"pressboard" poems - Hello Poetry

I couldn't believe that it took fireworks. Red fire, consuming my oxygen and my thoughts. And the tones of your voice like booming thunder filling my ears with a ringing that I could hear even after you left me. You entered amidst a black sea of other people. The room was dark, shrouded in black lace and prayers. But somehow you appeared to me clearer and brighter than any disco ball or compact fluorescent could ever manage. The soot soon smothered us all. The flames licking bright new brick and threatening to swallow us piece by piece taking with it our pressboard furniture, just so that the interior matched our skin - covered in shining, charcoal burns. I couldn't believe that it took fireworks. Red fire, of my creation consuming every part of you. And as if the spectacle wasn't enough the first time, an encore seemed fitting, doused in gasoline.

0

Sep 29, 2011

Sep 29, 2011 at 12:11 PM UTC

ke-filtar

It Took Fireworks

I couldn't believe that it took fireworks. Red fire, consuming my oxygen and my thoughts. And the tones of your voice like booming thunder filling my ears with a ringing that I could hear even after you left me. You entered amidst a black sea of other people. The room was dark, shrouded in black lace and prayers. But somehow you appeared to me clearer and brighter than any disco ball or compact fluorescent could ever manage. The soot soon smothered us all. The flames licking bright new brick and threatening to swallow us piece by piece taking with it our pressboard furniture, just so that the interior matched our skin - covered in shining, charcoal burns. I couldn't believe that it took fireworks. Red fire, of my creation consuming every part of you. And as if the spectacle wasn't enough the first time, an encore seemed fitting, doused in gasoline.

29

wood-grain finish, extra varnish tarnished button tipped to the right. fighting urges surging through blue undoing years of misdirection unprotected table top dulled sits dusty rusted nails protruding slightly nightly visits from the drunken stunk up pressboard with cigar and beer nearly every inch a memory chemistry to delivery eating so many family meals dealing cards and outlining plans landing strip for wayward model airplanes painfully, I carry it out to the burn pile smiling slightly as a piece of history mysteriously drifts away as smoke –

0

Jun 16, 2015

Jun 16, 2015 at 12:00 PM UTC

s-lyman-temple

time to get new furniture

wood-grain finish, extra varnish tarnished button tipped to the right. fighting urges surging through blue undoing years of misdirection unprotected table top dulled sits dusty rusted nails protruding slightly nightly visits from the drunken stunk up pressboard with cigar and beer nearly every inch a memory chemistry to delivery eating so many family meals dealing cards and outlining plans landing strip for wayward model airplanes painfully, I carry it out to the burn pile smiling slightly as a piece of history mysteriously drifts away as smoke –

16

****** is a tough thing to digest, it Haunts the deepest pit of your stomach, Steeling food swallowed, A perpetual hunger. It crawls on all fours At midnight Up the throat. It's a slow process. Burning pink, beating flesh With acid coated paws. You feel it as a chip not fully chewed, A pill taken in absence of water, A greasy grilled cheese. When I feel it beginning To swell in my throat I brace myself On the kitchen sink, Notice my distorted, clammy cheeks In the stainless steel warped metal, Fingers digging into the pressboard cupboards. I don't have anything but time To cool the flame under my tongue, Inside my teeth.

0

Nov 25, 2015

Nov 25, 2015 at 12:41 AM UTC

elizabeth-o

Shotgun Esophagus

****** is a tough thing to digest, it Haunts the deepest pit of your stomach, Steeling food swallowed, A perpetual hunger. It crawls on all fours At midnight Up the throat. It's a slow process. Burning pink, beating flesh With acid coated paws. You feel it as a chip not fully chewed, A pill taken in absence of water, A greasy grilled cheese. When I feel it beginning To swell in my throat I brace myself On the kitchen sink, Notice my distorted, clammy cheeks In the stainless steel warped metal, Fingers digging into the pressboard cupboards. I don't have anything but time To cool the flame under my tongue, Inside my teeth.

23