"pokers" poems
My Mother called my Grandmother a "Dirty Gypsy" a long time ago
I never knew what it meant until I gave that part of my heritage a go
The Romani left India about 1,500 years ago, traveling, running ever since
The White people of the Medieval Ages hated them, at their very presence they took offense...
In some areas of Europe it was a common practice to mutilate the woman, **** and stolen kisses
And they branded the men with hot pokers... Who can understand this?
They were forbidden to speak in their native tongue
Yet their songs of joy and laughter are still sung
Apr 21, 2015
Apr 21, 2015 at 11:06 AM UTC
With Donne, whose muse on dromedary trots,
Wreathe iron pokers into true-love knots;
Rhyme’s sturdy ******* fancy’s maze and clue,
Wit’s forge and fire-blast, meaning’s press and *****
2.8k
I lit the candle
with two hydros,
and burned the house
down with a bottle
of whiskey. The next
morning I wandered
through the ashes
looking for shower
invitations and aspirin.
Back in bars, filled
with screaming amps
and glaring ex lovers
I wove my way
in-between old friends
and mating dances,
losing Hemingway
and storm clouds.
I dropped the anchor
in your apartment,
falling mid sentence
into stain ridden furniture
and empty Budweiser bottles.
The only thing I broke
that night, was my determination
on not being a blow up doll
molded after some girl
I was never going to be.
So I laid there kissing
ghosts and shook
with a fever and chills
vibrating like telephones
on silent. And you wondered
where I went once
the door closed.
You can't define cordial as
branding someone
and mailing them back
to a delusional soul falling
in love with them
after. Hot metal
pokers weren't made
for joyous reunions.
They make sure you
always know where
you leave your scars.
May 1, 2012
May 1, 2012 at 6:39 PM UTC
Hot oil burning kernels
Jumping in stomachs
Exploding and delicious
Hot and steaming burning
Red like pokers
Molten from flame
Bursting lips spark heated
Words like firecrackers.
Nov 18, 2013
Nov 18, 2013 at 10:28 PM UTC
I heard Peter Piper picked a pricey pepper, the same day I heard he got chased down by a hungry mob of less than lovely lepers, now Peter Piper and his picked pepper are prodded by hot pokers while a village of now happy, hairless, horrifyingly lipless lepers salivate in anticipation of poor Peter Piper's soon to be pickled body.
The Masses chant and cheer to sounds of Peter's screams that seem to season his sizzling skin as children scrape scolding scraps peeling from his searing kneecaps.
Veins build up pressure, veins then rupture, veins open and spray onto the crowd and moisturize all the rough textures, soaked faces gain weight and fall off exposing maggots that festered, excited crowds jump and cheer as their knees buckle and bodies fracture.
The elder ***** picks a peck of pickled Peter Piper, now the elder ***** enjoys a pepper with a peck of old Peter Piper.
Feb 11, 2016
Feb 11, 2016 at 4:14 PM UTC
The address of a melon. Table
hopping water, never happy enough with
it's last meal, especially after five hours.
San Antonio freights full of fire pokers
ashamed of how much salt they put
on the skillet.
it's just jello, I say, you can never have
too much salt
I shudder at mystic growls. Howling
through eyes. Did I meet you there, or
was that just another imagining?
Straight back and waiting. Middle
finger thumping, my feet just tapping.
I sit in a two days wait, a moment
passing. In the sudden it peaks,
it is gone.
Aug 18, 2013
Aug 18, 2013 at 11:16 AM UTC
"No, please"
I wouldn't take it back
just stop it with all these scarring memories
I will not say I was wrong
my thoughts kept me going strong
it all got so bad,
I had a bad dad.
he had to go
to a different home, he didn't belong
his hands beat to a different kind of song
I was bad too
I had way too much drugs to abuse
I closed my eyes, I really did try.
they took it all away
daddy wouldn't listen
mama couldn't cope
next thing I know I'm taking my last ****
sent away. on a not-so sunny day
the sun didn't shine, it had no time
I was never sober, drugged with their pokers
Isn't that funny? I'm such a lonely joker
I can't fight this, I'm sick with their emptiness
it got so hard to breathe
I was drowning, and no one could see
I wasn't the real me.
I was dazed, and unhappy.
"So, what changed?" "Me."
Jul 4, 2014
Jul 4, 2014 at 4:17 AM UTC
It’s been a while
He nods, eyes still firmly locked on the ground
Pointedly not meeting mine
I mean since we talked last
I’ve seen him often enough
Everyday like a **** knife in the gut
It really doesn’t have to be this hard you know
I lie through gritted teeth
Because even being near him now
I’ve begun to drown in his **** magnetic pull
My chest constricting in panic
As I realize I’m being pulled in again
He raises his head and his eyes are like hot pokers
****** deep into my soul
I stumble a bit
And he mistakes it for my usual clumsiness
Missing how much the sadness, I see
Buried in his hazel orbs, hurts me
Why?
The word takes me by surprise
As does the haunted aspect of his voice
Why him and not me?
I can tell how long he’s held onto these words
In the desperate rasp that takes over his usually smooth tone
I’ve been asking myself the very same question
Why did I choose him?
Was it to hold my hand
Or to hold my hand in the flame
I don’t know
He looks down again
Unsatisfied and hurting, just as before
I wish so badly I could save him
And halt the pain
But I tear through his life like a wrecking ball
As he burns up my world with his ever present pull
Destroying any peace I might find
I loved you
In the pause are all the things we’ve never talked of
The heaviness of his unspoken words hangs
Thickening the air
‘Til I can hardly breathe
My chest is tight and my heart aches
As it pounds away dully
Too tired to race at his declaration of affection long past
Too tired of his rollercoaster drama
We wouldn’t have burned out like that
I sighed hearing my fears confirmed in his deep timbre
We could have had something, something special
He was the better choice, I was wrong
This whole time I was wrong
As I've known all along
I’m sorry
I feel his eyes on my back as I leave
Everything else still unspoken
But somehow clear to both of us
The pain of being near has taken its toll
And I stumble as I turn the corner
Tears already pricking at the corners of my eyes
I turn to see if he saw
But he’s gone already
Always gone
Jun 23, 2012
Jun 23, 2012 at 3:31 PM UTC
Maguire & Patterson
never came to terms
with it, died without
a testimony, they did.
Open casket, stiff as
pokers and bald as a
pair of boiled eggs,
they are!
The dampness got to
them it's endemic, but at
least they get their last wish
to be cremated, they will!
Sep 14, 2018
Sep 14, 2018 at 3:10 AM UTC
Night.
In my mind, night symbolizes bad things
Dead as night,
Things go bump in the night,
Missing each other like ships in the night,
Thieves in the night,
“A one-night stand?”
Lady of the night,
“Oh my God! How can you sleep at night?”
It is universally known that monsters come out at night
They lurk in the closets of kids everywhere
But closet monsters with their reaching claws, twelve eyes, four arms,
And purple fur aren’t as scary as you.
In the dark corner of my room by the lamp that was my mom’s
When she was growing up
Did you put your hands on her, too?
I look up and
Coming towards me
a gangrene riddled zombie
Arms outstretched, a child whining for candy
Hot mouth on my skin, saliva in my face
Tongue like tentacles wrapping around me and
I fall into that dark, unfeeling place
Night is when bad things happen to good people
When too-young children lose their too-young innocence,
I try to explain to my mom the things you did
Why I’m chasing light
She says I’m lying because you’re her father
She knows you, and you wouldn’t do that to her
I tell her it was night-time she says,
“Maybe it was too dark to see who it was.”
“It wasn’t, mom!” I scream.
Hot pokers in the form of hot tears sear my red cheeks
When she turns away from me
It was dark, that night
But not so dark that I didn’t know you that night,
That night when you took me and crushed me
And I didn’t have a choice.
But it was you.
A gangrene zombie hiding in dark corners of my bedroom.
Jan 12, 2018
Jan 12, 2018 at 11:19 AM UTC
My great grandfather had a saying
That he would whisper to his children late in the evening
He would tell his boys
In no uncertain terms
That if by first light
If all was not right
To harness their horse
And ride away
A shade in the night
But for the curses he whispered
In response to the poker
Held by his wife
That would inevitably
Make fast friends with his face
Apr 6, 2015
Apr 6, 2015 at 6:24 AM UTC
Caresses like needles running down my spine,
Tattoo me with kisses and leave me,
Forever with your mark.
A desire burning - smoke streams from my lungs
As secret cigarettes smoulder on my skin
Your touch like iron-red pokers,
Melts and moulds me in your image.
Daggers flit in my stomach,
Butterflies disturbed by your gaze
Razor blades their wings.
A touch so tender
Cut me again.
Feb 24, 2013
Feb 24, 2013 at 9:27 AM UTC
I keep a cruel collection
of wicked torture devices.
Gathered together
in a faux manila folder,
labelled with a crudely crafted symbol
of birth to death
oppression.
I occasionaly use them
to flay my gray matter.
And as I stare
at the visual razorblades
and white, hot, pokers,
I can't help but think:
is anyone else using my image
for similar, sinister purposes?
And if so, I wonder,
should I be appalled, or flattered?
Apr 9, 2017
Apr 9, 2017 at 9:22 AM UTC
it's like getting sick.
when your body gets the chills and your back aches from the pain in your lungs and it seems like all you can do is bathe in hot water and drink tea.
and i guess it's like working out hard.
when your body hurts from the lactic acid building up inside your muscles and it seems like all you can do is bathe in hot water and drink water and Gatorade.
i guess it's like crying all night.
when your body shuts down from the alcohol swimming through your veins and the red hot pokers firing into your stomach making you throw up the entire cup of tea you tried drinking earlier because it felt like you were catching cold.
when your heart tries to embed itself in the walls of your lungs and your lungs try to embed themselves in the grooves of your ribcage but what are you supposed to do when your ribcage doesn't do its job and it lets everything out and you are left clawing at your skin trying to remove the memories that float around on it.
i can still feel your lips on my neck after all this time and i can still feel your fingers pressing on my windpipe and telling me that it will be alright
Jun 21, 2014
Jun 21, 2014 at 1:00 AM UTC
Your face - it's so beautiful
Yet I cannot bear to look
For I fear that I may see
In it, my own reflection
I ask you - please, turn away
I beg of you - just do it
My minds consumed by terror
A nightmare lies between us
You're asking me - I know it
To share our lives together
Have you never read the quote
Yes - l'enfer, c'est les autres
Don't you know that I'll fail you
I'll see your disappointment
And then your eyes will harden
I'll suffer for your judgement
So go on take your beauty
Beauty that I cannot face
For I fear that I may see
In you, my own reflection.
"So this is hell. I'd never have believed it. You remember all we were told about the torture-chambers, the fire and brimstone, the 'burning marl.' Old wives' tales! There's no need for red-hot pokers. Hell is - other people!" Jean-Paul Sartre, No Exit.
Dec 22, 2016
Dec 22, 2016 at 2:00 PM UTC
The sky it trembled, as it started falling in.
The poplars shook.
As the page of a book became torn and wet.
Forget not the importance of kith and kin, as they creep.
As if boils erupting under the skin.
Each family has a face.
A fantastic visage.
Crowns of thorns can not be broke within a family of workers and jokers.
With bright red hot pokers, that become stirred, but not shaken.
Futures' forsaken.
Harps played by hypocrites.
That shear their fingers.
Drawing blood instead of tears.
The knitting of a family.
Bonded on needles two at a time.
Drop just one or two stitches, all will be fine.
Clash and battle.
Cages rattle.
Clever simians.
(c)LIVVI
Mar 12, 2016
Mar 12, 2016 at 7:52 AM UTC
*ND
1944-2018*
You taught me how to write
it took me too long to write this.
When you died,
the nurses combed your hair
and put your favorite perfume on
your neck.
without you I am nothing
and a ceaseless
mess
but for you
have kept
living
in 1967 you had a daughter,
born dead.
you never visited her
grave you didn't want to know where it was
but your husband did.
and the first person he told about you was her.
she was born with
lemon yellow curls stuck to her head.
the pain is so much
but not as much as your beauty
i will learn to live without you as
you would have wanted it
racing matchsticks down storm gutters
i still don't believe in god.
But if there is a hell
that means there is a heaven
I would take eternity of
darkness and iron hot
pokers
if it meant you could be
with your lost daughter
and hold her.
Feb 9, 2018
Feb 9, 2018 at 9:28 AM UTC
In cooked and done despair
incognitos egged on staples and cheap
swarm around as professional pokers and prodders
bereft of dignity introspection or shame
they buoy on the empty deeds
of the vacuous vacant
May 18, 2022
May 18, 2022 at 4:51 PM UTC