"scalded" poems
His fist scarred, beat-red fistful of intention
Rugged, crass unchiseled wonder wrapped in a gentle smile
A bear of a man, broad shouldered hulking bent
Stuffed-fluff heart tattooed with the echo of love
The times he grappled in sweaty- slick tangle of arms and drew blood blooming bright-crisp-apple-red upon white mat.
Beat, Beat, Beat, down
Tap, Tap, Tap, out
White knuckle-grasp uppercut
Full mount, disengage
Joint locked, feet hooked, Triangle hold
Submission.
The times he brought grown men to their knees, and humbled himself on his own
The times he never gave up and the times he gave in
To the fight
To the system
To the sweet draw of relief
The times he fought not for the thrill but to make it by
Rage hot-red facing the injustice of poverty
His steel spine riddled with the rust of life, the rust of reality
The corrosive sludge of hate, and words left unspoken.
Busted well-worn hands held soft smooth skin
Grooved fingers and velvet mouth
The scratch of bearded stubble, red-lined skin prickled with goose flesh, slick coated in sweat
A new fight, wrapped knuckles cushioned with the promise of forgiveness
Of acceptance a force to be reckoned with in her own right.
Broken hand, dreams stunted, depressed-mind-numbing
Lost in his own thought, out of the fight
Desperate to be back in the game mind and body
Envy-red, drawn to the fight of others
Soft smooth hands, short-small-painted nails calm bristled hair
Growling bear, baring teeth in silent-wounded pride
The time she bandaged pride, and encouraged humility
The times she scalded his senses the raw-red liquid fire of love
His shade in the heat of a red-blistered sun
Cooling, and igniting inspiration
The time she became a fight worth winning.
Sep 20, 2012
Sep 20, 2012 at 12:03 PM UTC
The *** of rot
I've been simmering
Was embroiled to the boil
You tried to remove the heat
And appallingly scalded
Your chest and face
As my
Water supplies are
Surprisingly small
I have little to go on
but potluck
and recall
Jun 13, 2015
Jun 13, 2015 at 3:44 AM UTC
The porcelain tiles felt chilled
against my bare back,
each one crawling
injecting into the pores of
my skin, they scalded into
the core of my bones.
Water lavished twin bodies,
Scorching feet and
exploding senses,
they ran across naked
forms, exploring every inch
just like our lust soaked fingertips.
We stood close, breath
shared between us,
Chests heaved in anticipation
as we became drenched
in the moment.
He grabbed my hair
in messy fistfuls,
Lips dripping
with flavor, his taste
was infectious as it seeped
into every inch of my being
we merged, one
like the sun sinks into the ocean.
I sank into him, giving myself
all of myself to ecstasy.
Like a drug, I was addicted
as each finger danced across his spine.
We dove in together
gasping at every breath
clawing at the rapture stained tiles
twisted hands entangled
squeezing for release
over waves of unrelenting pleasure.
A soft cry shot through
our submerged affair
awakening rolling figures
we became still, the rain
continuing to tap upon ourselves.
A single touch from his lips
expressed agony later to come
As we lay together on that
Still porcelain tile.
Oct 13, 2012
Oct 13, 2012 at 4:31 PM UTC
“May they be scalded at the post,
Drape from the limbs upon our pine,
Inscribe into their stripped bare skin
They are the weak, the faulty, of sin."
I could compose a ballad of time,
Profound, compelling reason and rhyme,
Impeccable stanzas,
Phrasing flowing as a river—
As could all of us,
But what impact would succeed?
To pirouette in the aching of others,
Leer in their ****** their night
**I’m a dashing *******
Bound from birth to do nothing but receive
While others around me
Shall pale, wither, die
Never for any other
Have I so much as cried...
Jul 10, 2014
Jul 10, 2014 at 10:30 PM UTC
I assured him I was okay,
insisted he'd go catch his train.
Though the meeting had shook me,
I knew how to stand and behave.
He told me
*forget about today,
use camp as an opportunity for relaxation
and not to keep peering at that dense haze.*
But I couldn't.
The truth burned and scalded my face.
Her lies felt like a wet blanket,
soothing all the ache.
It would be easier to oblige,
to push aside dreams of justice
and give in to her lies.
But, no I couldn't.
And I wouldn't.
Cause to do so I'd betray someone's trust.
Tear burned behind my eyes.
I told him once again that I was alright.
He let out a heavy side,
left me at the school gates.
Father knew I considered this my place.
My safe place.
My hiding place.
May 20, 2015
May 20, 2015 at 4:22 AM UTC
The silence of solitude
sings to me at night;
soul-satisfying
words whispered
for my ears only
while the house sleeps.
I draw from the well
of my self, and savor
each drop thirstily.
The starving beast within
gnaws at every fresh
crust of aloneness,
melted butter soothing
scalded hands,
until my rumbling gut
is sated, and is at peace
with itself and the world.
Dec 20, 2016
Dec 20, 2016 at 4:14 AM UTC
Stumble after stumble after stumble
I have stumbled
through the roots of this forest
there's no light
passing through branches
just the sound of life
right outside it
And I try to reach
outstretch my hands
but my fingers get scalded
as I point them in the wrong direction
But all paths look the same
in the forest
as frantic I try to find
my way out
Dec 1, 2021
Dec 1, 2021 at 12:00 PM UTC
Give me something. Anything to quiet this feeling; this hollowness. Is this what happiness feels like? Is this what it’s like to be content?
I’m empty. I am a vast shell of a vessel that’s filled with such potential, such hope; but I waste it.
I’m wasted.
I’m wasted on the thought of you. The thought of you with someone else. The thought of being alone.
I don’t want to be alone.
It hurts. It shouldn’t hurt.
I am empty.
I don’t know how to feel but I do when you’re near and I wish that it would stop.
I want to be happy always.
I don’t want to be dependent on you for the sun to shine. I don’t want to feel as though you hung the moon. You didn’t. I did.
I’m wasted.
Wasted youth. Wasted love. Wasted space.
If this is what it is to be content; to be happy…
It’s a numb feeling.
Everything is perfect and yet…
I’m empty.
I love with a burning passion, so much so that you get torn up and scorched in the process.
It is not a slow burn it is all consuming.
It consumes me.
I’m consumed with a lonliness when you’re gone and when you’re here I yearn to feed it.
I need to feel you, I need to be near you. I need to know you’re not leaving. I need to prove to myself that this is real and that you are here and that you love me.
If I don’t I burn, my fire stays in me and it burns, it burns, it burns.
I’m overbearing.
I’ve scalded you; it’s too hot, you can’t breathe I’m smothering you and I can’t stop.
You push me away and the flames grow larger.
But when you go, the fire slowly dies out.
I’m not passionate.
I’m not a writer.
I’m empty.
Jan 11, 2017
Jan 11, 2017 at 11:16 PM UTC
All is well in the World;
except for a
storm in a teacup
it brewed too long,
a scathing taste of
bitter,
a scalded tongue
leaving
feelings of acerbic
numbness.
Jul 2, 2014
Jul 2, 2014 at 7:52 PM UTC
Iron Jawed Angel.
Unoriginal & Unwritten. Unseen, And Unforgiven. I Hoarded Words, Stashed Them In The Empty Rooms That Are My Body. Achingly Delicate Lyrics In The Spaces Between My Ribs, Heartbroken Heroes Behind My Eyelids, Folded Lines On Bar Napkins In The Space Behind My Knee, Or The Backbone Tramp-Stamp Of A Loveless Beauty. I Was Dying To Make This Skin My Own. Cover Myself In Metal Jackets That Could Scare Away The Sorrow. I Had Empty Promises In My Fingertips, Friday Night Serenades Pressed Into My Collar Bones, Recklessness On Repeat, Pleated Across The Lines Of My Tongue. And The Words Rose Up, Frothing Around My Wrists, Rising Over Scalded Flesh, Popping Balloons And Swallowing Bruises. Sought Out Landmines To Call Home, And Found Solstice In The Explosions Of Fading Glory.
May 22, 2012
May 22, 2012 at 4:53 PM UTC
I offer a few quiet
words under my breath. (1)
“I wish you a tongue
scalded by tea.”(2)
“I was born
of the fist. The hot Irish
Temper.”(3) “I am a master of Escape. Show me a body,
I’ll show you an exit ramp.”(4)
(For,) I want everything
to call me night.(5)
This is the dream where I play
God. And the front door opens(6)
In lakes, floating
logs ignite, burn. All the
fury is finally here:(7)
Once wayfaring strangers(8) as tall as steal as the New York Times(9)
that once they sang from our dark street (10), the song goes: Heart.
Ribcage. Envelope.(11)
____________________
(1) Adam Falkner, Poem for the Lovers at Pickerel Lake, http://friggmagazine.com/issuethirtysix/poetry/falkner/pickerel.htm
(2) Jeanann Verlee, Guilt, Not Grief, http://www.wordriot.org/archives/4780
(3) Jeanann Verlee, The Brawler, http://www.radiuslit.org/2011/04/09/radius-roger-bonair-agard-jeanann-verlee-adam-falkner/
(4) Joanna Hoffman, On Learning to Open My Eyes, http://www.pankmagazine.com/three-poems-37/
(5) Kallie Falandays, If Morning Never Comes, http://www.pankmagazine.com/two-poems-75/
(6) Benjamin Sutton, Notes from the Daydreaming, http://anti-poetry.com/anti/suttonbe/
(7) Jenny Sadre-Orafai, Treasure In Timber, http://www.pankmagazine.com/two-poems-74/
(8) Lauren Yates, The World According to My Heart, http://usedfurniturereview.com/2013/03/20/the-world-according-to-my-heart-by-lauren-yates/
(9) Robert Gibbons, These Mean Streets, http://www.poembeat.com/fall2011/RobertGibbons.html
(10) Michael Lauchlan, Unseen Larks and Immeasurable Intervals, http://www.thrushpoetryjournal.com/march-2013-michael-lauchlan.html
(11) Leigh Philips, Dear New York City, Learn Gentle, http://www.thrushpoetryjournal.com/march-2013-leigh-phillips.html
(*) Jeanann Verlee, Good Girl, http://www.thrushpoetryjournal.com/january-2013-jeanann-verlee.html
Apr 15, 2013
Apr 15, 2013 at 11:45 AM UTC
Sweet flame, melt me to cinders
Ashes and dust, a mess on the floor
My eyes clouded, storms rage
My heart is broken, shattered, torn
You lit a match to my security
Burnt down the proverbial walls
No longer able to fake indifference
With nothing left you see it all
Look at me, I look at you
Smoldering eyes, with liquid drops
Am I the cause? Did I do this?
I wonder with my stomach in knots
Emotions flaring between the two
Passion and rage collide; explode
To speak of fear is anything but easy
In somber silence the room grows cold
Despite blazing fires of torment
Still it is only for you I care
Your eyes make silent promises
My scalded heart is laid bare
Take my hands, tightly in yours
Though your intentions remain unknown
I can’t repress or deny the fire
It burns for you and you alone
Aug 22, 2010
Aug 22, 2010 at 7:52 PM UTC
Citizen, enemy, mama's boy, sucker, utter
garbage, panhandler, swine, refujew, verrucht;
a scalp so often scalded with boiling water
that the puny brain feels completely cooked.
Yes, we have dwelt here: in this concrete, brick, wooden
rubble which you now arrive to sift.
All our wires were crossed, barbed, tangled, or interwoven.
Also: we didn't love our women, but they conceived.
Sharp is the sound of pickax that hurts dead iron;
still, it's gentler than what we've been told or have said ourselves.
Stranger! move carefully through our carrion:
what seems carrion to you is freedom to our cells.
Leave our names alone. Don't reconstruct those vowels,
consonants, and so forth: they won't resemble larks
but a demented bloodhound whose maw devours
its own traces, feces, and barks, and barks.
Joseph Brodsky
Jan 25, 2013
Jan 25, 2013 at 1:13 PM UTC
i watched her extinguish
one of the candles
with dainty fingertips
while i hastily blew
the other one out
with a puff of cheeks
trying to be helpful
but getting it wrong
seeing what i had done
she scalded me playfully
deep down meaning it
telling how a candle
should never be put out
in that way
for blowing it out risks
expelling the positivity
all of the happiness
that its burning
had built up for those
who first lit that wick
bathing in the glow
of its healing light
that flickering flame
that keeps our shadows
dancing together
arm in arm
even if we simply
remain wrapped up
sat side by side
i don't believe
her theory necessarily
but i am left wondering
of all the candles
i have ever blown out
birthday celebrations
cosy evenings in
candle-lit meals
if what she says is true
i can't help but think
about those moments
of happiness and joy
that i have wasted
simply blown away
with a vacant breath
and an unwitting mind
Apr 24, 2024
Apr 24, 2024 at 6:55 AM UTC
I hate Alcohol
The burn down my throat
The immediate feeling of impending *****
The way it makes my face all rosy
I hate Cigarettes
The taste of the tar filming my lungs
The heat at the back of my mouth
The cough that stays longer then the flame’s invitation
I hate You
The weeks of silence during your antisocial comas
The love proclamations left unsaid
The line that you’ve so carefully scalded between us
It’s 9:27 PM on a night that feels like Fire
I am Drunk already
I am Chain Smoking your brand of cigarettes
I am Praying for anything at all from you
I hate that.
Aug 17, 2015
Aug 17, 2015 at 4:08 PM UTC
this will be an off the chest one,
a long one,
a crazy (and) derisive one for
we
who once were
i
are now foregone.
we sit here
writing -
startled by the addition of
LOUD
music(?) to my library;
not my taste -
pink floyd
leaks through my
head phones from
the coffee shop speakers.
tea scalded tongue,
she did
warn me,
did she...
- a break,
thats where we
find
ourselves and
wondering what will come
of the fu-
tu-
re
furthur out from
now?
we quiet now,
find ourselves
lulled through
into
another plane
of which -
break end.
this year -
bitter winds find
necessitation in
her
fixation -
as last year
as next year,
til time
cedes.
we write with open head
and fluid mental
projection,
a reality
created
from each of ours
and one into
the next;
'our universe is
vast'
some cry,
of course we
know
it is.
tea no longer
scalds
(
to burn
the flesh away
)
as twangy
guitar follows
snappy snare,
tap tap
tip
tap,
blues wail
away.
- - - to take a ****
to take a cigarette
to take a lover - - -
lover missed,
though
so did the
****
currents retain
fluidity.
we're done.
Sep 30, 2012
Sep 30, 2012 at 6:59 PM UTC
Featherlight suffocation
Leaden words weigh tongues down
Free range cage
Weary heart o mine
Sagging against restraints
Drowning
Burning edges
I wish to tell you these words
Things you've already heard
Pressed into my vinly tongue
Scream the same three songs
1. I'm fine
2. We're fine
3. Our relationship is fine
Scalded skin
Boiling showers
To soak the worries away
To thaw out this anxiety
The insecurities
Its just me
Not everything seems
As polished as it was
Love still graces this heart
Love is a fear
Fear of fading
Falling out
Washing away
A castle crumbled by surf
Grains slipped
Mottled rib cages
Curled under a blanket
A sembalance of warmth creeping in
Mock comfort
Shells rattled by your breath
Inhale
Exhale
Turned over in these fragile hands
Committed to memory
As if it would be the last
Another sunrise
Surprise
Another relief
A sight to hold dear
Throughout this day
Just inside the preferial
Of this skull
Just in my head
My head
My head
This fear that you'll disappear
Vibrancy leeched out of this shell
Skin crisping
Withered
What if
You were
Never here
Just in my head?
The Last letter typed
Given form
To nightmares at the prow
How is it
So easy to breathe now
Jan 10, 2019
Jan 10, 2019 at 9:46 PM UTC
One crimson morning the sun rose and I bled out across the sky.
My veins pumped life into the dawn.
The razor was a mirror into the eyes of the sun and it was hot, and scalded the sink.
My wrists were surrogate wings that lifted me as they drained.
Ribbons of molten rust ran down my fingers.
Silent drops patterned the floor, a mural of red on white.
Streaming through the window the rays glinted off my ashen eyes.
I will not be forgiven.
Jul 27, 2015
Jul 27, 2015 at 12:22 AM UTC
Small flame in darkness,
You became my inferno
Your spark scalded me.
Jun 1, 2015
Jun 1, 2015 at 1:45 PM UTC
she hears the real voices
through papery walls
and they dim
paling in comparison
to the screams
in her head
she sips the coffee
the scalded tongue is
nothing anymore
because at least she knows
that she can feel
something
the sizzling pan torments
with its calorific air
and normality
as she hears the real world
and sinks further
into her nightmares
from behind a locked door
with curtains drawn
she listens, hides
and is brought to tears
by the fact she
cannot join in
she cannot let go
let herself relax when it
is all or nothing
so she drifts and hopes
that everyone will
forget her
she thinks 'why must i sink
under the waves as
they all float'
truthfully she held her breath
and herself under
to escape
she'd like to be like them
she craves their version
of reality
hers is so tragic and
she is sure it
will **** her
© Tara India.
Sep 25, 2013
Sep 25, 2013 at 12:17 PM UTC
Hey there,
It's been a while, hasn't it?
Well, I'm writing this, to tell you how I wish this could end,
How I wish I could make you feel,
I'm saying this, because I'm sorry,
Because what else is there to say?
I want to be able to tell you how I feel,
Over Coffee and Ice Cream,
Do you remember?
How we used to drink the Bittersweet, kiss of milk,
Top it off with crisp, creamy ice, chocolate syrup sifted ontop,
I remember,
I remember the excruciatingly warm feeling,
Such a bubbly, delicious emotion,
I remember how you'd smile and grin at me,
And the tempature would increase,
I remember how you'd cool me down,
With spoon fulls of ice cream,
I remember how you'd laugh through chattering teeth,
And a scalded throat,
You'd sometimes spill the Coffee onto your pale skin,
Stare at it, Giggle,
I remember the pitchy laugh,
All that I adored,
You'd giggle and say, "I'm perfectly fine,"
And I'd smile and giggle back,
I remember the day, when I became curious,
As to why you spilt it on yourself so much,
What it felt like,
Why it looked like you planned each step so precisely,
I remember the curiosity leading me into a clutsy state,
Spilling it on myself, Splashing it onto my skin,
Leaving behind a tingly feeling,
I remember you watching carefully,
Mimicked emotions, as if it wasn't fun anymore,
And you'd smile forcefully,
And giggle again
I remember how much I loved the time we spent together,
Those moments, Touches of ice cream, Sips of Coffee,
Your touch, Your laugh,
But then, I remember,
I had to leave,
I missed those cups of Coffee,
And those tubs of Ice Cream,
For, it was unhealthy,
But, please, one last time, can I see your face?
Reflecting off my steaming hot coffee?
And can I stare at you a while?
Because that'd be enough,
I'd raise my mug, shout, giggle,
An impolite action, but I don't mind,
Your smile would be enough,
I'd probably embarrass you,
My selfish desires taking away moments you dream of,
I'm afraid none of this can happen, My Dear,
Because I think you'd try to cool down my Coffee,
And I can't stare into your big brown eyes,
That's why I cannot share it with you,
For, this'll be my last cup of Coffee,
My last tub of Ice Cream,
Staring into the steamy abyss,
And then?
I'll pour it over my body completely,
Feel the burn, the warmth, the tingly feeling,
I'll let the stinging cascade over my body,
relieving chills, Coloring my body red,
Make me Evaporate,
And I'll think of you,
To comfort the end of my own fate.
So, I'm sorry I couldn't possibly share that last moment with you,
As you requested, Because I know it's unfair,
Because, even then, sharing that moment with myself wasn't fun,
I didn't giggle, or smile,
Because I couldn't move,
But, that doesn't matter now, does it?
Because, in the end, nothing is left, these actions do not exist,
There's nothing left,
But, an empty mug of Coffee,
And a half full melted tub of Ice Cream.
May 9, 2018
May 9, 2018 at 11:41 AM UTC
You have a poem;
Spring brings you poem.
I think Anthony must be your court's poet;
a serf turned grateful for his god-gave muse.
Genuflect he's to this Fürstin,
trip he does, too, over himself
getting you water
both up and down the stairs;
when presenting his poetry,
rebuts extended portension,
yes, pausing liking um-ing, tsk;
and all so when reaching for his dagger
to cut our darkness away,
does seem dance with shadows
like fire was a pomethean bane.
Still he gets it from his sheath,
brings it to her bloodless yet
dulled from the escaped swings
of misaimed blows into shrubs.
Wants me to call him Reichsritter.
I’d indulge him but he’d still
have to synthesize faith from
some avian metabolism,
(it’s known that poets’ health’s all
flat feet, weak livers, shallow lungs,
and consumptive coughs);
or, better yet, find knighthood
in the books read for your sake;
nay, I too must keep honest to you.
So does he, you know? thinks
sincerely that there’s the stuff of art
passed to him when he entertains you;
doesn’t think himself the lordship you insist,
thinks he’s groped and somehow scalded
himself upon the empyrean fire,
and bows recedes away feeling just
a bit impious.
*That’s it though! :
You’re a young seraphim took earthly shape,
faring the angelic order’s routine errand
to forget absolute, embrace listless hate,
then forget it again.*
Well, isn’t this where Anthony missteps?
cries wolf, burns midnight oil,
clutches his stomach in pain.
The ‘seraphim’ draft is just a wish
for your eternal life, please believe.
Every comet and season makes him
just as mouthful and excited.
A heart of love and head of art, tsk.
We can’t judge the heart
and the head
together can we?
Regardless,
a court poet essentially a jester,
pinned his poem
to my chest.
So, meine Fürstin,
you have a poem,
Spring has brought you a poem.
Mar 21, 2012
Mar 21, 2012 at 5:44 AM UTC
*The world alight with brilliant flames
Crackling, roaring, and all-consuming
Slowly, slowly burning sun-kissed earth
Rusted copper and scalded vermilion
Tawny ochre and golden amber
A beautiful fire twisting, twirling its deathly dance
The blazing inferno destroys the world
Razing summertime's final last breath
With the charring remains of autumn once more*
Sep 2, 2017
Sep 2, 2017 at 11:16 PM UTC
There were ashes on the floor when
he first moved in.
Soon unnoticed as I watched him begin
to leave his biggest bags at the door and
handle small candles in the
darkest corners.
There were cracks on the walls,
against the white he used the flickering light
to make tall shadow puppets,
and made a smile flash like a switchblade.
Dusting ashes,
coals appeared,
the ones he revered to keep near but kept his scalded hands
in his holeless pockets,
palms wiped with the balm of the hidden places
he settled.
Many opened their gates,
but few have the space to sustain the boy who
refrained from making a home
inside those who were
never truly alone.
I knew where he was,
all along I could hear him playing that song,
a heavy sound resonating and sinking tones
into,
into,
into the weakest bones,
easily snapped,
but he reigned the cracks back in
from breaking beyond
thinner skin.
It was an inferno in the making,
this new found hero unaware
he'd be pouring gasoline over tiny heartstrings.
Wary sparks kept their mark in unlocated edges,
afraid any product of the name
would make everything in it's entirety
go up in flame.
But a mouth started to taste smoke,
clouded eyes began to see a familiar face
in blacker windows.
The feeling was branded, less than fragile, more than candid.
And it hurt to write with burnt fingertips.
Choking,
a suffocation could be an equal devastation
so the broken hands wrote for
the chance to breathe.
They found relieve
in the boy who refused to drop his lit fuse,
eyes unignoring to the fire left roaring,
a warmth on his cheeks
from the heat of one light he allowed to be nothing less than
impossibly bright.
Jan 7, 2014
Jan 7, 2014 at 1:56 PM UTC