"paraffin" poems
There's an architect designing the world from the skyline downwards, as he believes himself to be a God
The paraffin lamps on Victorian cobbled corners are as dry as the seraph in dust bowls over some arid sea
A portrait exists, of a town covered in mist and the orange cliffs are a thousand bloodied wrists
Somewhere music plays to ghosts, obtuse reverberations of some cave on a mountain... or something
and what a useless skill it is to be a poet, flouting fanciful words as if a single soul cared or could possibly muster anything more than unadulterated apathy
What a lonely life it is, to spend entire days watching *********** and reveling in dissociative stoicism
Watching cam girls for hours on end, swept up in conversation yet never taking part, only watching
They seem as lonely as anybody, holed up in crimson rooms as anonymous DJs play through laptop speakers
Fielding obscene questions with a smile and renting their body in timetables to the highest tipper
and some days the depression becomes so heavy that ************ seems impossible, though it's possible to blame such scarcity on the anti-anxiety meds that have ruined so many-a youthful folly
Is there a more flattering notion, than a story teller being commended for honesty when every word is a lie
Fictional accounts of melancholic lives told in a pulchritudinous verse or a prose of the most regal purples
Using nothing more than psycho-stimulants and a smeared bedroom window for inspiration
There's a writer sat at a desk, typing ridiculous lines of text, as he knows himself to be human
and in that humanity he strives to create a realists interpretation of existence through scattered memories
and derivative styles of his favourite authors whilst using educational texts as footnotes in imaginary diaries
Nov 24, 2013
Nov 24, 2013 at 2:10 PM UTC
coloring inside the lines is impossibly bleak,
with a hissing noise
atomic locomotive
rounds the bend,
extrasensory perception is not
a mindless gift,
it's a train station in the clouds,
tracking all my starting points to you,
nothing in the middle,
nothing at the end.
you leave in opera
with secrets and grievances
under the radar,
and your ready-made
wings catch in the power lines,
you're coiling like smoke
in the arches of my cathedral,
a sense of elegant decay
while sweeping up the debris,
committing arson
with the paraffin of my temporal lobe.
yesterday's fairground waltzes,
ghosted lullabies,
and woodland hymnals,
set in a context not of
resolution and closure,
but of contradiction and assimilation,
break the bond,
away they float on purveyor belts,
one too many molecules,
one too many departures,
always on the surface of everything,
nothing in the middle,
nothing at the end.
Feb 16, 2023
Feb 16, 2023 at 7:27 AM UTC
ESKOM
Where do I start?
Writing this by candle light;
Yet today we are lucky,
Load shedding came early
The system is done,
Its broken, corrupt,
Time after time,
Excuses one after the next
Us we are lucky,
In some ways anyhow;
For we have a few means
To keep warm for now
Others are not,
In fact most are not,
They suffer, they die,
But ESKOM - care they do not
Yes it was once ok,
to be totally without,
But once electricity is introduced,
Its difficult to go without
Those who have the means
Have done what they can,
Generators, gas, solar,
Options are endless, but only if you can
To most the expense is impossible,
Of course we want solar,
We want clean energy,
Just like we collect rain water
Its nothing new,
Its now been decades,
Leaving people to suffer,
ESKOM one problem after another
Winter after winter
Just when its needed most,
ESKOM takes it away,
Light, warmth, taken away
People light fires with paraffin,
Then bring them indoors,
Just to keep warm,
In the morning they dont wake up at all
Where is investment in alternatives?
For ESKOM cannot go on,
As one of my cousins said -
The grid is often more off than on
I cannot complain,
Not for myself anyway;
I choose to live here
I'll do things my own way
But I do see suffering
Knowing a long winter is ahead,
With an overburdened health system,
Knowing every winter leaves people dead
How much longer will it take?
For ESKOM to finally close,
To open doors for others,
Its time to get rid of the coal
In a Country basking in sunshine
nearly every day of the year,
The lack of solar power is saddening,
And shameful, but ESKOM doesnt care
Yes we have fire,
But we also have rain,
Those two dont mix,
Cannot cook on fire in the rain
The saddest things is this,
That ESKOM just dont care;
Lives dont matter to ESKOM,
Anyway - they have their share
The few that can make do,
They can afford to.
So everyone else is forgotten,
Nearly 80 percent of the population
Its cold, its wet,
We cannot light fire,
If we do its outside,
Buildings no longer designed for fire
How much longer ESKOM?
Will you allow people to suffer?
Will you eat all the money?
Will you do this to South Africa??
We all hope for a brighter future; quite literally...."brighter" .. :)
Nomkhumbulwa **
May 21, 2022
May 21, 2022 at 12:13 PM UTC
The horses feed on bat-moon meadow
their stone age stable now cobwebbed
hooves long rested from run
gone dusty by the wheels of metal
yet they paleolithic horses
graze in night’s paraffin-lit glow
smelling of stable and the wild run
and in the stillness finding
their world crumbled.
Jul 5, 2014
Jul 5, 2014 at 9:06 AM UTC
I remember the night my mother
was stung by a scorpion. Ten hours
of steady rain had driven him
to crawl beneath a sack of rice.
Parting with his poison - flash
of diabolic tail in the dark room -
he risked the rain again.
The peasants came like swarms of flies
and buzzed the name of God a hundred times
to paralyse the Evil One.
With candles and with lanterns
throwing giant scorpion shadows
on the mud-baked walls
they searched for him: he was not found.
They clicked their tongues.
With every movement that the scorpion made his poison moved in Mother's blood, they said.
May he sit still, they said
May the sins of your previous birth
be burned away tonight, they said.
May your suffering decrease
the misfortunes of your next birth, they said.
May the sum of all evil
balanced in this unreal world
against the sum of good
become diminished by your pain.
May the poison purify your flesh
of desire, and your spirit of ambition,
they said, and they sat around
on the floor with my mother in the centre,
the peace of understanding on each face.
More candles, more lanterns, more neighbours,
more insects, and the endless rain.
My mother twisted through and through,
groaning on a mat.
My father, sceptic, rationalist,
trying every curse and blessing,
powder, mixture, herb and hybrid.
He even poured a little paraffin
upon the bitten toe and put a match to it.
I watched the flame feeding on my mother.
I watched the holy man perform his rites to tame the poison with an incantation.
After twenty hours
it lost its sting.
My mother only said
Thank God the scorpion picked on me
And spared my children.
May 13, 2014
May 13, 2014 at 7:29 AM UTC
say
where should i keep all those foot-prints
having no lineage
from whose paraffin-in-the-palms
has taken birth
so much monsoon rain-falls
why the seagulls of this earth
have not learnt
in a better way
the meaning of open windows
wearing the same costume
they can fly only
from the north-east thames
to the non-aryan autumn
in the woods of yellow moon-light
the feathers fall down
from the body of the villagers
they levitate as letter
like the leaves of coconut
before the windows of a hospital
it may happen then
in the fire of the cigarette
in-between the fingers
there is no more in waiting
any absent-mindedness
rather
after composing their letters properly
the mermaids in the deep-fridge
are waiting for their next print
by putting the fire of the dry straws
in the air the indifferent neighbour
saves the intellect of the red-sandalwood
thus if it is possible to catch there
the betrothal
in the oily pollens of the spring
Sep 26, 2010
Sep 26, 2010 at 7:54 AM UTC
When ever I touch the ground that’s hot
With the sole of my foot that’s bare,
I never fail to recall a time,
And the memories lingering there,
Of a day when I was just a boy,
Beneath equatorial skies,
And the tactic used to keep me indoors
While the missionaries rested their eyes.
My mother was sick with malaria
The curse of the tropic zone,
And while my dad was away on the hunt
Their station became our home.
And after lunch when the sky was hot
And the morning’s work was done
They took my shoes away from me
To keep me out of the sun.
The veranda air was still as a grave,
Not a sound to could be heard outside
Save the click-click-click from the beetles
And the grasshoppers jumping to hide.
Or the scratching scaly slither,
Of a snake on the flowerbed verge,
Or the distant cry of the crested crane,
These are the sounds that merge.
The sight of the distant Koru hills
Shimmering in the haze
Beyond the frangipani trees
Return once more to my gaze,
And the prickly spiky Crown of Thorns
That lined the garden ways,
These are the sights that ribbon back
From my early Kenyan days.
The smell of the room was a mixture
Of scents on the garden air,
And creosote coming up through the floor
From the pilings under there,
And paraffin from the pressure lamps
Which hissed as they gave us light.
With the hint of oil of pyrethrum
Sprayed round the eves at night.
The step to my door should I venture
At noon was as hot as a stove,
The soil on the paths and driveway
Would burn if ever I strove.
And the thorns in the earth would pr ick me
As I cautiously picked my way through
To the shade of the frangipani tree,
From there I took in the view.
So, when ever I touch the ground that’s hot
With the sole of my foot that’s bare,
I never fail to recall a time,
And the memory lingering there,
Of a day when I was just a boy,
Where the images I find,
Set smells and sights and sounds of
Africa sizzling in my mind.
Redding, California July 4th 2005 temperature 105° Fahrenheit
May 11, 2017
May 11, 2017 at 4:32 PM UTC
High on a hill our grandparent’s home stood,
Its majesty in stone cast a haunted look,
Light glimmered from a paraffin lamp,
Whilst outside it snowed on the geese,
As they ran to their shelter,
And the cows mooed on the fields above,
And the goats cried in the barn.
Mother pumped water from the well,
We ran around collecting eggs,
Granddad showed me how to milk a goat.
In the evenings we gathered in the kitchen,
The fire roared in the range,
Granddad sat in his big chair,
He burned anything just to keep warm,
We thought it very strange.
Mother worked at the big white sink,
Knitted squares hung from a line,
We made tiny plasticine dolls,
They slept in plasticine beds,
We drank Dandelion and Burdock,
Ginger pop and Sarsaparilla,
It came in enormous stone bottles,
Dad got it every week from a man at the door.
Most of the rooms were huge, bleak and bare,
A room we called the playroom,
Was carpeted with goat skins,
There were jars of melted metal,
Who knows why?
We were told it was grandma’s jewelry,
Melted to stop the Germans getting it in the war,
In the long hall there was a dressing up chest,
We loved to look inside.
The bathroom was a scary place,
There was a lion head toilet and a bath with lions feet,
At night we went upstairs with a candle for light,
We cuddled together to keep warm,
One night we saw fairies at the window.
Our aunty had a gramophone,
Records all scattered around,
We had to be careful where we trod,
She loved Frank Sinatra and Bing Crosby,
We didn’t understand.
Our uncle slept on the top floor,
In a huge brass bed,
One day I took him a cup of tea,
We were not normally allowed up there,
He fixed broken cars they were all everywhere.
He played late in the barn with his girlfriend.
My grandmother slept downstairs,
She always was very ill,
Wrapped in bed in a pink bed shawl,
We got her water from the spring,
To cure her, but she died.
Jun 17, 2010
Jun 17, 2010 at 3:20 PM UTC
It varies from woman to woman, however
this girl will always hate giving birth
Maybe she wouldn’t even get married nor have ****** ***********
More than forty years ago those childish thoughts kept circling in my mind
It didn’t take long for her to realize that *** and babies had something in common
Nana so often said to us girls with her Island slang
*“What sweeten a goat mouth, would burn his tail end”
So girls you're worth it, don’t do it*
The after effects, the after effects so complex and powerful
Nana woke us up in the wee hours of the morning
either with her singing, or the rattling of the *** and pans
I knew at some point I would come to hate being a nurse
I probably wouldn’t be able to show Compassion
If you aren’t compassionate enough: being a Nurse isn’t for you
I hated those homebirth early morning deliveries
Not enough light, no running water in the homes,
And the list goes on in late sixties on the Island
When I finally woke up that morning
I noticed Nana’s black bag on the table:
Her lily white apron on the back of the chair
How she got her uniform to stay so white was a miracle to me
Granddad was outside fixing something under the old Wolseley bumper
Using an old flittering kerosene paraffin lamp to get the job done
Our country farm house sat the bottom of the hill
So Grandad needed the old Wolseley car to be in good condition
To pulled Porte hill and there I was about to be Nana’s Nursing Assistant
Was I up for the yelling, screaming, crying? At my age, I wasn’t,
However, being defiant wasn’t appealing, Nana played on our emotions
another one of her favorite island slangs
“Some children are to be ****** to death if they are defiant to their parents said Nana”
I was also too sleepy to sulk so I sat and quietly listen to her rambling on and on:
So I turned all my thoughts and energy to Genesis 3:16
To the woman he said, "I will make your pains in childbearing very severe; with painful labor you will give birth to children. Your desire will be for your husband, and he will rule over you."
And that was my last words to Nana: No man shall have control over my body
and that was my last trip with Nana on her delivering baby route.
May 15, 2015
May 15, 2015 at 6:50 AM UTC
The fairies of chaitra
lie on the un–wrinkled bed
with their backside up
in the hearsay of the air
once the woods of tamarisks
once the hill of paraffin
it appears there is no interruption
to this circus
the toy-telephones
hang from the cloud to cloud
from that carnival
take birth many kanthali-champa
the surgeon comes calmly
to the secret of darning
all localities are totally maddened
by the flow tide of the exudation
observing all those happenings
the half-broken wave
does awake on the sofa-set
Oct 8, 2010
Oct 8, 2010 at 9:07 PM UTC
it is circulated deep into the soil
that you’ve wore the dress of paraffin
in the multidimensional wind of the winter
the cash-memo of the recently purchased
gold-bangles
would reside for some time more
then all the pregnant women
would assemble in the river-ghat
to meditate on the paddy-blossoms
all diamonds and clubs
would overcome their insomnia
through this arrangements
the crushing-news of fostering
flows
this dilution is well-known
the river-ripple of the air
after reading the sun
would keep some extension of dahlia
on its palms
in an unwritten evening
the demi-god-birth of the fire-flies
would break
their easy dead bodies
by the instigation of the surges
would ring … and ring… and ring
and spread cheerfulness
the elderly rain-tree comes to spray anti-biotic
on the spoilt top-branch of the young lad
covered with citronella
Sep 28, 2010
Sep 28, 2010 at 4:35 AM UTC
Callow birds
shimmering highlights
of lilacs
on it’s busted mantle.
The lamppost tungsten
is a wax doll candle.
Paraffin paragraphs
jotted down on
clouds in paradise.
Throwing a tea party
at the neighbours lewd front lawn.
Resting place of
my weary head.
Wearing
our mountain tops//your shoulder,
my heart’s
hearth and
watershed.
Dec 1, 2015
Dec 1, 2015 at 8:01 AM UTC
in the old grass we found lead weights and paraffin
arranged upon smoke and earth... gilding the cannibal suns
with flesh-tones and bedsores. we forged ahead
of our Heads again
in disarray.the long Joke of Birth... tilting the rhombus.
we cumbersome.
Dec 2, 2015
Dec 2, 2015 at 6:13 PM UTC
That feeling of being watched crept over his back;
it sizzled like fresh moon dust on morning dew,
and a smell of guilt — burned vanilla and hair-honey —
tickled his flaring nostrils.
He sneezed, and licked the gob of mud-snot that covered his mouth.
Eyes still watery, he looked up from the hole in the ground:
Jenny Jones was standing on the front porch, lantern in hand;
he ducked between the flowers.
In order to stifle a yelp of laughter, he held his breath,
for a cliché question carry-whispered itself over Jenny’s lips;
of course there was no-one out there— Christ Almighty!
Did she really think he would answer?
Here he was, risking his life by dragging a dead body
over the neighbours’ lawn, digging a midnight hole in the flower bed
where the blue of the paraffin flame waltzed with the rose buds—
such a fantastic dance of death.
Jenny had one last, urgent glance over her shoulder;
she shut the door and caught her night gown in the slam!
He wagged his tail, scratched away at the swarm of fleas behind his ear,
and placed the pigeon in its grave.
Feb 7, 2011
Feb 7, 2011 at 7:31 PM UTC
I am as small as ant &
As thin as matchstick
As cheap as toffee but
Useful like anything
anyone can afford me as
I cost just square root of hundred
I am boon to poor's & to scholars
& curse to brat
my mother is paraffin wax
My wife is fire
& children r light
Together 3 of us can
Make a blind visible
The moment we 3 unite
Can also defeat a bulb
If I ; a non living object
can light up the whole room
Then why u can't?
If u want then u can also
Be a candle in someone life
As a candle is enough to light
Up the room, in same way
A single drop of hope can light up someone's life!!!
Jan 4, 2016
Jan 4, 2016 at 5:23 AM UTC
In our back yard stood a brick Netty.
Paper on a nail and it is not confetti.
With a concrete roof and concrete floor,
To keep it private a big wooden door.
Cold and damp the outside loo,
Shared by the flat upstairs to.
This was our toilet on a cold winter day,
A paraffin lamp to light our way.
Cast iron cistern placed up high,
Iron chain you pulled with a sigh.
Pipes lagged with old carpet or sack,
In severe winters they freeze and crack.
Sometimes while sitting in the dim light,
A silver trail would catch you eye,
It was the sign of a snail passing bye.
Follow this line along the wall,
There you find one not always small.
Pick it up from where it lay,
Drop in to the *** and flush away.
Winter fades into spring,
Warmer day’s new problems bring.
Dad.
He would sit reading the paper,
While having a smoke.
We waited outside it was no joke.
Then out he came smiling,
As he passed our way.
Leaving his paper on the floor,
We go in and close the door.
The smell of smoke made us wail,
While tearing up the paper,
To put on the nail.
Sep 8, 2011
Sep 8, 2011 at 12:44 PM UTC
Dont ******* love me because i will destroy you.
I willl push you away
I will curse you
I will slay you
I will slit your throat
Dont you dare ******* love me, you will regret it.
You will wish you didnt try play fire with me.
But then again you could love me, i am not your master.
Love me, try me.
You will wish you were the one who died in some brutal ******
You will want to set yourself on fire and then **** it with paraffin.
[ find the sense in that. e x a c t l y ]
Now im telling you that i warned you.
You have every right in your nature not to obey.
But i dont want you to suffer.
So monsterous.
And you'd be surprised that im about to mention how much i actually want you to LOVE ME
Aug 23, 2013
Aug 23, 2013 at 7:57 AM UTC
A lame table barely stands in a darkened room.
Upon it sits a candelabra tainted with scarlet rust,
Holding like a pedestal two forgotten candles.
One, with its cardinal design, flamboyantly lit
This room a brilliant red and gold,
And illuminated guests
While eating lamb from porcelain plates.
The other, with its pale hue, pitifully lit
Its master's chamber a dreadful orange,
And guided his sleep
To the land of Devilish dreams.
Their melting paraffin forms pools of elegant simplicity,
While the candles slowly get consumed,
No more to sit upon a lame table in a darkened room.
Feb 24, 2010
Feb 24, 2010 at 12:44 PM UTC
_White nights, grey days,
Phosphorus and gin;
Graffiti-laden pavements,
Diamond rain and paraffin.
Chalk dust reveries,
Aerosols and spit;
Zero-hour freeways,
Magnetic parapets.
City high, city low,
Monoliths in drag;
Silent spaces, dwelling places,
A hoody and a bag.
Freestyle evangelists,
Salvation strikes a pose;
Train tracks, kitchen hacks,
The rapture and the snow._
Nov 14, 2019
Nov 14, 2019 at 2:52 PM UTC
Some countless summers ago…
I was your blushing bride
you were my verdant flame
Our laughter would echo the walls
melting like
hot molten paraffin
drip by drip every
noon night and day
One evening…
after a sudden cloud burst
just like our impromptu love making
I delightedly
followed a trail of ants
on the floor.
There along the window frame
I saw a long tail
(probably a resident of neighboring monkeyhood)
Only on coming closer
Did I see
It was not our friendly neighbor
But a king Cobra
suspended upside- down
I shrieked and shrieked
Till you pulled me back
Into your embrace once again
Yes it was the summer
When I was unfamiliar
With death’s strange dialect
Somehow I don’t fear snakes anymore…
But I still carry the smell of you everywhere
…citrus mingling with wet earth…
Feb 11, 2011
Feb 11, 2011 at 4:26 PM UTC
Keep it on, even when its off
My memory runs with time
As it sleeps like paraffin
Like aqua Monster, it splashes in fins
What is life?
Is it not in vain?
Without you Amigos in Heaven
No paradise seems much better than Hell
I built my world amidst the thorns
In their 'giantise' they strangle me in pieces
Its gone now, but its **** afresh
Its short though, but it now run in my veins
Written in the Sky
Only two eyes would
Its blue in my heart
But better remains Green
it remains in my dreams
I forgot it makes it grin
Jul 11, 2013
Jul 11, 2013 at 2:28 AM UTC
I tell them to watch a movie- that one when the sun sets like aloe on their scalded skin, that one where after sunset, the guy kills himself.
But I don't tell them that part, I simply lather the lotion thicker, suffocate their burn and boast about the healing powers of cinema I so humbly wish to share.
In honesty, there is little need for conviction as I so kindly spread love on their wound, proposing the perfect solution, a comforting press to the chest.
On condition, they are instructed to watch alone; travel to Ankara and snuggle beneath cloudy blue skies. They must take extra care. And under no circumstances should they tamper with the blooming blisters- they should let the summer breeze do all the work.
They trust me, pathetically, even as the hours wane on, even as my waxy ointment melts to oily paraffin and slips far, far away from the wound.
I doubt that they even notice, but I know that with five minutes to spare, all hope of healing will be held out of reach- especially as my soothing facade shatters beneath blinding strobes, as my fibs fade and salt sprinkles their skin with the promise of a permanent scar, fragile tissue that will surely wither with the sun for an eternity to come.
The credits roll and so do the tears, until their cheeks are so stained, so branded with hollowness that all left to do is howl out for the end to near.
Now, they feel like I do, and we will suffer a lifetime of sorrow in unity. It makes me feel a little better.
Sep 23, 2024
Sep 23, 2024 at 8:02 PM UTC
your soul is an infinite wick with no beginning or end, allow afflictions and worries to ignite your paraffin. radiate it’s heat as it becomes your ember.
we are made of wax
Aug 9, 2013
Aug 9, 2013 at 5:08 AM UTC
*In the village haat
our hands collide
my left with her right
a moment’s flirt
she by my side
in the paraffin light!
Comes to close
she quickly goes
blushing shamed
how she knows
bloomed a rose
to be never named!*
Sep 15, 2014
Sep 15, 2014 at 10:18 AM UTC