Submit your work, meet writers and drop the ads. Become a member
Indian Phoenix Oct 2012
I hated Dawkins a little less when his words came from your mouth.

Your unabashed sincerity endeared me to you from the moment you showed me your vintage Atari. I don't recall if that was before or after you bragged about your Star Trek DVDs. Not that it matters, but I hope you've found a place to store all of those wires protruding out of your gadgets like Medusa's head of snakes.

My family liked you, especially my mother. It was probably your staunch advocacy of 4th amendment rights.

Remember those nights we sat in bed and traded secrets on small scraps of paper? We were lovers  for... five weeks by then? It struck me by the third slip that it didn't matter what it would say--I knew I'd still love you anyway. But I knew that from the moment you removed my knee-high boots and kissed my feet when I rode up on my Harley. You unstrapped my helmet and poured me wine. Though we promised to never tell anyone, I just wanted to say: I still smile when I think of your 15-year-old self trying to pick up a ******* on a desolate dusty road. Do you still have those hastily-written pieces of paper? They're yours to keep; I hope they're safe.

Nothing of my new world reminds me of you. There's no Jeopardy to watch, no NPR to hear in your white Saturn, and no desert mountains to hike. Not in India. Maybe it's because nothing is similar that my memories of us stay so firmly imprinted in my mind. Similarities would only erode my recollections. Maybe that's why I almost forgot about the chai tea I'd serve you in bed, coupled with almonds and apricots on the saucer.

But you, you're a walking encyclopedia of my home town. You knew every cactus-lined freeway, the name of the state attorney general, and the best place to grab a Four Peaks beer. Because of this, I could never extricate my love of home and my love for you. To me, you'll always be home.

For better or for worse, I remember it all. Including the soft piano rift of the chess game we'd play on your XBox. I'm guessing you'd beat me, should we play again today. I still have the wooden chess set I got you for your birthday... but we both know I can't give it to you. I'm sorry.

I never believed in saving people before I met you. Before, damaged was a weakness; now I think you just needed a polish. I never told you, but I read your psych evaluation--I found it when I was cleaning your room (with your permission, I add). The therapist was right: you're not aloof, just too smart for the room. I thank God that you never bought that container of nitric oxide.

I know we said we'd marry if I ever came back home. A no-frills city hall marriage suited us just fine. I have no doubt we would have had a simple, sweet life. You would've relented to letting me get a dog to keep your arrogant cat company. Our biggest fight would be over which castle door the RPG character should open, and you would've helped me improve my golf swing on the inexpensive dilapidated course near my old junior high school.

But likewise... our biggest adventure would've been only a roadtrip to the neighboring county. And I wanted to explore. I needed to explore. You, who never wanted to stray outside of a 100-mile radius could never satiate that curiosity. But I know we could have made it work. I know we would've been happy.

Sometimes I wish we could be the best of friends. I know we can't; not when I started dating my now-husband so close after we ended things in tear-stained emails when I went overseas. He swore off her; I swore off you. That's the way things go, I guess, when you get older.

I know it might seem like I've moved on and forgotten you.

Moved on, yes. Forgotten? Never.

It probably wouldn't be the same if we met again. I have too much love for you that could never be conveyed. My love for you has changed; it's not romantic. But it's still this throbbing appreciation for everything you are. I couldn't bear guarded chit chat. Not with you.

And I hope you are happy. Have you realized your worth yet, or are you still wasting your time with broken high school grads who listen to Ke$ha? I can't tell you who to love... but I hope she's an astrophysicist, someone who loves Carl Sagan even half as much as you. I want her to read Noam Chomsky to you late at night, and wake you in the mornings with a glass of milk and cookies. She'll prefer simple mashed potatoes to dim sum, and have a weakness for microbreweries. She'd be gorgeous in that bookish sort of way. Yes. That's the girl for you.

....I'm sorry it's not me, my dear atheist.
Leah Riley Mar 2012
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
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, *****-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.
Claire Waters Aug 2013
wearing your heart on your sleeve is a dangerous game
that only the lonely people play
and i have found, that when you smoke a pack of desire a day,
you are constantly searching for a flame.
onlookers examine all the fissures and clefts left by yesteryear's guests
the men who treated your heart like a map, riddled it with tacks,
realized it lacked a place to live in, and left.

all the antiquated philanthropists who searched for their languages in your pulse,
strands of hair in your bed, so pleased to have left their scent on the pillow
and you've begun to hold your breath
to prove to them that only you can make your heart skip a beat
and you've begun to dry clean your sheets, cold water
hanging them from the rafters of your childhood bedroom in your mother’s house
sweat it out girl, you’ve gone too far south
found yourself melting like butter in the devil’s mouth
and now you wring out the warm bodies tucked in your every pleat and crease,
letting the sun bleach away the pieces of people still surviving in me.
when you look at the sky, blink your eyes and change your rotation
so what if this society treats infrared incubation like it’s latent
I’ll rip the past from every pore, i abhor those kind of TV audiences,
the ones that are obedient and well fed
coming back to dine on the same lines each time, it's high fructose revenge
the sinister scent of stereotypes is hanging in the air
those little lies people tell when insisting that they care
about anyone outside of themselves.

and genuine kindness never really seems to come in stock
but i never **** the birds because i refuse to throw the rocks
my life is not just another kiss laced with arsenic, that
sick kind of hint about how thick my blood really is.
this is not a drama, this is not a soap opera
my life is not a novel and you are not the author
sure you’re having a hard time but you’ve been improving your posture
and it looks like he didn't know you were nitric until you dissolved a linguistic string,
and now he's realizing you bite back when attacked, and you have some surprises to bring
my new hype track for the evening is silence not seething
they didn't know; arsenic can only dilute a nitrous being
so this time, my knees will not break like the fickle figs from their stems,
sequestered in skin cells, ****** shell dropping dead
and this time I’ll find the strength to change, isn't it strange,
how you can wake up one day, and refuse to keep being misled.

and today they brought my bones to the cellar door in his chest
he didn’t mistake even an instant of no for the plump petal of yes
and he tells me, "there will always be people out there who will love even your
imperfect blisters cracking like transistors,
because when you're looking electric everyone’s listening to the frequency within ya
you were put here for a purpose, you will never be worthless.”
and this is no longer a decision; there are places you belong and places you'll fit in
where you'll flourish and gain a thicker skin
and it's about time we stopped chalking up our mistakes to bad habit.
so when i see that golden ticket i'll grab it and let life flow because see i've been told
rivers reflect train windows in the mornings till they glow, first gilded and gold,
then subtle and slow. the hope creeps in, i make the decision
to go
Allen Wilbert Sep 2013
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.
John R Feb 2012
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.
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.
Render the fat by boiling it in water and skimming of the stuff that floats to the top.
A hustle flow, trips to Buffalo, Women annoyed by bricks, in contrast to when the cabin air hits her lips. You wonder why i do this ? I do this because I find it therapeutic for all my enthusiast to love my poetry, you stupid, my brain faster than cray computers,

This tone this poem's micro processor is submerged in cryogenic fuelers on some rude **** because you better not use it or confused it.


Her voice is my music.

 She's a Mortal atomic element

her circular third eye sees all ingredients

,  Atlantis was surrounded by four sea walls,  reading one fourth of the library of Alexandria before it was burned to the floor, every time she draws I see the shapes of sacred geometry I wish I can see more, before it gets lost. As we start reminiscing about the scripts that was written before the beginning. Can't even count the art I expended so far ,I don't really write anymore it's been so long I wish the clock will hurry up and tick, understand I'm timeless to this ****. You wanna laugh now and cast your belligerent doubt? I will show you what poetry is really about. The more pretentious the more apprehensive the sentence! Your time equals a purchase, these verses have perennial purpose, these other writers are worthless when it comes to me approaching the podium, I delivered my encomium, to a selected few, see I don't like compliments because it's counterproductive to my mood, but that's just you being you. I rather you learn off me and tell me what your about to do, about to create, weld and shape. Close your eyes , ritualize relax your spine ,without trying you can shift your mind.  It is my understanding  when I'm high I'm channeling but when I'm with people who can't "be" I'm animal handling. What is jean determine to ascertain for himself? There's a proverb that goes one should know thyself before one can know the world, so I showed myself. Checkpoints require all concentration I can muster, submitting specifics about the operation I'm running, but no details are public.  I've apologized, but I can't change who I am , I've tried to change the future but you can't budge the past. Jude, our uniforms match so we look the same from the sky, the only time you see a difference is when we die. An unrelenting  pace creating the main route sulfuric nitric acid burns through the labyrinth you need to take action rigid hommagnized metal I mix words that shouldn't happen.........................
ANANDO SEN Feb 2011
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
MMFSTW is a ******* poetic fiction.  The poet exaggerates three characteristic features of a woman as his wife individually because of the hidden complexities behind them the poets of our times long ago explored. The first wife is symbolized as the comfort giving nature of a woman that gathers dry and solid twigs from the jungle to enlighten and provide warmth to her family that ignores her hard work and struggles and frequently disgraces her. Yet she carries on her duty till she bleeds on her efforts. The second quality wife is depicted in the form of tears flowing down the cheeks of a woman. The bitterness of the salt caused from her tears have concentrated acid powers equivalent to nitric acid that can burn or faint a house that evokes the same. But the feminine tear is a precious boon as well with salts of happiness and sacrifice in it. The third and foremost essential feature of a woman qualifies her as a wife as well.  It is her obsessive ****** ***** that betrays adult idealism and mostly confines a man to responsible captivism once indulged in it. The magical pleasure is vigorous and binds eternal against the manhood cherished freedom from moral conduct and marital responsibility.
Brandon Hall Nov 2015
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
Mateuš Conrad Jul 2017
it used to be me, going out clubbing...
now?
  well... drinking *** and pepsi,
solving a sudoku -
            listening to music -
   and catching meaty-moths
   with my bare hands
          while the moths are in flight...

so you start listening to internet media,
and you listen good,
   there's a broad spectrum
to digest...
           and they can't be wrong,
solo-journalism,
               the only respectable
day for a newspaper to be published?
sunday... all the other days
are blank pages for me...

anyway, the recent acid attack
in london, where kids, kids!
  kids aged 15 & 16 rode around
east london
         wrecking havoc,
injuring 5 people...

    well... i listened to mainstream media
and all they said
is that these two numb-nuts were
only doing it to steal...
        thieving? really?
using acid?
             last time i checked acid attacks
were popular in pakistan...
some honour *******...
          
funny, in america they throw ***** on
you, in europe, they throw acid...

but the fact that mainstream media is
"trying" to be neutral...
   it's a load of *******...
          if you're going to steal
something you're not exactly going
to use acid...
               i'm guessing that compared
to knives, nitric / sulfuric acid are
more expensive...
  but a thief is a scardey-cat...
            i know,
  i was drinking with this guy
  on brick lane...
       we walk into an alley and he snatches
my phone from my hand
and says that it's "his"...
  
   what happened subsequently?
  i shouted him down...
    you should see the expression
on a theif's face when you shout at them
to give your possession back...
   no, not a punch...
  
i just shouted: 'look at your guardian
angel!'...

            ****** ran off,
     and i didn't even need to punch him.

this acid attack wasn't a "standard"
act of thievary...
            mainstream media doesn't have
the ***** to call it, yawn, yet another
terrorist attack... which it was...

am i jumping to conclusions?
               not if the media is lying...
after a while,
   while building up a thick-skin...
your naiveness shrinks to the size
of a cherry seed...

             who are they fooling thinking
      that their audience is pigeon-brained?

these outlets think that they can clam
the situation down,
            by engaging in misnomer poker...
misnomer? yeah, it is misnomer poker,
not applying the correct word
to the actual thing...

                  whether noun or verb -
this wasn't an event encompassed
by to steal... but it was encompassed
by to terroriße...
                these weren't thieves,
  last time i checked, they needed
a second scooter...
    that's all they stole...
  and the fact that it happened within 90 minutes
is because they went in different
directions, once they stole the scooter...

and i even had the audacity to find
the b.b.c. respectable...
              i.t.v.? that's beyond redemption...
channel 4 is still trying
   to pretend it's "edgy"...

call this yet another event a typical case
of stealing?
       you're not calming people by lying
to them...
    last time i heard: pakistan is famous
for acid attacks.
Alina Martel Oct 2019
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.
From: Resolve
Malia Mar 2020
We are Lithium and water
We are nitric acid and paper
We are nitric acid and hydrazine.

We are
e x p l o s i o n s
f i r e
a n d  d e a t h.

— The End —