"petroleum" poems - Hello Poetry

"petroleum" poems

Citrus trees, tomatoes, and fertile soil Garliconiongingersoy and ant spray Contentment Cigarettes and hate Aqua Net White school paste Bitter slimy spinach and blue ditto ink Confusion Cigarettes and hate Cigarettes and hate Baseball glove Mown grass Fresh popcorn Sadness Cigarettes and hate Cigarettes and hate Cigarettes and hate Cramped, stale cars Claustrophobia and Cat litter Loneliness Cigarettes and hate Cigarettes and hate Cigarettes and hate Cigarettes and hate Petroleum Locker Rooms and Perfume Indifference Cigarettes and hate Cigarettes and hate Cigarettes and hate Cigarettes and hate Cigarettes and hate Smoggy skies Salty beaches Beer trucks at each end of the block Love And... Blessed... Divorce

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Nov 20, 2011

Nov 20, 2011 at 3:13 PM UTC

Life, in Smells, Part One

Citrus trees, tomatoes, and fertile soil Garliconiongingersoy and ant spray Contentment Cigarettes and hate Aqua Net White school paste Bitter slimy spinach and blue ditto ink Confusion Cigarettes and hate Cigarettes and hate Baseball glove Mown grass Fresh popcorn Sadness Cigarettes and hate Cigarettes and hate Cigarettes and hate Cramped, stale cars Claustrophobia and Cat litter Loneliness Cigarettes and hate Cigarettes and hate Cigarettes and hate Cigarettes and hate Petroleum Locker Rooms and Perfume Indifference Cigarettes and hate Cigarettes and hate Cigarettes and hate Cigarettes and hate Cigarettes and hate Smoggy skies Salty beaches Beer trucks at each end of the block Love And... Blessed... Divorce

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Stupid infidel! Transport your riches To the lands of the believers. For petroleum... To make The cellophane wrapper That you will throw away, When you buy a new mobile, Even though your old one still works, And you eat your mcdonalds, And listen to Nicki Minaj Infidel ***** And drive in gas guzzle car, As you throw the cellophane out window, And sext your girlfriend. And crash your car into telephone pole. Wasting your life!

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Aug 14, 2012

Aug 14, 2012 at 4:59 PM UTC

obama-bin-laden

Decadent Wasteful Infidel!

Stupid infidel! Transport your riches To the lands of the believers. For petroleum... To make The cellophane wrapper That you will throw away, When you buy a new mobile, Even though your old one still works, And you eat your mcdonalds, And listen to Nicki Minaj Infidel ***** And drive in gas guzzle car, As you throw the cellophane out window, And sext your girlfriend. And crash your car into telephone pole. Wasting your life!

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The swallow of summer, she toils all the summer, A blue-dark knot of glittering voltage, A whiplash swimmer, a fish of the air. But the serpent of cars that crawls through the dust In shimmering exhaust Searching to slake Its fever in ocean Will play and be idle or else it will bust. The swallow of summer, the barbed harpoon, She flings from the furnace, a rainbow of purples, Dips her glow in the pond and is perfect. But the serpent of cars that collapsed on the beach Disgorges its organs A scamper of colours Which roll like tomatoes Nude as tomatoes With sand in their creases To cringe in the sparkle of rollers and screech. The swallow of summer, the seamstress of summer, She scissors the blue into shapes and she sews it, She draws a long thread and she knots it at the corners. But the holiday people Are laid out like wounded Flat as in ovens Roasting and basting With faces of torment as space burns them blue Their heads are transistors Their teeth grit on sand grains Their lost kids are squalling While man-eating flies Jab electric shock needles but what can they do? They can climb in their cars with raw bodies, raw faces And start up the serpent And headache it homeward A car full of squabbles And sobbing and stickiness With sand in their crannies Inhaling petroleum That pours from the foxgloves While the evening swallow The swallow of summer, cartwheeling through crimson, Touches the honey-slow river and turning Returns to the hand stretched from under the eaves - A boomerang of rejoicing shadow.

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The swallow of summer, she toils all the summer, A blue-dark knot of glittering voltage, A whiplash swimmer, a fish of the air. But the serpent of cars that crawls through the dust In shimmering exhaust Searching to slake Its fever in ocean Will play and be idle or else it will bust. The swallow of summer, the barbed harpoon, She flings from the furnace, a rainbow of purples, Dips her glow in the pond and is perfect. But the serpent of cars that collapsed on the beach Disgorges its organs A scamper of colours Which roll like tomatoes Nude as tomatoes With sand in their creases To cringe in the sparkle of rollers and screech. The swallow of summer, the seamstress of summer, She scissors the blue into shapes and she sews it, She draws a long thread and she knots it at the corners. But the holiday people Are laid out like wounded Flat as in ovens Roasting and basting With faces of torment as space burns them blue Their heads are transistors Their teeth grit on sand grains Their lost kids are squalling While man-eating flies Jab electric shock needles but what can they do? They can climb in their cars with raw bodies, raw faces And start up the serpent And headache it homeward A car full of squabbles And sobbing and stickiness With sand in their crannies Inhaling petroleum That pours from the foxgloves While the evening swallow The swallow of summer, cartwheeling through crimson, Touches the honey-slow river and turning Returns to the hand stretched from under the eaves - A boomerang of rejoicing shadow.

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Scrapers will no longer scrape. Fighters soon to lose the short fight. Pilots are forced to surrender control. Snakes on a plane will bank into a roll, a scene that really no longer is scenic. Leaders still read while getting a scare. Huge landmarks that I swear were once there, bridges in shortage are counting the tolls. Dust that eventually will never be settled, liquid support that used to be metal, big bad crude that never was good— things impossible suddenly could. Answers quickly try to be drummed. Future conflicts guaranteed to be won, particles blocking our UV death sun, days become decades and turkey is done. Brave individuals are no longer bold. Families’ histories are quite often told, a baby’s bottle empty with no one to hold. Government figures tilted but somehow sold parades in protest with a circus in town. A tiger got out, but why can’t he growl? Seems that the cat’s got somebody’s tongue. Another channel covers son after son, numbers mounting, but not the right ones. Cabbies still nose their thumb after thumb, training centers destroyed one after one. We should’ve just played “Drop the **** bomb!” Fear is good, and of course good is feared; it’s the only thing that drives us way over here. Just like the Bible, it’s mostly made up. The supersonic jet has just hit a rut. The dirtiest of bombs versus our Smith and Wesson. “Come on gang, why would you even question?” Like death and taxes—there’s none that’s more sure, but then there’s the free upcoming history lesson. “Ain’t gonna do it” acting just like his pop. This rancher really means it when tossing the slop. “Still can’t find him—he’s with boys in Brazil.” What’ve they done lately to lighten the till? It’s time for the Allies to storm up this hill.

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Jul 26, 2014

Jul 26, 2014 at 5:09 PM UTC

Sugar Plum Petroleum Dreams

Scrapers will no longer scrape. Fighters soon to lose the short fight. Pilots are forced to surrender control. Snakes on a plane will bank into a roll, a scene that really no longer is scenic. Leaders still read while getting a scare. Huge landmarks that I swear were once there, bridges in shortage are counting the tolls. Dust that eventually will never be settled, liquid support that used to be metal, big bad crude that never was good— things impossible suddenly could. Answers quickly try to be drummed. Future conflicts guaranteed to be won, particles blocking our UV death sun, days become decades and turkey is done. Brave individuals are no longer bold. Families’ histories are quite often told, a baby’s bottle empty with no one to hold. Government figures tilted but somehow sold parades in protest with a circus in town. A tiger got out, but why can’t he growl? Seems that the cat’s got somebody’s tongue. Another channel covers son after son, numbers mounting, but not the right ones. Cabbies still nose their thumb after thumb, training centers destroyed one after one. We should’ve just played “Drop the **** bomb!” Fear is good, and of course good is feared; it’s the only thing that drives us way over here. Just like the Bible, it’s mostly made up. The supersonic jet has just hit a rut. The dirtiest of bombs versus our Smith and Wesson. “Come on gang, why would you even question?” Like death and taxes—there’s none that’s more sure, but then there’s the free upcoming history lesson. “Ain’t gonna do it” acting just like his pop. This rancher really means it when tossing the slop. “Still can’t find him—he’s with boys in Brazil.” What’ve they done lately to lighten the till? It’s time for the Allies to storm up this hill.

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perfunctory actions zombie habits sheep normalcy blindly following the cud chewers lemmings fall to their deaths slowly genetically engineered crops dusted with pharmaceutical poison laced with irradiated petroleum pesticides fed to the babies of the poor – wealthy voyeurs eagerly tune-in as the impoverished masses rot for viewing pleasure leisurely strolling across manicured lawns those in power scoff at the growing spectacle unaware that the cake is stale and the masses smell blood – hurriedly, accountants shuffle tax rates mix those with interest credit season it with mortgage fees and serve it on wall street place mats taking stock of stock market gains gamblers do double gainers off high rises adding to the flesh being consumed by the under class under classed – underclassmen, underpaid, stretch under ware elastic as waistlines expand with the debt ceiling both symbolizing the slow decline of the American dream screaming into the sewer fewer eyes look back as disease dulls the iris loss of the inner shine glowing reflection of living organisms fading as the day slips into the blue-black – night falls on a nation of imbeciles brain dead patients broken by depression and weight-loss scams hearts crying out for care personal and compassionate instead are met with sterile robotics and sanitary “C” students dressed in white fearful of lawsuits and spiders they prescribe to symptoms without knowing insurance number 87319A23-S1 is a human being, just like them also living in fear of the same establishment –

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Jun 24, 2014

Jun 24, 2014 at 1:33 PM UTC

trip to the Dr.

perfunctory actions zombie habits sheep normalcy blindly following the cud chewers lemmings fall to their deaths slowly genetically engineered crops dusted with pharmaceutical poison laced with irradiated petroleum pesticides fed to the babies of the poor – wealthy voyeurs eagerly tune-in as the impoverished masses rot for viewing pleasure leisurely strolling across manicured lawns those in power scoff at the growing spectacle unaware that the cake is stale and the masses smell blood – hurriedly, accountants shuffle tax rates mix those with interest credit season it with mortgage fees and serve it on wall street place mats taking stock of stock market gains gamblers do double gainers off high rises adding to the flesh being consumed by the under class under classed – underclassmen, underpaid, stretch under ware elastic as waistlines expand with the debt ceiling both symbolizing the slow decline of the American dream screaming into the sewer fewer eyes look back as disease dulls the iris loss of the inner shine glowing reflection of living organisms fading as the day slips into the blue-black – night falls on a nation of imbeciles brain dead patients broken by depression and weight-loss scams hearts crying out for care personal and compassionate instead are met with sterile robotics and sanitary “C” students dressed in white fearful of lawsuits and spiders they prescribe to symptoms without knowing insurance number 87319A23-S1 is a human being, just like them also living in fear of the same establishment –

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Drawing things I cannot see, Listening, Keenly, Too the strange things, Coming from, the albino dressed pavement smoothed, Bedroom walls, Braille textures, slipping like termites, or a strange smell, dancing from the dusty old lady haired vent, on the ceiling, Braille raindrops, escaping from your, soul window sill, fog, gets in the room, and we light cigarettes, purple scented totem poled candles, with out near future, melting, and dripping on the wooden counter-top, which we dip our fingers into, sticky like petroleum, sticky like the sap from a forest broken snapped, tree limb, which we tasted, which we ran danced hollered and orgasmed, like the melting candle, like the sapped, broken kansas public tree limb, and i, took off your, orange dress that you stole, though only a few dollars, i called bonnie, you called me paradise, though we danced gleefully, in the slums snout snarling broken home windows, pot-holes,untied shoes,untied fathers,lovers planning paradise, inside the blue 80's oldsmobile, with the stereo turned low, low like the quiet hummingbird song, of making love, in the cold night, under trees, that was old, and had probably seen many lovers, come and go, as its Fall leaves grew wings, as its, winters balding scalp, scattered away, like a field of dandelions, or the birds, that flew from nests, only to fly south, or like wise boxcar boxcar dharma bums, sat on telephone wires, at the intersection, where two lovers planned paradise, in the back-seat, of a blue Oldsmobile, and the night, holy night, and i, **** mind wonderer without wings, or sad singer leather boots harmonica whiskey drinker, and Her, white as stars, dancing in a blind choreographed orchestra, in the sky, far, far, far, even the highway, has no exits, to see this performance, So i sit on a rock, smoking a cigarette, with a Fools smile, as I, watch beauty, from the Key-hole, that is, Solitude.

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Feb 5, 2013

Feb 5, 2013 at 8:09 PM UTC

On the typewriter

Drawing things I cannot see, Listening, Keenly, Too the strange things, Coming from, the albino dressed pavement smoothed, Bedroom walls, Braille textures, slipping like termites, or a strange smell, dancing from the dusty old lady haired vent, on the ceiling, Braille raindrops, escaping from your, soul window sill, fog, gets in the room, and we light cigarettes, purple scented totem poled candles, with out near future, melting, and dripping on the wooden counter-top, which we dip our fingers into, sticky like petroleum, sticky like the sap from a forest broken snapped, tree limb, which we tasted, which we ran danced hollered and orgasmed, like the melting candle, like the sapped, broken kansas public tree limb, and i, took off your, orange dress that you stole, though only a few dollars, i called bonnie, you called me paradise, though we danced gleefully, in the slums snout snarling broken home windows, pot-holes,untied shoes,untied fathers,lovers planning paradise, inside the blue 80's oldsmobile, with the stereo turned low, low like the quiet hummingbird song, of making love, in the cold night, under trees, that was old, and had probably seen many lovers, come and go, as its Fall leaves grew wings, as its, winters balding scalp, scattered away, like a field of dandelions, or the birds, that flew from nests, only to fly south, or like wise boxcar boxcar dharma bums, sat on telephone wires, at the intersection, where two lovers planned paradise, in the back-seat, of a blue Oldsmobile, and the night, holy night, and i, **** mind wonderer without wings, or sad singer leather boots harmonica whiskey drinker, and Her, white as stars, dancing in a blind choreographed orchestra, in the sky, far, far, far, even the highway, has no exits, to see this performance, So i sit on a rock, smoking a cigarette, with a Fools smile, as I, watch beauty, from the Key-hole, that is, Solitude.

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Tenebrous pastel diamond steps, wielded in a sterile estate. legates of bequeathed curiosity, boil Olifant eyes in a cake of mesmeric petroleum chances, wry in compound sleep dust. Abtruse hands in acrimonious cackle, rights of primogeniture, consume reptilian hearts. Wobbly, rib cages gesture j'accuse Ownership, Mannhattan. By the mercy a phosphorescent syntax, enticed by Creation, exorciso false prophets, irreconsilable versions of Source.

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Jun 24, 2010

Jun 24, 2010 at 6:14 PM UTC

compassion led with a staff/commanding a ghastly pose

Tenebrous pastel diamond steps, wielded in a sterile estate. legates of bequeathed curiosity, boil Olifant eyes in a cake of mesmeric petroleum chances, wry in compound sleep dust. Abtruse hands in acrimonious cackle, rights of primogeniture, consume reptilian hearts. Wobbly, rib cages gesture j'accuse Ownership, Mannhattan. By the mercy a phosphorescent syntax, enticed by Creation, exorciso false prophets, irreconsilable versions of Source.

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I wonder how much A barrel of blood, Costs in dollars...

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Dec 3, 2012

Dec 3, 2012 at 10:57 AM UTC

I wonder how much A barrel of blood, Costs in dollars...

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High synth notes Japanese thunder you amaze yourself Walk with headphones through grass patches and brightly lit streets heavy petroleum clouds nigerian gutter feast of trash and telephones prepaid cards litter homes floors in cardboard sandals shuffling past pubs London clenched ribs teeth breathe heart beats Kick old orchestras through instrumental mixes modernity insanity kinyopoetry.com

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Jun 27, 2013

Jun 27, 2013 at 11:55 AM UTC

High synth notes Japanese thunder you amaze yourself Walk with headphones through grass patches and brightly lit streets heavy petroleum clouds nigerian gutter feast of trash and telephones prepaid cards litter homes floors in cardboard sandals shuffling past pubs London clenched ribs teeth breathe heart beats Kick old orchestras through instrumental mixes modernity insanity kinyopoetry.com

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Revisited Merak harbor one late evening a shape of sea fairy and colorful torches were seen from afar , chattering calls in 4 languages. 4 squalls in once was a plage their dancing flames asked me to come closer I hurried along the sleepy shipyards passing massive warehouses fenced by rusty wooden doors giant padlocks accenting (reminded me of a fancy cocotte loaded with blingbling) stacks of oversized containers solidly sat speechless. Sleepless. The light of each torch lifted into the sky. Seen by another eye 1883 eruption of the Krakatau crater. 130 years later the odor of its curators I ran closer. I fell. I laid there a while , got up and ran again. I lost my head and missed my right foot along the way. I did not care. When I arrived the torches were there in front of me reincarnated into thousands inhabitants who had lost their lives bodies covered with revolting cesspit oil For a second they transformed into torches again. One blazing in my hands. Regretfully, I had lost my head so I did not understand. The fairy stared . I wasn't scared. : come, come, …come purifying Sunda strait dissatisfying the idiots thought it could all be fixed with tax rate I moved toward embracing fairy arms (Possibly, this close hugging love was only for beach-sea friends) So, I united with the torches A bit of a breach pushed us towards the petroleum . Demolished it all. Cannonball. Black fog shrieking that same words : Keep up the struggle . Stay strong ! The alien residents might think I was making choices but the fairy was leading me around the torches reshaping the ghost-town Chattering calls in 4 voices. 4 languages. Yet, for the officials ears , all were still voiceless. Pointless. (Pulo Merak - Cilegon - Indonesia )

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Dec 31, 2013

Dec 31, 2013 at 12:27 AM UTC

violetta-simatupang

SAID THOSE TORCHES AT MERAK HARBOR

Revisited Merak harbor one late evening a shape of sea fairy and colorful torches were seen from afar , chattering calls in 4 languages. 4 squalls in once was a plage their dancing flames asked me to come closer I hurried along the sleepy shipyards passing massive warehouses fenced by rusty wooden doors giant padlocks accenting (reminded me of a fancy cocotte loaded with blingbling) stacks of oversized containers solidly sat speechless. Sleepless. The light of each torch lifted into the sky. Seen by another eye 1883 eruption of the Krakatau crater. 130 years later the odor of its curators I ran closer. I fell. I laid there a while , got up and ran again. I lost my head and missed my right foot along the way. I did not care. When I arrived the torches were there in front of me reincarnated into thousands inhabitants who had lost their lives bodies covered with revolting cesspit oil For a second they transformed into torches again. One blazing in my hands. Regretfully, I had lost my head so I did not understand. The fairy stared . I wasn't scared. : come, come, …come purifying Sunda strait dissatisfying the idiots thought it could all be fixed with tax rate I moved toward embracing fairy arms (Possibly, this close hugging love was only for beach-sea friends) So, I united with the torches A bit of a breach pushed us towards the petroleum . Demolished it all. Cannonball. Black fog shrieking that same words : Keep up the struggle . Stay strong ! The alien residents might think I was making choices but the fairy was leading me around the torches reshaping the ghost-town Chattering calls in 4 voices. 4 languages. Yet, for the officials ears , all were still voiceless. Pointless. (Pulo Merak - Cilegon - Indonesia )

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roasting asphalt oven sweat and petroleum pungent a festival in the truest sense diversity beyond societal bland tolerance arches over rainbow colored heads banging to the beat the great goddess smiles as we dance she knows true love when she sees it sing to the dying sun draping white shoulders afire above lahar fields green again successions of ash and germination evidence of universal rotation barren to blessed sway to the eternal rhythm bass heartbeat in our chests

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Aug 16, 2016

Aug 16, 2016 at 11:38 AM UTC

roasting asphalt oven sweat and petroleum pungent a festival in the truest sense diversity beyond societal bland tolerance arches over rainbow colored heads banging to the beat the great goddess smiles as we dance she knows true love when she sees it sing to the dying sun draping white shoulders afire above lahar fields green again successions of ash and germination evidence of universal rotation barren to blessed sway to the eternal rhythm bass heartbeat in our chests

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To these Babylonians Oh father, and I am a child of Abraham Daughter of salt and desert Daughter of the sun blazed beige dream mountains Who roll together like sleeping dinosaurs In the archives of my memory. To these Babylonians And I have withheld from them my true name For their tongues are not fit to pronounce it Written in black stardust across my ankle Branded like the wandering sheep In the blue hills drowning in yellow gnats and cloud. My father taught me how to survive Babylonia By the seaside the shore was covered in Transparent jellyfish and dark ocean weeds Abraham inhaling foamy salt waves Preaching black oil, blood and fire Preaching this, Babylonia When foreign lands resemble home When homes revert to foreign land. When earth and sky and water do not remember you When you do not remember them Singing still in the salty undertow Treble clefs caked in the cracks of my bones Barefoot fire altar, sticky sunbeam fractures Progeny of Abraham Singing sacrifice Stolen seconds folding themselves into eternity. To these Babylonians And I am a child of Isaac Violin strings shouting with the river Jacob whispered all rivers and all rivers Flow to Rome And all salt water tastes of home Find me in the poison current of the obsidian ocean Jellyfish seaweed and petroleum-slurred sands My father Abraham sang many songs.

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Dec 2, 2015

Dec 2, 2015 at 5:17 PM UTC

ariel-evangeline-baptista

Salt Stained Babylonia

To these Babylonians Oh father, and I am a child of Abraham Daughter of salt and desert Daughter of the sun blazed beige dream mountains Who roll together like sleeping dinosaurs In the archives of my memory. To these Babylonians And I have withheld from them my true name For their tongues are not fit to pronounce it Written in black stardust across my ankle Branded like the wandering sheep In the blue hills drowning in yellow gnats and cloud. My father taught me how to survive Babylonia By the seaside the shore was covered in Transparent jellyfish and dark ocean weeds Abraham inhaling foamy salt waves Preaching black oil, blood and fire Preaching this, Babylonia When foreign lands resemble home When homes revert to foreign land. When earth and sky and water do not remember you When you do not remember them Singing still in the salty undertow Treble clefs caked in the cracks of my bones Barefoot fire altar, sticky sunbeam fractures Progeny of Abraham Singing sacrifice Stolen seconds folding themselves into eternity. To these Babylonians And I am a child of Isaac Violin strings shouting with the river Jacob whispered all rivers and all rivers Flow to Rome And all salt water tastes of home Find me in the poison current of the obsidian ocean Jellyfish seaweed and petroleum-slurred sands My father Abraham sang many songs.

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If you are petroleum, I'm a car, You're a towel, Then i just had a shower, If I'm freezing you're my cozy coat, If I'm drowning you're my rescue boat, You're more than just a friend, You're a necessity, I hope we have no end, In my life you're the top celebrity.

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Dec 24, 2013

Dec 24, 2013 at 3:15 AM UTC

Because I love you more than words can say

If you are petroleum, I'm a car, You're a towel, Then i just had a shower, If I'm freezing you're my cozy coat, If I'm drowning you're my rescue boat, You're more than just a friend, You're a necessity, I hope we have no end, In my life you're the top celebrity.

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The concrete depresses with each small step I take in the Arco parking lot I fold this song up into my pocket and my schoolwork starts to rot. Your hair hangs loosely by your eyes as you ration out my shots. I wanted to remind you that your nails give me goosebumps, but I forgot. Your legs laced up and shining in oil are sculpted out of bronze Lying naked in aphids as we strive to be shameless among your father's front lawn You are sunlight disguised by a sheet on a clothesline In the middle of meadows made of wheatgrass and starshine How can something so beautiful share a species with me? A shopping cart overflowing with grace given away on the streets for free My jeans are turning into strings of flayed fabric under your yellow moon I'll shower you in music, if you promise to abuse it, within my crimson room Lock me in my comfort stall with dividers emitting petroleum fumes Break down all the walls with your desperate call as your temple, I consume From within towers where light is devoured, against all odds, I bloom, For a skeletal mastery with ultraviolet eyes crawls into my tomb. You are a symphony of epiphanies for a boy made of concrete In the midst of a city of asphalt and batteries. You splat on my canvas and blast from my headphones And if you opened me your name would probably be on my bones. Keep the covers at bay So I can admire your frame.

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Feb 17, 2011

Feb 17, 2011 at 6:55 PM UTC

Ultraviolet Eyes

The concrete depresses with each small step I take in the Arco parking lot I fold this song up into my pocket and my schoolwork starts to rot. Your hair hangs loosely by your eyes as you ration out my shots. I wanted to remind you that your nails give me goosebumps, but I forgot. Your legs laced up and shining in oil are sculpted out of bronze Lying naked in aphids as we strive to be shameless among your father's front lawn You are sunlight disguised by a sheet on a clothesline In the middle of meadows made of wheatgrass and starshine How can something so beautiful share a species with me? A shopping cart overflowing with grace given away on the streets for free My jeans are turning into strings of flayed fabric under your yellow moon I'll shower you in music, if you promise to abuse it, within my crimson room Lock me in my comfort stall with dividers emitting petroleum fumes Break down all the walls with your desperate call as your temple, I consume From within towers where light is devoured, against all odds, I bloom, For a skeletal mastery with ultraviolet eyes crawls into my tomb. You are a symphony of epiphanies for a boy made of concrete In the midst of a city of asphalt and batteries. You splat on my canvas and blast from my headphones And if you opened me your name would probably be on my bones. Keep the covers at bay So I can admire your frame.

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I'd like to mention that my city Karnal was once the bastion of the armed forces. Close to my house in NDRI campus until half-a-decade ago stood remnants of the old British Barracks - an irksome reminder of the colonial period. But we went inside the rickety ruins of an olden period to play hide and seek and sometimes just for fun as an adventure. I had seen them - the erstwhile barracks in that dilapidated state only, carrying the Union Jack painted at some places, and I had seen the ruins crash to ground - a reinstated taste of Indian freedom. The Colonial army camped here until the occupying British chose to shift the army camp to Ambala due to high occurrence of mosquitoes in the city of Karnal and found this place fit only for a great cattle yard. Karnal has seen negligence & side-lining ever-since along the course of history. The Indian Oil Corporation's petroleum refinery was decided to be built in the neighbouring Panipat city & so was the National Fertilizers Limited's manufacturing plant built there and not in Karnal. In Karnal they built research institutes, filled with greenery these make the city a comfortable place to relax at ease. But ****** shameless people don't realize the value of plants & trees and keep removing them off the face of Karnal & even where I live, in the NDRI campus - acronym for the National Dairy Research Institute campus. ****** blood sucker stupid human beings are sometimes more irritating than the malarial mosquitoes. They cut trees assuming trees shelter mosquitoes! True they might be but I keep wondering what about the potholes dug by them into the coal-tar & gravel roads to facilitate the installing of religious & marriage tents. But nothing can be done to change the people whose mindset has been falsely ligated with the thought of we are the best & we won't change.

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Jun 4, 2013

Jun 4, 2013 at 3:28 AM UTC

Mosquitoes - Their Power & Malinfluence

I'd like to mention that my city Karnal was once the bastion of the armed forces. Close to my house in NDRI campus until half-a-decade ago stood remnants of the old British Barracks - an irksome reminder of the colonial period. But we went inside the rickety ruins of an olden period to play hide and seek and sometimes just for fun as an adventure. I had seen them - the erstwhile barracks in that dilapidated state only, carrying the Union Jack painted at some places, and I had seen the ruins crash to ground - a reinstated taste of Indian freedom. The Colonial army camped here until the occupying British chose to shift the army camp to Ambala due to high occurrence of mosquitoes in the city of Karnal and found this place fit only for a great cattle yard. Karnal has seen negligence & side-lining ever-since along the course of history. The Indian Oil Corporation's petroleum refinery was decided to be built in the neighbouring Panipat city & so was the National Fertilizers Limited's manufacturing plant built there and not in Karnal. In Karnal they built research institutes, filled with greenery these make the city a comfortable place to relax at ease. But ****** shameless people don't realize the value of plants & trees and keep removing them off the face of Karnal & even where I live, in the NDRI campus - acronym for the National Dairy Research Institute campus. ****** blood sucker stupid human beings are sometimes more irritating than the malarial mosquitoes. They cut trees assuming trees shelter mosquitoes! True they might be but I keep wondering what about the potholes dug by them into the coal-tar & gravel roads to facilitate the installing of religious & marriage tents. But nothing can be done to change the people whose mindset has been falsely ligated with the thought of we are the best & we won't change.

Continue reading...

high finance and terror you had half a job the commissioner made a huge mistake where words just disappear oh do help the rich and well-connected they need you careful that your boss does not see you favoriting my tweets unstar! unstar! panic! panic! social media illiteracy bio: follow or **** off **** the king of hearts quadruple cheeseburger acidic fruits keep chugging harm on y a night of debauchery in the works our minds refueled with petroleum entropy hour with free golden shower where truth gnaws at your legs but you continue walking human irrationality gets beaten to a pulp by bot rationality how bland and discordant getting them drawn and quartered humanity can do without us that **** poet saw the egg hatch into regrets **** the only one who cares manufacturing awkward silences and making a killing what the hell is anergy miss world virginity 2012 what have we done ghost eating humans or some **** like that someone already thought of that funny thing you wanted to say your timeline can beat my timeline mute only the users who make too much sense the epitome of trying too hard and then coronal mass ejection all the over the place you know this goes nowhere so you want out no more outreach from this point on shredded the flow chart too much in the projects exit stage down

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Sep 19, 2014

Sep 19, 2014 at 8:37 PM UTC

high finance and terror you had half a job the commissioner made a huge mistake where words just disappear oh do help the rich and well-connected they need you careful that your boss does not see you favoriting my tweets unstar! unstar! panic! panic! social media illiteracy bio: follow or **** off **** the king of hearts quadruple cheeseburger acidic fruits keep chugging harm on y a night of debauchery in the works our minds refueled with petroleum entropy hour with free golden shower where truth gnaws at your legs but you continue walking human irrationality gets beaten to a pulp by bot rationality how bland and discordant getting them drawn and quartered humanity can do without us that **** poet saw the egg hatch into regrets **** the only one who cares manufacturing awkward silences and making a killing what the hell is anergy miss world virginity 2012 what have we done ghost eating humans or some **** like that someone already thought of that funny thing you wanted to say your timeline can beat my timeline mute only the users who make too much sense the epitome of trying too hard and then coronal mass ejection all the over the place you know this goes nowhere so you want out no more outreach from this point on shredded the flow chart too much in the projects exit stage down

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Defeated mass of mangled limbs Blood spreading on the floor Tiny eyes forever unseeing ****** footprints to a white door One hand on a Bible, a promise, a vow Full lips promising lies Claiming to do away with corruption Voice falters, America's demise Petroleum and sand, flames in the sky Gunfire, explosions: the tenth crusade Thousands lost, at first we begged Now no one dares sing his acolades Winter air hardens his breath Does nothing to help a hardened heart Most would say a gift, a miracle A punishment you say, a life not allowed to start

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Feb 10, 2011

Feb 10, 2011 at 5:39 PM UTC

haley-valentine

The Tenth Crusade

Defeated mass of mangled limbs Blood spreading on the floor Tiny eyes forever unseeing ****** footprints to a white door One hand on a Bible, a promise, a vow Full lips promising lies Claiming to do away with corruption Voice falters, America's demise Petroleum and sand, flames in the sky Gunfire, explosions: the tenth crusade Thousands lost, at first we begged Now no one dares sing his acolades Winter air hardens his breath Does nothing to help a hardened heart Most would say a gift, a miracle A punishment you say, a life not allowed to start

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Measure horizon interjecting South Asia Hammurabi formed Akkadian Nation Babylonian beast winged lion upon your cajoled eyes Mesopotamian feast a civilization dreaming under oil fields now known as Iraq petroleum empowered How history repeats in crude circumstances Assyrian War rages on Have all temples been replaced by mosques or filling stations for Halliburton to gas up? tanks, projectile convoys not a winged god amongst them unless you count Mobil Babylonia azimuth combustible tankers horizon sunrise or sunset both burn black

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Mar 22, 2016

Mar 22, 2016 at 5:48 PM UTC

Babylonia Azimuth

Measure horizon interjecting South Asia Hammurabi formed Akkadian Nation Babylonian beast winged lion upon your cajoled eyes Mesopotamian feast a civilization dreaming under oil fields now known as Iraq petroleum empowered How history repeats in crude circumstances Assyrian War rages on Have all temples been replaced by mosques or filling stations for Halliburton to gas up? tanks, projectile convoys not a winged god amongst them unless you count Mobil Babylonia azimuth combustible tankers horizon sunrise or sunset both burn black

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How about that gasoline in Autumn rain puddles? How about them cars that don't start, can't start. I just wanted to start. Playing games like this never amused me much; I guess I'm more of a reader than a writer than a toy-game-player. I want the facts. None of this horseshit media circus, ignorance is neither knowing nor caring. Nay bliss, It was bliss on those cold winter nights, night twilights pressed hard against the city-smogged sky where the gases of sugar beets and petroleum reflect back down orange. Orange on the snow and orange on snow drifts and snow flakes on your eyelashes. Little orange dusts **** your lashes grow long)* dusts fallen halfheartedly like rain in the fall and rain puddles shone red and blue and green and orange, orange, orange... Always orange. Like gasoline in rain puddles, gasoline in cars that won't start. They can't start, don't start; My engine must be misfiring. (How about them metaphors for a heart?) Will you call me when you get there?

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Sep 5, 2013

Sep 5, 2013 at 3:43 PM UTC

How About That Gasoline

How about that gasoline in Autumn rain puddles? How about them cars that don't start, can't start. I just wanted to start. Playing games like this never amused me much; I guess I'm more of a reader than a writer than a toy-game-player. I want the facts. None of this horseshit media circus, ignorance is neither knowing nor caring. Nay bliss, It was bliss on those cold winter nights, night twilights pressed hard against the city-smogged sky where the gases of sugar beets and petroleum reflect back down orange. Orange on the snow and orange on snow drifts and snow flakes on your eyelashes. Little orange dusts **** your lashes grow long)* dusts fallen halfheartedly like rain in the fall and rain puddles shone red and blue and green and orange, orange, orange... Always orange. Like gasoline in rain puddles, gasoline in cars that won't start. They can't start, don't start; My engine must be misfiring. (How about them metaphors for a heart?) Will you call me when you get there?

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We keep flames near the petroleum ocean between us yet I look at your Jimi Hendrix haircut and your fu manchu and wonder why things still are the way they are

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Nov 4, 2013

Nov 4, 2013 at 8:43 PM UTC

samantha-goodman

We keep flames near the petroleum ocean between us yet I look at your Jimi Hendrix haircut and your fu manchu and wonder why things still are the way they are

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You left me capsized on the Caspian The bold-wind black-oil Caspian Suicide-tower fire-altar Caspian Cigar-smoke car-exhaust Caspian Oh Caspian, My Caspian How could you just let me drown? Pacific and Atlantic and Mediterranean Rhein and Seine and Thames Huron and Kagawong and Lawrence I see you quarrel Over who is greater Richer older Better bolder Who runs cleaner fresher sweeter Who flows stronger faster deeper Who gave more of themself to me Who took more of me for themself Who has more heart Who stole my heart And who will possess it in the end I don’t know But capsized in the Caspian Is how I learned to swim And to stomach salt water And to weather storms To enjoy the taste of raw fish Calamari caviar crab And to both love and hate The forceful winds That blow me to and fro While capsized on the Caspian I found my home To be not stable, not stagnant But undertow An invisible current clenching pulling holding gripping Dragging tearing teaching ripping Delivering me to what is next Oh plastic-bag jelly-fish Caspian Petroleum-sand mud-volcano Caspian Sun-blazed low-land Caspian Capsized, yes But also baptized I drowned in the tangles of your dark torrents And was born again in the summer moon-tide

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Aug 22, 2015

Aug 22, 2015 at 3:15 PM UTC

ariel-evangeline-baptista

Capsized on the Caspian

You left me capsized on the Caspian The bold-wind black-oil Caspian Suicide-tower fire-altar Caspian Cigar-smoke car-exhaust Caspian Oh Caspian, My Caspian How could you just let me drown? Pacific and Atlantic and Mediterranean Rhein and Seine and Thames Huron and Kagawong and Lawrence I see you quarrel Over who is greater Richer older Better bolder Who runs cleaner fresher sweeter Who flows stronger faster deeper Who gave more of themself to me Who took more of me for themself Who has more heart Who stole my heart And who will possess it in the end I don’t know But capsized in the Caspian Is how I learned to swim And to stomach salt water And to weather storms To enjoy the taste of raw fish Calamari caviar crab And to both love and hate The forceful winds That blow me to and fro While capsized on the Caspian I found my home To be not stable, not stagnant But undertow An invisible current clenching pulling holding gripping Dragging tearing teaching ripping Delivering me to what is next Oh plastic-bag jelly-fish Caspian Petroleum-sand mud-volcano Caspian Sun-blazed low-land Caspian Capsized, yes But also baptized I drowned in the tangles of your dark torrents And was born again in the summer moon-tide

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mom says we should buy an axe. she shapes her gum into a moon, craters and canines and molars, like a fake suicide on national tv, the passing of the torch, the running of the bulls, the macy’s day parade. ashtrays don’t lie, but ashes do, they’ve got their canines and molars and tongues tuned to calamity, slick as sunsets as they chop away. and this fortnight is something you can read, go ahead, turn the pages, one to fourteen and you’re caught unaware, what the **** were you doing, counting casualties, coming closer to the yellow sky, it’s petroleum sliding down your throat now. the human body is 70% ******** and you may meet your quota but you’ll never meet your end, racing through the stucco in the room your girlfriend rents, the ridiculous ambivalence seeping through your pores, staining the sheets you haven’t washed since february, turning off the tv you were never watching anyway, letting bulls run and torches light like that little corner of your eye that twitches when you touch, like that interrogation manual you can’t read anymore, the door shuts in your face and your books crush your bones. and you and mom buy the axe and leave it by the fridge with the broom, and the more you scratch the rustier the blood.

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Sep 29, 2011

Sep 29, 2011 at 8:42 AM UTC

mom says we should buy an axe. she shapes her gum into a moon, craters and canines and molars, like a fake suicide on national tv, the passing of the torch, the running of the bulls, the macy’s day parade. ashtrays don’t lie, but ashes do, they’ve got their canines and molars and tongues tuned to calamity, slick as sunsets as they chop away. and this fortnight is something you can read, go ahead, turn the pages, one to fourteen and you’re caught unaware, what the **** were you doing, counting casualties, coming closer to the yellow sky, it’s petroleum sliding down your throat now. the human body is 70% ******** and you may meet your quota but you’ll never meet your end, racing through the stucco in the room your girlfriend rents, the ridiculous ambivalence seeping through your pores, staining the sheets you haven’t washed since february, turning off the tv you were never watching anyway, letting bulls run and torches light like that little corner of your eye that twitches when you touch, like that interrogation manual you can’t read anymore, the door shuts in your face and your books crush your bones. and you and mom buy the axe and leave it by the fridge with the broom, and the more you scratch the rustier the blood.

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The remnants of last night's nova lay scattered in tatters on the patterns of ballroom linoleum. Flattened bottles and kids full throttle on people petroleum. They whisper, "we're full of them deaths 'guised as holy gems," but no one could hear through the decoding of the exploding star, the eroding of that foreboding bazaar, not even the one whispering, loose lips left ajar. The remnants of last night's nova; it began with a beat. Melody sweet was distorted just to show the flipped switch kids who retorted just to grow numb, with ditched brain space aborted just to know dub, or love the microchips imported just to throw the blasting bass bubbles of sound into the ground, spinning around, until they come down, to frown at flowers powered by the eye of the storm. Where it's the norm for their forms to be torn from their static. The remnants of last night's nova was an illness of stillness; of dripping dead glow sticks that knows this fist in your chest clenched tight, and the sight of last night, and the fading lights just show this restlessness is not the best of this bright. The love fights muttered through shutters of others echoed soft cotton swab colors in sunrise skies, and despised eyes, and reprized "why?s" to inspire white lies. The remnants of last night's nova are gone.

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Dec 19, 2010

Dec 19, 2010 at 5:55 PM UTC

Last Night's Nova

The remnants of last night's nova lay scattered in tatters on the patterns of ballroom linoleum. Flattened bottles and kids full throttle on people petroleum. They whisper, "we're full of them deaths 'guised as holy gems," but no one could hear through the decoding of the exploding star, the eroding of that foreboding bazaar, not even the one whispering, loose lips left ajar. The remnants of last night's nova; it began with a beat. Melody sweet was distorted just to show the flipped switch kids who retorted just to grow numb, with ditched brain space aborted just to know dub, or love the microchips imported just to throw the blasting bass bubbles of sound into the ground, spinning around, until they come down, to frown at flowers powered by the eye of the storm. Where it's the norm for their forms to be torn from their static. The remnants of last night's nova was an illness of stillness; of dripping dead glow sticks that knows this fist in your chest clenched tight, and the sight of last night, and the fading lights just show this restlessness is not the best of this bright. The love fights muttered through shutters of others echoed soft cotton swab colors in sunrise skies, and despised eyes, and reprized "why?s" to inspire white lies. The remnants of last night's nova are gone.

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Several moons before when we were still strangers under the darkest veil of the velvet curtain we lay dormant beside each other whispering words of white wash under the cover of a deceiving peace waiting for the next shell shock. Dizziness would rise quickly in as the water in the brain fizzed like soda bursting into effervescent bubbles lining oozing cracks smelling like petroleum. And then we'd rise from our self-made graves sprinting across no-man's land leaping over the gorge of death playing with the volcanoes below and dancing snipers. Juggling that we'd be able to sweep through the next jungle burn its corpses gorge on its juices dismembering the world and in its infanticide the clouds would wail in their wake spitting contempt on our rejoicing backs while we danced our hollow victory and onto the coming thunders. Days and days passed and here we are lying in graves dug for others watching the star trails as they pass us by oblivious in all eternity.

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Apr 8, 2012

Apr 8, 2012 at 11:23 AM UTC

helios-rietberg

Several moons before when we were still strangers under the darkest veil of the velvet curtain we lay dormant beside each other whispering words of white wash under the cover of a deceiving peace waiting for the next shell shock. Dizziness would rise quickly in as the water in the brain fizzed like soda bursting into effervescent bubbles lining oozing cracks smelling like petroleum. And then we'd rise from our self-made graves sprinting across no-man's land leaping over the gorge of death playing with the volcanoes below and dancing snipers. Juggling that we'd be able to sweep through the next jungle burn its corpses gorge on its juices dismembering the world and in its infanticide the clouds would wail in their wake spitting contempt on our rejoicing backs while we danced our hollow victory and onto the coming thunders. Days and days passed and here we are lying in graves dug for others watching the star trails as they pass us by oblivious in all eternity.

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I miss you all humdrum floppy eyed like crinkle face spit flying mad people I Miss You Cause You Are Crazy 2 you are petroleum seeping through my brain waves and when i light the fuse You'll just about blow the place sky High.

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May 30, 2014

May 30, 2014 at 5:45 PM UTC

laurel-elizabeth

I miss you all humdrum floppy eyed like crinkle face spit flying mad people I Miss You Cause You Are Crazy 2 you are petroleum seeping through my brain waves and when i light the fuse You'll just about blow the place sky High.

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