"spitfire" poems
flex and perspire my darling
would you mind a small suffering for craven kisses
to have your dark fig **** and drenching *****
stroked with a tickling finger lingering
and strong hands around your sweetly curved throat
that shunt the breath
to yield willingly for sharp-toothed nibbles with surprise tongue whipping?
will you present your soft belly and cupping *******
for dark cruelties that excite beyond tabulation
will you present yourself with smiles
and goddess leg show
sobbing for feral pink spires gleaming
while quivering thighs
turn hot red from the slap of the leather strap splitting stings?
will tears of love
mix in wild berry utterance
and flashing spitfire’s tongue?
are you made for this?
your every whimper an invitation
like an open pink gate
do you need the saint of dark desires to rescue you
from banal dim-witted all american in and out?
do you need to drown in oceanic wave tsunamis
of hot butter **** glitter, blood flooding gasms
and tender aftercare?
my wish
that you shimmer like silver
possessed
by the saint of sadism
popes of eros
who fill you with the milk of the moon
all stars that melt you into the depths of paradise
and that this dark ecstasy
is the only suffering you will ever know.
Jul 29, 2018
Jul 29, 2018 at 6:27 AM UTC
It's not really a window
but a picture of a boy--
that somewhere in my counselor's past
allows the kid to peer into his future,
into a time that is no longer here.
Maybe it reminds my counselor of better times
or the opportunity he is lucky to have now--
the boy must represent something
but I would not know for sure, as I am not him.
Although I did ask my counselor one day
about this window that watches him work--
this young boy, nothing but a child
normal as most youth always looks
the photo only granting an image
not the whole picture.
"He was a spitfire"
must have been only four foot five,
if that probably shorter
he was rough and tough
not even the Seniors were willing to bother him
those same seniors became
the boy's friends took care of him
they had lots of fun when they could.
The boy. The Window.
Was not the usual ghostly clouds
or the average bleached pale Caucasian
as their defects were in their circulation
the wind cannot move through mountains
and neither can blood pump through chambers
without the right gust.
Sometimes children
lay down to never wake up again--
maybe it's in the hospital
for another heart surgery
that just happened
not to catch the wind quite right.
The boy was a student--
his counselor was there for him
at a different school in a different time
that even as it flows
the counselor has a window
for this boy
to watch the world from.
Dec 18, 2015
Dec 18, 2015 at 4:11 AM UTC
I’m nervous, simply waiting for you to snap me
like a twig.
I’ve bundled my feelings, my loves and hates,
all those outspoken words
and all those silenced words,
into a little gift-wrapped, topped-with-a-bow
gift
for you.
You will accept it.
It is what comes after, when it reaches your nimble hands,
that frightens me.
You weave your skill so well,
like knitted discord inside, I can feel
when I reach in to see if I’m all still there.
Under many dark moons,
you leave your shadow to keep me company.
It walks beside me, keeping my head whirring on into the
small hours of the darkened dawn when
I see it
at the foot of my bed
watching me sleep.
You told it to crawl into all the tight spaces
inside me,
with me.
It reminds me of you, endlessly, always,
breathing your name as I surrender to closing my eyes,
vulnerable lying before your peering shadow,
it could stop me breathing in a heartbeat.
Only you, sweet devil, can keep me falling so hard
so fast,
shedding myself trailing from your bed to mine.
I linger in the smell of you wrapped around my clothes,
taken off in a hurry as your words,
sizzling spitfire,
hand-made cuts and invisible haemorrhage
shatter me to pieces
easy enough for you to pick and keep in
your bed until you are finally finished
with me.
All I feel is the burden of myself,
when I really have no burden to hold.
I’m a phone running out of battery when you need it most.
Filled with a frenzied panic, a slap of frustration passes your face
to use against me all that bottled irritation.
If I don’t touch you back you will
wield it against me,
blame for insensitivity, a slowly seeping coldness
I can fight off under your roaming form
in a shady light of fear.
Your emotional abuse is a character.
It has a body, limbs and hollow face and it can bruise me
with a single touch.
I never leave my body open with you.
And to what end do I let you paint me with your manipulations,
your scheming tactics
your irrevocable evidence I’m worth nothing more for you;
like a girl’s doll known to be too pretty,
putting sticky residue inside their goals at night.
So use me with your infamous fingers.
I dare you, do it.
Again.
Aug 14, 2016
Aug 14, 2016 at 2:22 AM UTC
there is a spider crawling up my back
sending bite-sized shivers as he climbs up ascending vertebra
i think of you and he makes his way to my thighs
spilling rose hips perfume
medecine of angels
the drowning ache
the tingling between my toes
delirious drool language not meant for you to hear but meant for me to answer
Trembling
beneath this tiny mess of appendages and swoony eyes
i can see your mass traveling through each season
your soft tufts donning golden shimmers then glimmering at the dusk of white
but i knew you when the bees knew warmth
spitfire busy buzzing sweet melodies to the open flower fields
but i knew you when your bones kissed your skin too tight
before falling renewal and peachy light
spiders making their homes in unfamiliar hiding places
crawling hyperbolic
a silly old mess
May 30, 2014
May 30, 2014 at 10:46 AM UTC
I walked beside the cowman across grass
Sodden by the morning dew. "What do you
Want to do when you leave school?" He asked me.
"Want to be a cowman like you," I said.
He stared at me sideways on."No, my lad,
You want to get yourself a proper job."
He said no more and disappeared inside
His farm cottage tied to the farm estate.
I walked on puzzled by his blunt reply.
I was, as he knew, a London boy, fresh
From the smoke and crowded streets, not used to
The way of the countryside and manners.
In my bedroom, in a glass case, I kept
Bird's eggs, chalk fossils, and a rabbit's skull
Salvaged from the woodland floor on the Downs.
Hanging from the ceiling by bits of string
A model Spitfire moved in the wind.
And taped to the walls were pictures of tanks
Or racing cars with all the parts numbered,
And a chalk model of a Crusader
With sword and shield with red cross of St George.
From my window I could see the whole farm
Where I'd been to fetch the milk before school.
Maybe I'd not work on the farm at all.
Aug 20, 2018
Aug 20, 2018 at 12:48 PM UTC
it usually leaps like a swordfish out of the ocean
and I’m able to harpoon it,
but as of lately,
I’m stuck with pond ****
and the tuna on my bad breath.
it’s nowhere to be found;
not in the parks,
the libraries,
the liquor stores
nor the circuit clerk’s office,
I tried fishing it out of the swaps of
spitfire and melancholy
but found nothing
I tried to ****** it with an excessive
amount of trouble and ********
but found nothing
I tried scooping the guts out of myself
like a hollowed out pumpkin and
splattered it with a wet slap
against an old newspaper
but found nothing
there’s nothing here;
no spark,
no imagination,
no ingenuity
what I’m I suppose to do?
as I sit here petting the black
velvet fur of my dog,
my toes won’t stop curling,
my nails are bitten down to the nub
and the stink of aging soars past
like eagles on fire
I have nothing to write about:
no unpopular opinion
no peculiar viewpoint
no bludgeoning over
the banality of
extinction
the only logical thing to do is
head out to see some local
band at a Chicago bar and see
where the alcohol takes me
I need the ammunition
I need the fuel
I need to make
something happen
the hard days of labor have diminished me
through attrition and lack of euphemism
but for right now, no matter how
saturated I am of feeling and thought…
whether I’m
drunk on sleep,
salacious on vulgarity,
grieving with quills,
vacant of *****
dreaming of gout,
reading Géza Csáth,
listening to Sass Dragons,
burrowing under empty houses
or fixing the plumbing for the woman down the hall.
I still
can’t
coax
the word
out.
Feb 13, 2025
Feb 13, 2025 at 10:45 AM UTC
My grandmother's hands, dressed in
Sterling silver bands
And stacked bangles
Making music
When she salts
Slices of ham
Jun 12, 2010
Jun 12, 2010 at 4:00 PM UTC
Fake rhyme, cut your lines, drop your electricity cost,
Such a crime, give you time, from my spitfire; sharp claws,
Doing time, make your mind, well done or raw,
Cuz' I'll make you mine, tame your kind,done? clean your paws.
Ecstasy, what you're feeling? my Legacy, after that i'll make you the deputy, even tho you're my enemy. Give you a lil' recipe, jealousy for my rhymes, my destiny. It's alright, while you're climbing up desperately, I'll be improving; endlessly.
Apr 29, 2015
Apr 29, 2015 at 8:30 AM UTC
Do not stretch your fingers in my direction;
I am not your ******* or your heroine;
I am no drug to be addicted to.
My body is bruised and I am bent out of shape;
My ankles are all ninety degree angles;
And my knuckles are caked in golden hues.
The callouses on my heels are peeling;
And your spitfire attitude is exhausting.
"Simmer down, firecracker;
You lionhearted girl."
I'm flying at the speed of light;
I am going to crash, a beaten down piñata;
And nobody will pick up the pieces.
Simmer down, firecracker.
I'll simmer down when I'm dead.
(a.m.c.)
May 4, 2014
May 4, 2014 at 12:17 AM UTC
Birds came and pecked through the silver top,
popping their beaks in
for a dribble of milk,
it was cold then,
back in the old days
not so anymore.
And the slow light of the glow worm that could turn a bird in mid flight would send sparse light, but enough light as if enough light was a feast.
The snowmen in the garden that stood under the clothes line looked perfect with two buttons sewed into their eyes until the thaw came and they melted like our hearts did when they went away and the days grew even longer after that.
The frogspawn burst into tadpoles became black comma's in the pond and the herons flew like spitfire aircraft,
how daft we laughed and gaily played as if the season would last forever and tomorrow would never come.
Mr's Brown is Bobby coming out to play today?
Then Bobby went away,
taken by leukemia that crept in silently and took him quietly and still we squandered the fading sunlight.
On the dullest of days when the bagpiper plays and a darkness comes into my heart,
I stand there, out on the foreshore, waiting for emptiness
and wanting no more.
Sep 26, 2015
Sep 26, 2015 at 3:27 AM UTC
I miss the warm tethered entanglement
Of white hot invading veins
And boiling blood slithering
Innocent lust for rage
Driven by underdeveloped
Over stimulated blessings of adolescence.
Age hardens the stone of flesh
Once fluid magma erupting
From volcanoes of mole hills
Turned mountains by the quick tempered.
Spitfire tongue incinerating old walkways
Patience and time cool the ferocity
Burning rivers now gentle streams
Chisling rough roads, eroding paths.
Ancient doors reopened
Ready for the next adventure to take place.
Aug 7, 2015
Aug 7, 2015 at 12:27 PM UTC
Demonic possession is what it feels like sometimes,
The way I spit words out and they just happen to rhyme
I sit and think sometimes, about what I wanna write
But then it never comes to me , avoids me it stays outta sight and I
Don't know why I'm writing this, I'm sure I'll find a message
To send across the void that is this world and then the rest will
All make sense, no pretence, nor any pretext
That I'm using just busting words before I forget
I gotta add a little something about what happened today
I got my ****** grade from chemistry it was no A
Just a D, and I was worried but my Father doesn't care
I'm no good at Chemistry, he knows that it ain't fair
It's all about experimentation and adapting
To the strengths and weaknesses that make you a masterpiece happening
This world is full of unique people and you are another one too
So you gotta put your head down, do what you gotta do
I would like to make an announcement, before it leaves my mind
To clear up some other **** that I left behind
Me and Georgia now, you know her? I wrote a lot
About how much I hated her, how I wanted to rot
Yeah, we're good now, so please do not look back
On my works, when I went bezerk and launched a stupid internet attack
Some of it was my fault, and I've come to terms with it
We good now, it's okay, so please don't read that ****
I'm sitting here on my bed, not knowing what I'm about to write
Just knowing that I need another way to pass the night
So I spit fire, I'll retire, maybe right about now
Have a good day or night, my friends, be careful when you go out
<3
Sep 15, 2016
Sep 15, 2016 at 5:35 AM UTC
Growing or shrinking
last star exit in mind
New trend
Is life the dead-end?
Star casting kiss
No exit to miss
A friend
Finding courage
Circles and stars breath
condolences
Feeling nameless no
picket white fences
Eyes adored last glances
Society- Supreme- be
Forget me not Garden- of- Eden
Wish upon a star hidden?
The last digging dandelion
yellow ray
In the end no more suffering
until the day
Like poem book* open and end
Something stiff glued together her life
Paper- Mache
Making amends Sales man
Taking his last exit he picks desire
She's
The spitfire Rare- star sire
Computing- reliving- dying
dreaming
Don't settle for scheming
The last star exit
The last scripture
Vivid mixture
Mind storing like a cache
Rare Robin bird great
panache
Recherche last meal al -dente
Smell the last flower herbal- ritual
Petals open up new portal
Blue elf Viola sing like Mona Lisa
* * * *
Autumn red wine star bridge
Grenache field of mirage
Seeing stars you fell
Where's my falling angel
Strong words vocal
If its the last exit don't disconnect
Dots.. and dots.. connect
God casting
Its written stars for all in our name
Starry- end*
Jul 26, 2023
Jul 26, 2023 at 11:53 AM UTC
i just realized
that i spent another entire day
subconsciously chanting to myself
that i am a piece of ****
i have no reason to think this.
i am a beautiful,
intelligent
redhaired spitfire
and i'm not afraid to say any of those things
people don't say those things to themselves
enough
but why
the ****
do i constantly remind myself
all day
that i am
a piece of
****
who is
telling me this
and why
do i believe it?
Jun 1, 2013
Jun 1, 2013 at 12:30 AM UTC
a trembling reaction
to every way you fought to keep my hands in yours
a fickle name to how your eyelids only leaked promises
and how i only ever met your lips with broken glass
you tried to pry the answers from my cigarette but you forgot that I buried your baby teeth in the backyard last summer
one, two,
count my fingers out the window like your swans almost in flight
every creature passed under your embrace learned how to curve their wings up like forged protection
from your spitfire
our teeth leak venom and motor oil, it tastes like how your fists feel against your children's skin
when you wrap the women in chains made of expensive gifts and shattered promises, sometimes they clean their teeth and fight back.
maybe i won't remember to draw the curtains after you leave
but i'll always leave a key under your pillow.
Jun 25, 2014
Jun 25, 2014 at 1:46 PM UTC
as one famous founder of a site
citing its demographic as:
poor girl seeks a sugar daddy
to get a university education:
'love is a concept invented by
poor people,'
i agree, and also invented by
the one who was crucified,
but i might add: insanity is a
concept invented by rich people...
esp. those people who's
children are ready to embark
on a career in intellectualising
stiff psychiatric nouns without
clear verb examples of behaviour,
and the public en masse dilute
"serious" psychiatric investigations
of mood swings et al. with
poetic elasticity of metaphor -
it's no longer: oh i'm so sad...
it's oh i feel so depressed... that would
make perfect sense in aviation
history - given the 80th anniversary
of the spitfire (spuckenfeuer) over
the skies in Southampton -
subtler and more positive expression
of alcoholism? just a different type
of metabolism, water (adam's tonic)
doesn't exist because it's all contaminated...
aviation depression compression,
high in the altitudes of 16,000 feet,
then looking down at ants on the pavement
with their labyrinth rivers of blindness
and then buckle **** it hits you,
the sea of humanity.
Mar 5, 2016
Mar 5, 2016 at 2:02 PM UTC
Careful casting blessings in tongues not truly understood
It's said there is a serpent that entangles dragon's blood
And spitfire be a voice so loose with foolish finds
Looking towards inviting angels, but be the demons in disguise
Karmic value matters in existence past the alibis
So negligent some limbs behave upon the Tree of Life
Do you count the numbers or apply them?
Do the readings code the river stream?
Divine and simple too easy to believe
I'm starting to think that many will not in aeons, come to perceive
Regressing back into the caves
To fight the tigers with their blades
Spirit can always evolve, but beside the spirit remains an umbra
The serpent that binds as the helix to merge with yours
Through the jungles in your mind and beneath your ocean's floor
Tempting to eliminate duality in disavowing ways
But comes the wave and overstep of the orchestra's score
Written by the master architect to arrest ophidian psyche force
Oct 22, 2013
Oct 22, 2013 at 2:05 AM UTC
The spitfire met the Messerschmidt his back was to the sun.
He rolled away right into blue skies dotted with puffs of
Cannon fire smoke stitched a polka dot trail behind.
Chalk white cliffs glisten in relief. Soon the moment of truth will step forward destiny waited patiently it's turn as the island burned by night
The speckled.sky by day. The chatter and moan the struggle of flesh
against fire and steel.
Against will a death-dealing skill
**** or be killed
A ballet of silver winged coffins filled with fear and courage.
Times that try men's souls.
In the end.
The outcome was in doubt for many who stood
and made stand that spoke of commitment to survival.
That spirit is now past.
But school will commence again
soon. Soon.
Sorry to say.
Read gaping spaces between the lines. Though a different
wolf wrapped in fine garments and expensive Italian footwear
will prance into our nightmares
stoke our insecurities
smile and assure.
No Mustache or comb-over though.
Doomsayer say you.
Chill pill versus paranoia.
Feb 17, 2013
Feb 17, 2013 at 10:09 AM UTC
the birthing of a new day
brings good news, no matter what
the sun is bright with renewed hope...
for some, though,
a new day means only one thing,
which, to them, is so fulfilling---
as soon as there is light,
nothing could stop
the lashing of the tongue,
the mind, ever ready to strike.
a vanity mirror stands---
many reflections stare back
waits,
for the eyes that stare
the eyes that wander
through words
through spaces
searching for its prey
mouth brims with affronts
inflicts pain
mind gets busy
fire raging
too much envy...hatred... and grudge held within,
hands touch...slide on the keys
words glide away....then start
spinning double-edged knives
words that stab and slash
when read, and absorbed
flying in the air
while the innocent ones inhale,
victims, burned
by the flames spewed by the tongue
poisoned
by the venom of the spitfire.
purple skies of dawn don't matter
dark blue firmament could just stay that way
for, there is only black and red
while the spitfire is awake...
Sally
Copyright June 28, 2015
Rosalia Rosario A. Bayan
Jul 17, 2015
Jul 17, 2015 at 9:02 PM UTC
She's a spitfire. A kinda girl that makes you want her no matter how poisonous she can be. With an infectious smile, and a swing with those wide hips, she make your mind melt. Like a shaken glass bottle of coke, she was bubbles of carbonated water mixed with sugar and unknown chemicals that make your taste buds sizzle. But she explode on you if you weren't careful. She wasn't afraid to say, "I hate you". She often said it quite often, especially to boys who tried too hard, or not at all. She was a wild thing and liked fire even if she got burned. And she wasn't afraid to hurt you. And if you hurt her, watch it. If you hurt someone she loved, then you better run. But a ****** she was, and sparky, sorta spinster sort of attitude she had towards love. She didn't want it. She needed it not in her mind. But alas at night she be alone and cold, wanted some arms to have to hold her. And her cold hard eyes defied their love. She was crude and not careful, and said words that make those boys want her more then they should. She teased and taunted and played with em all. Wanting nothing to do with them and their easy hearts. She wanted someone who was strong. Someone who wasn't so easy to or so nice. She didn't like nice, because as hard as she tried she couldn't be nice. She wasn't nice or selfless or loving. She was war, and strife, and like to make other people mad. She say stuff she didn't mean, and make sure people knew what she thought, even if it didn't matter. She wanted a guy who could manage it. Who could settle her down and be ok ruffling her feathers and calling her names. She wanted him keeping it interesting, unlike the others who bored her to tears. Yeah, she was the one that I didn't want to tame but loved so much anyways.
Nov 8, 2012
Nov 8, 2012 at 5:29 PM UTC
Ah, a Spitfire!
This sight, it brings me close to tears-
I've not been near one of these for years.
Since when I was a pilot, World War Two-
Battle of Britain.
I was one of the few.
She's been restored, she looks real fine
Could I sit in her just one more time?
I would so love to, it would really take me back...
Sorry sir, health and safety-
No way can you do that.
Jan 9, 2012
Jan 9, 2012 at 4:22 PM UTC
you want war, you have world war two spitfire pilots to serve your post-colonial migration; and yes, i'll twitch my eyes; ha ha cuisine scots using ginger.
there's a quintessential
fascination with cabbage
among the mutli-cultural
asians of england being picky
concerning scandinavians
and the slavs...
politico i could say as much
about indian spices.. but they're
granulated i admit,
so there's less stink in the armpits;
or there isn't, given chanel cardamom:
assimilated asians into british
society don’t use raw herrings and cabbage
to joke about other european ethnicities
while waving the st. george
of that great fake curry of suffolk.
*i've been telling the turks about sauerkraut for years
to match up a purposive additive for the lamb kebab;
sours to cut through the lamb fat like the chillies
cutting through.*
Jan 9, 2016
Jan 9, 2016 at 8:10 PM UTC
Your name means many things my sweet.
Your first is a continuation of many before. A take on a name well loved.
It resembles family narrative and new beginnings,
Yet it brings back memories of old favorite books.
Though she didn't know it your middle means a lot too.
My grandmothers name, may it someday pass to you.
I'm sure she would love you, and your mother, she was a spitfire too after all.
Though she didn't mean for me to see, I love the choice and all it means to me, least I know it means something to you too.
Lastly comes Berrus, my family namesake.
We don't come from much,
But we offer all that we are.
We will put food on the table and a roof overhead and we will be
Fiercely Loyal.
We arnt known for always making well thought out decisions,
But we always try to do what we think is right.
So long as I someday get to meet you
Molly Jane Berrus.
Oct 24, 2018
Oct 24, 2018 at 2:38 AM UTC
In a little roadhouse off the beaten tracks is where I did find her.
She was riding with the hells angels till they kicked her out for being to ruff.
And yet at seventeen the way she could down a budweiser and burb hello ******
Was a site to be held and i thought to myself
as she broke a pool cue over a man's head who played a song she didnt
like I knew i had met the woman of my dreams.
Sure she drank like a fish cussed like a sailor and hit like a frieght train.
But aside from all thoose good qualitys I like in a woman she did have her hang up's.
Its kinda bad when your first date involves knocking over a seven eleven and leading on
the cops on a five state chase.
And Im not bitter she didnt slow down to let me off.
Im mean the road rash wasnt that bad and I needed to drop a couple of pounds
of course it gives a whole new meaning to burning off the pounds.
And when I saw her about two months later I could tell there was something
there as she held a knife to my throat and looked into my blood shot eye's
and said.
Im gonna cut out your tongue out if you dont buy me a beer.
Yes this beer drinking spitfire had me at hey what the **** you lookin at ****** ?
What a true lady indeed.
Yes when i finally came outta a coma after that first night togather i knew.
That i probaly shouldnt drink outta open containers.
Or carry cash or major credit cards.
When going out with a five foot three spifire named Skeeter.
Mar 19, 2010
Mar 19, 2010 at 5:56 PM UTC