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Bryan Lunsford Apr 2018
Every once in a while you mix gasoline with fire,
Just to see what happens, like you and me in our love-filled desires,
With your body's heat, and the curves that sit within your attire,
I touch your skin where I feel my heart get set on fire,
As it's with fuming fuels within your eyes that tell me you are far from tired,
We kiss as that sparks a flame like a match or a lighter,
And creates a firestorm that can be put out by no firefighter,
With our love that is like mixing gasoline with fire
Karina Rose Mar 2012
A mouth full of gasoline + a match stick for a heart, she whispers to him nice and low set me on fire

She’s willing to stare disaster in it’s Eager eyes.
She wouldn’t dream of running before her Time with him is Up.

With his Arms like Alcohol, she can’t help but feel Altered when they are around her.

With his Body like running Water, she’s as good as Drown.

With his Smile like Oxygen, she’s not Gasping for Air just yet.

With his face like a love song, too bad she’s never been know to carry a tune.

With a matchstick between her lips + her heart of gasoline she waits for her moment
to set him on fire.
I dedicate this poem to all the attractive men I have ever seen :)
Elizabeth Zenk Nov 2018
the drip drip drop
of my leaking love
the tune of emptying emotions.
the longing in my heart,
the lonely in my chest,
spilling into a solemn lake beneath me.
like gasoline, it sits cool,
nothing
seems to
happen,
but as soon as that puddle sparks
i can feel myself burning ablaze.
the drip drip drop
of my melting, burning love
the cackle of a lost battle.
the cackle
the crackle
of a fierce raging fire
Morrie W S Apr 14
if i
     could still dream
without thinking of them

if i could recall
      my nightmares
in anything a't'all__
.if i could feel less

       i absolutely would

but ev'r'mornin
doth i recall
the mirror and our
youngest faces


the **** goes off
          the shot goes off

if i had but a single dream
reflected on the television screen--
mayhaps eight i was.

    the explosions i cannot recall
but the dreams remain  the the the

towers fall.

              would that i could
               evacuate this path


              how can i be anything?
Canis Latrans Feb 21
The graphite colored smoke, that rose from your charcoal covered body, in billows of silver.
The ferocious orange and yellow flames, that dance at the thought of bringing your bones into the sun.
The smell.
Sandalwood and gasoline.
she remains anon Nov 2018
I am a candle in the wind,
faltering.
Yearn to set it all aflame,
pour yourself upon me, gasoline.
King Panda Aug 2017
god meets
mystic: the
swing of winter
and lakes frozen
over.

god meets
Judeo-Christian sinner
whose eyes sought
lead along the lake’s
shore.

heavy.
heavy.

god meets sin:
a welding of
metallic vines and
out of tune music.

god meets underwater
Vulcan as he swallows
a laugh. gasoline
tops the lid
of the lake.

god meets the
fire that wicks the surface
until the body bubbles.
I was
no fool                        
and here
my favor
was one
that overcame
a voice
of salacious
mold and
might throttle
my goad
and too
berserk with
her bare
in this
fold with
Carroll Stream

that extreme
today in
Carol Stream
there was
the cold
went to
bed with
a sweater
just to
wake a
buddy in
Claremont weather
that a
whiplash tomorrow
made best
picture in
ole  LA
Suburban Chicago
CataclysticEvent Dec 2018
Like gasoline and a lit match.
We burn alive.
First in orange and yellow.
Then blues and purples.
Until all that is left
Of me
You
Us.

Is a pile of grey ash.
Swiftly swept away,
With the wind.
Just like that
Gone.

~TMH
Lyrical Dream Sep 24
It's ironic, isn't it,

how the heart's gentle mascot,
the rose,
can make rubies pool in the creases of our flesh

or, how love itself can pluck the beat from our hearts until we are left numb to emotion

or, how we beg our heart to feel,
but when it does, we fill our souls with gasoline and choke matches down our voiceless throats,
hoping to make ashes of emotions that we fail to suppress?
Nat Lipstadt May 2013
For Al, who left us, Nov. 22, 2014

With each passing poem,
The degree of difficulty of diving ever higher,
Bar incrementally niched, inched, raised,
Domain, the association of words, ever lesser,
Repetition verboten, crime against pride.

Al,
You ask me when the words come:

With each passing year,
In the wee hours of
Ever diminishing time snatches,
The hours between midnight and rising,

Shrinkage, once six, now four hours,
Meant for body restoration,
Transpositional for poetic creation,
Only one body notes the new mark,
The digital, numerical clock of
Trillion hour sleep deficit, most taxing.

Al, you ask me from where do the words come:

Each of the five senses compete,
Pick me, Pick me, they shout,

The eyes see the tall grasses
Framing the ferry's to and fro life.
Waving bye bye to the
End of day harbor activities,
Putting your babies to sleep.

The ears hear the boat horns
Deep voiced, demanding pay attention,
I am now docking, I am important,
The sound lingers, long after
They are no longer important.

The tongue tastes the cooling
Italian prosecco merging victoriously
With its ally, the modestly warming rays
Of a September setting sun,
finally declaring, without stuttering,
Peace on Earth.

The odoriferous bay breezes,
A new for that second only smell,
But yet, very old bartender's recipe,
Salt, cooking oil, barbecue sauce, gasoline
And the winning new ingredient, freshly minted,
Stacked in ascending circumference order, onion rings.

These four senses all recombinant,
On the cheek, on the tongue,
Wafting, tickling, blasting, visioning
Merging into a single touch
That my pointer finger, by force majeure,
Declares, here, 
poem aborning!
Contract with this moment,
now satisfied!

Al,  what you did not ask was this:
With each passing poem,
I am lessened within, expurgated,
In a sense part of me, expunged,
Part of me, passing too,
Every poems birth diminishes me.
__________
(this poem more than most,
for its birth celebrates
my loss, your loss,
which cannot be exonerated 8/7/18)


__________
written at 4:38 AM
September 8th, 2012

Greenport Harbor, N.Y.
haley Oct 2017
The trail of a wedding dress
The flower girl holds with tiny fingers
Clutches

We too hold the endless stain of blood
On white t-shirts
On nights that scatter blue trees over black heart
Alight by shooting stars
The mother tells her child
Unwilling to unlock the truth

The truth
The truth those stars
Don't grant your wishes
They grab them
With scarred scratching hands.
Alight,

The damp stitches in the soil
Cemetery symmetrical to hospital
Those shooting stars circling
Like a vulture
Speeds towards dead carcasses
Still, the murdering star will not cease

To break bones
That have already broken
To take lives
That have already been taken
To burn
What is already charred

Today
It smells like not your favorite food for dinner
It smells like having to do your math homework
It smells like burning books
It smells like gnawing on your own skin for feast
It sounds like tired, howling machines
Spurring and sputtering, never-ending their onwards trek

Swallowing distances and with it, nameless faces
Nameless places
For nothing has gone without the occulent scratching hands taking hold

Today the earthquakes of death
Don't make the land shake anymore
For it has learned to cope
With the desolate cemeteries filled with mute bones

Today burns like gasoline
Looks like intestines decorating destroyed doors
Today it rains curdled crimson

Tell me shooting star
If the child liked  jam on his toast
Did he snore?
Did he like math? Or english?
Shooting star doesn't know and neither the bombs.

As bodies fall from trees
like rotten plums.

The world was born in blood
And has not ceased to suckle its wounds
Endless blood thirst, Endless war
But not endless skin to bleed
arian Nov 2018
I was there
Throwing matches on the bridge
Without lighting them up.
Thinking whether or not
I could handle the fact that
I wouldn't be able to cross over if I did.
But as the fog cleared up
I could clearly see you
On the other side,
Pouring gasoline.
"Burn," I said,
So we could dance
Near the fire
On the long, cold night.
D Awanis Oct 2016
Never thought I'd listen to Kodaline,
as I walk down the Memory Lane

Oh, Clementine
For when I was with you I've always been sane
You said you'd be at nine
But since you were no longer mine,
I spent all night with you in my mind
And glasses of champagne on my hand

Oh, Clementine
It's hard for me even to draw a line
Letting you go costs insanity I can't define
With countless loss of dopamine
But I guess if you're fine
I'd do my best not to intervene

Oh, Clementine
February 14th you're no longer my Valentine
Driving through the sreets I ran out of gasoline
But the time is due and I've come to the deadline
While sighing 'I'm done'
I know it's time for me to be gone
Laine Viv Oct 2014
One moment, you’ll start to realize
how much his touch could melt your skin,

and how his words bled
with empty promises

but could fill your soul,
starving for security, trying to fix the cracks.

And there will be agony,
but you’ll mistake it all for love.

One moment you’ll see yourself in his eyes—
lifeless—buried in tragedies, unable to escape

and there, you’ll stay.
Not in his life, but in his eyes,

burning with catastrophe;
there will be flames, devouring your insides

and you will mistake gasoline for your patience
chichee Jan 13
Every morning I die
a little death.
Bourbon-shot skies and
whiskey lies,
better stop making those
bedroom eyes,
'cause I might just take you
up on it darlin'.
I'm a little bit of pretty nonsense.
Rhyme and dine,
turn down the lights,
break our bodies into bread
and say our daily prayer
and ****** hope there's a god
for sinners.
Fire brings out the worst of us
and we're fucken gasoline.
You keep spittin' out that
serious talk saying
Everything has a price,
Well then kiss me
and let's bleed for it later,
the whole world's only
a cocktail darling.
Watched the sunrise today and thought of this- something impulsive.
Spenser Bennett Jan 2017
Sweep clean the system
Shards of glass and bullets bloom
Party's over, no survivors
Shredded red ties and silk pant suits
Will we cower in glass houses
Stained panes fell through these rooms
War bloomed in the fresh-flowered noon

Don't believe what you see
Truth hides in deceit
Patron saint of finest filigree
What is gold but an excuse for filling blood seas

Chop shop, our listless hearts
Power brokers in bulletproof cars
Build your walls, we'll take your streets
The first house to burn is the house of greed
Thankfully you sold your souls for gasoline

If this is the end of everything
I'll make sure it's beautiful and free
Like fire off the edge of an endless sea
And you'll be the first to confess to fake history
Gabriel burnS Jul 2018
I felt it crumbling
I felt it falling with the rain
The invisible
I felt it falling
Bits and pieces
Shreds and ribbons
The clothing of my wings
As God unpacked the wraps with haste
Like a restless child
Tearing down the gift
Together with the wrapping

I felt it falling
Scorching on the skin
Of frail reveries
Soaking wet I felt the taste
Of gasoline
And drowned the rain
Into my eyelids
we went together like fire and dynamite
something was bound to explode
you and me together was like lighting a match and igniting explosives, nothing went well when i was with you
CK Baker May 2017
the rat ******* has been re-purposed
(conscripted in a somewhat fodder task)
brandishing irons
and quarter lines
coiled and unwavering
insidious and cunning
pent up and fired
in  his dripping shoes
and peel back skin

wheel bug and hookworm
are stolid in his wake
(all bursting grossly at the buckle)
the heel on task;
slithering and rogue
merciless and coy
resolute and contemptuous
with his cotton mat
and quick ready quill

pungi and clapper
raise the clever snake
(croker sacks and wicker backs
dot the gasoline rainbow)
carnival barkers and kraken
(lewd in the distance)
taunting and vile
with their red beakers
and deep purple hearts

cicada and louse
high on alert
(ready to wreak havoc in the hog wallows)
the perverse cornered rat
snapping and soiled
foaming and inflamed
lurking and primed
inside his carefully crafted plan

easels and cover alls
suit this jackal well
(keefer’s little helper or so they'd say)
pickers running rough shod
all stirring up the stench
***** and conkeys
poised
and ready
to lime this cornered slug
His fingertips are doused in gasoline,
setting fire to everything he sees.
Each object he touches,
all the memories collected,
ash away and fall to crimes.
He's got eternal flames inside him,
and yet his eyes remain dimmed and submissive.
He's fragile and fractured,
and as his last heart string crackled,
you could see the hope unlit.
Fires and unsettling demons
are all he even seems to remember.
He might try and set his body ablaze,
to calmly dry off that crying pain,
sadly sticks and stones withhold his embers.
He won't die, but he can't learn,
the anguish manipulated to feed a burn.
His life was hanging in a balance of dry anger,
rather the deployment of washing hurt again,
he thought would dehydrate its annual return-
All feedback is welcome and appreciated!
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