"lighters" poems
Down the back alley
on the cold winter evenings
your eyes stared only at me
I didn't smoke
as my father gave up
yet i didn't dare disagree
you parted your lips
you drew in a breath
and your body relaxed in turn
exhaling slowly,
you grin and you show me
how much your body did yearn
for the taste of a cigarette
the embers and ashes
matches and lighters, causing flickering flashes
you said I didn't have to
but I said I didn't mind
that the smoke in your mouth would soon be in mine
I did not draw back
my mouth- under attack
I just had to last the duration
because I didn't smoke
the taste scorched my throat
and gave off a burning sensation
It must have felt different
as just in an insant
You stub out the cigarette with a hiss
silently relieved
and now more at ease
oh, the things that you do for a kiss
May 10, 2014
May 10, 2014 at 4:41 AM UTC
I want you to put me on your tongue and let me dissolve into you like the tiny white squares that turn those glossy hazel marbles into black holes and intense stares. I want you to kiss me and see negative colored rulers in the corner of your vision and I want you to have trouble making a decision between kissing me and observing me while I'm sitting on your chest and I want you to laugh like you did with your cherry colored lip curled over your childish grin over and over and over again and I want you to forget the conversation topic every time you close your eyes because the world inside of your mind is filled with blinking images that you can't quite explain aloud so you settle for little talks about Rosa Parks and Indian style kisses and how the ocean is the Earth's thing or the complexity of butterfly brains and whether or not they remember their caterpillar memories (they do). Describe to me the first time you saw your favorite color and what developed the affinity for it: yours, a glacier blue toy that resembled the ocean and mine, a lavender Easter dress that twirled when I spun. Tell me about your school crushes when you were four and what you got your clothespin moved to the sad face for and I'll write it all in ink on my knee caps because "God, we're such writers" and you'll check the clock in the gaps and search for tunes or lighters and I'll want time to slow down because the nights spent with you usually seem as though minutes are just a few seconds shy of sixty, which turns the little hand pretty quickly.
I want hours, weeks, decades, to analyze the freckles on your face or the pace at which you move your tongue and precisely how it tastes.
I want you to tell me that your brother would like me and about the mountains in Tennessee and maybe next time I'll try to stay awake, unless you want to listen to the way I breathe so fully when I dream.
When I close my eyes, I want to be able to see what you see.
I want you to keep burying the numb parts of you into the warm parts of me.
May 29, 2015
May 29, 2015 at 4:32 AM UTC
I was asking for something specific and perfect for my city,
Whereupon, lo! upsprang the aboriginal name!
Now I see what there is in a name, a word, liquid, sane, unruly, musical, self-sufficient;
I see that the word of my city is that word up there,
Because I see that word nested in nests of water-bays, superb, with tall and wonderful spires,
Rich, hemm’d thick all around with sailships and steamships—an island sixteen miles long, solid-founded,
Numberless crowded streets—high growths of iron, slender, strong, light, splendidly uprising toward clear skies;
Tide swift and ample, well-loved by me, toward sundown,
The flowing sea-currents, the little islands, larger adjoining islands, the heights, the villas,
The countless masts, the white shore-steamers, the lighters, the ferry-boats, the black sea-steamers well-model’d;
The down-town streets, the jobbers’ houses of business—the houses of business of the ship-merchants, and money-brokers—the river-streets;
Immigrants arriving, fifteen or twenty thousand in a week;
The carts hauling goods—the manly race of drivers of horses—the brown-faced sailors;
The summer air, the bright sun shining, and the sailing clouds aloft;
The winter snows, the sleigh-bells—the broken ice in the river, passing along, up or down, with the flood tide or ebb-tide;
The mechanics of the city, the masters, well-form’d, beautiful-faced, looking you straight in the eyes;
Trottoirs throng’d—vehicles—Broadway—the women—the shops and shows,
The parades, processions, bugles playing, flags flying, drums beating;
A million people—manners free and superb—open voices—hospitality—the most courageous and friendly young men;
The free city! no slaves! no owners of slaves!
The beautiful city, the city of hurried and sparkling waters! the city of spires and masts!
The city nested in bays! my city!
The city of such women, I am mad to be with them! I will return after death to be with them!
The city of such young men, I swear I cannot live happy, without I often go talk, walk, eat, drink, sleep, with them!
4.2k
you swallowed prunes as if your life depended on it, and to your mental state, they were better than any gateway drug or needle implanted into your muscles
the rough exterior cracked and ripped apart your lips unforgivably; tearing down your esophagus with the force of a peach pit
you rubbed dried apricots onto your skin as if that could cure you of all your sadness; as if it could take the need to get away and drown yourself
until you were buried deep into the soil and there are flowers nestled into the crooks of your bones and you tasted of sweat, ***** and tears
when at night you sit on the edge of your bed contemplating life or death between sobriety and a drunk that lingers for days on end clinging under your nails
and to all the people who roll their eyes at you and say ‘you’ll get over it’
tell them to **** themselves; tell them that when they see apricots, they see sunshine, but you see death to infinity and beyond;
you see all the broken promises that were whispered into the knots in your back
you see the lily pads of roses that dripped with regrets and words that were never said
words that gripped your lungs like a vice in the back of a car
when you thought of love, you thought of apricot kisses rubbed against your lips;
of rolled up aluminum foil
of lighters drained of their fluids in a week time
of the close to boiling water that invaded your personal space and reached the tip of your nose
and of peach kisses from Georgia that dug its way into you; promising another day
Jan 12, 2014
Jan 12, 2014 at 1:20 AM UTC
i love older boys who teach me how to blow
smoke rings in the parking lot
of strip malls.
i love pink clothes and skirts
that hide the lines of my lace
underthings.
i love getting in a car
with someone many inches taller than me
who won't tell me where we're going.
i love cigarettes
and lighters
and their not-so-secret love affair.
i love looking down into the sky
and waiting for gravity to end
so i can fall.
i love playing mind games
with people who are "in love" with me
as sick as it may be.
i love taking teensy pills
that make me feel
tall, tall, tall.
i love being scared
that the manager will find out
that i stole a hundred dollar necklace.
i love all of these things.
but not me.
Oct 30, 2013
Oct 30, 2013 at 10:51 PM UTC
Is it supposed to be nice on Tuesday?
Because I have a date
And I'm hoping
It will be
Good hand-holding weather
And I'm hoping
There will be sunflowers
And I'm praying for
Fireworks
Or sparklers
Or at least lighters
Maybe shooting stars
And rocket launchers
I want this to be the last first.
I don't want this to be awkward.
May 18, 2013
May 18, 2013 at 9:50 PM UTC
i walk with no head between my shoulders
setting fires with dead lighters
dirtying the lines and the condition carrying heavy in each step
and the steady ticking of my watch has become my heart
i can't recall much between coffee grounds and a pair of soft eyes and smile
things don't seep in and it has become a taught art
something tied to me; something i tied myself to
Dec 4, 2015
Dec 4, 2015 at 1:29 AM UTC
Wasting my life.
Cause my time is so precious, ha!
Walking through my room,
the stench actually slows progress.
You feel it on your skin,
it thickens the air, increases drag.
They squirm on the floor.
I wipe them off my hands and stomach.
They might have had dreams, aspirations.
How ridiculous they’re just ejaculations.
I posses a value for life. But my children here.
I don’t feel anything for them, or without them.
Time ***** by.
Instinct, greed and something else win again.
This addiction doesn’t leave track marks,
***** spoons, or empty lighters.
But it does leave a stench, and little time.
It’s a **** I can’t get rid of. Literally.
It’s attached to me, I use it everyday in one way.
But **** it.
Whoops, phrasing...
I mean ***** it, school is in like 6 hours.
I feel relieved in one way. Now I have it onboard.
A nice big hit, of dopamine. Instantly.
Feb 20, 2020
Feb 20, 2020 at 10:17 AM UTC
I am a traveller, a travelling man
And have wandered far and wide
With nothing but the flip flops on my feet
And fisherman’s trousers for a net.
And during these travails and trials I
Have heard many a tale, both tall and true,
And one day in a distant field I heard talk
Of a special cosmic law, another worldly rule of physic,
A fifth or sixth sense or dimension,
As earth-shattering as Newton’s apple.
It is...
A law of diminishing returns
Operating particularly at music festivals.
Let me explain.
So far I’ve lost,
My nice woolly zip up cardigan, half my contact lenses
My bass drum pedal, (Though that might still be in the van)
My wallet, containing money and cards, my baccy.
I lost and then refound my filters 18 times throughout the day,
Though each time they returned diminished in number,
Two packs of bacon, lost to the public stomach,
Three lighters, none of which were mine,
My mind, last night, though I found it lying
Outside my tent again in the morning sun,
And fifteen lovely strangers, who turned out to be friends.
Sep 18, 2011
Sep 18, 2011 at 4:22 PM UTC
We treat our hearts like fighters,
12 rounds trapped in the fear cage inside.
Pride be our fuel, anger our lighters,
Our souls wastelands with nowhere to hide.
Ego hijacks our common sense,
Making shallow love our prize.
Emoting makes our minds go tense,
Until help screams out from our eyes.
The leaps and bounds we **** ourselves for,
Isn't enough to keep our hearts at bay.
Nothing will ever even the score,
There are no words they can simply say.
So why do we put ourselves through hell?
Why can't we just swallow our pride?
Because love is a feeling they just want to sell,
And in debt there's no place to hide.
May 6, 2017
May 6, 2017 at 5:28 PM UTC
Far from my reach
Listen to me
Paradise up yonder
Don;t have to ponder
Answers up high
Far from my grasp
Speechless gasp
Paradise from afar
Heavens know
Where i
Are
Lord oh Lord
You've blessed my soul
Sent a paradise
Only i know
Lighters ready
Ready
Set
Blow
Paradise
Paradise
Melted mixture
Needle
Spoon
Paradise
Im coming
Soon
Close to my hands
Running through my veins
Paradise
Sweet home of mine
Time flies
Laying on my spine
Gardens of lilies
Daffodils
Purple valleys
Yellow pills
Paradise
Sounding surrender
Lovely vice
Shooting stars
Paradise
Where
I
Becomes
Our
Glorious place
To meet again
Paradise
You are sin
Murray
Feb 26, 2012
Feb 26, 2012 at 1:08 PM UTC
Blankets, pillows, a black dog, and a cell phone.
Facebook, Twitter, Vine, Gmail, and Instagram.
Shampoo, soap bar, toothbrush,
toothpaste, temperature, and time.
Shaving cream, razor, running water,
advertisements, sensitivity, precision, and cuts.
Burned tongue, empty stomach, loose tie,
missing shirt buttons, beating the clock,
wallet, briefcase, and car keys.
Ballpoint pens, scented trees, fast food wrappers,
loose change, lighters, citations, ***** clothes,
CDs, and napkins.
Red lights, pedestrians, homeless people,
newspapers, billboards, pets on leashes, sewer
grates, crosswalks, skyscrapers, and garbage.
Faxes, printers, memorandums, break room,
prestige, cubicles, customer service, paperweights,
filing cabinets, stocks, and corporate.
Wipers, streetlights, rain coats, dive bars,
and home.
Blankets, pillows, a black dog, and a cell phone.
May 4, 2014
May 4, 2014 at 1:43 PM UTC
Siri. Type this:
More memories. Less Facebook moments.
Let’s go back to concerts filled with lighters — warm seas of flame,
instead of stadiums filled with phones and waves of blue light that keeps us from sleeping at night.
Our phones, it looks like we’re all telling one big ghost story around the campfire — our faces lit up from underneath in the dark.
It’s like a part of our bodies, a mollusk’s shell,
That we won’t outgrow until it’s torn from us and we’re eaten, still fresh.
It’s like we call it Facetime because that’s what we need, but don’t have.
Since when is being viral a good thing?
Viral means an infectious disease.
Viral Viral Viral.
I feel like I need a ****** just to surf the web.
I honestly can’t have a conversation with a person
without toying at my phone anymore.
We post our beautiful stories on snapchat,
the colorful blurred days of our lives,
and let it slip away into the ether.
Your stories are still interesting even after 24 hours.
Seeing that red notification, knowing I’m special, I’m wanted, I’m special.
when it turns out to be another Farmville invite.
Talk about crutches. Nitze called religion a crutch but at least religion helps people walk. Phones make people run into things.
I wonder if the New Messiah will have a social media account.
We are so close to just hooking up our phones to traveling robot vehicles and navigating our world from our home.
The future’s hangouts will be phones arranged in a circle
on a table,
all on Facetime,
as we take shots,
in our rooms alone.
Jerry smiles because he isn’t wearing pants
but no one can tell.
Our phones only show what’s on top.
Please share this poem, by the way.
For videos of my reading my poems, visit https://mateilatte.wordpress.com/content/poetry/
Aug 21, 2015
Aug 21, 2015 at 4:23 PM UTC
Beauty
entrances every ear
every surface:
engulfs it within the
flames that were sacrificed
from one hundred lighters
****** up towards the sky
with a mite that stirs
our joy awake
with a mite that seems to consume
every fiber of our being
in its brilliance
and we connect to the power
laid before us,
given to us at the sound of a yell
--a scream so defiant
it could break anything
but the voice
and the essence
of our prayers:
the prayers to carry us away
with these lyrics,
these notes and melodies,
to carry us away
in hopes of finding something better
--something euphoric--
within these songs.
We are not disappointed
in our search.
Jul 23, 2013
Jul 23, 2013 at 4:03 PM UTC
My hands are trembling more than usual,
so I have altered my coffee to a camomile tea.
I administer everything as if it were medicine;
a chemist punctuating his day with
guilty cigarettes and vague homoeopathy.
*It's all ******** I know-
but whatever gets you through the day...*
In the season of advent, my fingers are bitten
down to the quick; throat seared with
half-functioning lighters and fragile matches;
I can scarcely operate either in this state.
The fairy-lights turn the high-street to a runway.
*But all I see are charity shops
interceded with bookies and coffee houses.*
This home-town exists to keep up my interest
in finding some purpose. A path to eventual escape
from all of these old bonds and ties,
pinning me down with memories of ***
and all of the street-names I have learned by rote.
*I'm treading water here-
living in the comfort of a sink-hole.*
Dec 8, 2014
Dec 8, 2014 at 1:41 PM UTC
I have beautiful nightmares still to this day of our times together.
I see her face, of which I do not like to recall but nevertheless, blindingly unforgettable.
Just the burning ashes and shadowy silhouettes that dance in the corridors of my mind between darkened doorways and buzzing lights.
No wind, growing still air and a stench of old sketch books and burning lighters.
Some things you wish you could forget, while others, you wish you could remember.
Jan 11, 2014
Jan 11, 2014 at 12:36 PM UTC
On the eleventh day of Reggae Christmas
My boombastic love gave to me:
11 ragin' reefers
10 lightin' lighters
9 hefty island boys
8 bowls of cereal
7 dabs of oil
6 blazin' bubblers
5 smokin' spliffs
4 grams of purple
3 beautiful bowls
2 boombastic bongs
and a brand new marijuana tree.
Dec 11, 2014
Dec 11, 2014 at 8:38 AM UTC
All the best cover bands have leather jackets and aviators in play.
Feel the bodies burn.
Their polka dot calm pierces the noisy dark.
It slips between your lower ribs.
Trance hands in the air for shared emotion.
When the Sun dies out we'll light the world with disposable lighters.
We'll also flicker with emoticon implants.
Cold glitter on a dark planet.
Winky face.
Mar 17, 2013
Mar 17, 2013 at 6:00 PM UTC
you made some choices
maybe the only choice you made
was to let somebody else make all the choices
but you are excellent at finger pointing
and complacency
even better at keeping your mouth shut
great at getting ******
weekends don't mean the same to you as they do to others
you spent your only free time getting higher or lower than the others
pop a pill
take a shot
or burn a fatty
we're all committing suicide in some way
we're all born under the death sentence of a clock which only runs backwards
time is limited and is not something we get back in change from a cash register
or in a tip from some **** head customer who is so much more important than you
the kids are all smiling and laughing with ease
and you hate them for it
jealousy is one hell of a vice
and on those nights were you gripped the pillow tight to your chest just not wanting to be alone
you always are
and your alarm clock is always set for 6:45
in the AM
and you don't get home until 5:30
PM region
you give and give and give and wait and wait and wait
just like they told you to
because God forbid you try to take it
make it break it fake it or forsake it
just get back in line
the bouncer will let you know when you can come in
a 25 to life cover charge required,
of course,
and put your lighters and rags and spirits away
this won't be the day you crack
and burn that palace of mediocrity to the ground
paste that big plastic plaster smile on your face
grimace because it's about to come out of you
"Thank you sir. Have nice day. We appreciate you business."
Nov 4, 2013
Nov 4, 2013 at 5:22 PM UTC
On the tenth day of Reggae Christmas
My boombastic love gave to me:
10 lightin' lighters
9 hefty island boys
8 bowls of cereal
7 dabs of oil
6 blazin' bubblers
5 smokin' spliffs
4 grams of purple
3 beautiful bowls
2 boombastic bongs
and a brand new marijuana tree.
Dec 10, 2014
Dec 10, 2014 at 1:07 PM UTC
Tonight, my snowed in heart has frozen.
It's numb, lost and broken.
With minutes left, yet no one to call,
this bachelorette lifestyle has taken its toll.
Search for greener pastures loses its charms,
on nights like this when the bed is cold.
Staring at a picture of a stranger,
I can simply sense the danger,
of rushing into a compromise,
by settling for my parents' choice,
of whom I should spend the rest of my life,
and all I can do is.... sigh.
Alcohol, an ideal solution,
but my room is painstakingly dry.
Several lighters lying around, but not a single cigarettes,
I could just cry.
Reminiscing a walk in town,
where commercialism attempts to sell love,
tying the end of Christmas to the start of Valentines,
and why I cannot afford any of the above.
Having gone astray,
losing my right to pray,
noticing how when they stay,
I end up walking away,
makes me suspect a divine intervention,
threatening a life of damnation,
with no means of escape,
because it's too late.
I'm in critical need of a saviour,
a hero, a warrior,
to feed my patriarchal upbringing,
to be that **** Prince Charming.
Enough good looks,
to keep me hooked,
and anaesthetize my heart,
for the inevitable ripping apart.
Wit enough to hypnotize my brain,
so the pain won't stop me from loving again,
and yes, that is what I want to do,
until this life is through.
My snowed in heart could do with some warmth,
someone, light a fire, soon...
Jan 18, 2013
Jan 18, 2013 at 8:45 PM UTC
Paul, he likes his lighters and his spoon
“Taste that kerosene.” he offers
‘Nah, I’m cool.’
There are people running naked in the street
This one girl, she slipped
Her blood becoming a perfect illustration of a fractal as it mixed with the rain water
Snaking through the leaves
Trickling to the gutter
On its way to the sea
Lucky blood
I wish it was me
I hold the syringe up to the light
Double checking I got it right
And I wonder, in this moment, what you would think of me?
“So then” Paul slides down the wall to the floor
Legs spread in a V, he winks at me
Like a drunken ********** offering more
“What’s your poison?”
****** But don’t get excited Paul, that’s not what I’m here for.’
I expose his skin, and let the needle sink in
“You used to be such a good girl. Goody goody.”
He laughs from his spot on the floor
“Goody; such a weird word. But that’s what you were.”
I recap the needle, carefully now
"What happened to you, Goody? What?” He twitches and slides down more
‘The hospital would be more suited for you, ya know.'
I pack up his insulin, store it back in the fridge.
‘Okay Paul. I’ll be back in the morning. Try not to OD again.’
“Goody Goody.” He laughs up at me from his spot on the floor.
“Goody Goody, that’s what you were.”
Apr 18, 2013
Apr 18, 2013 at 1:31 AM UTC
There was a stunning symbolism floating through the air that night.
We laughed about it without acknowledging it out loud,
Fumbling with lighters and glances cast downward.
I jumped a fence, in a dress, four hours past curfew.
You said, "You owe me an adventure, I saved your life today."
You had, and every day before that.
But never again since.
Mar 2, 2015
Mar 2, 2015 at 5:26 PM UTC
Thinking in sparked lighters that
sting your thumb and cut your
lungs
Glints in your eyes and burns in
that 0.2 of a second
Scarlet grapefruit that puckers your inner cheeks
Breakfast you've only seen on
Latenight Television, behind the couch, in secret
it's been years since they've
promised your order so where is it
you scream
You scratch, scathing, panting
promising to yourself
of sweetness
bitter sugar
Jan 21, 2017
Jan 21, 2017 at 9:31 AM UTC