fight to come out.
.
I love the way
your body combusts,
because mine does
the same for yours.
Mar 29, 2016
Mar 29, 2016 at 4:35 PM UTC
across the mountains and high seas
i want to travel as far as the moon can see
and still a little more to numb my thirst
as far above the sun as below the dusk
until the night howls and winter combusts
all around the spring singing of hurt
until the autumn grows loud enough to rust
until the day burns and stars submerge
wandering down the ways uphill a bliss
where mermaids drown and the gods sit
somewhere far where the flowers hiss
and all the pieces are where they fit
there where the clowns cry and live
from nowhere to across all the towns
carrying not an ounce of pain or a crown
in temples of Angkor with nothing to give
at the end of a rainbow and rain profound
the hollow windows and barren grounds
from rotten whispers and forgotten blitz
where demons prowl and angels ****
very depth of hell and under the ground
i'll travel as deep as a melancholic sound
under my skin crawling all the way down
the thunder and my sins all in a 'round
where the lights are dim and bound
with my plastic grin and elastic faith
down the road where none can be found
i'll wait there and sin with all my hate
so come for me before i go to waste
so come for me before it gets too late
so come for me before i close the gates
so come for me and come with a blade
so come for me before i fade,
so come for me before i name my price
so come for me before i wake,
so come for me before i take my life.
Apr 13, 2019
Apr 13, 2019 at 11:34 AM UTC