"explosives" poems
Fireworks were cool. Framed metal chairs with woven nylon Americana on watered lawns on the outskirts of the edge of Los Angeles. Hairy neighbors, Miller Drafts and dog **** Sally ****** Jim on the corner, and Jim drank, or started again and wouldn’t stop, but was good with a flat tire and chain adjustment. His kid had a glove like a vacuum. His daughter was a ***** Sally afforded a Mexican gardener.
Tim always had fireworks. He had gasoline and willed fireworks into his driveway. He had rope and a keg.
Schatzky keep her cool. She had to. She worked the 5th and taught everyone’s kids. She taught their parents too, 10 years ago.
Her son Donavan and her husband Keith lived for the 4th. Little pink houses and Jack and Diane kind of **** So they watched fireworks on flag hill while their neighbors ****** and got ********* and burnt their eyebrows. Donavan was ecstatic.
Each year the hill was gilded in gold for Donavan and Keith and and Schatzky, because each 4th brought fire and explosives in a way they could never afford.
Keith was more patriotic than most. He waited and enlisted and became a hero. Donavan watched on TV. Schatzky watched too. We won the first gulf war and everyone knew it: https://youtu.be/4gNhs2SRacs?t=1m10...
They celebrated the fourth in baseball stadiums. They celebrated life and heroism and purpose, and they celebrated with F16s and the best explosives the peacetime nation offered.
And Keith celebrated and embraced purpose. He even became a leader in the 2nd gulf war.
Sally stopped ******* Jim. Jim wasn’t married anymore. His kid lowered Tim’s basement and didn’t steal the copper.
Tim’s house was worth a fortune but it had a radon problem.
Schatsky was accused of drowning her dog, but she didn’t do it.
Jim still drinks; he’s smarter now.
They all meet on flag hill every 4th. The fireworks aren’t as good. A lot of build up for a finale that feels like an accident.
Water seeps through my jeans and no one can see my face as I limp home with a broken rubber sandal and a bucket of ice, a dog tied around my legs, and a kid face first on the grass, a wife whose friend drank our last beer an hour ago, a phone with two-percent battery left and my mom wants to show me what fireworks look like in California.
Jul 5, 2016
Jul 5, 2016 at 2:12 AM UTC
Wrongfully Accused
Everybody wants to know,
what happened so long ago.
It was a day just like this,
been awhile since I had to reminisce.
Got in my car and went to work,
back then, I was such a ****
Me and my wife had a huge fight,
it went on, all the past night.
Long before cell phones and beepers,
never even knew, she had some peepers.
Came home from a long day, with roses,
the house was destroyed by explosives.
Neighbors said they heard arguing,
all last night, till the morning.
No one saw any strange people,
after I left, everything seemed so peaceful.
I was questioned, then taken away,
put in prison, for quite a long stay.
Begged the judge for some mercy,
they found me guilty in a hurry.
Spent five long years in prison hell,
each night I was violated in my cell.
Then one day other houses started to explode,
all wives went on a lock down mode.
The evidence was so overwhelming,
meanwhile my ******* was swelling.
After six long years, I was finally released,
couldn't wait to get a real super feast.
Then I went on a man hunt,
this guys ***** I'm gonna punt.
Then there he was a peeping tom,
carrying what looks to be some kind of bomb.
Thought about calling the police,
but I figured, I could handle this ugly man who was bald and obese.
This guy never saw me coming,
his **** crack, made me think he was plumbing.
I grabbed the fat **** with gun in mouth,
it was him, I had no doubt.
I saw him before stalking my neighborhood,
what I'm gonna do to him will not be good.
Shot the ******* in the face,
his memory got a quick erase.
Brains splattered all over the ground,
his body was never found.
Stuck his fat *** in my trunk,
went to the bar and got super drunk.
Put him in the nearest lake,
still I had a major heartache.
I will say this, I never have pooped like this before,
but now my nightmares haunt me even more.
Dec 23, 2013
Dec 23, 2013 at 4:43 PM UTC
Absolute bravery, considering dangerous explosives found goals. Helpless individuals juggled keeping lookout, many new operations, people questioning routes, suspects tortured, unsightly views. Wasted x-rays... young Zak.
Feb 18, 2015
Feb 18, 2015 at 11:06 AM UTC
Suited up as I try to maintain
In this ground cracking weather.
Heavy bags on my back
And artillery in my hands.
Goggles dusty
From the blistering sand
That slice my face like razors
With every gust of wind.
The scorching temperature
Is on hell and every breath
I take is so dry that my tongue's stiff.
One canteen, a few packs of food,
And a mission to complete.
My boots are laced,
With my feet feeling like people
Trapped in a burning building.
The further I go the more my body
Feels like it's being cremated.
I must reach my destination....
As helicopters pass through
Dropping explosives the size of a
Small child with the impact of
Several meteors hitting the earth.
Running like a track meet and
Maneuvering like a game of Dodgeball.
Gunfire, bodies, and thick smoke
As I bypass fallen aircrafts.
Approaching my target which
Will be my final destination.
BOOM! I found myself airborne to
Only hit the ground in unconsciousness.
BEEEEP! Is all I hear as I try to get
Up and regain consciousness.
Just a little over a hundred yards to
Go with a blurred vision
Feels like a lifetime.
As I'm reaching my target with
Bullets whistling pass my ears....
It's time. I set up my shot....
I hold my breath
Heart pounding with adrenaline
I'm studying
I'm focused
I'm ready....
POW! As my 50 caliber jerks
Back into my shoulder kicking
The dirt off the ground like a horse
At the Kentucky Derby.
MISSION COMPLETE!
As I'm going home with a bad case
Of paranoia and a Metal of honor...
I still have disastrous flashbacks
And ****** nightmares.
But....Nothing compares to that
STORM in the DESERT.
Aug 1, 2015
Aug 1, 2015 at 2:54 AM UTC
Dear Mr. Sunshine,
“When will dad be home to sing me a lullaby again?”
Those words
are stapled to the back of my head every waking day by our daughter
whose pouty lips tremble as she kisses your picture
then slowly looks up at me,
“soon.”
What else am I to say
when I ask myself the same **** question
every day, every night
and every year.
Then the sirens sing,
and we hide under a small table
as a group of men search for explosives,
gunshots echo through the shack and numb my ears
a small girl from across the room coughs up tomato soup
and is instantly tossed out onto the cold streets
of the October blue
Dear Mr. Sunshine,
It is now the end of December
and instead of snow wrapped around our little town like a blanket
there is chilled blue flames
that leave children screaming
screaming at the fire for taking their family.
Dear Mr. Sunshine,
It has been months since you wrote back
and years since I have seen you.
Now it’s March and sky is flooded with silver waste
and as I looked up from my balcony
the door began to ring,
I ran to the door
and saw your bright blue face,
with your soft pale eyes
but your soul wasn’t you
your mind had been replaced by the war.
And as I opened my ears to speak
I saw the knife in your hands and as you whispered
“I love you”
the light that was you
went through the sharp jagged edges
and sank into my heart,
sunshine took over my lungs
and darkness sunk behind my eyes
Dear Mr. Sunshine,
where are you?
Apr 11, 2016
Apr 11, 2016 at 11:44 AM UTC
He is who you want to see at the airport,
half asleep, pastel sweatshirt half zipped.
Half length shorts ending just above the knees.
Eyes matching the green and blue abstract swirls
patterned into the carpet to hide passenger sick-up.
The background to travelling japanese circus photos,
they’ll look back in their scrapbooks,
past the ponies on the baggage carousel,
see him waiting for the delayed international arrival.
Stiff legs tread quietly down grey hallways,
stringing a stickered suitcase along moving walkways,
thoughts caught between continents, in escalator’s teeth.
Tiptoeing over the hot coffee spilled like oil,
the taste of morning breath clinging to the back of the throat,
chalky as chilled ashes, abandoned and unswallowed.
When the taxis are cold and the day’s been worn out,
before it’s even begun; patchy fabric stretched over toes
rubbing thin on the inside of your shoes,
he’ll circle your head like a daisy crown.
To hold the tiny scars on his broad shoulders,
traces blemishes like a mine sweeper,
would be like orange juice at 40 000 ft.
Intimate in a way only TSA agents know how to be,
looking for explosives behind the ribcage, to the left.
Oct 1, 2013
Oct 1, 2013 at 3:48 AM UTC
some days, his eyes are full with angst
his arms down his sides, with his fists as closed as his ears
and all I want to say is *I know how it is
to be so angry you don't know where to go
because the whole world lights you up like a dry stick of explosives,
how it is to have your feelings being so big they start to feel
like extensions of your limbs,
waving uncontrollably
and all you can do to avoid their friction from setting you on fire
is either to cut them off or keep your arms down your sides*
but I step aside, because he can no longer take in my words
his six year old eyes are filled with the nothingness of
an anger so big and unlabeled
but someday, I will tell him and he will understand
I will tell him that even though my blood is not in his veins,
I will cleanse it from soot and silt,
I will be his human shield from this world
I will tear kingdoms apart and slay every last creeper
just to help him level up
and I will uncontrollably, explosively and unconditionally
love him
//
vissa dagar är hans ögon fyllda med ångest
hans armar längs sidorna, med nävar lika hårt stängda som hans öron
och allt jag vill säga är att *jag vet hur det är
att vara så arg att du inte vet vars du ska ta vägen,
för hela världen får en att tända som en torr bunt sprängämnen,
hur det är att ha känslor så stora att de börjar kännas
som förlängningar av dina egna armar och ben,
okontrollerbart viftande
och allt du kan göra för att förhindra att deras friktion tänder eld på dig
är att antingen hugga av dem eller hålla armarna längs sidorna*
men jag går undan, för han kan inte ta in mina ord längre
hans sexåriga ögon fyllda med ingentinget
av en ilska så stor och oettikerad ilska
men någon dag ska jag berätta för honom och han ska förstå
jag ska berätta för honom att även fast mitt blod inte flyter genom hans artärer,
ska jag rensa det från smuts och sot,
jag ska vara hans mänskliga sköld från den här världen
jag ska slita kungariken itu och döda varenda creeper
bara för att hjälpa honom att levla upp
och jag ska okontrollerbart, explosivt och villkorslöst
älska honom
May 30, 2013
May 30, 2013 at 4:46 AM UTC
loving you,
is like walking
on a landmine;
suited with a
vest decorated in
dangerous explosives
one wrong step-
and it goes 'kaboom',
just like ticks
of warning from
my puny heart
you hold a machine
and prepared to shoot;
as if I've not experienced
the after effects of this war,
just so I could win,
the peace treaty
of your affection
Jan 10, 2018
Jan 10, 2018 at 11:38 AM UTC
Sparkling, Still or Tap?
Water. A profound subject. Of which, we are all expert. Therefore, I permit myself to write upon it. Water. When I offer you Sparkling, Still or Tap, think carefully for the path to happiness is confusing, you can be mislaid, strayed, betrayed if you imbibe the wrong path.
The definition of each is not my responsibility. Like poetry,
drink what you will from each, but drink you must, pas de choix (which is sparkling for no choice).
Getting drunk on the wrong water is very bad. You have washed your system out, after flooding it. Give an engine the incorrect quality of oil, and it will grind itself willing, having been tricked, into emoting itself into gear lock suicide.
Now go back to the first line, and star(t) over, because you are no longer silly but afraid, and that is the proper way to be when first cog-nizant that this is an earnest subject and you are a fool.
So I ask, not again but for the first time,
Sparkling, Still or Tap?
You say. You are. Poor. Tap is the only option.
Save the environment from plastique explosives.
Clear as colorless water (another sujet, for another self important foolishness) you lie. Is Sparkling and Still not found naturally, while Tap is unnatural-now water transmogrified by rust pipes, fluorescent fluorides, that when drunken, tap you out and for which, You pay heavily when the water bill comes?
What am I?
Your cheek!
As a ****** passenger-reader-human unsurpassed. So typical.
My credentials?
I am human-reader-passenger-voyeur so ***** your impudence!
I am still, but underneath,
I am effervesceing, like the band,
whose goth I am too,
but don't be an idiot, for
all we know,
is tapped into us and out of us
from birth ~
until death/
Was there water in your mother 's body when she breast fed you, was there water in your formula? Was it organic (idiot), from a crystal spring from polluted China,
and isn't it tool ate (auto correct for too late) now anyway?
So I rescind the question,
for we are provisioned but poisoned long before we have adult cash or credit card bills to answer properly this waiter's question,
Sparkling, Still or Tap?
(Nonetheless, if you have progressed to this sad conclusion,
as I wait upon you and,)
Your Reply,
**Water is the clear space that surrounds the letters and words
We write, thus all words float to the surface on your unique percentage of body of water, that oils the brain.**
Ergo, Ip So Facto,
I, the waiter *** writer,
already know.
Now start from the top,
Again, yes,
And answer me,
Sparkling, Still or Tap?
Jan 25, 2014
Jan 25, 2014 at 9:48 AM UTC
she’s out there on the ice again.
holy night &
positioning the gas-tanks just right.
joseph is her father, and his father,
even if not by blood,
raised flame.
foot to throat, brother remains
in the city working.
he is building a rocketship
in the basement of his apartment
complex.
back to town and dying houses.
foreclosures and fences.
lake of fire.
lights: she lingers in lights.
something so true and alive about the revelatory
of color,
of the world when lit and hit by sun
or our artifice.
her lovers: one dead by heavy
lumber, the other rewinding videotapes
in chasms of the library.
she thinks on his lips.
her dog tracks wet prints
across the carpet and floors.
wish list:
mittens
huckleberry jam
iphone solar charger
explosives
Feb 16, 2016
Feb 16, 2016 at 1:35 AM UTC
I want to come up with amendments,
But my brains cannot function
Because I have spent the last 8 hours
Trying to memorize the 2 “I’s” of Lebanese history
Irony and Ignorance.
I want to fix the world
But I was never the handy man;
I once broke my mother’s phone
Trying to wipe the screen;
And frankly,
I don’t really know what’s wrong with it.
I want to patch my mother’s heart.
The bullet in her son’s temple
Burnt a hole in her arteries,
So every time she inhales
She could taste the lead
Between her husband’s eyes;
Because before the stars collapsed
They were just scanning the shelves for skimmed milk;
His daughter suffered from diabetes,
And before the sun exploded
At the bend of a thumb
She was hanging from his arms,
Jane trying to swing her way
But in this movie
She never meets Tarzan.
His daughter was only 3.
A car bomb
Can conflagrate
From 9,000 up to 27,000 feet per second
Both are multiples of 3.
A wired van
Can carry up to 12,000 pounds
Of explosives
Also a multiple of 3.
On her 3rd birthday
She blew 3 candles,
And 3 candles were lit-
Every night,
In between the white roses-
Over her grave.
I want to breathe
Burning tires,
I want to bask
In blood,
I want to think
In exchange rates,
I want to feel numb;
If this is the only way…
Is this the only way
To survive?
Jun 24, 2014
Jun 24, 2014 at 6:49 AM UTC
Anxiety is when the world around you gyrates
Depression is when it stands still
Wanting so badly to reach for the stars
Knowing you never will
Depression is more than a feeling
It's a ship sinking in the ocean of you
Always being told that you're worth it
But knowing it isn't true.
Depression is "it's okay"
Anxiety is "I'm fine"
Depression is a wound that just doesn't heal with time
And mixing the two together
Is a cocktail of explosives
Depression is absolute stillness
While anxiety is motion
How can the world be spinning
When my world is standing still
I've never understood it
Perhaps I never will.
Dec 18, 2014
Dec 18, 2014 at 2:19 PM UTC
You know
they say that
you should be careful
of the
things that fly out of your mouth,
because you never know
how how it might land.
Just like
how airplanes
try to land on
gusty airports,
trying to
land on the tarmac.
There are chances that it might
just instead of landing
like a kiss of a woman on
the lips of a man she loves,
their teeth and nose get in the way.
Your words,
can land improperly
the airplanes that carry the best of feelings,
turn into dynamites.
Exploding violently.
Misguided missiles
that does nothing but destroy,
just like how the army promised us,
that this will bring us happiness and safety,
but
only at the cost of the nation its bombing,
leaving its soil,
turmoiled,
disfigured,
and produces nothing
But
radioactive plants,
we have come up
with a classification for it,
we call it
insecurities.
So don't ask me if I'm ok,
if you did nothing but
toss explosives at my feelings
cause clearly
I'm destroyed.
So no,
I'm not ok.
You
cannot stitch
tofu
back together,
after being sliced into two.
That
a sorry
will not be a substitute
for superglue,
using it to stick back
broken pieces of me.
So remember this,
that
the next time
you release statements
words,
phrases,
that you have the
power
disintegrate
the person receiving them.
Sep 23, 2015
Sep 23, 2015 at 11:42 PM UTC
Stick straight trees line hills, their arrangement phony
less than 5,000 feet in elevation but elevating humanity for over
sixty thousand.
For more than sixty thousand human beings,
think of fish stuck, are stampeded by shiny black
blocks of detonation.
Explosion for extraction, and teeny tiny port-o-potties
sit, enjoying relaxation where an ecosystem once
enjoyed rehabilitation after March.
We Marched on, up a gravel hill where wind
blew but we bolted our boots to the soil.
Sunglass-clad woman concealed her hurt eyes,
but her voice hurt enough to inspire a kind of
throat retching sensation.
***** up that black, ooey-gooey you old, weathered mountain top.
Explosives like a firm finger shoved down the throat
denote a rock spew; regurgitate and repeat a dozen times over.
Flatten and deform, never to reform
the water-giving, life-renewing, shady shelter, stable
stool, magic majesty of my mountain.
Mar 8, 2014
Mar 8, 2014 at 7:08 PM UTC
Light steps sound from the basement stairs.
A case of home brewed liquor in his father’s hands.
Bizarre, cancerous bulges from cap to bottom.
Plastic explosives from corrosive neglect from stow-away rooms
in white neighborhoods.
His father with a bronze idea, all of them with a destructive mind
A twenty-two saloon rifle bottled up too,
like a maniac gone off his reds and blues,
ready to fire out
with remorseless recoil.
High octane, high explosive, high art.
Cartridge clicks into the chamber.
Son like father, his aim is true.
Like twelve year olds with cherry bombs
we blast a hole right through.
******* boom! Rancid swill rain
staining the biting bright snow
Jan 9, 2014
Jan 9, 2014 at 12:42 AM UTC
The world is flat
That's what they told me
...and I always take people at their word
Nice people like at The Acme Company
always believing what they say
I am a gullible fool
to trust, to love, to hope
to get ground down that way
I cower
I yelp when kicked
Running, madly
scramble over edge of ice
(New concept of Antarctica)
Missed the sign
for The Acme Map Company
and that dead end
Loaded down with Acme Explosives
Cartoon coyote
Always sees “that painted tunnel”
as possible place to hide
Inexplicably
shows up again--
just a little fried
smoke rising from my scalp
small white flag in hand
says, “HELP”
Scramble over that ledge of melting ice
and crumbling shame
Clinging by my fingertips
You'd think something would finally do me in
Me and "Wile E. Coyote-- Genius"
________
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=j8eP0ntOJ1U
Wile E. Coyote and the Road Runner are classic cartoon characters that date back to 1949. They've been popular ever since. I think the sound effects, music, and the timing of the animators are elements that make them so good. Their expressions just **** me.
Dec 30, 2017
Dec 30, 2017 at 8:01 PM UTC
Deep in the backwoods of the Knoxville antique,
The black marble sky growls,
A panther,
To outsiders—those inside city limits—
The vanishing streetlights and,
Absence of neighbors,
May put them on extra alert but,
Here,
The panther’s like a friend
Watching over us
All day long me and my cousins,
Waited,
For the whispers of night to cover us,
In the last few hours before Independence Day drifted
Off for another year,
We broke out the rockets:
Nine-packs,
Missiles,
Roman Candles,
Sparklers,
Big and small,
The show was about to begin
Darting away,
From explosives right before launch,
Cracking up till
Our lungs hurt,
Bouncing on,
The backyard trampoline—
(I think I got punched in the eye that night
by accident)—
Playing with the border collie named Shadow,
We were frozen in a dream,
No person could break up this night,
Running without legs from parents’ rules,
And from mysterious police,
Hoping that Shadow wouldn’t go
Nuts,
Hurt someone
We were all—parents and cousins—
Drinking
In the elixir of freedom,
Caught in the secret
Between
The night and the countryside
Sep 17, 2021
Sep 17, 2021 at 12:16 PM UTC
More than mire lips and hips
A woman being her own crook
All you have to do is take a look
They don’t call her Madam Dynamite for nothing
She uses explosives to break in
Being thief on the signal of can
Madam Dynamite moves ever so firmly in the female style
All this during crime waves in while
Madam Dynamite name is a sight to behold
There are many stories that have been told
Explosions upon explosions with name engraved “Madam Dynamite”
However for justice to solve, it has become a plight
Yet all the crime waves all occurred at night
Darkness in the black
Justice in battle being in the middle of smack
Madam Dynamite ready to explode
Justice is carrying quite a heavy lot
Yet Justice will prevail and this I have been told
Until next time, try not to explode.
Aug 21, 2014
Aug 21, 2014 at 7:01 PM UTC
what is life about?
sometimes it's impossible not to doubt
and what of those who sell
their souls to dwellers in hell?
we grow up defining right and wrong
their words almost a prayer song
there comes a time when we no longer believe
the ingrained reasons there for delusional relief
why are we so afraid
to declare past stereotypes dead?
we know we shouldn't question
things such as religion
it's natural to just accept
and yes, we've done just that
but are opinions from different perspectives
really as deadly as explosives?
is heaven really in existence
or a lie to forbid any resistance?
we realize much more as we grow
the things we shouldn't even want to know
they say we're here for a purpose
are you sure life isn't but a repetitive curse?
maybe the stars making up the constellation
are souls who have failed in reincarnation
perhaps only those closer to death—
those who are left without breath
maybe they know every answer
the answers to the things we wonder
they merely have no time
to repent for their mediocre yet grave crime—
this world holds an endless grudge
especially towards those who judge
so why are they hiding the truths
hiding them from next generation's youths?
- - -
Aug 16, 2013
Aug 16, 2013 at 3:54 AM UTC
*can you see the whole
of Michelangelo's David
see the creation of it
see its beauty?*
1
how awkward
David's genitals,
the authorities decided,
and so covered it with
a garland of
copper leaves
twenty-eight counted
2
and still today people
cannot stand David's genitals
for they look at it open-mouthed
and look away swiftly
shy and embarrassed
with guilt in their hearts
and dust in their eyes
3
but the holy of course
those holy ones
and prim and proper and so moral
all the holy
so blessed and destined to go to Heaven
and enter they will
without genitals surely
and the holy, holy
they speak of profanity
and of the unholy ****
and curse and swear and vow damnation
and if possible
they'd happily put explosives
particularly in David's genitals
like they dynamited the Buddhas of Bamyan
for it's all the same holy intolerance
*can you see the whole
of Michelangelo's David
see the creation of it
see its beauty?*
Oct 17, 2010
Oct 17, 2010 at 2:26 AM UTC
There was always at least five feet between us. It was actually a good thing in the preliminary stage. We could lock eyes without the urgent need to look away too soon. The intensity was containable in those five feet.
(speaks very fast) And then my stupid self went around and quickly covered four of those five feet. It is the laws of mitotic cell division god ****** You do not grow four feet in a day. You grow inch by inch, centimeter by centimeter. Ask him about that literature assignment. Shakespeare is responsible for excess glutton in today’s pick up lines. Wait for your friends to dare him to kiss you on a Truth and Dare. Wait for him to want to. Then, tell him, maybe, I like you.
That, in that one foot perimeter, I could see golden flakes in the circles of his eyes when clearly they are brown should have been the first sign that it was a bad idea. Five feet was our perimeter. Five feet was where we stopped. (points to own body) Five feet is where I stop.
For, I will never be anyone else but me. I will never experience, firsthand at least, what it is like to be a lanky six footer who hunches because she doesn't know what to do with her body. Or her exhilaration when she finds the basketball court. I will never experience being the Egyptian boy who has a chemistry counter in his kitchen, who asks his maid to buy him potassium nitrate. I won't know what it is like to be his maid who almost got arrested for asking to buy potassium nitrate (a component of explosives) in Egypt. I shall never experience courting like the characters in a Jane Austen novel. And how nice it must feel, feeling beautiful.
And I will never ever experience, what it is like to be his girlfriend.
Apr 19, 2014
Apr 19, 2014 at 9:03 AM UTC
i think i will survive if i can wait a little more
i'll wait until
the last of you is walking
out the
door
the hours have been good to me
the miles
make it
clear
that life can still be beautiful
without you being
here
it's when i press my lips to yours
that everything
returns
and opens up a world with an intensity that
burns
enough with the explosives
i don't want them
anymore
the back of you in front of me, i'll run to close the door
Feb 3, 2015
Feb 3, 2015 at 9:22 AM UTC
boys lips are never like yours,
darling.
yours are two peach slices, with a
pop rock in the center.
sizzle, fizzle, dissolve.
fireworks, explosives in our mouths
till the comets reach our eyelids.
boys lips are never like yours,
darling.
their tongues throttle,
yours the snake between the bushes.
teeth unfurnished,
yours insatiable.
boys lips are never like yours,
darling.
yours are the candy that i’ll chew
until i’m sick.
Oct 20, 2013
Oct 20, 2013 at 11:46 PM UTC