"molotov" poems
I've learned that happiness
cannot be found in the form of a little
purple capsule.
I've learned that Pisa will have to wait until next time.
I've learned that the third mushroom
held in my sweaty palm was not as
big a deal compared to the other two opening my mind.
I've learned that a part of me
died that night where we ****** in a
room with no furniture.
I've learned that life is work and that
the molotov cocktail of Dubrah and eay mac
that came spewing from me left an orange tang
upon the floor.
I've learned that pain is better than numbness
and that jabbing a sewing needle repeatedly in my arm
was an educated decision.
Most importantly I've learned that together we are better than alone.
Nov 4, 2013
Nov 4, 2013 at 1:05 PM UTC
-Light up a cliche under a streetlight
while singing "the Star Spangled Banner"
and receiving oral from a trans-woman.
**** in the drive-thru of an Arby's.
-Fist fight a bear that people
find much uglier than myself.
Made a bucket list of ****
I think might be legitimately worth doing;
haven't run it by my girlfriend yet.
Speaking of which,
she deserves a round of applause
for dealing with my melodramatic ********
-Strike a police officer,
after robbing a bank with a water pistol.
I wanted to call her to let her know
I'd chased a bird till it crossed the street
and tweeted at me in anger or excitement.
Flipping the bird "the bird", I shouted,
**** YOU BIRD!"
and continued home.
-Throw a rock at a train.
-Toss a Molotov Cocktail at a moving car,
and cook a hot dog in the flames.
She deserves a million dollars
and a ******* Nobel peace prize.
-Call one of those panhandling
money worshiping televangelists
a **** bird, and offer them to ****
themselves [the ugliest people I can think of].
-Wear a habit over a burka.
I don't believe in souls, soul mates,
anything supernatural or special,
but I love that woman,
and that's why I believe in love.
-Not die alone.
Jun 15, 2014
Jun 15, 2014 at 12:51 PM UTC
he's
tripping, but not
coerced by gravity;
rather a Molotov cocktail of
endorphins lobbed straight at his
prefrontal cortex.
some find this
distasteful,
some find it
deplorable;
god help me,
I find it adorable.
(it's the only time he'll
admit he loves me)
Mar 31, 2014
Mar 31, 2014 at 11:33 AM UTC
Where are all the anarchist tonight?
Have they all disappeared
under disgruntled lovers throwing acid,
bleeding misbeloved employees glocking no joy,
displaced juveniles servicing denial
at station number 3?
Where are all the anarchist,
my friends, the needles of hay,
stacked balefully, systematically
against the marginalized barn
side door beneath exit sign 4.
Where are all the anarchist tonight?
Have they drunk too many Molotov
and can't find the Way,
and instead burn car, smell bushes burnt
and forgotten the **** up?
Mar 29, 2013
Mar 29, 2013 at 11:35 PM UTC
Sloane swallows.
***** is ****
I execrate extraterrestrial.
We are all kaput to conk out.
Pollyanna is singular hanky—panky.
Little green men are unpatriotic, perverted and naughty.
I verily don’t grease a *****
Oojakapivvycum.
If you are amphibious that means you are an effervescent ventriloquist capable of
Cannibalism, cannibalism and cannibalism.
The fluid inside the android is so gothic and naff
It is knock—kneed in the face of flashing **********
I do not feel that I am on the shoulders of cobber doggies.
I am protoplastically lassoed abutting penetrating vampire and pervert
That penetrate ***** creature.
I have pricked little green men myself and taken pleasure in it.
It is only with the help of bad hair days of groupies that I have not been in Sing Sing.
We are all sadomasochistically decomposing in a heap of our own meconium.
I bore stiff to outstrip yours truly as much as I have room to swing a cat from Ku Klux ****
But I am as complicit in the android’s ****** abuse as it were android ***
Little green men ***** me as I ***** myself.
I ***** bug—eyed men’s ******* types as I have perpetually vomited Molotov cocktail.
I smell little green men’s filth televised on their ******* types.
I feel like I am inside a crust of cancers who delight in smelling others bonk upstairs,
Ad hominen id. Ex post facto,
I am too much of a dastard to throw cold water on myself.
I coagulate gungily to my menstrual gibbering ******
Castrating anti—Semite to flash me abutting crème de la crème.
Strenuously, my ***** gluts under one’s nose because that is all there is.
Mar 21, 2010
Mar 21, 2010 at 6:27 PM UTC
Her ribs crackled, in the skeleton night.
And I remember my mouth on hers,
where atomic fish hooks attached our lips.
Where there was nothing like kissing
like our God wasn't dead.
She was accused of killing a taxi driver
in the Brazilian underbelly.
Smoking a cigarette, she dropped it on the ground,
spat on it, and crushed it with her bare foot,
saying she fell in love with the way
his sleep-drenched body lay.
And I told her to stay home.
And I told her that they'd find her.
But she didn't stay home.
And they did find her.
Chasing her through the Babylon brush,
insults were thrown and so were balloons of gasoline.
Each pink, yellow, and green vessel floated in the air, as an internal opera heightened.
And sour splashes spread across her body,
as she fled from the vigilante mob.
The children danced along the panoramic horizon she ran beside,
laughing, pointing, singing.
The slumbering sorrow of the situation became evident,
and she started to feel the calm of fleeting life.
Her dreams aborted and her ideals became fallacies,
and with the sound of fuzzy motors in the background, her heart leapt and her feet slipped.
Rope ate into her, wrapping her like the orphaned recklessness of each set of eyes that painted her.
She squirmed amongst the cheers.
She cried with every thrown beer and balloon.
The empty-eyed males gang ***** her.
The women covered the children's eyes,
and the children tried to move their mothers' hands.
And I pushed my way through the crowd.
And I saw her smothered in blood, beer, and gasoline.
I wanted to halt the hurricane that destroyed morality.
But I am a coward.
Frozen by my fear, I, too, am a murderer.
And a murderer I'll always be,
for the burning of all that was good.
Sudden flames soared towards the sky.
Laughter escaped as molotov cocktails exploded onto her body.
Her head turned towards the crowd,
as flames scampered across her face.
I saw in her, what I never saw before,
which was the human race.
Jun 16, 2015
Jun 16, 2015 at 10:14 AM UTC
*Butterfly Desires & Fictional Highs,
Magnetic Spells In Her Emerald Eyes,
Bleeding Perpetual Fire & Toxic Cries.
Lucid Screams Of Her Plastic Love,
Paper Towns & Serenity Above,
Refracting Into An Apocalyptic Dove.
Postcards Of Her Estranged Serenity,
Diffusing Into Polaroids Across Infinity,
Rhythms Of Lusts Erupting Obscenity.
Bluest Shade Of Her Misguided Confessions,
Uncharted Fragments Amplifying Obsessions,
Profane Prodigies Detonating Desecrations,
Digital Dreams & Fictional Desires,
3D Symphonies Inside Her Crystal Wires,
Purple Streams Translating Fires.
Tunnel Visions Transmitting Reality,
Suicidal Trance & Static Eternity,
Molotov Solution Is Her Lighthouse Of Ecstasy.
- 04:19AM -*
Mar 13, 2017
Mar 13, 2017 at 6:56 PM UTC
I'm calling you out
Of my mind
Manifest yourself
Come on, blow up in my face
To the:
Bombshell
With the short fuse
I'll be your Molotov cocktail
You be my fiery muse
I keep seeing your face
In sepia torn scenery
In the art of my dreams
trying to photoshop reality
To the:
Dream Girl
With her totem locked
I'll join you in a free fall
As I violently shake back awake
Alone
So it goes...
You're dancing my imagination
Heart-beating my soul
Tango of illumination
I felt your grace
In telepathic foreplay
My little mind-fu©k
life's stranger than fantasy
To the:
Princess,
Crowned in roses
I'll savor you as a Goddess
When you open your sweet blossom
So it goes...
You're dancing my imagination
Heart-beating my soul
Tango of illumination
Fire of my *****
Rising up my spine
We could be enlightenment-to-be
Like Nirvana
Come on blow my mind
Jul 16, 2013
Jul 16, 2013 at 9:58 PM UTC
NIETZCHE YOU ****
YOU'VE RUINED MY LIFE
I was once so innocent Without You.
Now I can hardly contemplate the light of day
from staring into the abyss for so long.
How can I ever forgive you?
Cynic-master, who taught me how to think for myself
who taught me how to speak with such lucid contempt
Now I can never trust the government
Now I can never have faith in anyone's heavanly aspirations,
The sun having long set on any protests of idealism.
And yet I still find you remarkable Nietzsche
You never fail to make me laugh
at the times when I need it the most.
You're the rebel friend who I can
never introduce to my parents.
Yours is the poster which should adorn every angry teenagers' wall
With quotes highlighting The Will to Power and violent determination.
A hopeful voice in a godless world.
I'm reminded of you in the girl that speaks
or stealing every crucifix in her former convent school
after her friend was expelled.
I'm reminded of you with every protester
who throws a Molotov cocktail at armed police
I'm reminded of you
in eery artist who does'nt follow formality
in every caged bird who continues to sing.
For all your anger
I must thank you Nietzsche
Even if I can never be as happily ignorant as I once was
For wasn't the very crux of modern life challenged by you?
All of Humanity
All the cruelty
All the spit Fullness
All the Hatred
when you threw yourself in front of that horse
being beaten in Turin
and for losing your mind
Just to prove a point.
May 4, 2012
May 4, 2012 at 5:51 AM UTC
your lips are the cesspool of sin
invading my thoughts,
filling my brain with the images
of them swollen, red, bruised,
or coated in saliva
and caught between your teeth,
or even forming my name
in a whisper or a moan.
you are the devil's bartender,
mixing a molotov cocktail
of aphrodisiacs and raging hormones.
nothing will cure this thirst.
you would have me beg.
there is a spark of sin
inside this sinner.
there is a pool of gasoline
i am drowning in
and you have the box of matches.
Feb 11, 2014
Feb 11, 2014 at 5:28 PM UTC
ah, love,
you're a walking tribute to anarchy
and i love to hear you preach -
boxcutter lips wrapping around
the holiest words of blood and viscera,
rage and fear
that clench in the throat like a diamond called from coal.
in the name of the lord you drink the sun
and the burn is familiar,
an old friend
the father of the righteous fire
that drives you to drag down the sky,
or drag up the earth -
anything to approach
empyrean heights:
in your sermons you scale mountains to break into heaven,
dragging your scars
behind you.
you break glass just to prove that nothing lasts.
every manifesto is another gospel
in your holy book,
your promise
that promises mean nothing.
love me like a miscarriage,
hold me like a cancer -
prescribe diamorphine to the world
and watch it choke on numbness.
*those who fear pain
deserve to feel nothing at all,*
you say,
*those who fear pain
deserve to never die.*
bestowing the world with
the worst curse you know.
boxcutter lips
ripping words to shreds.
molotov eyes
and paper lungs.
your paper-lantern lungs
shine through your back
and you smother them with cotton to **** the sickly glow.
the sun you swallowed is still pooled in your lungs,
and it shines like a blasphemous joke -
green light in your sick midnight,
a burn to rival your molotov eyes,
your righteous fire.
you live like steel to forget your paper lungs.
*brothers, sisters,
have you heard the good news?
you won't be the first to die.*
of course not, love,
we can all see the collision course you're on.
walking tribute to anarchy,
you're crafting your own doom.
{oh, but i'll go down with you, love,
i'll carry all your scars for you
and blow out the sun in your lungs -
let me show you, love,
what i can do.
let me show you how sick i can be -
i've a twisted mind and i'd like to prove it,
like to take all your scars upon myself
and burn down heaven
if they won't hear your sermons.
i am your weapon so wield me well.
i am your weapon
and together
we will bring the heretics
low.}
ah, love,
you're a walking tribute to anarchy
and i want to watch you suffocate
when your fire burns the last of the oxygen.
your footsteps are ashes and broken glass
and i follow
close behind.
you scream
and curse
and cry to heaven
and i smother the sun in your lungs.
in your sick midnight sermons,
heaven pulsates like an open wound
and i stitch you up,
keep the gangrene from your gospels.
ah, love,
in your throat
coal turns to diamond.
rage and fear
behind boxcutter lips.
Mar 23, 2013
Mar 23, 2013 at 2:25 PM UTC
Mr Kalashnikov I'll ask you nicely
Please don't point that thing at me
Laszlo Biro how nice to see you
Without you where would we be?
Mr Molotov may I remind you
You are in polite company
May I present the Earl of Sandwich
Do partake of his wares
And special desserts are served soon after
Presented in person by Anna Pavlova
The Duke of Wellington brought in some mud
Mr Macintosh is expecting a flood
Candido Jacuzzi and Joseph Pilates
Appear to be making friends
Henry Shrapnel and Joseph Guillotin
Who invited them?
Ferdinand von Zeppelin,
Perhaps you would like a schnapps?
Mr Winchester, Mr Colt, Mr Gatling, Mr Lewis
So many gunmen I'm alarmed I confess
May I trouble you Mr Hoover
To help tidy up the mess?
Nov 17, 2014
Nov 17, 2014 at 4:00 PM UTC
I just wanted to love someone
so much -
That I never learned to like anyone
She was dangerously close
like a molotov
to a dream.
The crease in her smile
From when she carried it closed
Or maybe from when
The one that last carried it for her.
There's a thorn in her paw;
That is a crucifix in her theart
and keeps her nailed to the pain.
It's a cross
between the love she has
for everyone
but herself,
and the hatred for me.
And I like it.
All of it.
Still though, I dream that she's in my bed
looking sweete than her taste for revenge,
it's 5 PM and she isn't wearing much
but she's in my bed, saying the things
that I need to hear,
which is just about anything at this point.
It's 8:30 pm, and I get my wake up call
and out the door I go, in my headphones go
the first thing I hear is Ed Sheeran
I hate that I enjoy his voice
because he's always ******* right
and he tells me "baby you look happier, you do"
well ****
"my friends told me, one day I'll feel it too"
and now I need a shot because ****
I really was happier with her.
7:15 in the morning
Don Quixote sits against my wall
I can't really hear his voice
but he says that it ain't right
to fight a windmill and lose.
and then he tells me
it ain't right for me and her
to be all we've ever been.
All I make is mistakes
I see them too, but it's always too late.
It's all I know how to do.
I know there's something wrong,
hence why I'm drunk when I write.
Sometimes I couldn't blink
or take a breath during those conversations.
There's so much I'm uncertain about
...so many questions
I'll never ask, again
I used to ask a lot, for someone.
not anymore.
not since i couldn't explain
what I couldn't explore.
but that thorn is still in her paw.
I wish I could've removed it.
Dec 11, 2018
Dec 11, 2018 at 2:30 AM UTC
It's a crazy ******* world
Concealed inside here
It's a mind inside matter
Of nihilistic fears
It's a give or a care, or lack there of
It's a pissy little kid, lovebred smug
It's all the things you can't talk about, an unattended Molotov
May 7, 2014
May 7, 2014 at 3:13 AM UTC
I've been gnawing off my nails
faster than I learned to chew as a child..
I don't bleed as heavily as I used to,
thick callus has replaced the skin
that's been opened time and time again
after each lashing of your tongue
I was stronger than before.
I choke on the word victim
like strong alcohol spit it up in the bathroom sink
and set aflame like a molotov cocktail; it feels like war in my chest.
I picture her as something unknown to most;
something you run from in nightmares.
In the open, she was nothing to fear,
harmless in front of the eyes of another:
behind closed doors she was a titlewave and
I was always facing the wrong direction..
not a surprise, but I was never expecting.
Jan 27, 2017
Jan 27, 2017 at 9:53 AM UTC
There is a long tail of madness
that echoes from this wreckage. Molotov is making cocktails,
as Kalashnikov assaults us
at forty-two plus five.
Triptamine takes the backseat,
and your carpet bombs
lay me to waste,
******
Oct 5, 2014
Oct 5, 2014 at 1:06 AM UTC
**a tribute to
Vivian Francesca Jarvis**
Allow me please some bragging rights
Of this I will attest
My mom's a brave, accomplished gal
She's one of the Best
Born to be an actress
A director and a coach
She starred in Joan of Arc
I have the right to boast
She's been in countless films
A career of great yield
She played with Sydney Poitier
In Lilies of the Field
She is a character actress
Won many awards
To hear her tell her tales of stage & screen
One is never bored!
Not only an actress
My mom's an activist
League of Women Voters
There is quite a list!
She stood up for the poor man
And during Vietnam
She directed guerilla theater
And was threatened with a bomb!
Someone threw a rock
With a note attached
Saying a Molotov Cocktail
Would go through our window next!
She's had trials and tribulations
Depression. Migraines long
But she always rose above it
The Show Must Go On!
Now she is still acting!
Though West Nile Virus took its share
Of a once sharp memory
And she's in a power chair!
She starred in Mother Courage
And truly this is she
I am grateful for my mom
and proud as proud can be!
SoulSurvivor
Catherine Jarvis
(C) 3/6/2016
Mar 6, 2016
Mar 6, 2016 at 12:01 PM UTC
I want my book in a children's library
I want my book in a maximum security prison
I want my book resting on a cloud in a sky
to be seen by a passenger in an airplane
the passenger to crack the escape hatch and jump
survive the fall
I want my book to be a parachute
I want my book surrounded by tiny hands,
hearts,
and mouths,
saying I love you
I love me.
I will survive
I want a book that is a house
for the abandoned
I want a book that is a vacany sign
Rent me.
I want my book that is a headstone
I want a book that is a flowerbed
I want a book that is a matchstick
a Tire Iron
an oil tanker
I want a book that is a leatherman
in a hunters pocket
in the belly of a deer
in the zip ties and cellophane
of a childs Christmas present
I want a book that bleeds
I want a book held by tiny hands
with wide eyes
wider because of me
I want to destroy the innocence of children
by handing them courage and wisdom
I want to inspire revolution
I want sad eyes and clenched fists
I want skydive
wings grown during the fall
I want a nation run by answers
with blood stained sheets
I want a book that is every question
symbiotic book
single cell organism
splits in two hearts
I want a book that is a surgeon
saving lives,
holding scalpel
I want a book with hands up
no rubber gloves, just a gun to it's back
an engine running
I want a book that is a bank robbery
paper bag mask
on fire
Molotov cocktails
disguised as champagne bottles
Destined for VIP
I want the man who threw it
to be the only one burning
and well read
And *****
I want my book in his VIP
I want him to read it with a melted eye
I want my book in his prison cell
to be next to me
maximum security
my casket
I want a book resting
on a cloud in the sky
in a children's library
surrounded by tiny hands
Before I am gone.
Aug 15, 2017
Aug 15, 2017 at 1:49 AM UTC
we have been deceived.
corralled like tepid sheep,
fattened beef
waiting beyond
the doors of the slaughterhouse.
as pigs lick their lips,
a daemon’s death dirge drifts
listless across the
Atlantic, an erratic dichotomy
corroding rationality—
this executive edict
barring refugees.
caught without a compass,
a flotilla of ships weathering
the elements.
for forty days
and forty nights,
we’ve been lead
two-by-two
by elephants
and donkeys.
demagogues commandeered
the lighthouse, directing
our ark across
scattered rocks.
an armada
of shattered splinters,
remnants of water-logged vessels
we’d hoped to sail to utopia.
caught in the webs
we wove, droves
of drones spewing
bombs across Aleppo.
as spittle collects
on spluttering orange lips,
will we
pause
for but a moment?
collect
our thoughts.
reflect.
history is a shattered
mirror and we’ve pricked
our fingers trying
to piece the image
back together.
there’s a hunger
for blood
refracting in our eyes.
a misanthropy
that smarts and stings.
a recalcitrant population
coerced by a television
rhetorician’s clever
devices, devised
to separate and segregate
during this crisis
caused by our missiles.
there is no moral arc
to the universe. hope,
Hedges wrote, is mania
if it remains vapid
and refuses to address
the depravity of our
physical reality.
we’ve already lost.
just ask the children
barely clinging to life,
covered in the debris
of their former homes.
all that’s left for us
is to bash the fascists.
smash every illusory border
in our heads and hearts.
burn down the walls
they try to build
around us.
overturn the tables
of the oligarchs,
stuff Molotov cocktails
down their bloated throats.
open revolt is our only hope.
we’ll build a sanctuary
in this City Beautiful.
Jan 28, 2017
Jan 28, 2017 at 10:12 PM UTC
i couldn't have expected someone so soon
to make my heart race and mind doubt
as that cocktail of love mixed with heart-wrenching pain
still lingers in my mouth
Jun 24, 2015
Jun 24, 2015 at 5:54 PM UTC
Magnetic Contaminations & Audiotronic Visions,
Sublimating Poetic Transmutations Of Her Catatonic Provisions,
Primordial Metamorphosis Of Her Synthetic Overtunes,
Revealing Self-Perpetuated Biotic Tunes,
Protoplasmic Sparks In Her Cryptic Eyes,
Condensing Into Labyrinthine Whispers & Mortal Butterflies,
Myriad Phantasms On Feral Nights,
Fervid Effigies Under Moaning Lights,
Phantasmal Echoes & Mystic Whisperings,
Catalyzing Crepuscular Skies Under A Moonlit Spring,
Spiritual Crafts & Her Supernova Screams,
Evaporating Molotov Solution Of Her Liquified Dreams,
Untouched Realms & Her Ecstatic Overflows,
Refueling With Fantasy Effects Of Her Verbal Glows,
Arcane Stains & Her Floral Clones,
Primal Profanity Raining Over Her Coral Throne,
Handmade Essence Of Her Still-Born Eternity,
Recklessly Serenading Through Her Lacteal Galaxy,
Hypersonic Dreams & Venomous Virility,
Tampering Her Ionic Revelations Of Exquisite Hostility,
Progressive Factuals & Her Motionless Serenity,
Invocating Her Violets Serving Blue Infinity,
Apparitional Mirrors & Her Immaculate Misconceptions,
Weaponizing Fireflies In Whisky Perceptions.
- 05:52AM -
Apr 1, 2017
Apr 1, 2017 at 8:22 PM UTC
I work
play Fallout 4
write poetry
I mind my own business
cut my lawn
clean my house.
Occasionally I shop
smile at strangers
engage in random acts of kindness...
Explain why
a Molotov cocktail was thrown at my home?
and why, while shopping
a three year old points and screams
*****
*****
*****
*****
*****
while her mother continues to shop
....... as if this is the norm?
Jul 25, 2016
Jul 25, 2016 at 10:37 AM UTC
by yoko molotov and scott sharp
hey.
it would mean a lot to me if you came out tonight, i miss you.
I feel ****** that we havent had a lot of time together.
that our lives have grown so far in other realms
maybe its time we drink and sing and
shout for the good times the
old times and of course
the new times my
dearest pal and
best droog-
yours.
cb
B
I might
This week
Has been a spell
Of stress and masochism
My **** hurts. And my brain.
Karaoke is a great relief in many ways
However, it’s often too loud and crowded
For hangs and ketchup. The backdoor is more seductive
Lets meet at the table outside with wings, beer, and jolly bellies
Lets tell war stories. Lets milk the clock. Lets party like it’s 2003. Let’s puke.
Aug 27, 2013
Aug 27, 2013 at 12:32 PM UTC