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CK Baker Mar 2017
the walls of inside passage
look the same
from sound to straight
tugs and plugs
dot the coastline
as the quartermaster rolls
giving time for evening glare  

pods are in sequence
as the high tail smashes
and jaws at the krill
white bellies and sea cows
bob and weave
as bow heads glide
over haida gwaii  

northern lights dance
and tlingit chant
as the tide settles softly
on savory shores
their getting hungry in hoonah
as the blue back and beating drums
mark the life blood of the sea  

driftwood nets
and sitka spruce
surround the cook house
ravens and tinhorns
man the scullery
kerosene lamps flicker
as clam shells roast
on open flames  

villagers stroll
on pebbled sand
in the harbor of souls
where ships set sail
on might and mass
into the steady winds
of the golden skies


ice fields (to the north)
of kryptonite blue
cutting hills at
a glacial pace
knuckle clouds
above the snowline
where warlocks
craft a hidden trade  

trappers, skinners
muscle shoals
grizzly feasts
in kodiak bowl
determined pilgrims
on a dead horse trail
in search of gold
the holy grail
ryn Feb 2015
There once was a man
Whose livelihood was rubber.
He worked long and hard; and wore a tan,
He was a plantation tapper.

One night he packed,
In haste after a long day of toil.
Quickly had his belongings all sacked
Under light from a lantern that reeked of kerosene oil.

He was ready, flame from the lantern he did ****.
Overhead, the midnight moon brightly shone.
Bound his sack to the rack above the rear wheel,
Mounted his bicycle and soon he was gone.

The dirt trail leading back,
Undulating with gravel all strewn.
Almost treacherous this forgotten track
He only relied on light from the moon.

The air was cool just like any other,
But something was different about this night.
Squinting ahead he spotted a figure.
Flagging him down was a lady in white...
To be continued...

Based on a story I heard.
CK Baker Jan 2017
He filled his week bag
with quick picks
from the commissary
cover blades
and skull caps
canned goods
and half stated pearls
liquor bills
and bleeders
for the flight of weary

Into the ****** bunks
of the western front
past sivana
and nurture sage
past the pomp
and ceremony
out of robe
and into jumpers
and casings
and masks of gas

Light infantry
and yelling men
muscled
and scorned
fly boys high
in 3 wing flight
mounted gunners
filling the night
in hawkers and packards
and scabbard chape

Tarrant tabers
and camels
dodge the vicker gun
skeleton hands
grease the mill trap
carnage makers
mark the rhineland
(buried in bunkers
and pile bags
and earth pack)

Trench helmets
and metal backs
under machine fire
minefields burn
in muzzle and coil
deep in the shadows
and shrapnel
and spear
the razor wire
and dead cold
despair

Slouch hats
and burning rats
kerosene lamps
and droopers
the soldier stares down
the broken line
and limb
a ****** holds steady
(shelved at a distance)
on ripped pipe
and beam

It was an all in
end game
a grapple for the ages;
*** in the
fokker pursuit
over rolling hills
and fallen comrades
into the bishop bullet
(and sporadic cheer)
which sealed the deal
in an empty field
near the brae corbie road
JB Dec 2018
a wish so simple
a thought so full
a mouth cursed shut
lungs drowning in kerosene oil
unable to ignite and
simply burn
under the high pressure
to be a diamond
but some diamonds are
simply coal
I could be falling apart
breathing this american air
the taste of kerosene
is on the tip of my tongue
pressed against my teeth
I can hold it and wait
once a traveler said to me
Jesus could put his tongue
into the back of his throat
and block all air flow
achieving nirvana
on a single breath
I exhale out ennui
another overdose victim standing beside me
and the mutilated legs from Tiananmen square
blown off by the country boys the party called in to ****** the city kids, or so its said
my words are noted in the public record
and I'm called up to the bench
and told to file a motion for release
in 30 days
I sit in a hallway and explain to the guy who found him
on indiana street because he just got the feeling he needed to go back
that nothings guaranteed on this timeline
but he only half listens
and looks at me with suspicion that softens with my power
and steady detachment
I say my power and mean affect, vibe, charm, so on and so on
all the masks
and mines a suit and title
the robe and the stare
are you on the level?
p Sep 2018
how would life be
if we lived in a
     house of balloons?

personally,
     i would hate it.

every morning
i would wake up
and *****
every
single
     balloon.

i would shatter
every
single
    glass table.

i would walk
among the shreds
of bursted latex
and shards
of broken glass
cutting my feet to bits.

i would drench
the furniture
in kerosene
and light up a cig
and drop the ****
in the path of the fuel.
causing the
     house of popped balloons
and
     broken glass tables
to go up in flames.

only to go to bed
and repeat it the next day.
because im too scared to move out
but too attached to leave.
so i do what i can
to make myself feel
     powerful
and
     in control
and
     dominant.
hopefully the girls got off the tables before i shattered them, poor things.
Medusa Oct 2018
You matter to me,
You art the ghost in coffee
Clouds whistle around you

Too much energy scares
Hoi Poilloi but we rule these streets
Call us out by righteous name

Love is all you have in the Swamp
I imagine it in the hot night
Running from New Orlins

Tide tryin to eat you
Water mixed with kerosene
There is suddenly no god

My three year old daughter
Left in that miserable
Water, and nobody did a thing

9/11 was a kind of blackened day
But when the Levees Break
Nobody gets out alive

Without money to roll
It’s time to yell truth of my city
Marie Laveau in all her forms

She cried with me
She held my hands and said:
Do not lament forever
Sorrow has its place & tyme

Marie Laveau comes to me now:
Saying Rise Up and Save This  City
Something so still, so solemn

Guards the city of the yellow moon

I feel it
Almost reaching it
Hands touch my eyes and
I know them

I dream of Big Chief
Who flew from Heaven
Bringing the saving of the 9th ward

Nothing can save the 9th
But Marie Laveau, both a dem Ave Maria’s
No god no Saints came marching
Saving my role on freeway overpasses

Left there to be displayed, to die of thirst
Where were you, oh God?
We loved you even as we died of thirst
In a country that could pf delivered rations to Iraq
In less than six hours.

We have been sacrificed to low cause
No happiness shall come from this
True badlands, had Saints, and Faith

Nature took but once
Government took it all &
Left us standing
Or dying in attics
Screaming

Save Our Souls
Samantha Cunha Nov 2018
Drenched in kerosene
you light the fire
of burning desire
to my elusive flame
Doused
in musky perfume
I combust
with lust
Emily Lawson Sep 2018
It is 12:43 in the morning.

I am envisioning lighting my face on fire.

Eyelashes drenched in kerosene, dripping down my chin, soaking my hair

Blink. Blink. Light.

I feel the scrape of the lighter under the pad of my thumb before my hair catches fire

face engulfed in flame, turned to blistered flesh in seconds.

People use the term “faceless” to describe someone they do not know the identity of.

For that reason, my appearance finally matches my lack of identity.

No pun intended.
Alexys Marie Apr 23
memories ignite like matches
emotions reek of gasoline
thoughts soaked in kerosene
fill my head
then set it aflame
crippled by the pain
choking on inferno haze
leave me here to burn
I’m just the ******* fire
MARIO Aug 2018
Your eyes were a most lovely green,
Quite the most lovely sheen,
I was addicted to them like caffeine,
You lit up my heart like kerosene,
My heart jumped like a trampoline,
It bounced around like a pinball machine,
We took a little trip to Aberdeen,
You did awful things in between,
I saw things meant to be unseen,
I just watched like a computer screen,
My heart sunk like a submarine,
You slashed my heart like a wolverine,
And now my hearts in smithereens,
Once upon a time you were my queen,
I got tired of that sad routine,
Every smile so plasticine,
How silly we can be as teens.
erwood Jul 2018
"Careful, it burns." you warn
And you tell anyone who will listen
You post on the news and shout to the world
Of the flames that dangerously glisten

"Careful, there's fire." you cry
And you tell everyone to watch out
Because once the fire starts
All around you are screams and shouts

"Careful." you say "Careful." you caution
But you don't do anything about the flames
You throw water balloons in futile attempts
You think this forest fire's simply a game

"Careful!" you scream. "Careful, it's urgent!"
But no one hears you anymore
Because you're the one who started the fire
And no one sides with the wager of war

You tell me to be careful
And keep the lighter locked inside
But then you dump a gallon of kerosene
And look on at the flames with pride
alarm
dogmatical snakebird dictator
**** rooster of electro maniacal damnation

wake
goober eyed ithyphallic mortal yahoo yawns
glacier shuffle to Midas’ bowl

brush
minty hairy pasty headed *******
seafoam ***** on white vanity beaches

shave
deceitful murderous metal cartel scraping
dead shrubs from yesterday’s winter

breakfast
egg flour chalk smack
guzzling bean kerosene

work
batshit bureaucratic badgers bludgeon
muktuk hamsters lubricating wheels of fortune

lunch
butcher’s dead friend between greasy toasted cement
harlot’s heavenly tomato mating cabbage cousin

work
taradiddle of martyrs at jargon’s temple blather
babble, bumble - copulation without *******

dinner
unicorn steaks, butterfly sauté, and
leprechaun fingers, a side of manslaughter dolphin

sleep
a felon’s holiday

repeat
Ari Mar 2018
i wish i could have that sweet 16 kind of romance.

kisses that are ardent and chaste
not forced, feeling like a mouthful of nails

hugs that are comforting and soft
instead of repulsive, a cage i violently try to break free of

hands that are holding mine, a loving reminder and consistent warmth
not calloused extremities stealing me by the wrist towards my demise

words that are gentle and sincere (beautiful, talented, queen),
instead of ones described only as ***** (***-****, *****, *****)

intimacy that arrives only if and when i'm ready, youthful and gentle
not ****** onto me years before sweet 16, hardly intimate but instead bluntly illicit

bodies (especially mine) that are unscarred, untainted, unused
not the opposite, crusted in an inscrutable filth impossible to remove

love that is fun and bright, something I can boast to all my friends
not a sickening attraction shrouded in the depths of my mind, only to see the light through poetry written in the early hours...

i wish, i wish, i wish.

i wish i could have that sweet 16 kind of romance!

but i don't.
wishes are just flimsy desires; a tear-soaked plead to the void of night, words on a poem no one may care to read, something i say as i blow out the candles. hopeful and yet, hopeless.

so, i'm still 16. and at least my favorite dessert is sweet. but the romance? ha! my romance is dead; burnt to ashes, like a delicate rose bathed in kerosene and set alight by the burning match of a devil's lust.
Michael Feb 23
A Childhood Memory
Early Training for Arborfield

I used to bicycle to school when I was young and on the go.
And in Winter time I mind it wasn't nice.
We kids, we'd ride our bikes through slush and often through the snow
On surfaces made treacherous by ice.

I'd put my bike together with parts filched from ******* pit.
Parts I'd garnered, here and there, to take back to my home.
I washed them first in kerosene, then soaked in oil each bit.
Once assembled, then the World was mine to roam.

Although it looked quite battered and it rattled every ride,
And the wheels, they wobbled and it had a squeak.
That bike was mine, all mine, and if you classify by pride
I'd reckon RollsRoyce wouldn't stand a chance, well, so's to speak.

But the brakes on that bike they never worked,
And its metal handle-bars were bare
And in Winter it was pretty scary stuff,
Because of brakes, and ice on roads, and never having gloves to wear.
.
And at school (with bike stowed in racks) I'd join the queue,
My runny nose and hurting ears; numbed hands and finger tips quite blue
With cold; shivering before the class room door.
Waiting for my turn at taps and running water, and for my hands to thaw.
How much do we really recall of the days when we were young?
John F McCullagh Dec 2018
My husband never liked it- he'd ***** moan and complain,
but it was my place of solitude, being Queen of my domain.
I spent happy hours there, just puttering  in my shed
I had a stash of bourbon there and some intriguing reds.

How the fire started we have never ascertained.
I still suspect my husband, but he'll never take the blame
He says it was a lightening strike that burned it to the ground
but can't explain the empty can of kerosene I found.

Though of suspicious origin, our insurance man came through
accepting tales of lightening strikes out of a sky clear blue.
I'll built my next she shed with brick and you can rest assured
that, no matter what the cost, it's gonna be insured.
Patrick Nov 2018
I look at you and see the future I wasn't good enough for.
So a new life without you I go on alone to forge.

It's crazy I thought our fate could be bound;
After all, you're an angel gracing this sinner's ground.
I felt joy as pure as God's forgiveness, but with it pain like Satan's Brutus.

I'm sorry I thought I meant something to you.
It's just that you not only became my world;
You became my faith that this life was more than just cruel.

If you were kerosene,
I thought I was a match.
But I was only water holding you back.
You burn brighter than God; already more beautiful than any star.

I love you more than I know how to express.
But I'm a pitiful thief,
And you a Goddess.
Alaina Feb 12
I heard her screams again
the little girl next door
I offered to turn them in
but she insisted without them she'd be poor

So I left her in the house
that tried to take away her shine
I knew they treated her like a common mouse
how awful it was for her to face that firing line

And I was prepared for them to kick her
I knew they'd smack her face
eventually her bruises turned into one big blur
God, she was in the wrong place

But I thought she'd pull through
she always slept okay
Inside her dreams she flew
with her teddy bear by her side all the way

Without fail, every night
she crawled into bed and wept...
But in her sleep there was no fright
because next to her, her teddy bear slept

Then, one evening
I heard a horrid wail
Never so much screaming
I knew then, her spirit would fail

Turns out they took the bear...
of all the times I'd seen the child cry
This one held the most despair
it was worse than any black eye

I knew them to be mean
but never so evil
as to douse a child's comfort with kerosene
her heart was no stranger to upheaval

But this was cruel
what devil would think
to take her precious jewel
so she couldn't keep from going over the brink

They slapped her
They kicked her
They pushed her to the ground

then they took her bear
and I watched as her soul drowned
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