Andesitic magma
was leaching from a tectonic collision deep below
and burned itself out
on the side of a newly formed rend in the landscape
A languid lava flow both ruthless and viscous  

pyroclastic madness settled in a cooling atmosphere
forming ash and raining tephra which fell
quietly to earth  
to suffocate the burning
and everything else.

under ash clouds
under grey powder and stillness
no movement can be made.
Each breathe is sulphuric but the burning goes on

There is nothing darker than the putrid soul of your heart
Crusted by burnt desires and pyroclastic ash
Tortured by your existence, dipped into the hells of mankind

Bubbling skin and singed mercy embrace me whole
Turn up flames and burn me alive
Hear my screams ****** your mind

Cast me out of the dead, for I am not leaving
Laid in a forever coma then awakened
Pompeii is dead, Pompeii is dead, Pompeii is dead

this is for the Dreamers, Lovers, and Surgeons

for the Hopeless Stargazer who immortalized his Subject with one hundred and eight sets of fourteen lines in iambic pentameter

for ***** tight clad teenage boys who envied frisky fleas, struggling to make holy ungodly passions with cheap arguments and metaphysical pick up lines

for Disillusioned City Dwellers, who, wandering lonely as clouds, stopped to quietly reflect upon wind-beaten moss-covered crags, and heard God’s whisper thunder from petals and blades of grass

this is for the Dreamers, Lovers, and Surgeons

for Bespectacled Slave Drivers who submersed idle minds in anthologies,  forcing them to **** neon yellow on dreams deferred and rivers;  slicing and dicing Grecian urns with red ball point pens; bruising and battering, in blue ball point, roads not taken; scalding supermarkets in California with pyroclastic flows of graphite  

for those pushing to tear apart lines and letters, reconstructing ,deconstructing, agonizing, imaginizing, bullshitting, and brooding on to crisp white sheets in times new roman twelve point font

for the Monsters and Lollipops that exist in the millimeters between a skull and a brain

this is for the Dreamers, Lovers, and Surgeons slumbering beneath Restless Leaves Under the Moon

Seeping through placid mother Earth
the molten rocks now vent their revenge
for this is Yellowstone
at the eve of nuclear winter

The last such eruption
made cold and dark the lands
and this one, in our modern world
will foil all of mankind's plans

See the choking smoke
the Pyroclastic flows
watch the life burn
in it's heated wake

See the skies turn from blue
see the sun be covered
live the nuclear winter
which we are deemed to face

Ten years without the sun
ten years without crops
ten years of a mini ice age
starvation and death, ten years


By christos Andreas Kourtis aka NeonSolaris

In a blind of an eye,
we were flying with pigs
and swimming with pigeons.

Marching alongside famous carcasses
and singing gospels with the Pharisees.
We stood on water
and bathe on the pyroclastic flow.

A flock of ants gave us clothing,
as the army of sheep gave us a scolding.

We drank the Nile ‘till we got thirsty
and Bismarcked our way into the Revolution
and fought the Bolsheviks
alongside Lenin.

We cooked the ***,
cooked it right down to the marrow
until we were walking down to heaven
to rescue Rasputin.

Overlooking eucalyptus groves,
we made love,
while they were out with bullets
searching for a truce.

elotes jingling ringing by
ponies munching grass
inevitable sticky arm
pointing to the sky
watching Cooper's pass

buses exhale noxious fumes
singing greasy axle tunes
grainy walk beneath our feet
offers something more than supple street

something more than supple street
something more we can't defeat
a burning penny in blue-tile sky
a charred lily in our green water supply
a pyroclastic flow of people
i'd love to meet
i'd love to meet
i'd love to meet

My love, my love these shaky Isles
Abandoned in the vast blue seas,
Born in Mesozoic times
When sedimentary oozes ease.
From far Antarctic mountainsides
To windblown dust from Austral plain
They lay in layers thick and deep
Beneath the Tasman Sea's domain.

A thousand million years of ******
Of plate tectonic shear and drift,
Mid oceanic larva seep
Determines continental shift.
Deep magmatic plumes arise
From down within the planet's core
To burst asunder from the crust
As mountain God's volcanic lore.

Ash and larva from the vent
In pyroclastic feirce display,
Obliterate the cold blue sky
Explosively in massive way.
Rooster tails of feiry ash
And bread crust bombs cascade about
Vulcan roars his rage to all
In violent, vast, volcanic route.

Ignimbrite flows from the vent
In sheets a hundred meters deep
The incandescence, from on high,
Would, watching Angels, cause to weep.
Like quicksilver, it cloaks the land
To cover all in burning flow,
To last a million years as sheets
Of sharded rock where 'ere you go.

So the land was born of fire
And bent and twisted by the force
Of upthrust from the great, beneath
And earthquakes felt throughout, of course.
Earthquakes of unearthly fear
Wrack foundation's very base,
Sudden as the artic gale
Unpredictable to face.

So the shaky Isles were born
Here to lie in ocean's vast,
Clad in forest lush and green
Snowclad mountains, rivers fast.
Well kept cities, well kept towns
Population proud and clean,
Beauty all around is felt
Perched atop creation's dream.

So the Shaky Isles exist
Perfect in their place in time,
Perched atop subducting plates
Perched in ignorance sublime.
What's around the corner now?
Who's concerned, who really cares
For Kiwis make the best of now...
The rest remains as chance declares.

Marshalg
Celebrating a love affair with my beautiful New Zealand.
31 August 2012

Morning melts and dribbles
through the blinds,
where it rests
in molten puddles on the floor.
If you are very still
you can hear the tap...tap
of its fingers as it
tries to seep under the door.
Afternoon is a
pyroclastic lava flow...
devouring each bit of flesh,
******* the breath
from laboring lungs...
melting flesh into tallow
for the candles of night,
to be lit upon
the sacrificial altar
of your tongue.
Hide  wherever you want -
go ahead, find a place.
Count to one hundred,
hands over hidden eyes;
childish giggles bubble
from your lips,
but it will find you,
no matter your disguise.

Peered through the ideal imagery
of petty dream-spun avenues.
Brushed the quiet tides that rose
in fluid blends of milky down.
The clamour of the Westbound flocks
that scarred the last in pulsing chevrons
told of lands beyond the lay
of harlequin recline.

The lilac swathes that bled to blue
then proffered airs a saintly glow
cooled in easy idiom, the rapid
pyroclastic flow of dry diurnal doubt.

Aromatic night descended,
petals closed on avenues
to the path, the stars attended
cold eternal retinue.
Far ushers of the dew gilt foot
in concert with the silver seethe,
the mist in supple opulence,
an ***** to breathe.

I need to write; I have ideas swirling around my mind most of the time. But if I haven’t got somewhere or something to note these ideas down, they drift off, lost.

I’d like to think I’m a good writer, but I know I’m not. Or maybe I’m too self-deprecating. It’s a cultural thing with me, which I’m not going to talk about here at this time. Some other time will feel right for that.

Having said that, words come easily to me. I can create wordscapes with my writing. I’ll write about many things, about love, loss, death, desire, hope and defeat. The images I see when I pen something are real, the patterns the words create are tangible to me.

But I’m also a lazy writer. I love the fact I can find on-line a multitude of sites offering advice for writers, rules to follow to help make you a good writer. I spend a lot of time reading these. What I need to be doing is writing, not reading about writing! You will be amused how many novels I have started to write. Some have evolved into short stories, others into free verse poems. One day I may actually write the novel that’s in me; I’m certainly not short of ideas, when I remember them! And I have folders full of novels I’ve started. Some of them end up as short stories. Lazy, see …

What is hard for me is to focus that inner discipline to write. But when I do tame the procrastinating voices, words spill out in a rush of creativity.

Is that approach wrong? I feel guilty if I haven’t written in a while but I’m good at riding the guilt. Yet if an idea comes to me and then disappears, as is often the case, it annoys me. It’s like a dream you wake from and, for a moment, can remember it vividly, then it’s gone. You grasp at those wisps of recollection but they’re always just out of reach and it frustrates me when that happens.

Then there’s those times when creativity does burst out of me. Perhaps it’s the build-up of guilt that erupts creating a pyroclastic flow of ideas hurtling towards blank page. Liken it to an artist who splatters paint randomly on a canvas; unplanned and random, the words tumbling onto the page, vying for position, for supremacy.

I have to accept that this is the way it is, that’s the way I write. Perhaps after my death, people will say, “He was quite a good writer, shame he didn’t write that novel …

Depth without Labels

The world is changing, ever so vividly described in my subconscious but it's encoding cannot be retrieved; an alternate state that cannot be retrieved; a side of me that cannot be retrieved.

The skies above are blending in with my mind and I am uplifted into the heavens and past the atmosphere, stratosphere, troposphere, mesosphere.... Conscious-sphere.

Layers of my mind, layers of my mind....

Time has stopped in my mind as I await an answer in my heart....Data cannot be retrieved; emotion void and null, noxious pain in my heart -A blood-stained memory is it's root.

Encompassing consolidated eons in my own era, I await a Golden Age where my mind has eliminated threats that are non-existent and yet present in a ghostly form; vestiges.

Blind to the heart of a matter, that strength is derived from, that a solution is obtained through emotional fervency symbolized through reckless flecks, careless mistakes, vivid flaws imprinted on an innocent canvas.

Phantasmagoria; pain is red, emotion blue, and yet contradictions are intertwined; these elements are one in the same.

Pyroclastic eruptions upwards, icebergs falling down from the sky, these elements are headed towards a collision and then ecstasy will cease.... But why....?

Elements of darkness course through my veins; I've been infected by the demons of an unforgotten past.

Foraging for bloodshed, they indulge in another's pain; they hunt for an abscess so they can bite their way in.

My soul is an anomaly that ***** everything in; words have been internalized; an omen is set in my heart.

Pushed six feet under with nails in my wrists, I experience a painful memory and I fear that I might die…….

"Why, oh why? Why, oh why?"

"You've wounded me!".... A death; a wish; a hope.... Life.

For a while I am undead as I roam about in pain, I observe all of the living with a glimmer in their eyes.

Feeling unworthy of prayer, I wish for virtue instead and that the sun will be over the horizon to gaze upon it in peace.

In that day undead vessels will be dissolved, then a vessel of sanctity will arise to take that vessel's place....

A star falls from the heavens and shines iridescent lights; "How will I survive in a world that is so full of hate!?"

Thoughts within me are changing, instead of data I finally feel; a deity lurks within me and artificiality is no more.

Evaluations can be scourging, but my skin is growing back; no longer is it evil, but divinity that courses through my veins.

Butterflies are embracing a warm and airy heart; my shackles have been broken and my love is here instead.

Blessings will ravage those demons then their identities will be revealed; no longer will their hunts be fruitful and they will have to replot their course.

What is my future? Eventualities will never cease; time will be everlasting and passion will be it's core.

My soul is efflorescing, and in time it will be revealed, that The Crag will be my Shelter and it's rivers will be my Shield.

                            To The Demons of An Unforgotten Past,

                                     *By Sanders M. Foulke III

slight crack allows seepage
slowly undermining the structural integrity
allowing erosion free reign
trickle with enough particulates to encourage life
on its own
runs down the face
exposed –
supports tumble, clattering
bits too boulders
torrential force pushes away remaining derbies
sending wave after wave
pyroclastic flow –
distant thunder rolls in without a cloud one
explosions from afar
trembling from within
excitement for what is to come –
the abandonment of emotional baggage
open to a fault
disintegrating damaged walls
new bridges through conversation
released while behind bars –

The WTC towers
Were helped brought down with explosives

Explosions going off everywhere

Explosives were at work on WTC #7
Used to start the fires that would
Be used as excuse for total collapse

Firefighter says, "There is a bomb in the building-start clearing out"

The extreme heat from the pyroclastic clouds melted every car
And ambulance in its path

Active Thermitic Material
Discovered in the dust

May God be with the families
Of those who lost their loved ones
And with those who risked and gave their lives
To help others on 9/11/2001

my flow is pyroclastic
drop sticks hotter than acid
got witches flirting with hexagonal wargames
im bored
jeans from the icu
got everything but a tattoo
occasionally
i even go to the loo
ny bin
la thin
montreal win
oui
sick and free
ill and diet
don't joke
i'd eat coke
and drink butterflies
if they served it in the
store on the corner

The entrance shows a light, shines so bright
But over the fence there lies, something not right
a crumb of disgrace, caught in a rat race
down rated to your face, i can't keep pace

why do your eyes, break me down in time
they are just lies, im of weak mind
cursed to suffer replays
of my greatest blunders,
game on the line i fumble,
trip up and stumble,
but on my lips your soft kiss,
has me convinced my shot didnt miss

they say life is for pleasure
but ive yet had my measure
of a peaceful humble home
your boisterous figure,
your blossoming presence,
written in my tome,
taken to the tomb,
lost in your essence,
a billowing plume
of pyroclastic passion

then you're gone,
where have you gone?
how long, oh how long,
will i wait to hear,
your quaking voice,
quelling my fear,
i never had a choice.

the power of one
the game ive won
a song unsong
its time for fun
take it and run

the playing field is *****,
oh god my visions blurry,
im seeing double trouble
a blinding rainbow puddle
hidden amongst the muck

my heart's come unstuck
my headless body collapses
lost in your seaweed romances
twisted and tightened around my ankles
pulling me down til the water sound kills
the song of an ocean set sail
on a ship soggy and frail

who knew out there for me
was waiting a queen bee
ruling the effervescent roost
of a wondrous world juiced
and blended to a paste
ripe to smear and taste

on your supple skin
lick and suckle sin
tuck me in
with your grin
the tidal force
free of remorse
can't get any worse
than lonesomeness
let us transgress
sky etherized
re-materialize

the power of one
the game ive won
a song unsong
its time for fun
take it and run

a fiery lava pool is my heart
a lake of incandescence    bubbling
over my body    melting me to raw emotion
burying me in an *******    pyroclastic flow of feelings

Love has taken on meaning
has produced Life
messy     viscous    muddy    hot
writhing
Life
has given new depth to my volcanic soul
and driven temperatures
to icy    bottomless    chasms

under which is my fire    my heart’s hearth

a legion of ghosts crawls over my rim
an infantry of past experiences to
remind my heart
of a once-fought war on the field of my soul
on the Plains of Love
in the chapel of my body

my heart pours its lavic gift over
my rim
leaving nothing of them to recall
or bring forward
or sound retreat
for
they are not memories anymore
they are echoes of echoes of echoes    disappeared
neither inchoate nor fully realized
gone


c. 2017 Roberta Compton Rainwater

Well that poem
Just mocked me
Through and through
Good thing you survived
But me
I think I literally died
In that pyroclastic flow

Birthed from the mire
Of pyroclastic grey
Entropy reigns supreme

Cracks in creation
Beckon the thaw
Veins of inferno clean

Ashen rains bury the land
Show where life has once been

Swallow all life
Diminish all light
This is the end of all things

Born into a world colder then glacial tidal waves, yet naked in the sun of tomorrows we forever wait.

Wondering where the light began, how the showing of brightness produced the fractal pattern complexity unending.

Blink, but do not give away illumination for the lone black vacuum tumultuous constant of anti-nothing that cradles all things with mass.

Holdfast to logical constructs that articulate a suitable fashion, not those worn until their withered threads broke the binding of founding to an untested journey of life.

Of, intentional sacrifice of habitual mainstays that dust has long removed the visible passion to once it had belonged.

A burning inside for something tangible that out runs a heart alluding capture at every grasp.

How does one contain a pyroclastic flow of emotions that pour from a soul breaking oceans down to their knees, vomiting dirt and dust, while begging the stubborn clouds for water?

"We owe no compensation for the loss of liquid you horde, for the cost required to return you cannot afford".

Much too is the passion of a human heart, hasty to burn in a quickened rush, ending in an overly lamented rust.

But not all fires simply burn out, some roar, some kick, and many shout, and it is not the fear that they will die.

It is the belief that something ancient pulls through the lone black nothing to those born of even stranger tides igniting a raging inferno.

Showing candles burned at both ends can begin old emotions in young hearts that have never known a solid direction for passions unbound by limitations of vacuum insanity.

This ferrous heart
Rythmic in my chest
Striking sparks of scarlet
The rush of love
Urgent
Liquified
Thundered pulse beneath Hapheastus hammer
I am tempered
Precious metal wrought in chains
Your weathered hands strain
Clenched against the inevitable
Release….
You know you want to let go

Hesitant fingers rest
Against your hoary spine
Your response
The seismic reverberations
Rippling epicenter
Spasmodic undercurrents
Your shimmered skin betrays nothing
Silence
Before small sighs break
The surface tension
The catalyst
The chaos
Does the earth move for you, Baby?


Terminal velocity
This pyroclastic flow
Paroxic refrain
Embrace to disengage
You curl up mummified
Like the mutts of Pompeii
Ash covered and ragged
Legs splayed and heads thrown back
Against the seize
Measured breath forms fumaroles in the twilight
My vesicular skin soaks you in
Haphaestus aches
This ferrous heart sparks and breaks
In a dented cage
You never penetrate me

Eros Eternal no more valuable
Than chips of pyrite
Grace the palms of your hands
Transient cheap glitter
This exchange of fool's love
Procreation of Titans
Is best left to the gods
After all I give
You return only the memory
Of satiation
I gave you all of it….I am broken stones

TL Boehm

01/30/09

Aqueous bombs descend from these eyes /
As I wonder beneath nightfall. /
Seeing, hearing the kaleidoscopic dream /
As it unravels, unfurls through me /
Heightens my perceptivities. /

I am luminous, I am luminous /
As I glisten upon the dreamscape. /
I am a cosmic reverberation, /
An ethereal resonation /
Luminosity, blue-hot./

Self-sovereignty: /
I am a freedom all my own, /
Lows (algid), /
Highs (empyreal, pyroclastic); /
I am astral. /

An orange light peaks through the window
Hatefully greets another day.
He pulls the red sleeping bag over his head
Wishing this nausea would subside.

Fresh scrapes across his knuckles
And violent, violet bruises on his knees—
Just another average morning
For this angry young man.

Stumble from the futon
Amongst the battle ground of empty cans,
Searching for lost left over liquid—
The only remedy he’s ever known

What some people call a disease,
He calls it the cure,
But there’s nothing there—
No more money, no other options—this is it.

Sipping on a cup of reality—
The bitter taste of defeat.
Tired of being tired
And sick of being sick.

Earthquake in his stomach,
A tectonic disturbance.
Heartburn made from magma,
A pyroclastic flow.

Dry heaves and convulsions
Above a porcelain *******.
He knows he needs to stop,
But no one likes a quitter.

im a psychopathic
drastic causin' cataclysmic
intent i make disaster every i time i record on the master
tape i spit hotter than a pyroclastic
from a volcano the iconoclastic
is back puttin' foes in plastic im fantastic
as the four flame on on my hoes im a graphic
visionary turn you ghost now u in a cemetery hail mary
im controversial equivocal
satirical makin' miracles
everywhere i go might as well call me a oracle and turn my vocal
so i can show you how loco
i can get on the beat mystique--unique my style can't be competed or defeated
no losses king of all bosses
my competitors is air heads
they been deflated unappreciated
control by me so u know they dictated
as well it ain't hard to tell
i got a big **** makin' ******* ring they bell regina bell i gotta bunch of stories to tell
got more thrills than great adventures
suckas takin' mouth shots only to extract they dentures
toothless ruthless merciless
with this style i spit ****
on these flaks i feed bread crumbs to the birds--oh i thought u heard?
that boy yosef ain't no joc loc
i leave suckas more smoked
than butts in astray rhyme i day
eat up emcees like good n plenty bars
i got many if any
want to jump ill leave u beggin' for chance take a quick glance
and you'll see i take it literal this is the visions of lyrical

A smile forms at the edge of my face
As random thoughts of you tiptoe through my head.

Your silly little laugh
As you acknowledge my poor attempts at humor

Your quiet breathing
As you sleep peacefully next to me.

The natural beauty held within your soul
And the tenderness that emanates through your eyes,
As I gaze intently into them.

Pleasing memories of your soft skin,
Fragrant scent and elegant form
Send waves of heat throughout my body.

Suddenly I feel a rumbling within the depths of my being.  

Emotions spew from my inner core
Like magma from the mouth of an erupting volcano,
Molten hot with fiery intention

Boiling blood courses through my veins like a lava flow,
Searing my heart and heating my lungs,
Turning my breath into a pyroclastic flow of lust and desire

The soft tiptoed footsteps within my mind
Transform into thunderous stomps
As deliberate memories of our unbridled passion
Run rampant throughout my head.

Tremors of elation and excitement rock my body
Like the aftershocks from a violent earthquake
As pleasure sweeps across my body like a tidal wave,
And turns my smiling face into a mirrored image
Of satisfaction and pleasure

I am left breathless, shaken.

As the thoughts of you slowly fade from my head
My smile remains

Because even though on the days you are away from me,
I am blessed to know that just the very thought of you
Leads to a happy ending

Yellowstone is, so I've heard,
St. Helens times ten to the third,
The pressure needs to be relieved
and hence the plan that I've conceived:
We'll nuke it just a little bit
and pop it like a giant zit,
in so doing letting go
a minor pyroclastic flow
and smoking out East Idaho
for maybe fifty years or so
but for some reason I don't know
enthusiasm's rather low.

Floating aloft above the clouds
flown by scales and ***** of skin
wrapped in my warming shroud
kept aloft by something so thin

swooping now, toward the ground
sounds like we are rushing to our death
the castle is up ahead
I give the command for fiery breath

leveling out without a sound
guards on parapets, have no clue
orange flames come flying out
setting fires that burn bright blue

Another pass and its engulfed
stones begin to melt from heat just like the sun
like a pyroclastic flow of death
they all are on the run

I could easily get them all
but that is not the plan
they are being herded
toward an open span

a long green plain is many miles
still far beyond the sight of eye
and many villages and  castles
to terrorize at night, from the darkened sky

For now I dig in my heels
into armored scale plates
and give the order to go home
watch them head toward their fate

Orion's belt shows the path
to our masters roost
high up in the mountains
he searches for the truth