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MegAnne McNally Jul 2015
This isn't me anymore.
These limbs, this body, all broken, all useless,
know not of my life nor how I live.
These lungs don't know my breath or the way it sounds to lose it.
I don't want to be reduced to this waste of blood and dust.
The scars across my hips exist to prove myself separate,
If the body bleeds it cannot possibly be mine.

I am goddess, I am infinite,
I exist in the sound of fireworks shooting off long past the 4th of July,
Loud, wild, and constant.
The 4th star from the moon is where my soul lives,
especially on the days that I cannot bear to see this planet's sin.
They forget that I don't belong here.

My teeth are made of sparklers and the fire I speak when angry makes you think me beautiful the way I crackle and glow.
I am cracking, and the dull color of my own demise is stealing the beauty from my skin.
The way they speak to me, like I am eggshell, so white; too pure for this life, leads me to believe that I cannot stay here.

I am fragile and strong all at once; nobody knows which side of me to rely on for fear of being the reason I crumble.
I am crumbling.
I fear that there is no cookie-sweet deliciousness to distract from this decay, yet no one seems to notice me.

I am as trapped as I am free.
Earth the place I can no longer be.
This nonexistent existence is my skeleton key.
Death my locked-door opportunity.
Surviving is hard when the monster you fear is yourself.
Ashley Mar 2014
Little star, shines so bright,
guides us through these frozen nights.
Little star, glittering,
someday you will reign supreme.
Little star, kind and sweet,
lighting sparklers on the street.
Little star, lean and tall,
you hold us together, don't let us fall.
Little star, the bravest knight,
holding steady after every fight.
Little star, mighty and true,
you can't see how I think the world of you.
Little star, handsome and bold,
you strum so pretty with hands so cold.
Little star, destined to be great,
You gotta explode; don't be late.
Little star, do not fear strife,
for you will be larger than life.
Mosaic Nov 2015
he sold his house of cards and joined a band wagon caravan marching carolers streaming down the Nile River playing sad songs better
searching for Jesus and the Pharaoh and Cleopatra and Madonna
pop culture religion


he kissed ferris wheels
I never forgot the clouds
We stole the timelines from trees
Fractal fairytale disease
Symptoms of make believe


Falling in love life
Wonderland lust
Teaching kites how to fly
Graceful ugly ducklings sailing the moon to peterplan
So little princes and Indians can plant sunflowers
While the aliens are on vacation
Like surprise Christmas gifts of sparklers on new years the color of Atlantis books hidden in scrolls in marketplace buddhas

The world travels around us
As we play sad songs better

We build homes for those without
Feed our flesh to the Earth
Death blooming circles Mary go round ring round the rosey sunset kind of apocalypse called bliss

Wisdom streamlined by the old fisherman drowning in the fresh air as pinnochio waves from the whale saved by hopeful generation bred with care compassion
Playing our sad songs better

Christening the weather
Baptising ourselves in the rain
Calling the universe our church
Truth seeds in our hearts and membranes

Hummingbirds living in beehives
Hybrid hope of tomorrow

Letting lions and lambs play with mice
Aesop playing banjo out of tune
Poets turning into to fireflies
Lighting our way home
Through crop circles and ghost stories
Not being anchored by our past
We are no generation Titanic
We just play sad songs better
History repeating in childhood
Shaded Lamp Jul 2014
A spark
amongst sparks
That is all that we are
Some lighting candles
Others cigars
Or petrol soaked rags
Stuffed in a bottle
And flung at the enemy
At full throttle
Another lights the furnace
That warms the home
And everyone within
Not the garden gnome
We sparks.
Sparkling
But for and instant
And then ...
An all consuming
Black.
Vicki Watson Oct 2013
Sparks jettisoning into the crisp blackness,
A vivid orange against the backdrop of ebony silence,
Fairies of fire, winging their way home
On an unexpected breeze.

The bonfire a crackle, at once dangerous and comforting,
A furnace ablaze with light, livid and burning with raw energy,
Luring its annual admirers ever closer,
As moths to a flame.

The people, hatted and be-scarved, huddle, cluster,
Sparklers whirling before them, glitzy with extravagance,
Their wispy signatures hanging in the air, short-lived
And fading, fading into nothing.

And only now the fantasia of fireworks commences,
The artist experimenting with line, with colour, his audience captive,
And then at once, a dazzling fountain of jewelled light: ruby, jade, opal, sapphire,
A painting of shimmering castles in the sky.

And a middle-aged man with his son, glove to mitten; in his arms, a daughter,
Her bright gaze betraying the hands over her ears,
A snapshot of dizzy delight, breathless and enchanting,
A simple picture of rare beauty.

Later, with the remnants and debris of the evening lying discarded,
Dying, the brave bonfire, now petered out, sizzles and smoulders,
A scarlet and amber glow lingering on,
Still warm with the memories of youth.

Copyright Vicki Watson 2012
it's ok Jan 2014
Skate board down the rainy road
cameras flashing
shadows cast behind us,
doing their own little dance
windy night, can't light the sparklers too well
and if the lightning strikes the power out,
we could enjoy the stars peeking out behind the clouds
when the daylight comes, we'll steal the coffee
just to stay up a little longer,
and we don't eat, and sleep our Sunday away
it's ok Feb 2015
Checked my list, realized I've done half the things I wanted to
Got a few cents to save before I leave this place
Atleast I get to claim that through all the terrible thoughts,
Through all the turmoil and self hate

So we get to the point of the goodbyes,
In the next couple of years, the kids I sung my heart out with
I won't want to look at their faces
Haven't got a problem with letting you go,

I can let go of all the times we shared,
Sparklers, skateboards, late nights in the rain.
Too cold, too numb, too happy to feel.
We spin, we kiss, we cry.
Felt alive, even.
But I won't miss you, though I may think about you.
Nat Lipstadt Apr 2016
~
words given life's first breath by this comment from
SE Reimer  
"thy tiller has found a storied port"

~~

captain of a city street ferry,
upon the choppy holy waters of
scarlet fevered spotted gum stained
christened concrete streets

daylight guided by the starlight
of quartz sparklers sidewalk embedded,
resurrecting, overwhelming,
the grayness of men's mortared materialism,
these textured bright city lights,
from murk morn steam-pipe risen,
signposts of a city boys life,
navigation tools on his
steerage cruises

'tis only my poor torso
I captain,
my bus driving days retired,
single masted, obedient to the sun's paths plotted
on a personalized AAA TripTik,^
my cargo, my tiring physique,
the refined mettle product of a
sixty five year too short voyage of
deep diving mining defining,
and for surety, water divining

city walking life driving,
debtor-in-possession of a
city infection
of perpetual motion sickness

enabled inability
for standing stilled,
lane weaving,
people receiving and perceiving
as buoyed obstacle objects
to be passed by
in a higher lane
of shaken and stirred
city waterways

muscle's squeak in sonnet speak

Why speed thy errant boots
upon lanes of wandering men,
is there not time enough,
words suffice,
in history's future present
unlived long life,
to recompense
all your recorded stanzas,
mariner's tales and wrote recitations of seafaring voices?

sea nat run.
sea nat go.

dodging tween his fellow citified citizens
and the puzzled and puzzling drowning tourists,
sea nat write his unsecreted visions,
sailing from street to shining street poetry

this glorious grime,
this delicious dirt,
stuff of my blood,
genes of my children's children inheritance,
of thee I sing,
in thee I revel,
of thee I am composed

when my decomposing time scheduled arrival
lately comes on time,
bury me in its cemetery of memories,
within the soft earth of a watery grave
that the jackhammers drill bit paddles can uncover,
in rough canvas toss my worn smooth
failed frame overboard,
so I may become but one more
fable
in your fabulous liquefying
cement oceans

~~~

3:53 am
5/18/16
nyc

^
http://pearlsoftravelwisdom.boardingarea.com/2014/01/remember-triptix/
with apologies to all the great poets from  I liberally borrowed
Lily Jun 2020
What I’m craving right now is a
Shot of July,
Fireworks flying high
Over this town that everybody wants to leave
But I will never get over,
Never get over his smile,
Friday night,
Pulling up in my drive,
His voice so full and alive,
Making me want to dive
Right in,
Right into the lake that’s too cold
But I’m too old
I guess, to laugh out loud,
Do something just for fun,
Be happy for no reason,
Be optimistic and cherish hope for a
Better season-
I’m supposed to be already
Battle-hardened, war-ready;
I haven’t reached twenty but I know
There’s evil in the world.
That doesn’t mean there still isn’t good.
I’m craving a shot of July when
I’m not old enough to take a shot,
But I’m old enough to take a stand,
Lend a hand,
Understand,
Witness injustice firsthand
And use my voice to try and mend.
So please.
No more gunshots in July,
No more mothers wondering whether
Her son is going to survive the night,
No more human skin grated against concrete,
No more hospital beds surrounded by weeping,
No more lives lost and priests kneeling
And children screaming for their fathers,
Both earthly and eternal.
What I’m craving right now is a
Shot of July,
Fireworks flying high,
The loudest screams out tonight
Are the children chasing each other with
Sparklers in the yard,
Not yet marred
By the ideas of the world.
So please.
No more gunshots in July.
black lives matter
Connor Mar 2015
Empyrean ocean
sifting silken under moonlight.
Pure and dawn the memory of bonfires
and hymns passing like fading auras
echoing into the firs.
I sit on a lawn chair whiskey in hand
head loosely let back
while we wait for the end of one year
and the start of another.
Drunken voices speak
faint topics inside the cabin a few meters off,
it's silent here a picture settling
over our temporary breath of history,
smoke escaping our lips and entering
the haze of reminisce.
Fire crackling contained roars warmth
like freckled arms laced around our skin
and eyes heavy set in the sheath of heat
resounding the field
while winter's dew is pollinating the lawns.
Celebration on all corners of the world
Big Apple bumper to bumper
metropolitan hysteria
TEN
I'm smiling
NINE
the crowds gathered around palettes burning
to ash like the universe
EIGHT
sparklers lit small stars
fizzling dancing midst the embers
SEVEN
I'm dying beautifully
SIX
You are too
FIVE
Indonesian Summer on the horizon it's all
so hopeful and you can't help but think idealistically  in times like these
FOUR
take a break from the bombs and the wars
for oil or in the name of god and let the air soak through your lungs
refreshing the world refreshing our youth
THREE
we have so much time soon to be so little
it all goes by too quickly somehow
TWO
our eyes are gleaming
lips wide in radiance
kisses kissed hearts lifting
up in flame
ONE
what will we be another year from now?
where is it we cry next?
who and where is our next great love?
how do we hurt and when?
what does it take to recover?
I'm sure we'll find a way
it's only a few hours to morning now
always is somewhere I suppose
and here starts a new odyssey,
everything is getting older
and newer all at once,
the fire is still glowing.
Nirvana goes on dancing
inside us.
Jay Jimenez Jan 2013
Paint
Glitter
Highlighters
Water
Glow in the dark
Sharpie markers
Canvas
Red Bull
Cigarettes
Lighter
Sparklers
Feathers
Chronic
Uppers
Downers
Middlers
Extravagent
4th dimension
hyper being
Nocturanal Drug Fiend
Best Friend to the Speaker
Bass
Middle Fingers
Breakdowns
womp
womp
womp
cassie marie Oct 2017
Him.
The way he laughs
The way he remains calm in tough situations
The way he holds me when I'm scared
The way he looks at me like I'm the only one in the room
The way he talks to me like he never wants to leave
This was a small reality.
A reality I had for a year
Then it happened
Whatever we had was gone
Like the autumn leaves
It disappeared
Our love was over
The fire we started burned out
It was gone
We didn't have the spark like the sparklers on the fourth of July
We didn't have it anymore
It was gone
Him.
It was all I could think about
This is abt a long term relationship ending oops
Danielle Shorr May 2015
19
You are, almost
Tell me your first memory of happiness.

Maybe a swing set above wood chips or
collecting ladybugs in your pockets or
a perfectly cut sandwich you didn't make
or the smell of grass mixed with chlorine
and sunscreen coating your skin under
a sky brighter than any future imaginable.
Pink frosting from cake dyes palms
into a canvas of sugary pigment
A popsicle melting down between
the webbing of eager fingers
Teeth are covered in chocolate and
face a mess and
all smiles,
it is funny how joy always seems
to be synonymous with
sweetness and
giggles and
the memory of being too young to remember anything fully.

19 is poison for a clock
it is reminder to wake up
after pretending to be
something you were not for too long
time is eating away the comfort
from your bones, I wonder
does candy still taste like candy
when it has grown stale?
when the shell has cracked and
all that remains is what's inside,
is it still desirable then?
will people still want to know
what you feel like against their tongue
after you've already touched the ground?

The same texture but time
has made its evidence on you tangible
The juice once spilling from your hands
has become wine
The summer sparklers have become remnants of
cigarettes on your nail buds,
ashes of trying to forget,
you are no longer afraid of fireworks
the hairbrush holds another version of yourself,
a near stranger with similar freckles who
once insisted on only wearing dresses,
now you struggle just to get shoes on,
it was easier when someone did it all for you,
everything is, that way.
I don't know when laughing became
a side effect instead of a soundtrack but
it still rings familiar, sometimes.

19 is more sour than lost
it is possible to know whereabouts with
a bitterness between your lips but
not all of your past is disintegrating
there is a love for saccharine that still remains,
more honey than cloying and
19 may be taunting down a candle to its wick
asking to be noticed but
it is ready to be uncovered
19 is golden
You are, almost.
J e n n Jul 2014
sparks fly
as you dance under the stars
running in circles
leaving behind only
smoke
and a nostalgic tinge
that will forever last
on this fourth of July

j.h.
Annie Appling Aug 2012
Unabashed and
   unafraid.
We have told them
    a different story.
So they can stand
   bright and shinning
   between the stars.

We show them how
   to pray in notes of algebra,
   side-winged and eternal,
Rising,
   with the music,
   rising.

Skipping around the
   fireworks’ fountains, and
   sparklers dripping—
Energy and light,
They burn so
   ******* bright!

Yes, we are alike—
Arms spread like wings,
We dreamed the same,
   firelight dreams,
We dreamed the same,
   skipping dance dreams.

I turn my face away,
   push them up, and up,
   and into the night,
As high,
   as I possibly can.
Go on, so they can
   go on, and on,
So much brighter
   than me.
This small grace
   of dignity.
New and brave and lovely,

My daughters
   of women.
We are the space
   between our mothers,
Amid the calliope,
This is how we raise
   our daughters,
To  burn so ******* bright,
That it’s hard to
    ******* see.

Now you glow,
So you can go
   on
   rising.
And I will blow kisses up
  into the dark cradle of the sky.
Dream big, my baby girls,
Dream big,
And skip before
   you fly.  



--Annie Appling  7/6/12
David Oct 2013
Outside the barn ached weakly in the autumn  cold,
The air was still against the magic movements softly exploding in the parallel rows of the hissing sparklers,
The bride and groom would soon pass under their faux glory,
You said I was a good man,
"I know, so are you",
You turned to the ground and stumbled over your confession,
Tripping over the light fog of alcohol in your breath,
"No,
"-no,"
"-I"

"I'm not."

And you walked away
Then the photographer came up to me looking through his one black glass eye and told me
"Say four of the most profound words you ever said."
The hissing stopped,
The light died,
I looked into his magic eye and said
"My sparkler went out."
© David Rice
Your daisies have come
on the day of my divorce:
the courtroom a cement box,
a gas chamber for the infectious Jew in me
and a perhaps land, a possibly promised land
for the Jew in me,
but still a betrayal room for the till-death-do-us-
and yet a death, as in the unlocking of scissors
that makes the now separate parts useless,
even to cut each other up as we did yearly
under the crayoned-in sun.
The courtroom keeps squashing our lives as they break
into two cans ready for recycling,
flattened tin humans
and a tin law,
even for my twenty-five years of hanging on
by my teeth as I once saw at Ringling Brothers.
The gray room:
Judge, lawyer, witness
and me and invisible Skeezix,
and all the other torn
enduring the bewilderments
of their division.

Your daisies have come
on the day of my divorce.
They arrive like round yellow fish,
******* with love at the coral of our love.
Yet they wait,
in their short time,
like little utero half-borns,
half killed, thin and bone soft.
They breathe the air that stands
for twenty-five illicit days,
the sun crawling inside the sheets,
the moon spinning like a tornado
in the washbowl,
and we orchestrated them both,
calling ourselves TWO CAMP DIRECTORS.
There was a song, our song on your cassette,
that played over and over
and baptised the prodigals.
It spoke the unspeakable,
as the rain will on an attic roof,
letting the animal join its soul
as we kneeled before a miracle--
forgetting its knife.

The daisies confer
in the old-married kitchen
papered with blue and green chefs
who call out pies, cookies, yummy,
at the charcoal and cigarette smoke
they wear like a yellowy salve.
The daisies absorb it all--
the twenty-five-year-old sanctioned love
(If one could call such handfuls of fists
and immobile arms that!)
and on this day my world rips itself up
while the country unfastens along
with its perjuring king and his court.
It unfastens into an abortion of belief,
as in me--
the legal rift--
as on might do with the daisies
but does not
for they stand for a love
undergoihng open heart surgery
that might take
if one prayed tough enough.
And yet I demand,
even in prayer,
that I am not a thief,
a mugger of need,
and that your heart survive
on its own,
belonging only to itself,
whole, entirely whole,
and workable
in its dark cavern under your ribs.

I pray it will know truth,
if truth catches in its cup
and yet I pray, as a child would,
that the surgery take.

I dream it is taking.
Next I dream the love is swallowing itself.
Next I dream the love is made of glass,
glass coming through the telephone
that is breaking slowly,
day by day, into my ear.
Next I dream that I put on the love
like a lifejacket and we float,
jacket and I,
we bounce on that priest-blue.
We are as light as a cat's ear
and it is safe,
safe far too long!
And I awaken quickly and go to the opposite window
and peer down at the moon in the pond
and know that beauty has walked over my head,
into this bedroom and out,
flowing out through the window screen,
dropping deep into the water
to hide.

I will observe the daisies
fade and dry up
wuntil they become flour,
snowing themselves onto the table
beside the drone of the refrigerator,
beside the radio playing Frankie
(as often as FM will allow)
snowing lightly, a tremor sinking from the ceiling--
as twenty-five years split from my side
like a growth that I sliced off like a melanoma.

It is six P.M. as I water these tiny weeds
and their little half-life,
their numbered days
that raged like a secret radio,
recalling love that I picked up innocently,
yet guiltily,
as my five-year-old daughter
picked gum off the sidewalk
and it became suddenly an elastic miracle.

For me it was love found
like a diamond
where carrots grow--
the glint of diamond on a plane wing,
meaning:  DANGER!  THICK ICE!
but the good crunch of that orange,
the diamond, the carrot,
both with four million years of resurrecting dirt,
and the love,
although Adam did not know the word,
the love of Adam
obeying his sudden gift.

You, who sought me for nine years,
in stories made up in front of your naked mirror
or walking through rooms of fog women,
you trying to forget the mother
who built guilt with the lumber of a locked door
as she sobbed her soured mild and fed you loss
through the keyhole,
you who wrote out your own birth
and built it with your own poems,
your own lumber, your own keyhole,
into the trunk and leaves of your manhood,
you, who fell into my words, years
before you fell into me (the other,
both the Camp Director and the camper),
you who baited your hook with wide-awake dreams,
and calls and letters and once a luncheon,
and twice a reading by me for you.
But I wouldn't!

Yet this year,
yanking off all past years,
I took the bait
and was pulled upward, upward,
into the sky and was held by the sun--
the quick wonder of its yellow lap--
and became a woman who learned her own shin
and dug into her soul and found it full,
and you became a man who learned his won skin
and dug into his manhood, his humanhood
and found you were as real as a baker
or a seer
and we became a home,
up into the elbows of each other's soul,
without knowing--
an invisible purchase--
that inhabits our house forever.

We were
blessed by the House-Die
by the altar of the color T.V.
and somehow managed to make a tiny marriage,
a tiny marriage
called belief,
as in the child's belief in the tooth fairy,
so close to absolute,
so daft within a year or two.
The daisies have come
for the last time.
And I who have,
each year of my life,
spoken to the tooth fairy,
believing in her,
even when I was her,
am helpless to stop your daisies from dying,
although your voice cries into the telephone:
Marry me!  Marry me!
and my voice speaks onto these keys tonight:
The love is in dark trouble!
The love is starting to die,
right now--
we are in the process of it.
The empty process of it.

I see two deaths,
and the two men plod toward the mortuary of my heart,
and though I willed one away in court today
and I whisper dreams and birthdays into the other,
they both die like waves breaking over me
and I am drowning a little,
but always swimming
among the pillows and stones of the breakwater.
And though your daisies are an unwanted death,
I wade through the smell of their cancer
and recognize the prognosis,
its cartful of loss--

I say now,
you gave what you could.
It was quite a ferris wheel to spin on!
and the dead city of my marriage
seems less important
than the fact that the daisies came weekly,
over and over,
likes kisses that can't stop themselves.

There sit two deaths on November 5th, 1973.
Let one be forgotten--
Bury it!  Wall it up!
But let me not forget the man
of my child-like flowers
though he sinks into the fog of Lake Superior,
he remains, his fingers the marvel
of fourth of July sparklers,
his furious ice cream cones of licking,
remains to cool my forehead with a washcloth
when I sweat into the bathtub of his being.

For the rest that is left:
name it gentle,
as gentle as radishes inhabiting
their short life in the earth,
name it gentle,
gentle as old friends waving so long at the window,
or in the drive,
name it gentle as maple wings singing
themselves upon the pond outside,
as sensuous as the mother-yellow in the pond,
that night that it was ours,
when our bodies floated and bumped
in moon water and the cicadas
called out like tongues.

Let such as this
be resurrected in all men
whenever they mold their days and nights
as when for twenty-five days and nights you molded mine
and planted the seed that dives into my God
and will do so forever
no matter how often I sweep the floor.
Robert Dimas Apr 2014
The stillness after a fresh snowfall
Unsettles as senses heighten.
The bright sky hangs and falling ever closer. 
The air is alive with a buzz of the gift. 
Through the night light shines as day
And serenity sings.

Fire rolls across the sky, a mighty titan
The lightning dances in and out
The rain falls washing away all disdain
Of what never was.

Your words light the black sky of my mind
Like sparklers and fireworks though
You couldn't ever know.
It’s something about you that I just can't get over.
That hold over me like
The greatest story never told.
8-30-13

I raise my hand
I'm begging for help
My veins are like wind chimes
Dangling in the wind
Begging to be let out
To be visible
To make music
Music of the weak
To be vibrant sparklers
To run down steep banks
It's their fantasy to be free
Jerry Oct 2012
No second chances!
No do-overs!
That is one of the regreatable rules of time.

No more pigtails & pretty dresses,
No more Horsey-back & Piggy-back rides,
No more Tee-ball & Soccer,
No more Marry Poppens & Wizard of OZ,
No more Popcorn & Video games,
No more homework & bed time stories,
No more marshmellow roasts & snipe hunts,
No more sand castles & sand dollars,
No more Sparklers & Pinwheels.

No time to pause & reflect!
It can only cause regret!
Enjoy it along the way while you can.
Everything is temporary.
It needs to ryme better! But my regreat is clear.
Jane Doe May 2012
We called him Kansas because he reminded us of open spaces,
but we should have called him nothing at all.
He had a last name but we didn’t bother to learn it,
something all-American, midwestern and bland.
He had no hometown but a drifter’s restlessness in his limbs.


Kansas had a girl called Daisy-May, which wasn’t her given name.
It was said that she could charm the rattle out of the snake,
and we never knew if that was a a good or a bad thing.
Daisy-May reminded us of the Forth of July, all sparklers and rocket pops,
Cut-off shorts and bottles of whiskey.  She crackled like a firework display.


Our town overflowed with them, we were too small, too pure,
and they were too combustable. Daisy-May was as mean as they come,
and Kansas was ugly in the same way that Saturday nights are.
Knowing him was like being drunk past midnight, alone and walking
home past ***** neon and watching the stars pass you by.  


Every teenager in the county awoke at the moment of impact,
the night Kansas drove his car through that barn on route 20.  
We flocked like pilgrims to touch the twisted metal of the guardrail.
We followed the dead grass tire marks like the yellow brick road.
Daisy-May was lovely as ever laid out in white like the ****** herself.

On nights when it’s so dry that our skin turns to dust and blows
away, we think of Kansas and Daisy-May and how they caught fire.
Patron saints of our frustration, desperation, too ugly to be real.
Bottle rockets on the Forth of July. Shot from some lonely road
to explode lights in the sky, to blot out the stars for a moment, then die.
Martin Narrod Sep 2014
Subatomic
Silver smoky sauntering lovelessness
Spots on arms, purple and green
Sickness and sleepless
Wow-like, wicked witchcraft catching

Tones humming zzz'ing
Screaming across elbows
Tucked into the ****
Concrete carnivalesque berserk wildness

Ferally and virily.

U U U THANK U...............Rice Krispie
ANNDD BEATS LEAP CURIOUSLY HIDING
UNDER THE SHEETS

Perfervid fervency.

Idling- white crisps
Blinding silences
Sticky fingertips and lurid looks
Tape after tape of binded irises in the pupil symposium,
Where side-by-side the seams mend together

Innards scissor sideways
Upways downways
Exteriors in rhythmic sync

Tastes like lolli-pop rocks
Watermelon- dazzling gold
Front-step excited eyes binding.
See-cells intertwined and idling-pupils
Dance and discover
Wild hypnotic trysts of skins
Twisting in cotton scenes
Hours of comfortable comforts of living
Women and men handling
Fun funds 'n' bon-bons; investing in the bond.
And going back for seconds.

The head riffs over riptides and causeways, lip-lies and kisses on Broad Way.
Two cadavers, hog-tied. Kissing longways and long ways.
Perogative oxytocin. American Express massages scented oils and lotions.
Persons of interest abetted in sweating. Heaving torsos.
Throwing legs, arms, and sparklers. Redonkulous nectars are microscopic.
Sweet flavors on taste buds or lit by recessed black light optics.
Massaging the rhinoceros husk in this 21st century sarcophagus,
Whiles of Wilders' words were spoken
Nickels of wood soaking in splintered tubs
Thumbs under surveillance. Sneaking inches of suspicion
Leaves treated with lacquer, fables beaten within inches of their lines;

Live its Friday night!
Deviled veterans draped in moon-hide rise
Defiling puerile twenty-something lives.

These wild highs in debts of purs'd thighs
Vexed by personal lies. Hexed in white-out lines.
Riled midnight rides inside this pyre of redolent pie- stroke six and nine
Intertwine in one human form supine
While quaffing nectar wine from the vine
Rancor drives the crime and anoints bold creature types to dine
At the interstice of Sublime.
*** Poem Boy Girl Sublime Love **** Crazy Insanity Madness Hypnotic tryst victim antsy hatred smoking smoke crisp sticky come scissor *** sideways eat ******* ******* ****** erotica literotica eroticliterature writing chicago chicagopoets poetboys **** ******* sadism sade ******* pain brutalpain brutal brutality humiliation 21 oldyoung eroticpoetry Puerile Lurid Nectar Wine Vine Time Dine Supine Fire Pyre Lollipop Candy Drop upways down up left right screwedup **** ****** up NSFW
K Balachandran Nov 2012
Lighting sparklers
in each other's eyes,
in a celebration of pretence
                             and deceit,
They drink fine sparkling wine,
dine, dance and ravel
make love again and again;
two insatiable serpents-
in perpetual heat,
spitting copious venom,
till it becomes evident,
that not a drop, is left.
                                       As dawn break out,
                                        post-****** hatred reigns,
                                         they, start to fight each other,
                                        without slightest hesitation,
                                        where does love figure in this life of zombies?
                                        empty wine bottles come handy,
                                       feeling thankful to the orgiastic nights,
                                       they make good  use of all that.
and,
when the heat dies down,
they kiss and make up,
sob, hug and apologize, two nincompoops,
like programmed emotion machines,
And how awful!
they start the next round with gusto,
all over again!
The morning sun, peeping in,
would find it hard to believe,
this utterly shameful game,
going on day in and day out.
Lauren Nicole Oct 2012
The whole world was you and the christmas lights above my bed

Your face lit so soft and the soft curve of your hips

As they rolled closer to mine

A morning of the freshest air I had ever tasted wrapped in your arms

That night a celebration out in front of your house

An independence day party where we made wishes on sparklers

And ran in the streets

One wish on our minds our whole lives

May our paths cross again

May they cross again my lover

May they cross again my friend
Annie Nov 2012
I am thinking, like always
No filters or analyizing
Pure, raw, thoughts
Dancing together around a bonfire
The embers popping
and the smoke stings
But I am happy
And my mind is evidence
I'm thinking with no restrictions
And I know you are to blame
I am feeling orange today
Because I woke up before
My alarm; 7:05
And my mind is lighting
Sparklers because its the 4th of July
Even though it's November
Because right now
I am free
Sag Sep 2015
Cemetaries with graves more comforting than my own bed and bottles of wine in Parkinson's palms
Industrial factory lights at night that bewilder and leave wandering wants and wondering won'ts and wanderlust
Abandoned rodeos with the perfect pair of longitude and latitudinal lines for a sunset view and dance floors of dirt and footprints in spirals and you
And bowling alley parking lots and songs from my adolescence and secrets spilling from our mouths
And the fairground park swingset and sparklers and nostalgia looming just above the grassy horizon
The 10th floor of the casino parking garage and the water looks curious and inviting,
and it's a long way down.

And I'm a long way from home,
Until I'm in your arms.
on this
pitch black night
millions
of bright sparklers
adorn
the expansive bush skies
RW Dennen Sep 2014
Around the eighties the Mumers New Year Parade in Philly
lost a bit of its tradition. It originally was made for
the average working family. But around this period
people were charged to watch them do their famous strut
and extra displays of course only at City Hall.
And so let us begin my poetic story...


Standin' among the crowd,
watchin' blue police-van-bleeders
being escorted; wearin' city-steel-wrist-braclets

And now struttin' my way,
psychopathic eclipsers
of physical freedom
seekin' potential comatose heads
to tap

And squads of finger thrusters
of back pockets for targets,
dart in and out of crowds,
quickly countin' their *****
in dark unseen places

Feet freeze
as sounds travel,
" Oh dem golden slippers"
soundin' like cheap tin toy Kazoos
and toy glockenspiels

The wind kisses
my **** end blue
as a flyin' Budweiser
kisses my right foot wet

Man made pop art
reflects the times
at the times
at Broad and Spruce
of cigarette butts,
chocolate wrappers,
and crushed beer cans
climaxin' montage
of the mountain- ****** eighties

Boozers and blue
sweet puffers
wearin' smiles
outside
and within most inner thoughts
puff-buffed away from some reality
step in cadence to their
own music within themselves

And wailin' children
havin'
more sense
than adults
become early sacrifices
to the fruit of Bacchus

The marching high strutters of "Big Bird",
they strain and struggle under the weight
of heavy hernia suits;
with feathers and sparklers,
their instruments wrestle as steamy air puffs shoot forward
from their nostrils
like  red-devil-painted-dragon faces
in the bitter cold air
warmly protected by their attire and *****,
they stop seemingly for eternity,
in the suspended purgatorial
halts
one after another,
only waitin'
for the grandstand reserved section
around City Hall
Yet we wait and pray together
that perhaps like in the older days
we will get a sneak of
a nostalgic, spontaneous,
free dance-strut
that never comes

Attached, yet unattached
and cryin' inside;
always on guard
for flyin' and drunkin' fists
or flyin' articles
of all sizes
Seein'  through
the facades of we must act
like ha! ha! ha!
I cry inwardly
with anger
doin' the rat-tat-tat
of no more nonsense
of my inner-self
Strivin' and movin' to flee Freddie Kruger's bladed fingers
I sting all over,
my teeth clinch with anger,
darkness intensified
The crowd becomes uglier,
blackness
engulfs
black souls
Vehement, crazy,
hordes and hordes of frustration bellows
outward
The call of Nietzche,
The ouch under my skin

This damnable real parade
not shown in Liberace-livin'-Color

No commercial breaks of luxury cars
that drive livin' manikins
Livin' manikins that wear dial under their arms
while smilin' the brand of Crest toothpaste
but instead,
a street drunk with
broken ugly teeth
as he begs for quarters
and blows his odorous breath
beyond description

And City Hall payin'-grandstanders
with tv cameras
bein' in the spirit of "Disneyland"
presents
the overly organized narcissistic prostituted
elegance of forever, floatin', bouncy,
dancy, prancy,
skippin' to the tune
of  mom's Apple pie,
a small slice of my reality

And the applaudin' money makin'
TV grandstanders
of goody goody
look mom I can do the swan dance
while holdin' multiple
colored sparklers
wrapped in feathers
But why must I
see through the eyes of a Godless Nietzsche,
**** it!!
Dagoth I Am Mar 2011
Black mollies in the aquarium
Darting back and forth as though an earthquake were certain
And I turned up the heater
And I ripped off my shirt

And I grabbed hold of my stereo
And I threw it out the window
You were in town again
You'd come around again
You were dragging me down again with you

Siamese fish flashing like sparklers
It started to rain
And the telephone rang a couple of times
I put a bullet through its cold dead brain

and I got out my photographs of you
and I put bullets though all of them too
You were in town again
You'd come around again
You were dragging me down again with you
Meryl Wisner May 2011
*** with you
is a workout.
Quick breaths and heavy heartbeats.
I love your sweat
and the way it makes your skin
stick to mine.

*** with you is a hurricane
violent winds strong enough
I’d blow away if I didn’t
grip the anchor of your hips.
I count seconds between
the lightning in your smile
and the thunder of your heartbeat
to know how close you are.
It is neuroscience.
Can you see the action potential
jump up the dendrites of my fingers
when I touch you?

It is a fistfight
it might end with
bruises and ****** lips
but it’s worth it for the adrenaline rush
behind the upper cut.
Later I can’t stop tonguing
the cut on the inside of my mouth.
I like the way you sting.

*** with you is a
wrinkle in time.
It’s the bottom of the ninth
2 outs, bases loaded
and time. just. stops.

It’s a SWAT team’s
flash bang.
The explosion leaves me dazed,
and I can’t hear anything but my pulse.
It’s any number of drugs.
Your tongue
tastes like moonshine
My body swirls
and my mouth rounds hollow
around the smoke in your kisses.
*** with you is
using all seven tiles in Scrabble
and landing on a triple word score.
For a moment,
I am invincible.

It is plate tectonics.
My body dips into the magma
of the negative space between your hips,
my favorite subduction zone.

*** with you is a math problem
It’s complicated and
it takes patience
but there’s not a word for the
satisfaction when my fingers
draw the last equal sign
and the red pen of your body
is silenced.

*** with you is like
sparklers.
I want to write our names in fire.
Nat Lipstadt Sep 2013
It is as if I am alone in a sand desert
In my chair, of course,
(See the poor photo, the head inadvertent)
Bay watching the sunset perform,
Except for the gusting 25 mph wind,
Easy-pretend it is July Fourth.

The sun sparkles my customized
Fireworks.
This time I have the desert deserted,
The bay is empty, the few pleasure boats
Obeying my cease and desist request.

Just me, the water sun sparklers,
The wind, and of course, you,
Besides me, as I have countless imagined.

Our crooked dock
Finger points back at me,
Sagely saying, enough poetry for one day.

But the dock is always crooked jealous,
Unless I include him in my sunset poems
So now he is smiling, albeit crookedly.

Some of you have,
Spent a few minuets of your day
Writing/riding along with me on my
Fire engine hose of words dousing.

Water welled up at 3:56 when I
Asked for a miracle of my own,
After waking and reading your poems for hours.

Here I am scratchin out one last at bat,
After being
Mesmerized by your goodworks,
Wondering why, again, I try.

So now let us write a breakup stanza.

I'm breaking up with you,
Until earlier-than-dawn tomorrow,
Though I was but one of many of your
Lovers took and taken,
Now discarded, I won't take no
For answer.

My shirt shivers, my forelock whips,
The clouds have banked my sun,
The wind is stiff, brooking no weakness,
I am total alone, how to make you believe,
That letting go, is difficult, almost impossible.

Until when, when we kiss again,
The back of your neck is my map,
My tongue the bridge between us.
asd Jul 2010
Gas line on
Parallel with the pipe
Busy in the kitchen
Food not gon make itself
Breeze on my neck
Clouds in the sky
Feelin a lil bit like 4th of July

No flags on this house
The whole neighborhood is decorated
The older we get get
The more I miss
Kirkwood parades & fireworks
Cooks outs at the pool & pruned feet

I can still remember
How my skin would sizzle
When the sparklers popped
It wasn't that hot
Sticky hands from watermelon
Couldn't escape the flies
Feels a bit like the 4th of July

Sulfur explodes in the sky
And in the neighbors drive
The smell is overwhelming
As we walk through the smokey streets
"It looks like war" she said
Let freedom ring
Written by Pender Sessoms. Please ask for permission if you want to reuse or publish this content.
*apsessoms@gmail.com

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