"nitric" poems
When, like a running grave, time tracks you down,
Your calm and cuddled is a scythe of hairs,
Love in her gear is slowly through the house,
Up naked stairs, a turtle in a hearse,
Hauled to the dome,
Comes, like a scissors stalking, tailor age,
Deliver me who timid in my tribe,
Of love am barer than Cadaver's trap
Robbed of the foxy tongue, his footed tape
Of the bone inch
Deliver me, my masters, head and heart,
Heart of Cadaver's candle waxes thin,
When blood, spade-handed, and the logic time
Drive children up like bruises to the thumb,
From maid and head,
For, sunday faced, with dusters in my glove,
Chaste and the chaser, man with the cockshut eye,
I, that time's jacket or the coat of ice
May fail to fasten with a ****** o
In the straight grave,
Stride through Cadaver's country in my force,
My pickbrain masters morsing on the stone
Despair of blood faith in the maiden's slime,
Halt among eunuchs, and the nitric stain
On fork and face.
Time is a foolish fancy, time and fool.
No, no, you lover skull, descending hammer
Descends, my masters, on the entered honour.
You hero skull, Cadaver in the hangar
Tells the stick, 'fail.'
Joy is no knocking nation, sir and madam,
The cancer's fashion, or the summer feather
Lit on the cuddled tree, the cross of fever,
Not city tar and subway bored to foster
Man through macadam.
I dump the waxlights in your tower dome.
Joy is the knock of dust, Cadaver's shoot
Of bud of Adam through his boxy shift,
Love's twilit nation and the skull of state,
Sir, is your doom.
Everything ends, the tower ending and,
(Have with the house of wind), the leaning scene,
Ball of the foot depending from the sun,
(Give, summer, over), the cemented skin,
The actions' end.
All, men my madmen, the unwholesome wind
With whistler's cough contages, time on track
Shapes in a cinder death; love for his trick,
Happy Cadaver's hunger as you take
The kissproof world.
3.4k
Alone I sit in the dark,
no light, no candle, not even a spark.
Wondering where the time has gone,
not even tired, can't even yawn.
Feels like I've been up for weeks,
tried all the sleeping techniques.
Took some pills and counted sheep,
but still I could not sleep.
I live the life of an insomniac,
some say I'm just a hypochondriac.
Watching television shows that are boring,
listening to my girlfriend loudly snoring.
Even tried some anesthesia,
that just left me with amnesia.
For a day I forgot my name,
when I remembered it was still the same.
Even tried getting hypnotized,
it didn't work but I improvised.
Told him a story about getting molested,
or maybe that's what he suggested.
So here I lie in my bed,
I guess I'll sleep when I'm dead.
Had a boxer punch me in the face,
now I have a fat lip and a nose out of place.
Tried some ****** so off I could doze,
eyes wide open, but my body was froze.
At this point I'd settle for a nap,
I'm so wired I might just snap.
Had a dentist give me some laughing gas,
the nitric oxide knocked me on my ***
Now I'm in a deep coma,
as for the dentist, he lost his diploma.
Sep 19, 2013
Sep 19, 2013 at 4:31 PM UTC
The law says: every action must be accompanied by a reaction.
So when I slipped out of bra and ******* and spread myself open on the kitchen floor,
I expected that he would at least put down the crossword puzzle. No response, though.
I rose up and emptied the saucepan over him.
I went on a course: 'Poetry-writing for beginners'.
I made my similes illuminate the dark, like phosphorus flares.
My metaphors danced the can-can, naked, around the market square.
The teacher said: "Yes, very clever dear. But your imagery clothes a void,
Where the poet's deepest thoughts and feelings should be".
That was when I unstoppered the nitric acid bottle. She will probably keep the sight in one eye.
I joined my local writers' discussion group. At the last meeting, this was the consensus:
Music was subordinating sense; my attempt at profundity was just a lazy mysticism.
They suggested flushing out the drivel from the windmills of my mind.
I added bleach to their cappuccinos. They were left speechless.
I looked in Yellow Pages, and found a personal poetry trainer.
He said, "From now on, you let other people see your poetry only when I say you may.
I shall hold you back until every cadence convinces;
Until I hear the extraordinary, the important and the authentic sing from the bedside table."
Eventually, we were both satisfied.
Feb 8, 2012
Feb 8, 2012 at 9:37 AM UTC
The thin, clear layer that forms on rendered fat is glycerine.
You can mix it with nitric acid to make nitroglycerine.
Mix that with an alkali nitrate and something like sawdust or paper mush and -Boom!-
Dynamite.
I learn things when I listen.
Feb 23, 2014
Feb 23, 2014 at 9:57 PM UTC
I finally released
all the tensions between tendons
like silent nuclear bombs
The only time
I could let go of the wheel
and renounce control
because I never wanted it anyway
I never screamed without hearing myself
but even if the sound had fled
to supposed other dimensions
no one would know
because the aftermath was devastating
I knew if I held my eyes shut
in that flash of desolation
I could have been somewhere else
and according to that twacked out philosopher
I would be
I’d be sleeping in the dark
bright as a 30-watt bulb
hesitantly lifting the blinds
waiting
for a black herring to glide
through scorching smoke
and grasp a lung with an iron grip
so I could inhale another stab of monoxide
Mar 13, 2012
Mar 13, 2012 at 12:54 AM UTC
Her twig-
A ferocious goblet of fire,
That once burned my desire,
In the tiny blemishes that bled.
Her tears-
Reacted like nitric acid,
Corroding our fake homes pallid,
That soaked every smoke between souls.
Her ****
Became the chalice of profuse disease,
That kept me away from natural release,
Like some yellow lady in Connecticut*.
Yellow Lady in Connecticut- A rare wild flower in that region
Feb 10, 2011
Feb 10, 2011 at 1:03 AM UTC
Petrichor
from the Greek words for stone and the blood of the gods
the fresh earthy smell of rain on dry soil
During an arid spell
some plants release oils into the earth
Rain droplets aerosolize these oils into particles
which are swept up in the currents of the air and brought to us
In a quiet little nook just out of the rain
you know the one
a warm zephyr dances on the air between our lips
I breathe it in and kiss you
Ozone
from the old Greek
the pretty words all are
meaning ‘to smell’
an alternate form of oxygen that has three atoms instead of two
Lightning splits O2 and N2 in the air
which recombine into nitric acid
a loose-bonded molecule that oxidizes and forms
among other things
the spark-sharp scent of ozone
My skin tingles
when it’s not touching yours
Your fingertips are thunderbolts
fulminations on a
breathless
body
They say smell is the closest sense to memory
Both are processed by the brain’s limbic system
as is emotion
Outside
the air crackles
the rain falls
Inside
the heat of us
flaring scratches on your alabastrine skin
the smell of your hair and the soil and the lightning
is its own storm
People wonder why every cloudburst makes me smile
Nov 30, 2015
Nov 30, 2015 at 3:03 PM UTC
Malevolence
It tastes so good
under false pretense
Bottle it up—paste it!
on Wall Street’s walls—watch
them all come racing
throwing Franklins just to fall
into a love that will erode them
in all its nitric opulence
What fools for malevolence
under false pretense.
We know, you and I (fix that tie)
that cruelty comes for free
I don’t buy abuse—
It pays for me.
Deposits soft-lipped guises
that always seem to last
I’m rich on lies—
I pound the glass.
Keep your change!
(My suit is screaming)
Lift your lids
Call our bluff
Drop not a cent
on malice decadent:
It will find you soon enough.
Oct 18, 2019
Oct 18, 2019 at 12:57 AM UTC