"heatstroke" poems
our kisses were as soft as our hearts & this must be the seed of all that came thereafter,
and all that didn't see light outside my mind.
perhaps our soft hearts led to my current introspection and my disposition when it comes to
pens, papers,
and all that lies
between them in truth,
in confessions by
soft tongues in shaky lips in scattered sheets in paling cheeks and blushing eyes,
in that which lies
between thought and its expression,
between brutal honesty in the heat of an oncoming summer,
in mosquito bites and my sweet blood which attracts this
violence, this heatstroke
sunshine;
it is divine,
like we imagined,
it is hectic like we desired,
it is nonsense and is madness and knows no explanation other than our
awkward silence,
our differences in imagined futures,
our various degrees of love/hate passive-aggressive
actions and feelings and resentments and appreciations;
we both are optimistic but you believe in that which counters my belief and it is
strange and unexpected and before you,
i needed someone,
and after you,
i need to be alone
Jan 11, 2014
Jan 11, 2014 at 2:02 PM UTC
woke up 2pm this morning
squandered all the afternoon
building magic fortresses, high on rainbow rock
til my eyes got sore and i got dizzy
from a sunny, golden-yellow glare
opened up the window, let in the draft
let in the air
(and risked pneumonia)
and I started thinking clearly then,
I started thinking when,
the deathly cold, cursed, no-remove,
fresh air got to my brain
and i sat there by the window
kept it open, 'spite the wind and rain
just following my train
of thought
(and risked pneumonia)
i felt that neither ice nor fire can do me harm
but why is it right now i feel too cold
yet still too warm
feel like a fire can freeze me,
and a breeze may bring me heatstroke,
feels like some sick ******* joke
but i started thinking clearly then,
i started thinking clearly when
my temperature went down
and i got to thinking,
and looking back
to before cold felt warm
and it came to me, i realized...
(i didnt catch pneumonia)
Dec 30, 2016
Dec 30, 2016 at 5:29 AM UTC
there is a girl made of stardust
and ocean salt, breathing static
into the night sky.
her love, if tended to
with patient hands, would
grow like wild roses across
the trellises of your heart.
she is not born of men;
but a child of luna,
sweet mother.
she is a breeze in July
softly rustling your hair
and the plague of
heatstroke and withered
tongues that swiftly follows.
her touch lingers into
the winter solstice.
she is the wave of sorrow
sweeping over your bones
and the light in your eyes
shining with leftover love;
a shadow dressed in white,
a consummation of grief.
she is a wallflower, a habitual
offender to the gods.
she will nurture you like an infant
and then leave you on your knees,
gasping for redemption.
Oct 22, 2012
Oct 22, 2012 at 4:44 PM UTC
Once again I'm lost
Big Billboard Ronald McDonald
tells me to embrace summer but how
with the air con in its death throes + baking tar breath.
In the back with heat stroke + around
thoughts
mixed
**** your seatbelt I'm decomposing
Read too much Burroughs
Read too much Fear and
Loathing
+ all I can think about are mistakes and exes
Feb 22, 2018
Feb 22, 2018 at 3:28 AM UTC
Haven't set up an alter
In I dont' how many moons
The few times I tried
I truly knew the futility of it
And understood
That security, for me, is fleeting
Just another thing
That seems so easy for the others
Oh no dont applaud
My baby brain for its
Whining,ll just make it worse
So the other day after
I snatched the sage you left
For me outside your window sill
(Thank you btw)
I instinctively started
Making YET ANOTHER ALTER
Then broke down for the 5th time that day
"How could someone like you ever deserve a home"
Then I had remembered
That Im not allowed to
Have a safe space
I'm a drifter
Pushing the limits
My health is at risk
Every minute
No one to care
Whether I die or live
Sitting on my hands
In a thicket
Praying wishing waiting thanking
God that I woke still broken
Throwing up stuff
Everytime I tried to move
Hunger
Hurt
Thirst
Hate
Anger
Thankful
Stay low
on your toes
Heatstroke
Dryheave
Please No
Please make it stop
Oh god here it comes again
My Sweat drips endlessly
Chiggers bit my skin
So it wont quit itchin'
Bites that bother until next week
Typical....
All I want is a place to hang my hat
Or hopefully lay my head without trip wires surrounding
Me
All I want is to oggle my alter and call on my angels and my God
Without being on constant alert
Watching my own six
Bc your own brother will turn on you
Don't get comfortable
Dont relax
Dont unpack
Dont believe
A ******* thing they tell you
Prove me wrong then
Haven't had a mfr not turn
Haven't seen anyone actually keep their word
And why cant i set up an alter without it being destroyed?
Jul 11, 2021
Jul 11, 2021 at 9:39 PM UTC
Draw a narrow road with a man standing in the distance,
The sun is setting and his shadow moves for an instance;
What is this symbolizing? What does this mean?
In the background, sea, salted waters, filled with chlorine.
Don't get too caught up in this life-like dream,
Almost real, but all too extreme.
Painted man walks up to you and speaks,
"I am None, I represent the Freaks."
Sun stops setting, just stands right there,
Gleaming rays, upon it a face appears.
Chlorine waters turn into rough seas,
Winter's come and the painted man freeze.
The winds so strong seem to play you a song;
Not such a nice tune, and ever so long.
The faced sun runs away from the cold,
Winter ruled all, all it controlled.
Pebbly beaches, umbrellas at shore,
Painted man alive and the sun rise once more.
The cold got heatstroke, the seas all calmed down,
The painted man, from the sun he turned brown.
Leaves falling down, that season has come,
Trees so bare, no more growing plumb.
Final season, makes you so sad;
Drawing leaves you from your sketchpad.
Aug 30, 2012
Aug 30, 2012 at 8:50 AM UTC
Eternity
When I think of eternity
Your name comes to mind
If I had to choose whether
To give myself up or get rid of you,
I would be nothing more than a sigh on the breeze
If I had to choose between heatstroke
And losing you,
I’d be on the first plane to the Sahara
If I had to choose between you
And an eternity of life,
My dear, I would choose you
Every single time
Sep 22, 2021
Sep 22, 2021 at 3:36 PM UTC
I am from paradise
which never failed to include rainy, cold summers
and heatstroke winters.
Where mountain ranges were as small as pebbles,
and pebbles,
were only meant for skipping.
I am from that spot in the sunset
where the
rustic oranges meet up with the rolling blues of the ocean
and have coffee.
Where endless meets infinity
and everyone wears ugly Christmas sweaters.
I am from where Harriet Tubman
and Nat Turner type dreams take root.
Where black and white meet to make purple,
green, and everything in between.
I am from where dreams fly
and people never stop laughing.
From two way conversations with strangers
and love letters instead of obituaries.
I am from here.
Jan 27, 2013
Jan 27, 2013 at 12:18 AM UTC
My seasonal crushes
Are like the changing days,
Here to make my heart beat
While they come out to play.
My seasonal rushes
Always fade away,
I'll remember them
Even if they aren't here to stay.
I loved winter for so long
For his pure glow.
Looked like a blanket
But he was cold snow.
So much time thinking I belonged,
Still it never felt right
To keep something
As only a glittery sight.
Then came summer.
Felt good to melt my cold bones.
And what a stark difference
That I didn't feel so alone.
He was fiery ************
Gave me a sunburn to call a tan,
Got a heatstroke and realized
I needed a fan.
Autumn is beautiful leaves,
Like the ones he rolls and smokes.
Mellow and no extreme,
Easy personality to take and soak.
Autumn is beautiful but leaves,
Never sure where to expect him,
All I could know was that
I'd see him every now and then.
Spring, you are so sweet.
I never minded April showers
When you are so warm and clean,
So I could talk to you for hours.
You're really hard to beat.
You are a possibility.
My here and now,
A different probability.
Jun 20, 2017
Jun 20, 2017 at 5:10 AM UTC
"Why are you wearing a sweater?
Its the middle of July,
Aren't you hot in that?
Take that off.
And why are you wearing jeans?
You're gonna die of heat stroke.
Go put on some shorts."
Why am I wearing so much clothing?
Because I'm afraid.
I don't want to show my scars,
But more than I don't want to show my scars,
I don't want to show my cuts.
The new ones,
The ones that haven't an excuse.
Yes I'm hot.
I feel like I'm in hell.
I feel like I'm melting,
But at least the outside matches now,
Matches what I feel on the inside.
Take it off?
Take it off?!
Hell no.
There aint no way you're getting this off of me.
I'm hiding,
And I want to stay hidden.
I'm gonna die of heatstroke?
You mean it?
You really mean it?
If only...
Hang on,
Let me get another sweater then.
I'm not putting on shorts,
I'm not taking off this sweater.
You're not going to see me,
Not like this.
Nov 28, 2013
Nov 28, 2013 at 10:06 PM UTC
GOTHIC POEM (come on, everyone needs at least one)
My happiness like autumn turns brown
Dries out rivers of sympathy
My hope is like winter and turns rivers ice
The sunshine in spring, up before the break of dawn hints at my poker face
Summer weather droughts every thought
Strangles the idea to strive with heatstroke
In the sunshine it’s understood
when that little voice says
It's a ride toward madness
Caress your dreams with nightmares in your bed
You'll see what others have bled for
their secrecy shall lie with the nightmares you keep
Dec 4, 2014
Dec 4, 2014 at 4:51 AM UTC
Feeling hot and
cold water's not doing the trick
Feeling sick with the heat but
I won't let it beat me,defraud and or
cheat me
I'm getting a fan to fan me,to cool me and
fool me into believing
I'm living the dream,
feeling hot won't then seem
so bad.
In the bath with a sponge
I take one more plunge and the
duck gives a look like you wouldn't
believe,
but I do.
Jul 26, 2014
Jul 26, 2014 at 8:39 PM UTC
**Heatstroke
By
Jude Kyrie**
*The naked sun sets the world on fire.
A scalded sky like a funeral pyre.
No rain in sight as the heat goes higher
Like musical notes.
Sit the birds on the telephone wire
No peace for me no cool blue moon.
No respite from their crazy tune
The chirping crows turn the volume higher.
The birds are notes on the telephone wire
That awful hurdy-gurdy sound
Makes my head spin round and round
If I had a gun I would surely fire
At those infernal birds
upon the telephone wire.*
Sep 8, 2016
Sep 8, 2016 at 5:57 PM UTC
A truck picked them up near the Mexican border
And drove across Texas in blistering heat.
A hundred or more were crammed together
With nothing to drink and nothing to eat.
The big rig rolled down the Texas highway
Heading for San Antonio, they say.
Smugglers would pick up their "cargo" there,
And SUVs would cart them away.
The temperature inside the tractor-
Trailer was over 100 degrees.
The door of the trailer was locked from the outside.
The driver ignored the passengers' pleas.
Chorus:
Farewell, dear friends--queridos amigos.
Were you a father, a brother, a son?
Whatever your motivations, you
All were victims in more ways than one.
When authorities found the vehicle
And opened the door and looked inside,
Eight of the passengers remaining
In the tractor-trailer had died.
Two more victims died in the hospital.
Others remained in a critical state.
Dehydration and heatstroke had been
Cruel agents of their sad fate.
Desperate to find better conditions,
They learned that success is not guaranteed.
Hopes can be dashed and life can be threatened
When you're a victim of smugglers' greed.
Chorus:
Farewell, dear friends--queridos amigos.
Were you a father, a brother, a son?
Whatever your motivations, you
All were victims in more ways than one.
(7-25-17) By Bob B
Jul 25, 2017
Jul 25, 2017 at 8:46 AM UTC
when fear finds new homes to hide
fingertips, fire and cyanide
blazing trembles, roaring tide
quiet voices quietly abuse,
and silence blazes a fiery bruise
when you're left drinking
cyanide and month-old *****
no more tremblings left to choose
screaming like quiet voices do
when licking fire finds them
roaring too,
and ashes feel more like ice cubes
than his words do.
Aug 30, 2017
Aug 30, 2017 at 9:35 PM UTC
My favorite flavor of ice cream is chocolate
I go to the store to buy some.
It seems they don't have chocolate ice cream
So I'll wait.
I stroll down the aisle, searching for something delicious
There are so many different flavors of ice cream!
Vanilla, peach, mango, and butterscotch too
And yet I still wait.
It is a very hot day today
I sweat so profusely I fear I may get heatstroke.
I could really use a nice, cold treat right now
And yet I still wait.
Here I am in the store again, searching desperately
I need chocolate ice cream! I can hardly stand it!
Then I see it: the glorious little box atop the shelf
I must say, you certainly were worth the wait.
Mar 21, 2018
Mar 21, 2018 at 11:40 AM UTC
it's the end of the world,
my friends.
the sky is falling,
the ground is shaking.
the entire earth is
spinning and rocketing,
twirling out of control
around its wobbly axis.
of course,
gravity's long gone,
and we're all just
floating around.
the sun's getting closer
by the hour,
burning holes in mountains
and evaporating oceans.
what's going to **** you?
a new disease,
a bout of heatstroke,
a boulder flying toward you at insane speeds?
another person?
the absence of another person?
your own boredom drilling its way through your head?
your loneliness?
your regrets?
what's going to **** you?
looking up into the stars,
only to see your own
sad, short lifetime
of accomplishments and inactions
spelt out in the gaseous twinkly orbs?
what's going to **** you?
Apr 21, 2017
Apr 21, 2017 at 10:09 PM UTC
Choose days.
They said the forecast was for Sun
Ben Gunn had kit bags full of Sun
I've had some
I mean the Sun
just in case
you wondered
where I've wandered.
Heatstroke,
and I like to be stroked,
think that in a former life
I lived quite like a cat.
So
I'm rambling
scram if you don't like it.
Tubes.
one million ideas
on their rears
ready to depart
and the standing few
who firm up the queue,
what would we do
without the few?
the smell of perfumed sweat
can it get better than this?
I suspect that it can.
Girls with buns in their hair.
I have never had a bun up in my hair
seems to me that there must be
another place to put them,
like on a plate
with jam,
Oh it can get better
it just did.
Getting off is as simple as getting on
once you master the reverse
psychology.
Jun 20, 2017
Jun 20, 2017 at 1:22 AM UTC
There is a delicate innocence
in a young season.
One where they are just beginning
untainted by the coming days and the rush
of all the things that must change.
Unburdened by the falling leaves, or the growth of flowers
or the fall of snow on a winter evening.
But as the seasons age, they lose that innocence.
Leaves no longer bear the vibrant colors of Autumn.
Spring no longer grows such beautiful flowers,
whose petals are so soft
like silk, or a lover's touch.
Winter brings forth harsh blizzards and ice that forces
everyone into hiding
as they wait out just one of many winter storms.
Summer brings forth days too hot to do anything,
drought and sunburn, heatstroke and general uncomfortableness.
As the seasons die, they give birth to the next season,
innocence born anew in a never-ending cycle
of naivety, then suffering, then the long waited for relief.
A season never stays, and you cannot follow it.
But at the same time, you know
that it will always come back to you in the end.
Seasons are much like humans, no?
We are born so delicate, full of an untainted fragility
that people swoon over
wanting for that innocence to never fade.
But as we grow, that innocence turns to
bitterness, greed, anxiety, and the wish
for the next season to come along and save them from this
the boring, monotonous day that never ends.
And as we grow even older, acceptance rolls around
and we begin to regret the things we never did in life.
But for some of us, the season ends far too soon.
and unlike the seasons, we can never come back.
Jan 30, 2020
Jan 30, 2020 at 10:26 AM UTC
A mendacious murmuration
of black pixels dance a fractal fandango
against the pale pink sky
telling you that all is well with the world.
A susurration of complacency–
above the exhaust-scented streets
of Birmingham’s melting asphalt–
whispers, “Don’t worry,
ignore the heatstroke starlings
dropping from the sky
onto viscous pitch dark bitumen”.
Dec 21, 2024
Dec 21, 2024 at 1:34 PM UTC