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Ashley Chapman Aug 2018
Here in the morning gloaming
burning
my skin flaming
as I imagine red kisses
from smouldering lips!

How easily
in anticipation
you make me whimper
before with pleasure
making me simper -
each kiss
another hot coal
placed on my rawness
with searing softness.
Äŧül Feb 2016
Their voice so harmonious,
Silent when no strings attached,
All the curves so very ****,
Smooth is their texture,
Admiring their beauty with fingers,
You seat them on your lap,
Putting their arms around your shoulder.

Tickle them hard to make them peck,
They touch your heart with their sound,
Nibbling your ears in between,
The motion generates friction,
Friction generates heat,
So icy sweet is her music,
All over, you script success.

I talk of my guitar here.
I now possess 2 guitars.

My HP Poem #1022
©Atul Kaushal
September Roses Aug 2018
Crystal eyes
Fall for them
Over
And over
Drown in oceans stormy grey
Lost in forests emerald green
To get drunk inside and snap away to sober

An underground lake cavern
A still, silver cargo ship docked by the bay
A sky and sea beyond the windows
2pm on a shady spring day



Catching a glint in the light
I find my teeth biting my thumb
Oh god how I love to gaze
In what you use to gaze apon
Targeted towards absolutely anyone with eyes, at all
Jack Jenkins Apr 2016
Heat waves blister us
Water evaporates fast
Temperatures soar high
//On nature//
Vicki Kralapp Jul 2013
You're hot, like Death Valley in July,
so hot, one touch could make me cry.
Hot, like the face of the summer sun
and in my heart I know you're the only one.

I try my best to keep my cool,
not wanting to play another man's fool,
But I've been patient for far too long
to tell you what I feel is strong.

You call my name and I grow weak
and struggle just to find my feet.
You make me feel like I was young
like springtime or a song that's sung.

You're hot, sizzling like the sun at noon,
like the sunshine on a desert dune.
Can you feel the love that you've inspired
and give me what my heart desires?
All poems are copy written and sole property of Vicki Kralapp.
ryn Nov 2014
)              
.   )          (                          )      (
      (              )         )            (          )   
               )      (        (        )        )             
              (          )        )     (       (    (           
                     )               (                       )              
there you are...sitting right across •
and here i am...fidgeting in my seat
•searching for words...but seeming-
ly at a loss•only the eloquence of
my racing, thumping heartbeat•
trading only in silent words and
coy gazes•mingling within the
tendrils of  wafting steam•
divine  moment  as the
heart rapidly races•

over our hot cuppas, soaring into caffeine
fueled dreams•
Inspired by a topic in a chat earlier today.
Zeeb Jul 2015
Hotrod
Verse I

Wrenches clanging, knuckles banging
A drop of blood the young man spilt
A new part here, and old part… there
A hotrod had been built!
A patchwork, mechanical, quilt

Feelings of excitement not unlike those of Christmas mornings long past paid visit to the young man, his head under a raised hood, hands occupied, the job nearing completion.  Did building that Lionel train-set so long ago form some type of pattern in his brain, now being so pleasurably served?  The good feelings would dissipate though, as quickly as they came, as he cursed himself for stripping a bolt, or cursed someone else for selling him the wrong part, or the engineer whose design goals obviously did not consider “remove and replace”.  He cursed the “gorilla” that never heard of a torque-wrench, the glowing particle of **** that popped on to the top of his head as he welded, the metal chip he flushed from his eye, and even himself for the burn he received by impatiently touching something too soon after grinding.  He, and his type, cursed a lot, but mostly to their selves as they battled-on with things oily, hot, bolted, welded, and rusty – in cramped spaces. One day it was choice words for an “easy-out” that broke off next to a broken drill bit that had broken off in a broken bolt, that was being drilled for an easy out.    Despite the swearing, the good and special feelings, feelings known only to those with a true capacity for this type of passion, would always return, generally of a magnitude that exceeded the physical pain and mental frustration of the day, by a large margin.   Certifiably obsessive, the young man continued to toil dutifully, soulfully, occasionally gleefully, sometimes even expertly, in his most loved and familiar place, his sanctuary, laboratory… the family garage.

And tomorrow would be the day.
Fire extinguisher? “ Right there”
Battery? “Charged and connected”
Neutral?  “yes”
Brake?  “Set”
And with hard learned, hard earned expertise and confidence, in this special small place, a supremely happy and excited young man commanded his creation to life.

Threw  a toggle, pressed a switch
Woke up the neighbors with that *******

The heart of his machine was a stroked Chevy engine that everyone had just grown sick hearing about.  Even the local machine shop to which the boy nervously entrusted his most prized possession had had enough.  “Sir, I don’t want to seem disrespectful, but from what I’ve read in Hot Rod Magazine, you might be suggesting a clearance too tight for forged pistons…” then it would be something else the next day.   One must always speak politely to the machinist, and even though he always had, the usual allotment of contradictions and arguments afforded to each customer had long run out – and although the shop owner took a special liking to the boy because, as he liked to say, “he reminds me of me”, well, that man was done too.  But in the end, the mill was dead-on.  Of course from the start, the shop knew it would be; that’s almost always the case; it’s how they stay in business - simply doing good work.  Bad shops fall out quickly, but this place had the look of times gone by.  Good times.  Old porcelain signs, here and there were to be found, all original to the shop and revered by the older workers in honored nostalgia.  The younger workers get it too; they can tell from the men they respect and learn from, there is something special about this past.  One sign advertises Carter Carburetors and the artwork depicts “three deuces”, model 97’s, sitting proudly atop a flathead engine, all speeding along in a red, open roadster.  Its occupants a blond haired boy with slight freckles (driver), and a brunette girl passenger, white blouse slightly unbuttoned,  both in the wind-blown cool, their excited expressions proclaim… "we are free!" (and all you need is a Carter, or three).

The seasoned old engine block the boy entrusted to the shop cost him $120-even from the bone yard.  Not a bad deal for a good block that had never had its first 0.030” overbore.  In the shop, it was cleaned, checked for cracks, measured and re-measured, inspected and re-inspected.  It was shaped and cut in a special way that would allow the stroker crankshaft, that was to be the special part of this build, to have all the clearance it would need.  The engine block was fitted with temporary stress plates that mimic the presence of cylinder heads,  then the cylinders were bored to “first oversize”,  providing fresh metal for new piston rings to work against.  New bearings were installed everywhere bearings are required.  Parts were smoothed here and there.  Some surfaces were roughened just so, to allow new parts to “work-into each other” when things are finally brought together.  All of this was done with a level of precision and attention far, far greater than the old “4- bolt” had ever received at the factory on its way to a life of labor in the ¾ ton work truck from which it came.  They called this painstaking dedication to precision measurement and fit, to hitting all specifications “on the mark”, “blueprinting”, and it would continue throughout the entire build of this engine.  The boy stayed  worried the whole time, but the shop had done it a million times.

After machining, the block was filled with new and strong parts that cost the young man everything he had.   Parts selected with the greatest of effort, decision, and debate.  “ You can compromise on paint”,” live with some rust”, he would say,  “wait for good tires”, “but never scrimp on the engine”.  Right on.  You get one shot at getting that right, and this proclamation demonstrated wisdom but also provided ample excuse for the rough and unfinished look of the rest of his machine.  But it was just a look, his car was, in fact, “right”.   And its power plant?  Well the machine shop had talked their customer into letting them do the final engine assembly - even cut their price to do it.  They were looking out for the boy.  The mill in its final form was the proper balance of performance and durability, and with its camshaft so carefully selected, the engine's “personality” was perfectly matched to the work at hand.   It would produce adequate torque in the low RPM range to get whole rig moving quickly, yet deliver enough horsepower at red-line to pile on the MPH, fast.  No longer a polite-natured workhorse, this engine, this engine is impatient now.  High compression, a rapid, choppy idle - it seems to be biting at the bit – to be released.  On command, it gulps its mixture and screams angrily, and often those standing around have a reflexive jump - the louder, the better - the more angry, the better.  If it hurts your ears, that’s a good feeling.  If its bark startles, that’s a good startle.  A cacophony?  No, the “music” of controlled explosions, capable of thrusting everything and everyone attached, forward, impolitely, on a rapid run to “red-line”, and it keeps pulling hard and delivering power while spinning fast because it is breathing right and proper and producing the power that thrills, and the only reason to shift gears is to preserve connecting rods, eager as the engine may be to rev further!

This is the addictive sound and feel that has appealed to a certain type of person since engines replaced horses, and why?  A surrogate voice for those who are otherwise quiet?  A visceral celebration of accomplishment?    Who cares.  Shift once, then again - speed quickly makes its appearance.  It appears as a loud, rushing wind and a visually striking, unnatural view of the surrounding scenery.  At some point, in the sane, it triggers a natural response - better slow down.    


He uncorked the headers, bought gasoline, dropped her in gear, tore off to the scene
Camaros and Mustangs, an old ‘55
Obediently lined-up, to get skinned alive!


Verse II (1st person)

I drove past the banner that said “Welcome race fans” took a new route, behind the grandstands
And through my chipped window, I thought I could see
Some of the racers were laughing at me

I guess rust and primer are not to their taste
But I put my bucks mister in the right place

I chugged/popped past cars that dealers had sold
Swung into a spot, next to something old

Emerging with interest from under his hood
My neighbor said two words, he said, “sounds good”

The ’55 I parked next to was “classic rodding” in its outward appearance.  The much overused “primer paint job” channeled “Two Lane Blacktop”.  The hood and front fenders a fiberglass clamshell, pinned affair.  Dice hanging from the mirror paid homage to days its driver never knew, but wished he had.  He removed them before he drove, always.

If you know how to peel the onion, secrets are revealed.  Wilwood brake calipers can be a dead giveaway. Someone needs serious stopping power - maybe.  Generally, owners who have sprung the bucks for this type gear let the calipers show off in bright red, to make a statement, and sometimes, these days, it’s just a fashion statement.  Now, expensive calipers, as eye candy, are all the rage.  What is true, however, is very few guys spend big money on brakes only to render them inglorious and seemingly common with a shot of silver paint from a rattle can, and the owner of this ’55 had done just that. 

Two things seem to be at play here.  One, he needs those heavy brakes because he’s fast, and two, hiding them fits his style.   Really, the message to be found in the silver paint, so cleverly applied to make your eyes simply slide across on their way to more interesting things, was “sleeper”.   And sleeper really means, he’s one of those guys with a score to settle - with everyone perhaps.   The list of “real parts” grew, if you knew where to look.  Something I had defacto permission to do since my rod was undergoing a similar scrutiny.  
“Stroked?”, I asked.  That’s something you can’t see from the outside. “ No”, the racer replied.  
“Hundred shot?”  (If engines have their language, so do the people who love them).   Despite the owner’s great efforts to conceal braided fuel and nitrous lines, electrical solenoids and switches, I spied his system.  The chunks of aluminum posing as ordinary spacers under his two carburetors were anything but.   “No”, was his one-word reply to my 100- shot question.  I tried again; “Your nitrous system, how much are you spraying?”  “Two hundred fifty” in two stages, he said.  That’s more like it, I thought, and I then figured, he too had budgeted well for the machine shop – if not, he was gambling in a game that if lost, would fly parts in all directions.   Based on the overall vibe of the scene, and the clean work on display, I believed his build was up to the punishment he planned.   I knew exactly what this tight-lipped guy was about, seeing someone very familiar in him as it were, and that made the “sounds good” complement I received upon my arrival all the more valuable.

The voice on the loudspeaker tells us we’re up.

Pre-staged, staged, then given the green
The line becomes blurred between man and machine

Bones become linkage
Muscle, spring
Fear, excitement

Time distorts ….
Color disappears …
Vision narrows…
Noise ---  becomes music
Speed, satisfaction

End
FunSlower Jul 2018
Do you ever stop and think
I'm not just trying to be cheap
with these words that I speak?

They're everything that I wanted to say
but you stole them away.

And I know I can't stay
but how do I leave
the girl of my dreams
alone?

Do you ever stop and think of me?
Well I've been thinking of you
with everything that I do.

And all the words I wanted to say
you'd just throw them away.

And I know I can't stay
but how do I leave
the girl of my dreams
alone?

Jellybean
you know you make me scream
but I'll be crying out in vain
forever.

Jellybean
you know you'll make me sing
the song without a name
forever.

Burst out in a curse at the wind.
Do you know how it feels
to be the only one to see?
Forever really is
the longest time.

Now I know
I've gotta live a life alone.
But it's not what I wanted.
You've gotta know that I wanted

Jellybean.
we have to give it a name
but i don't want to get attached
let's give it a name i don't like
i don't like jelly beans
let’s name it jellybean
Nassif Younes Apr 2016
Your swagger is an essential component
Of the planet's orbit.
You're as cool as a cucumber
In a freezer
On Triton.
You're so hot
That global warming
Is all your fault.

All hail the loudhailer.
Hail to his handshake that shakes you inside,
Hail to his exchange of pleasantries,
Always unfair in your favour.

All hail the loudhailer,
Inhale the love of the loudhailer
Inhale his wisdom
That shines when you listen
Or his naievety that shows
When you listen carefully,

Or his carefree philosphy
That's lost on the logical
And wasted on those
Not equally wasted,

Or his misery which hides
On the unseen side
Of his lifelong dichotomy,

Or his snap inside
And snap request
For help
From those he told to see misery
As one's own unnecessary
Attachement to quote, unquote
The negative energy.


You're hot stuff now
And one day you'll burn
But we, at least, have learned
Not to mourn
But to sit back
Before the flames
And enjoy the bright side.
MeanAileen Jun 2018
I know you hate it
when I get like this,
but nothing effects me
quite like your kiss...
It leaves me yearning,
burning with desire,
and only your lips
can tame that fire...
He just does it for me!
jerelii Aug 2018
the sun that ache into my skin,
it beats the heat of the summer days
the sound of the crickets intrude,
birds are reaching up high,
clouds scatter across the blue sky
will feelings change?
will they?


i gather my attention,
to my introspective words
pulling the thread in my head,
but
as the train goes passing by
the clock move closer
to what matters
the most,
&
confiscates the time
that I stood by.
august 12,2018
Jerelii
Copyright


thank you Jim Musics
for re-editing my works
I really appreciate your help :)
Lynnia Jul 2018
We were dueling with sparks
Now we’re juggling fire
Flame still starves in the dark
Never beaten or tired
Doesn’t dim with age
It can’t be blown out
Still alive with rage
Feeding on your doubt
It doesn’t think
And it can’t feel
Driven to the brink
Craving its next meal
Anger scorches your soul
Many have learned
If you play with fire,
you’re bound to get burned.
Anger scorches you from the inside out and letting the blaze speak for you has its consequences.
Stephen E Yocum Mar 2016
In an open-air flower market,
it happened in an instant,
with one solitary scent,
years unraveled and
I was that kid again.

One AM on a school night,
vague street light through
my window, painting
shadowed crosses on
the wall and ceiling.
Even in the depths of night,
a stifling ninety degrees,
our home no air conditioning.
Slight temperate breeze through
open window conveyed
exotic sweet Camellia perfume,
from two large flowering plants,
standing sentry out there.

Too hot to sleep, turning and tossing
on a sweat-damp sheet,
I'd conjure and dreamed of far away
Pacific isles, of cool sea surf and sandy beach,
palm branches sway in fresh, clean breeze,
robust with the soothing fragrance
of thousands of tropical blooms,
Like those standing guard
outside my window screen.

Heat-induced, half sleep,
Horizon Lust loudly calling me.
A few years later I answered that call,
and it was all that I had envisioned it
would be.
Delaney Feb 18
Like a child wanting to touch a hot stove
You keep telling me not to.
to stop.
Perhaps you should just let me get burned.
Then I will understand.

I don’t want to get burned.
I’m just curious…
How hot it can get before
My hand sizzles.

-how long have we been doing this?
Sam Hawkins Jun 2016
The chilly camp-like home where I was staying,
had no running water, in winter all shut down,
but had—amplitudinous electric.

I must have been thinking extra sharp that morning,
when to electric stovetop I came; soon had boiling
Cumberland Farm’s bottled water
in a copper *** with four brown eggs.

With careful timing at last I took the four eggs out
and with the heated water applying
Barbasol and razor, so I shaved.

Please take care to not spill a single drop
of soapy water into the winterized drain pipe,

I heard in my head my sage sister say.

I discarded the contents of the ***
into a snowy patch.

Good morning, and happy happy, I sang.
I hefted one oak log onto a dying fire.

Two of the four eggs I ate,
saving the last for leaner days.

So complete--eggs
and hot shave breakfast.
on the lighter side...HAheho, written about 2007
Skye Marshmallow Nov 2017
Poetry.

A world of bitter sweet extremes
Bleeding hearts and unknown eyes
Forever friendships and lovesick smiles

A world of black and white
Wrong and right.

We live in freezing ice
We live in burning fire.

Furiously typing colour
Into a world that renders grey
Never letting duller shades shine through
Observations of an aspiring poet.
Cress Rosario May 2014
Our song is brighter than the sun
Our dance is cheerful as fun
Our hearts are better together
Our love is differ from other
rethorical anaphora & consonance
Justan Rahming Sep 2018
The Sun is so hot
against my protected skin,
the heat is intense and I burn
from the overwhelming waves–
This, I am not made for.

I find the Sun beautiful
and on nicer days
I enjoy her gentile heat,
but the climate of today
had the Sun turn me red.

I curse the Sun
I reject the heat,
but if the sun was to leave,
then the darkness
would make me too cold.
Kenya83 Oct 2017
You must understand
I'm feeling this way
And struggling to translate
Through my head, and on paper

My body is more alive than it's ever known
Or being slowly tortured
I don't know

I burn from the inside out
Like a raging forest fire
I will burn until I destroy myself
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