"peroxide" poems
Zeus is ****** tonight.
Maybe he was having conflict with Hera. Maybe Apollo or Athena or Artemis accidentally attempted to rain art or astuteness or animals down upon Earth, respectively.
Maybe he drank too much wine.
Whatever the reason is, it's quite a light show.
There are no stars, only the
chemiluminescence
on my shirt and my shorts
that were poured upon me by
intoxicated partiers who thought it would be entertaining
to shower the combination of peroxide and phenyl oxalate ester
upon the party guests.
A map of the universe
is splattered across my hands.
It's as if Zeus
threw away the sky,
in an inebriated gesture,
and it landed around me.
Cronus should have swallowed the father of gods and of men whole.
Aug 6, 2011
Aug 6, 2011 at 9:31 PM UTC
What is the versatile autobiography
of this bountiful of rice
boiling in my American kitchen?
This crop of microscopic slabs of grain
that was the one edible source
of preventing my ancestors' emaciation
One of such few things
connecting me
to my roots,
those things I can't help but bleach
in whitewashed and rebellious peroxide.
I will valiantly hang my head down low in shame
at the examples of my flesh and earth,
"those National Geographic cavemen,"
all the time being the zoo animal,
being blindfolded and caged by
these "secular, American liberals."
I love this food
that I consume like a vacuum,
this merengue and bachata
that I so happily shake my *** to;
but nowhere did I sign up
for these commandments
that I was appointed
based on the location
that I popped out onto.
Apr 29, 2010
Apr 29, 2010 at 10:51 AM UTC
man who wears a hat sits still near the back unmoved by the world or the exposed breast of a statue (brain waves do not discharge through a fedora)
tag attached: bald is sanitary
oranges have more delicacy raw smelly and afterward singing allons enfants de patrie ding dang **** like that, all frog-ese so we don’t understand chanteused stiff basso profundo to excite to let us see with the clarity of a dream curled with hate set firm, firmer in the arms of a sleeveless girl then slung to sea level white as a leopard’s eye
remember its peroxide bathed, bleached inclined on the pillow just at the angle of expectancy without a hat sideward glance and the crippled heels of angels sparking down the hall
bulletin: young man willing to wear false beard to ease the pain for all
or trumpet blues broken played horizontal touched by seaweed hands in the light of boats (unfurled)
slowly
and the memory dies slowly half-forgotten, half-remembered
halved again
slowly
only
to begin
again
grim molecules of love
4.9k
There was something about that memory of that sunset from like 10 years ago
With the summer cold closing in on my parent’s old bones
and the summer bliss embracing my naive young kiss
I just want to go back sometimes,
Sometimes, I miss the lights, sights, frights,
The bruises, blood, and peroxide,
Young minds sanctified by pure fun outside.
I remember playing roller hockey in the street
But I got grounded for throwing the puck at some teeth
Nobody got hurt, and the next day
We were back at it, finding random exotic leaves.
It was fun.
I remember playing video games when it was raining outside
And fighting over who got to be player one
Now I remember when there were perfect clouds in the sky
and we were playing video games until the stories were done
that was yesterday.
(to be continued)
Jan 23, 2014
Jan 23, 2014 at 10:24 PM UTC
I seen beneath my eyelids
I was a black silhouette
of an entity outlined in
platinum aura eclipse
and the visions fell
far & fell hard
from a teardrop chandelier
hanging from the ceiling
in my skull &
shattered
the crude
jewel encrusted
crescent floor
then thunder roared
in the distance &
erupted the crown,
unleashing a copious
explosion of white
gold light
& my skeleton
sheds the snakeskin
& escapes
thru the hole in my head;
just crawls right out,
bubbles up & becomes
a pink heart shaped balloon
& it floats
up. out. away.
creeps thru one of
the holes in the ozone,
straight into the sun
& burns up.
star burst.
& that's soul.
May 14, 2015
May 14, 2015 at 11:37 PM UTC
All poured out and dry
Peroxide drips in bare splits
Blood means nothing good
May 14, 2012
May 14, 2012 at 9:03 PM UTC
They found her sprawled back there in the alley.
Dead. Asleep in the Lily of the Valley.
She was obscene and cold, flat on her back,
All for a **** hit of five dollar crack.
Beneath the grime and the blood and the gore,
The innocence, before she was a *****
Could not be seen for she met her maker,
A one hundred percent street-wise faker.
Dead blue eyes, peroxide hair, a wild vine,
Earrings in her nose, tongue; defiant sign
To the world that she is a wild child,
Who many years ago learned not to smile.
There was one thing which stood out about her,
Where everything thing else was an ****** blur.
A gold cross on a chain under her throat.
It looked out of place, as a sable coat.
A gold cross, from her unknown, murky past?
A present from someone she held onto fast?
A detective, hardened to scenes such as this,
He shuddered, covered her with a low hiss.
Blue strobe lights lit up the night near the dump,
Police milled around the unmoving lump,
Keeping the official face was a test,
Sheet covered her body, outlined her breast.
Each man, woman, working the dreadful scene,
Spoke terse, if at all, about the *** queen.
Many times they'd been called out in the night
To look at and ponder similar sights.
How much can one take before giving in
To the horror and suppress it with gin?
The one, lying still, sculptured by a fiend,
Wicked hand carving out her end, not clean.
She came to this end living the life she did,
But she was much than a ***** on the skids.
God, a detective screamed at the slaughter
Please don't let this happen to my daughter.
©August 4, 2003 / Jerry Pat Bolton
Jan 2, 2012
Jan 2, 2012 at 10:13 AM UTC
I draw on lilac cigars
through my mask
so her journey in neon stays
safely as a highlight
in gas filtered clouds
the faulty starter judders the light
flora scented
and in the flickering clouds
an attempt at landing
reveals her girdle red
in a flash of steely eyes
and suddenly mine were blinded
just as she rubbed against the dark
combing her strands wildly apart
she shook blonde roots and brunettes alike
I'm a sucker for hair turned hydrogen
peroxide mixed with air to make stars
startling amidst malefactory dye
metal booms swung away at each other
in the distance
building her model oxygen tanks
for pin up flower cuttings
and garlands on picket fences
she kissed the ground
and I gas peddled
a stomp on the glowing end
to the stub
only to drop like a skeleton
with lead hands
to follow any seeds
******* burnt rain
Jul 30, 2014
Jul 30, 2014 at 2:41 PM UTC
the sky over i-95 is violet, the color of the deepest bruise
like the one you actually remember getting, that eclipsed
all the little gray-green ones from
tripping over belgian blocks, and mismeasuring the distance
to the doorframe.
the sky over i-95 cannot hold water very long
and soon it doesn’t.
you look out the new-car window
silent windshield wipers and you remember
the other times it’s rained on your occasion
(with stinging peroxide sometimes, and
sometimes gasoline, when you had a match
in the glovebox,
but mostly water).
you never stopped liking the way the big trees swayed
in the not-quite-hurricane
or the deafening of the drops on the car’s aluminum backbone.
you used to trust they’d never fall, they’d never flood
the crashes you passed rubbernecking were never fatal
traffic would always clear
you’d never be late.
as you watch the oversized leaves support the waterweight today
you think how every bit of that is gone from you now
siphoned slowly and quietly but
unmistakably gone from you now
you think in matter-of-fact sentences because you are a grown-up:
“I do not trust the trees. I do not trust the raindrops.”
quieter you think
“I do not trust the future. I do not trust an empty building.
I do not trust the movie theater. I do not trust the ocean,
or the river. I do not trust water
when I can’t see the bottom.”
you get a little philosophical as you get hungry and the exit numbers get high
“I do not trust the highway. I do not trust me. I do not trust the curtains
to keep me safe when I sleep, and I do not trust waking to bring me morning.”
you think in matter-of-fact sentences because you are a grown-up,
but also because that’s how the thoughts come.
there’s something that you do trust
that’s enough to warm you as this unseasonable may
comes to a close.
you never stopped liking the way the big trees swayed
and you think how they might fall
but they haven’t yet.
you think how it’s kind of okay not to trust them:
you trust something else.
(pain is lucrative.
so is smiling.)
a female cardinal perches outside the window of
the room, just as you arrive to leave again
and you think how she's just as pretty as the
candy-apple-red male, though she's dark against the tree trunk
and when you’re back to celebrate the years since leaving
you might even trust that tree trunk
and the girlcardinal you have to squint to see
you might also trust morning, then,
and night.
meantime, the sky lightens:
sundrops while the rain comes loudly still.
May 26, 2013
May 26, 2013 at 5:29 PM UTC
Mondays in Van Nuys:
velvet morning, bee stings,
and medicating angels
wrapped in mesh,
at the scene of a fugitive motel,
swimming towards
*** and misery.
Nicotine lizard
fresh from film school,
and his molten young
interceptors
with corduroy legs,
scouting for girls
any way, shape, or form,
pinpointing them
in alphabetical order.
Flashing red light means go:
pretty Eve in the tub,
lit from underneath,
she sun shines,
her back to the prehension
from a survey of hands
and power tools.
No tan lines,
the boundaries of
this celluloid garden
begin at her knees
--a fleshprint,
start the Van de Graaff
and watch as she reels
the far faded whispers
of carnal quicksand.
A smell of peroxide and sweat,
her constant freezing
and thawing
totally crushed out,
the dark don't hide it.
Candy Bar
--it's not her real name,
but she smiles like
she means it,
lying is the most fun a girl
can have without taking
her clothes off.
Once again
the week gets lost in repeat:
a certain smile,
a certain sadness,
look on the bright side,
this isn't happiness.
Oct 10, 2022
Oct 10, 2022 at 11:35 AM UTC
Hadn’t changed numbers.
A voice bristled in my ear,
said why not then, it’s been years.
Months passed.
An amalgam of frail strained hearts,
smells on pillows we tried to lose.
Chose the boulevard in the end,
gaudy nostalgia blazing
like a forest fire in my eyes.
I waited.
Ran a finger over rails
those skaters we knew marked,
back when something called lust
fizzled between you them and me,
through the airwaves;
the lyrics can still trickle
on my tongue if you ask nicely.
Peroxide-blondes, men with muscles
the size of marrows,
a summer pick ‘n’ mix
lacking in looks, in fine taste.
Went to read a book in the sea
for a while,
slurped up half a pint in chapters
then lost the plot again.
That’s when you came
in polka dots,
a pack of colourful taffy
swinging idly from a wrist,
peanut-butter cups
like lily-pads on your palm.
As if you’d never left,
same number, name, face.
Forgot what goodbye was,
tripped over a lost hello.
Nov 20, 2014
Nov 20, 2014 at 5:30 PM UTC
**The fairest hair, peroxide blond
beer shampoo feeding the roots
primped and pinned with paperclips
blown and set as candyfloss sticks.
Hydro-pack cream erasing the pouches
colourful lashes, stuck to the lids
with copyright brows by electrolysis
both almond eyes are now penciled in.
Lines of life filled with putty
trowelled in layers, foundations built
delicate cheeks, powdered, pampered
rouged and shaded, giving them youth.
Clinical lips, Botox injected
tattooed outlines guiding the brush
the budding artist colours by numbers
pouting, she paints in weatherproof gloss.
Turtleneck sweater hiding the wrinkles
genuine paste, drawing the eye
both purl and knit-one inside the jumper
pulled and snagged by glued on nails.
High heel shoes, stretching the sinews
of Lycra clad legs, holding them taut
a girdle of whalebone hugging the figure
gently molding, the form to behold.
With grace we age throughout the years
a time filled life, craves respect
hairs of grey are marks of distinction
an occasional blemish, a beauty spot.
Tiny crow's feet, signs of good humour
experience of life, lines proudly worn
for with laughing eyes and glowing smile
who need wear a plasticine face.**
... ... ...
Apr 30, 2011
Apr 30, 2011 at 12:15 AM UTC
Your heart is the same shape and size
as a fist
But don’t use it like one
because hearts
they aren’t metaphors like a fist
they cannot be healed with stitches and a band-aid
The ability to touch does not mean the ability to feel
and waiting for your heart to heal
it’s a hell of a lot more than antiseptic
My fury for you
I threw some punches
I tried to break open that prison that holds your heart captive
but I guess my voice just wasn’t the right frequency because it’s still in tact
and yes,
when the world went quiet for a moment
I could hear the gears of the universe turning inside of you and I loved the sound of it
but that’s my fault
You told me I was too young and I don’t see the way that the real world works
and that’s because I view the world in metaphors but life
is not poetry
I knew the woman at the beauty supply store had never had her heart broken
when she kicked me out of the hair isle for slathering shampoo on my chest
because I was hoping the suds would seep in through my skin and
find their way to my heart
The label on the bottle read anti-breakage
I just couldn’t resist to try
The librarian was confused when I returned the dictionary that smelled like peroxide and was covered in band-aids
Maybe she had never been hurt by words or maybe
life is not poetry
I told you that kissing you was like waking up right before seeing the sun rise
after the apocalypse
You didn’t understand
I told you that I wanted to string the stars from your bedroom ceiling so you would always have something to count on and again you didn’t understand
I told you my heart was a quilt of mixed-matched fabric with flaws and failures crudely sewn together with good intentions
You still didn’t understand even though our internal wounds are stitched up using the same thread
Because life is not poetry
Life is real and I am so **** good at letting people love me
it scared me to see my joy sitting in your hands
slipping through the creases of your fingers like sand
I stopped saying your name when it started sounding real to me
So I guess this is how it ends
With the realization that I could shatter and leave my broken pieces under your pillow
and you still would not dream of me
So don’t
use your heart like a fist
because life is not poetry
I am not a metaphor
I’m not a phrase
an expression or an exclamation
I’m not a simile and I’m certainly not a hyperbole
But I’d rather have ink on my hands than blood
Jan 26, 2017
Jan 26, 2017 at 8:43 PM UTC
the fist-shaped hole in the wall
the apologies that followed
the bruised and bleeding knuckles
the bathroom littered with plaster wrappers
the sink sizzling with hydrogen peroxide
the empty box of painkillers
the wedding ring thrown to the floor
the little girl who watched through the keyhole
s.h.
Jul 12, 2014
Jul 12, 2014 at 8:42 AM UTC
Mommom pours peroxide
on the shirt covered in
kisses from the grass
at my cousin's football game
she says
"this is how you remove stains
from clothes"
Grandma puts the last clean dish
on the drying rack
opens a fourth can of beer
from a fridge dressed in magnets
she says
"this is how you remove stains
from your memory"
Mommom shows me how
I should paint my nails
tells me men like girls
with soft hands
Grandma shows me how
to knit
tells me to make sure
I keep myself warm
Mommom is hanging picture frames on the wall
Grandma is watering her herbs
miles apart
they both sigh
and brush their hands on their skirts
Feb 9, 2015
Feb 9, 2015 at 10:30 PM UTC
I will dye my beloved brown hair blonde for you
Stand at the mirror -
I pour down the peroxide.
Knives grate my eyes and yet
they've never felt this alive
With my wild smile and
yellow hair. No longer a cub,
but a Lioness.
I will slit my wrists in the bath for you
In any case
these full veins will only take up space.
Fumes of pink against the ceramic varnish
I smile at the sight of your blood leaving me
and this bath has never felt so like home.
Feb 20, 2015
Feb 20, 2015 at 12:40 PM UTC
Six a.m. and the morning leans
To kiss the night;
The streets are full of stars
And sleepwalking business suits
The citrus woman
With peroxide blonde hair
And peroxide blonde fingers
If she spoke I imagine it would sound
Like lemon trees and smoke
Her cigarette burns holes in the sky
But when she passes me by
She smells like the Boots Cosmetics Isle
She paints the yellowed-ivory
Of her finger-claws
With crystallised orange
To cover the nicotine stains
And maybe I think I recognise
My lemonade shampoo
And tangerine hand wash
Like a setting sun over Sicily
The beer can boy
With stuffed up hair
And a stuffed up liver
He’s grey like a November playground
Once all the children have grown
And he’s hole-punched right through
I might think he was heart-broken
And trying to see how many other lost souls
The bottoms of bottles hold
If he wasn’t here every morning
Lolling down the pavement
Like a spring stretched too far
Asking for a paper
That I’m not allowed to give
And trying to drown himself
In the pooled rain under the streetlights
The coat-and-cardie bundle
With wind-swept hair
And wind-swept grimace
Like a tornado tore up
The geography of her personality
And left it with just a bike and a death wish
And those features heaped together
Between chimney-tops and table tops
For consolation
Her feet on the pedals while her hair throttles
Because she’s unlit
Unseen, unprotected
And she rides like this morning is the last
As if she knows that skulls
Crack like eggshells sometimes
And handlebars are sometimes not in front of you.
If my Dad was here he’d see
A smoker
A drunk
A dangerous cyclist
But I see lemon zest and love hearts and black liquorish
After all I’m at home
Among these mistakes
That the morning hours make
Dec 2, 2014
Dec 2, 2014 at 2:58 PM UTC
Why do the drops of blood
Stain the pristine paper
That is my soul?
I did not wish to bleed
Yet my wounds persist to flow
I tell my heart to heed me
Go slow
Why do the drops of tears
Stain the cheeks so dull?
Sighing into forever
Hopelessness immortalized
Yet my silent cries
Go unheard
As emotions vie
For supremity
Why do the drops of water
Promise a redemption
A vibrant baptism?
The peroxide eating into my sin
Stains fading into oblivion
Behind curtains of memory
Under fountains of love
(c) Anavah 2018
Nov 7, 2018
Nov 7, 2018 at 9:09 AM UTC
I said "don't forget me",
and you smiled,
hollowed out my eyes,
with matches for fingernails,
placed them like ice cubes,
in your glass of peroxide,
won't you swallow it?
as if it does not burn,
your crooked throat,
because I know you have wounds,
stitched in your esophagus,
from spitting fire.
Feb 6, 2015
Feb 6, 2015 at 9:35 AM UTC
latin can not describe the electricityof blue veins suspended in cala lily skin. they fan out,protazoic, dormant beneath a sea of iced flesh.i grip the sink, peroxide strands of kelp washing upon the banks of my shoulders likethe white-gold sunshinethat would prism behind your chinook archwith all the beauty of a nuclear winter.for the transplant of my frontal lobeto the heaven above his stratus comforter, instructionshave been written. next time he is carried in on a foen wind i am toone, stand very stilltwo, present my brain to the skyand three,wait for the apricotsof sunrise to settleinto the overcast of his eyes.i practise a little and wish i had a veinous hum, skepticalthat an electrocardiogram could detect a beat.
Feb 22, 2010
Feb 22, 2010 at 11:27 AM UTC
I’ve been around long enough
to know these wounds don’t heal.
I will wake up tomorrow
and put down half a bottle
of hydrogen peroxide,
hoping the void inside
my chest won’t get infected.
This ribcage is missing
more than just bones.
The black hole I met
in my living room
decided to stay for dinner.
He said you’re doing great.
I poured another glass
of regret and told him
that’s ironic.
I’ve realized this is just what
“okay” has become;
fists embedded in sheetrock promises,
sitting alone in the rooms where
everyone told me they would stay.
Feb 13, 2014
Feb 13, 2014 at 11:39 PM UTC
the fist-shaped hole in the wall
the apologies that followed
the bruised and bleeding knuckles
the bathroom littered with plaster wrappers
the sink sizzling with hydrogen peroxide
the empty box of painkillers
the wedding ring thrown to the floor
the little girl who watched through the keyhole
s.h.
Sep 8, 2014
Sep 8, 2014 at 2:44 AM UTC
I feel like drowning myself in peroxide,
but that won't clean what's inside;
this battered soul.
Feb 15, 2012
Feb 15, 2012 at 5:32 PM UTC
I listen to the sound of my fate as it pours out of the bottle. At last the pressure can escape. Breathing a sigh of relief that would meet the clouds with gentle licks. I am seated at the edge of my own precipice and at the bottom is a river. Ready to carry me down a tumultuous pass to the sandy peroxide foamy waves that exfoliate my sins.
Scout the bottom of the ocean for my heart,
You will find it throbbing like your eardrums in the auricle of a conch shell
You will hear the sound of my voice
And feel the grit of sand as you clench down your teeth
The water dries around my knees as I float atop the surface. Exposing my holy flesh to the contenders of will power. Will power my will to engage the mighty rock. And burst and bleed and eviscerate to form, to mold, to sculpt the golden stool of my consciousness.
Feast your eyes upon my crown
Adorned with the corpses of my victory
And collateral damage
Feel its weight as heavy as mercy
The blood pours into the ink as I dig these verses from my soul. The goal, my raison d'être, ikki *** and my modus opernadi is to excuse the agenda pushing glitterti when they tell me what my life should be. I should be, cruising the milky ways and the galaxies that my being exists in. Infinite space, infinite time leaves way for infinite possibilities to truly be free. So don’t mind me.
Standing as the revolution
The testament
Revolving around your disillusion
Thicker than cement
My empire was built on dreams, schemes occupy my reality and place you next to me. And the rest of me I will give to you as I pull you inside of me. So that when my eyes close you sleep and when you are sad I weep, deep is the colour of our passion beyond indigo. More fierce than the might of Chaka and his legions and yet as quiet as snowfall and you are
Beautiful. A shock to the senses that
dissipates the fog.
This concludes
the prelude.
Apr 9, 2013
Apr 9, 2013 at 4:47 PM UTC