"fizzles" poems
this is where i sit like stone,
knowing soon it shall be over,
all balled up and all alone,
wreathed in sickly crimson clover;
in a corner cold and stark,
where the pressure chokes my chest,
my mind's eye fizzles into dark,
i cannot eat nor find sweet rest.
i no longer see the pathways,
where i have strolled past fields of pain,
cloaked in shadowed sunless days,
walking weary in the chilling rains;
of torrid teardrops that always fail to fall,
stuck inside behind my bloodshot eyes,
between sight and dreams i scarce recall,
haunted by the sounds of ghostly cries.
i no longer feel the passions,
i had once did cling,
for there no longer comes a need to rise,
or open my mouth to sing.
____
I sit:
http://beautyineverything.com/175543419
Oct 17, 2010
Oct 17, 2010 at 7:23 PM UTC
Through the hourglass
Time flows freely every minute
Precious moments in each grain of sand
Try to hold them in your palms
And it slowly fizzles away
Sep 12, 2014
Sep 12, 2014 at 7:44 AM UTC
I want to write something deep and poetic
About the fireworks I saw.
But all I can come up with
Is the physical attributes—
The seeing that I did,
The hearing that I did,
The feeling that I did,
The experiencing that I did.
Red comets shot upward
In a slight arcing path
To explode in brilliant light
And rain down upon the spectators.
There’s a hush of anticipation in the audience
Between the moment they notice
The curling smoke trail,
The breathtaking visual display,
And the slightly delayed KERPOW
As the firework’s sound
Finally makes its way through the air.
Each exploding fragment
Fizzles through the air with a quiet hissing,
Competing with the screeching
Of the next firework going up.
It’s almost kind of sad:
Each firework aims for the sky,
Reaches as high as it can go,
Leaving behind bits of itself as it does so,
But hits some invisible ceiling—
Some fireworks’ ceilings
Are higher than others—
And that is their maximum.
They can take no more,
They cannot reach the sky,
They cannot reach the stars,
They cannot reach their brethren,
And so they explode in their sadness or anger;
But in doing so,
They light the way for others.
Jul 18, 2014
Jul 18, 2014 at 3:08 PM UTC
after five years
when I write her a love poem,
she is always surprised,
her unexpectation
so very pleases me.
after five years
when I write her a love poem,
I am always surprised,
that a new way to say it,
uncovered.
but this I can tell you,
not once
do I ever write
nor will I ever pen
those I love you words.
they are too easy, too cheap,
a dime a dozen,
naked words make me weep,
dress 'em, cloak 'em, try to
Pradip 'em in
mystery, charming humor,
use conjuring spells of
Bala imagery unreal,
Bzynga!
work hard to tell her why,
work hard to guard your originality,
work hard to tell her in ways
that her into me
smiling, crying, punching.
so I write love poems,
every now and then,
special ways recalled,
teasing her about her forgetfulness,
about her teasing me with rhyming
that is less than spectacular,
how my body has
reshaped itself to fit her.
tell her
I love you,
plain,
well that be downright,
pffft.
(an interjection used to express or indicate
a dying or fizzling out)
the key is to tell her
in a fashion original,
personal to us.
that what all these endless
love poems here strive,
but too oft, fail to arrive.
all tricked up, too direct,
passion burnt used up
after but a single read
stroke her cheek
with soft stanzas,
torrential directness,
no subtly,
fizzles.
write for the long haul,
words that five years hence,
words that five hundred years hence,
make her into me
smiling, crying, punching,
like the first time
she read them,
like they did
five years ago.
Jan 9, 2014
Jan 9, 2014 at 10:04 PM UTC
now I’m haunted by all these holes found in my armor
and if my heart beats any harder I will lose it
well congratulations, I didn’t know
you two had made things so official
just don’t call me when it fizzles
in fact, don’t call me at all.
Oct 26, 2014
Oct 26, 2014 at 2:03 PM UTC
poisoned well of the antichrist littered with ground cover
picking out ****** flecks of gravel
blacktop kneeskin
patience pieces of scattered space time
to go back to the future of continuity
lack of genius ingenuity
and the suckling of the pig entourage
riding in a flat top hatchback
cadillac of the daily grind
upperclassman japan onii-chan
brother in arms from anotha motha
hug from afar colliding with crackpot theory
terrible fantasia cooling bricks in soggy sun
swallowed his pride with a glass of self-worth
and these ***** don't cook like they used to
I don't look like I used to
warped veil of camouflage chameleon leather
with a ****** level of automobile salesman
tried to get closer to god
ground him up, picked out the stems
twisted him into thin paper
touched flame to his finger tip and a son of Adam was born
gum shoe gaze
or the emptiness felt at the end of reasonable doubt
correctional text messaging system
sent from hoarse corpses
tenderly poignant in their ****** coffins
will think for food
cries from an outdated MENSA
over ***** and under-appreciated
siting on hunched shoulders to get a better look
to be a martian in a plain port
wharf warehouse whaling boat
red tide in a Shanghai **********
floodgates made of bitter premise
that last bit of purple yam
**** Okonkwo
Things Fall Apart fell apart due to faded highschool ambitions and bloodshot eyes
cruel like the shade of off-cerulean
champagne fizz tickles at the soft meat of his tarnished throat
and silver tongue
as the matchstick framework
so fragile in comparison
fizzles out on drenched sidewalk
while cigarette ash floats by
like gray gnats
May 30, 2013
May 30, 2013 at 4:03 PM UTC
Bacon sizzles
*** fizzles out
Bacon comforts
Relationships cause discomfort.
Oct 23, 2014
Oct 23, 2014 at 7:14 AM UTC
She’s been put together;
spattered with
handfuls of shiny warning labels that
no one ever took the time to read,
only to reside in a lonely wooden box—
sheltered, still, and safe.
Living unlit and knowing nothing but patience,
she’s unaware of all the wonderment
that resides just beneath her own surface.
When the box finally opens,
she’s handled carefully
by strong, gentle hands that recognize
all of her treacherous potential.
She doesn’t flinch,
when those trusted fingers
strike the match
to light her fuse.
She doesn’t fret
when the heat catalyzes
a chemical reaction—
one far beyond her control.
She only sings
when her own jolt sends her rocketing
a hundred feet into the night sky.
And when she can’t stand the pressure
any longer
she swallows what pride she has left
and explodes—
a million strands of glittering fire
decorating the dark, ominous unknown.
Just for a moment, she hopes
she’s the most beautiful thing
those hands have ever touched.
But as she fizzles out into a small cloud
of smoke and something that once was,
she accepts her purpose
as the short-lived,
soon forgotten,
spectacularly unsuspected
good time.
Feb 18, 2016
Feb 18, 2016 at 1:02 PM UTC
A picture of serenity
a reflection of divinity
a clear sense
beneath blue sky
as the birds dive
take a flight high
a space in matter
a few words in a letter
a nervous energy
fizzles out
gather and revolve
a freedom so poised
all fall in right places
the nature blooms
to the elegance
inspiring a change
that spirals to a pleasant vision
Mar 27, 2019
Mar 27, 2019 at 1:20 PM UTC
pulse of 80s music
conversation
swirls
between drinks
bubbles rolling
under
the tongue
bank holiday getaway
beermats
not getting any younger
doesn’t mean
you have to feel older
people
stream in
shadows pour
across the floor
names that haven’t spilt
from my lips
for years
and you wonder how long
the puddle will last
names scribbled
by a dartboard
the faint
clunk
of potted pool *****
dialogue fizzles
like tablets
in water
voices
dripping
coming then going
wilt into
the cool spring night
Apr 17, 2016
Apr 17, 2016 at 11:15 AM UTC
I slurp down
a salty golden liquid
full of lacerated noodles and flakes
which glisten in their own yellowed oil spill.
I tip the bowl to my mouth
and it fills my stomach from the bottom.
She's made it just for me,
just in time for my despair
although she didn't know that
when she made it.
I'm sick!
I tell her.
I was.
Fever, achy joints,
pits of nausea, and silicone pain,
the works.
I'm getting better.
there is just a dull ache left
but I am still sick
in the head.
A head where plays
a tug of war between
anguish with a goofy hat
and comedy with a noose.
My body gets dragged along with
my chemical eruptions
both biological
and habit-forming,
and my body grows tired.
The soup goes down quick;
the main course after leftovers from lunch.
And all of it fizzles in my belly.
A cigarette might help all of it a little.
Except for the despair.
The soup is for my despair.
Nov 18, 2018
Nov 18, 2018 at 2:14 PM UTC
Drinking her is a terrible experience
The furious fizz fizzles on your tounge, insisting on its existence in your mouth
The facade of fun from the fucia bottle flickers,
leaving you with clear liquid suffering
It flagrantly fizzes around your mouth, flicking your tastebuds.
It’s funny she says.
Then the facade of fizz fizzles,
You taste hatred
A bitter thirst.
An acrid stench of fear, inflicted on others
An unrelenting
Slog
Of equal suffering.
I do not know who made fizzy water,
but i would like to have a chat.
May 10, 2021
May 10, 2021 at 12:55 PM UTC
King Rat gnawed at the piece of wood for to bite and dine!
God's pure name was inscribed upon the battered sign,
But King Rat continued to snack like it was the flesh of freshly caught cod,
What was this then, maybe Rat was God?
Aha, oh no, but along came slinky Mistress Cat!
So quick and nimble was she, up she snapped and gobbled up fat King Rat,
She licked her lips upon a fallen slab of greasy salty lard,
What was this then, maybe Mistress Cat was God?
Aha, oh no, but along came faithful Master Dog!
Away he chased crafty Mistress Cat into the swampy mired bog,
Hardworking Master Dog surveyed his domain and his tail stood up to attention like a rigid rod,
What was this then, maybe Master Dog was God?
Aha, oh no, but along came Chief Wolf!
He bites and shakes hard into the collar of Master Dog, the neck tears like fleecy wool,
Blood ran down Chief Wolf's chin and he smiled with victory as he sat down by the warm coal road,
What was this then, maybe Chief Wolf was God?
Aha, oh no, but along came the Queen of Fire!
Into Chief Wolf she passionately burns, into ashes was he burnt upon her sultry bed of burning pyre,
The gleaming Queen of Fire burned with glowing glory, there was red life yet in her pulsating bud,
What was this then, maybe the Queen of Fire was God?
Aha, oh no, but along came a river of Mighty Water!
The fiery Queen of Fire hisses and fizzles and soon she is nothing more than steam, all slaughtered,
Mighty Water flows vast and rampant, he rules his oceanic valley just like a pea in a pod,
What was then, maybe Mighty Water was God?
Aha, oh no, but along came a pure-hearted Man!
Very thirsty was he and so away he gulps and guzzles the Mighty Water in the glen,
He channels the Mighty Water to quench his dry farmlands, this was indeed a smart farming lad,
What was this then, maybe Man was God?
Aha, oh no, but along went the Man licking a ripe red cherry ****
Into the hallowed building of prayer he does go and gently picks up the Rat bitten name of God,
Down falls the Man upon his knees, he prays, he bows, he silently nods, he wishes his soul was resting in the blissful garden of his beloved God,
What was this then? Maybe...
*God
IS
God!*
©Rangzeb Hussain
Mar 10, 2010
Mar 10, 2010 at 11:08 PM UTC
this love is now & new & once again
stabbing @ me like durga-like diety
with sweet golden daggers
an essential togetherness
teasing out of these odd surroundings
I was listening to Jack Kerouac on the way
home in his mad
bop rhapsody apocalypse
streaming out my speakers
while familiar streets crawl past
once again
I'm thinking
as the day old glum spread over me
& out to envelop all I see
how little different to be watching
seeing street signs all opening
into cul-de-sacs and open storefronts
paraded in the endless traffic flow
now bent slow over
feeding my cat crab cakes
that my mother made
myow myow, he goes
& I acknowledge
myow myow, he goes
& I answer
what?
what in god's name is
the matter with you?
myow myow
his solemn reply
licking @ a piece of
exposed claw meat
nestled among old bits
of dry brown kibble
how about this soul?
how about this life?
this sickness?
how about this always seeking I?
how about he music of my mind
in untraceable car rides alone?
wherefore to I wander
ceaselessly in search of what
wonders where I might be
born on the road of least descent
cat paws, grabs @ bottle caps on
grained wood table
my media
fizzles & searchlights
in my window
there is something I'm not facing
something inescapable, my love
like you
born of locusts in the dust, my love
like you
my weary dune-mother
how solemn are the tunes that run
thy face, o' mother and thy will
how broken are the lines upon thine
shining brow in bedroom windows
open to the world like peace
stolen in the sad glance I gaze @ everything
stolen is the cup I fill @ leaking kitchen
sink pipe strands of scent or bark
of neighbor dogs amusing grass flow
weather flowers under well I'm never
knowing what--I never will
no matter, all is well
another's all is nothing now
where knock goes streaming
crashing loud
like anvils in the rain
it's only me
how now, my dear contender?
like a shadow fallen into sound
how now the planets unwatered?
how now the roots are killed?
we all inhabit the same fears
how rabbit hides his smear
to give me a surprise
for me, none so dear
than the mystery
& April dies today
May 17, 2016
May 17, 2016 at 1:54 AM UTC
I find myself in a reality thoroughly mired;
Hard wired to this dire strait of a habit: to remain inactive;
Actively, though, I find myself being rendered blunt,
Thoroughly ineffective.
Effectively seeing my being contorted into shapes ignoble;
Progressively rendered moot,
Thwarted by my avante garde a la feeble.
And as I face that reality, really all I want to do is
Relay these reverberations that
Go thump! thump! whenever we meet;
Convey these fizzles that turn my stomach outside and in
Whenever we share an embrace to greet.
Can I rely on my grammar to share my emotions?
Or are her stories old news now?
I guess what I'm saying is:
Can I speak?
Can I, nay, may I deliver my formal interjection?
That my emotion towards you is still a subject;
That I'm hoping in my heart that the idea of "us" does not
Come across as abject;
Or imitate a noun and become an idea that is abstract?
Because what I'm going for here is for our souls to find contact;
And as I fill these blank spaces with hope;
What I hope most for,
Is that my sincerity really comes to the fore;
That you understand that I'm not here selling dreams and lifestyles;
But rather that I want to bring them to life before your eyes.
So can I speak?
Can I tell you of the hope you carry?
Can I tell you of the joy you bring?
Can I speak? Tell you everything?
If not, can I at least tell you
How crazy you drive this thing? (point to heart)
Aug 3, 2012
Aug 3, 2012 at 11:46 AM UTC
Don't ever let me go
We sing surrounded by roses
Candle light waltzes
But who's at fault
It fizzles away, baby
Nothing gold can stay
Winter melts to May
And candles waltz
Pricked by the roses
Picked by the boy
And then it melts away
And it just goes away
Jun 14, 2021
Jun 14, 2021 at 12:06 AM UTC
We met and killed a lot of time
Filling the hollows that we bore
Stars illuminating on dense fields
Braveness of the unshakable bricks
Moved seats across as we shift space
Sifting veins of the millisecond zones
The fingers of the clock tick and flick
The noses milked, squeezed tickles
A weaved tangle, the drawn fizzles
Unbridled and bottled even cases
Tormented 'cancers' ruling the mazes
A concern of indifference capture tides
A highway farewell, the rounded kiss
Bemused music, contemplation narrowed
The misunderstood steam boil in vapour
A massive endorsement of fumes cut the cord.
Apr 1, 2016
Apr 1, 2016 at 9:32 AM UTC
I want to craft something unique and timeless.
Unfortunately the words do not present themselves organically.
So I look to my wandering thoughts for a sense of purpose;
to discover a catalyst and explode in a burst of creativity.
With fizzles echoing from the hollowness within me;
the empty space where hobbies and passions live.
Sought time and again, to give meaning and purpose to a life as a cog in society's machine.
Perhaps I am wasting the very time I am trying to enrich seeking a dream.
When it comes to finite resources, our concept of time is fickle and dubious.
As it often will, perception steps to the top of the hierarchy of attention.
Time management is a killer sound byte, though an illusive skill, and not often thought of outside of the office.
Grasping at the moment I cannot help but find myself wondering through the fog of the future.
I fear sitting back when I am older and looking upon a life not lived.
That the time needed to discover what I want will slip through my fingers, and the void will remain indefinitely.
Dreams are hard to fathom in a shroud of controlling darkness beyond your control.
The ever looming need to survive suffocates every orifice without mercy.
The rock and hard place of playing victim and being one by consequence of existing may as well go by “my humble abode.”
Pressure mounts with each tick, and tok - still I throw words at the page.
Waiting for the catharsis to cast itself out of my chest, violently;
for the words to fall into place like sand counting seconds encased in glass.
Oct 29, 2021
Oct 29, 2021 at 2:04 AM UTC
Here i Lie:
Disconsolate
Discouraged
Worn down to nothing like the teeth of the Pharaohs-
the resilient, tiny grains of sand contaminating their food, interminable grinding of bone
like defeat, rejection, failure endlessly chipping away at and disintegrating the substance of my soul.
Is there hope?
There always is,
but its once-bright warm caress of light
has faded to almost nothing,
the last minuscule bit of candle wick
now fizzles out, its dying breath a trail of swirling black smoke,
oily,
fragrant,
Gone.
Sep 25, 2010
Sep 25, 2010 at 11:17 AM UTC
All these cute ******* couples.
With their tumblr pictures and their radiating love.
All these ******* adorable young lovers with their innocent hearts,
Not even possibly being able to think about heart break.
Oh how they make my blood boil.
My taped up heart stands there, waiting to be torn down again,
While they kiss on camera.
My blood fizzles, My bones crack and My eyes ache for a lover.
My heart left empty, Lots of cute boys but none for me.
Those adorable ******* couples make me ache for a good heart break.
Sep 16, 2015
Sep 16, 2015 at 10:16 PM UTC
torn flower pettles
engulf the vastness,
devoid of time and reality,
of the growing distance.
a floral bath
doused in flourescence.
the white lilies
that signify a grave.
your charred corpse,
a bloated bag,
floats in a putrefying stasis.
only half a daisy-boy beauty.
the water fizzles
into acid. the hyacinths wither
into amorphous globules.
gap tooth dissolves.
Jul 29, 2018
Jul 29, 2018 at 1:07 PM UTC
oh, you are the seasons;
shifting beauty
in a single
scene.
you are a heartbeat
whose rhythm holds
the north sea
in pulsing hands.
you move in clock ticks and
wave crash,
and everything else.
let me move through your in-betweens.
oh, you contain star fields
my love,
with such delicate
incandescence.
bury me in your
baby glow and
trembling voice
while we kiss to
the midnight saxophone song -
I hear no music
only muffled silence
on record players.
we are old movies with no words.
and oh, you are the leaves
of autumn, dear.
so breathtaking yet
slight.
let me make my bed
in your arms
full of flowers and little birds
or the old books
you've never read.
we will make love until
heaven fizzles out;
beginning again every day
in seasons.
Oct 17, 2016
Oct 17, 2016 at 8:10 AM UTC
It's not easy being human.
People make mountains out of mole hills,
But then again, what's a mole hill to someone is a volcano to someone else.
It's not easy being human.
We were created to be flawed,
To make mistakes, to fall, to break and to mess up as badly as we can.
We were created to get back up, wipe away the mistakes and start over again.
It's not easy being human,
We bottle up our feelings and then hope that it all fizzles out somehow,
We speak about honesty and then we lie and cheat to get our own way.
It's not easy being human.
We are all drama queens, we make mountains out of mole hills,
We sometimes forget the keys to our happiness in someone else's pocket and forget where we hid the spare!
We ***** up, we fall down and break into a billion pieces,
In the end, we glue ourselves back together and walk toward the next adventure,
It's not easy being human,
We were created to be flawed after-all.
Feb 9, 2015
Feb 9, 2015 at 5:28 PM UTC
bathtub overflowing, the kitchen sink a-running,
water water everywhere, everybody, getting a wordy
Saturday po-em, ahem, so only, lonely, love poetry,
high pitches, whimpering, like a three year old chillun,
why not me babe? why not me babe?
words uttered somewhere, everywhere, hourly,
maybe even screamed, sung, shouted outed,
with total justification, incredulous incomprehension,
my ticket unpunched, this fate, an indeterminate sentence,
if only I had a penny for every utterance, be a multi-billionaire
and still dissatisfied
*the isolation au courant makes it a thousand times worse,
sometimes, I hold my own hand, remembering what is touch,
just not to forget, like a lazy eye, a missing limb needy for
scratching, a sensating, sustaining pleasure that sorely
disappoints, for the brilliance of it, is in its eclectic electric,
and a solitary spark fizzles, swallowed up, into disappointing reveries
my eyes wet themselves when I see letters airbone, floating, reforming,
why not me babe?
if mine eyes cannot catch another’s, no across-the-room thermometer saturating stare of farenheightened heat, what good this vision?
left with a single despicable desperate cri du to my conurbation,
why not me babe?
my banana bread aroma flies out the open window to meet
and be greeted across the street, with applause and affection,
but our nostrils cannot taste, our lips forbidden, in this hell,
why not me babe?
the quietude so great, I hear the rhythmic breathing of one who
could be my chosen, my one and only, my love poem, exhaling too,
why not me babe?
but the see-through curtain prohibits strangers exchanging ****** fluids, glances of possibility, and enraged, unengaged, smash all my mirrors, cause they don’t answer my question,
why not me babe?
it’s a reverberated echoing, a slap across my face, married to my cryout, a singular sensation of exasperated silence*
pick up my brass decorative magnifying glass, with twisted ivory handle, examine my hands, my lips, my nose, my credit scores, my personal spaces, my declining weight and bank balance, each excuse, belief,
the white spots decorating my sticking out tongue, thinking there’s another sense I’m forgetting, but all I recall is,
why not me babe? why not me babe?
and that is why only love poetry did not get a love poem today...
May 16, 2020
May 16, 2020 at 11:00 AM UTC
nothing new here
lollygagging
sunshine feebly
sneaks across feet
tangled duvet
xylophone of toes
bubbles in lemonade
form a circle
drink fizzles
like the death of a firework
four high heels
foxtrot upon floorboards
rainbow notes to one another
spread out as dolly mixtures
on a table
strewn in coffee mug stains
resemble sets of braces
crumbs on a sofa
white socks on the radiator
shrivel and dry
shave but leave
barbed-wire stubble
in the sink by accident
fingerprints
a translucent vine
on the shower door
mine or yours
skin turns lychee-pink
rare fossils
earrings sparkle under a lamp
making pancakes
your specialty
let my fingers blizzard
over every part
I haven’t found yet
chuck the ugly bits of me
out the window
get whipped up
in your hurricane
speak your name
Oct 3, 2014
Oct 3, 2014 at 9:11 AM UTC