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David Walker Dec 2012
Origins
written and directed
by
David Walker

Inspired
by
the films of
Quentin Tarantino
David Lynch
&
Rob Zombie

There is method
To his madness

                                                        ­                                                                 ­                  January 2013              
                                              ­                                                                 ­                       first draft









1. EXT. Run down project apartment complex - 3:00 am

A dark, tall figure with long black hair and a trenchcoat opens the already cracked red door.

MAN:
I'm looking for love in all the wrong places.

                                                        ­                                                                 ­                                       CUT TO:
INT. Apartment 3

A typical roach infested apartment with a kitchen built into the living room. 3 GIRLS are on the kitchen floor. GIRL # 1 one has black hair with big lips and a curvy frame and she is wearing a pair of Tripp pants and a black bra barely covering her ample *****. She has a flesh colored rubber hose tied to her left arm. GIRL # 2 has dyed rainbow colored hair, a nice smile, and a skinny frame. She is wearing a pair of tore blue jeans with smiley faces and cute in jokes written on them, also not wearing a shirt with a lacy blue bra on. She has a spoon with water and black tar ****** inside it which she is heating up with a silver Zippo with the word "Skittles" engraved into it. GIRL # 3 Has long naturally red hair, glasses and an extremely voluptuous figure. She is wearing tight black pants and a black shirt with thin sleeves. She is inspecting a covered syringe with an unsure look in her eyes.

GIRL # 2:
So, do you wanna do it or not Jane?

Snatches the syringe out of JANE's hand.

JANE:
I'm not sure. How long have you been doing this ****?

Girl #2 takes the orange cap off the syringe revealing a small needle.

GIRL #2:
Since after I graduated. About 3 years. Liz you ready?

LIZ:
As ready as I am for dat sweet tang!

Girl #2 giggles. She sticks the needle into Liz's arm, blood mixes with the brown fluid inside, and she pushes the plunger down. Liz leans back into Girl #2's arms and Girl #2 gives her a kiss.

LIZ:
I love you, Julia.

JULIA:
Well, I love you too.

JANE:
You guys are so gay!

(OS):
Save that **** for the ******* customers!

                                                     ­                                                                 ­                                       CUT TO:
Other side of room. A greasy looking MAN with short faded black hair and a scar going from the corner of his mouth to the right ear is sitting in a beat up recliner cleaning his Uberti 1873 Cattleman revolver while smoking a fat blunt and watching some kind of high budget **** with Sasha Grey in it.

JULIA:
Sorry, Mike. It didn't stop you from leaving me and Liz unsatisfied and bored, did it?

LIZ and JULIA laugh. JANE has a nervous look in her eyes.

MIKE:
Very ******* funny you wore out trick! Am I gonna have to smack the sass out yo mouth?

MIKE gets up, puts out his blunt and walks over to the GIRLS gun in hand.

MIKE:
Or am I gonna have to give your little friend a scar like mine.

LIZ:
Mike don't!

MIKE SLAPS JULIA with the side of his UNLOADED revolver and grabs JANE by her hair.

MIKE:
Who the **** are you, anyways *****?

JANE:
(stuttering)
I was walking down the street earlier today and I ran into Julia and Liz. They went to school with my sister I think. Let me go!

MIKE:
So you're a young'n. Well you have some nice big *******!

MIKE RIPS off her shirt exposing her *******. He begins to squeeze the right one. JANE SLAPS MIKE HARD!

MIKE:
*****!

MIKE lets go of her hair. Jane runs to the other room grabbing her shirt. LIZ stumbles towards him and PUNCHES him in the nose.

MIKE:
That's it! You little *** dumpsters are dead!

MIKE picks up the REVOLVER, runs to the chair where the bullets are and tries to reload. JULIA wakes from her daze. We see him load 3 rounds. All of a sudden the DOOR gets broken down and the dark clad FIGURE from the scene before pulls out a BERETTA M9 with a silencer attachment. MIKE FIRES 2 shots at him haphazardly missing both. The MAN LAUGHS and FIRES one shot that MIKE's crotch catches.

                                                       ­                                                                 ­                                       CUT TO:
2. INT. Next door in Apartment 2.

A MAN and WOMAN in their early 40's are smoking a joint and seem disturbed by the gunfire.

MAN:
(coughing)
What the hell was that?

WOMAN:
Sounded like gunshots. Do you think we should call the cops?

MAN:
**** no! There is a pound of chronic in the bedroom closet! Just pray whoever it is doesn't come over here!

WOMAN:
Okay. Are you gonna pass that?

                                                          ­                                                                 ­                                     CUT TO:
3. INT. Apartment 3.

The smoke has cleared. MIKE is begging for death and BLEEDING out everywhere, JULIA is in a daze, dumbfounded by what she just witnessed, LIZ is cowering in fear, crying, and JANE just came out of the bedroom with her TORN SHIRT on and a terrified "Oh my God" expression. The unknown assailant has a devilish grin upon his face.

MIKE:
Godfuck! **** me you sunuvabitch! Godda--

The MAN obliges. He fires a single shot into his RIGHT EYE.

MAN:
Well, looks like I got here in the nick of time!

JULIA:
(blankly)
W-Who the **** are you?

MAN:
That is of little importance right now. Who are you foxy ladies?

JULIA:
M-My name's Julia. That girl over there (points to Liz) is Liz, and the ginger is Jane.

MAN:
What pretty names! Well, I have a question. Will you three lovely young ladies gather round that despicable looking chair and listen to what I have to say, or are you going to run? Keep in mind I have rope in my trenchcoat and the fact I mean you no harm. I am just a lonely man with a story to tell, and the way I see it, what with that bruise on your sweet face, you kinda owe me.

JULIA:
I think we can stay. I just wanna know your name.

MAN:
Ahh, but I am a man of many names. My christian name is Derek. You don't need the last for now.

DEREK walks to the chair and sits down. He waves the GIRLS over.

DEREK:
C'mon I just want to tell my tale. Look, I will put the gun under the chair as a sign of good faith that neither you girls or I will start shooting the place up again. Are we square ladies?

JULIA:
What do ya say guys?

They gather in the kitchen.

LIZ:
This guy has a ***** loose.

JULIA:
Yes, but he saved us from our ****. We should humor him.

JANE:
I think he is hot!

LIZ and JULIA just stare at JANE.

JANE:
Sorry, but he is.

JULIA:
So it's agreed. We will listen to his story, silently pray he doesn't **** us and leave afterwards.

The GIRLS walk to the chair. DEREK has lit the blunt.

DEREK:
Ahh, so you have decided to join me. Good. Do you guys wanna hit this?

LIZ and JULIA shake their heads no.

JANE:
I will.

DEREK:
Great. Now, where do I begin. I suppose everybody's roots stem from childhood, so lets go back, oh say, 20 years ago.

                                                           ­       FADE TO BLACK        
Against black, TITLE CARD

October 15th 1995.

                                                          ­                       CUT TO      
4. EXT. Suburbia circa 1995.

There are three boys between the ages of 6 and 9 playing in front of a grey HOUSE with a white MINIVAN in the driveway. Little DEREK is a scrawny 6 year old boy with short brown hair and a Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles action figure in his hands. The 2 other BOYS ages 7 and 9 are picking on him and trying to take away DONATELLO.

DEREK:
Leave me alone or I will whoop your ****.

BOY #1:
Whatever! You are scrawny and lame. Give us your Ninja Turtle now or we will beat you up!

BOY #2 picks up a STICK and starts hitting DEREK with it.

BOY #2:
What are you going to do? Get your daddy? Oh, wait...that's right, you don't have one!

The 2 BULLIES start laughing. A look of hatred fills young DEREK's eyes. He catches the STICK and slaps BOY #2 in the face with it. He then tackles him and starts beating him mercilessly. BOY #1 runs towards the PORCH and knocks on the DOOR. DEREK'S MOM answers. She is in her mid 30's with brown hair and casual clothing on, smoking a cigarette and drinking a cup of "coffee."

BOY #2:
Derek's beating up Josh again!

DEREK'S MOM:
Well, good for him! Bet that little pecker snot deserved it too. Now, Brad...why don't you take you and your friend on home before I tell your dad you play with Barbies.

LATE 20'S DEREK:
(OS)
My mother was a sweet ol' broad!

BRAD:
(sighs)
Okay, Ms. Walters, but you do know you are going to have to pull him offa Josh right?

DEREK'S MOM:
(sighs like Brad)
I suppose.

DEREK'S MOM and BRAD walk to the front yard and GASP when they notice that DEREK has knocked out 2 of JOSH'S baby teeth, both in the front and broke his nose, which is bleeding profusely.

DEREK'S MOM:
Derek Charles Walters! Get the **** up offa him!

DEREK:
(crying)
He hit me with a stick!

DEREK'S MOM:
Well, now I'm about to!

She picks up the STICK and beats his *** with it several times.

DEREK:
******* *****!

DEREK'S MOM, infuriated throws the stick down and SLAPS him across the face. DEREK runs away.
He runs to a wooded area in the back yard as far as his legs can take him.

LATE 20'S DEREK:
(OS)
Do not weep, for on that day, I met God and Satan incarnate and it turns out they existed singularly in my head.
                                                           ­                                                                 ­                          CUT TO:

5. JANE:
Like a conscience?

DEREK:
Much more. These guys are in the room right now and only I can see him. Satan led me to you guys tonight! Who knows what kind of CRAZY hijinks are in store!

JULIA:
That's it I'm outta here! C'mon gu--

DEREK fires of his M9 1 time.

DEREK:
Now, listen to me you dykey, ****** *****. I have 3 more rounds in this ******* and one
of them is reserved for you if you don't sit your tight *** back down.

JULIA sits back down scared to death. DEREK regains his composure and is "all smiles" again.

DEREK:
Phew! I don't want to hurt anybody. I just want someone pretty to listen to my ******* story. ****, if you want, I will ask you guys about yourself later on, but for now I'm going to introduce you to my best friends.

JANE:
Who are they again?

DEREK:
Ah, you were trying to pay attention. I will remember that. They go by many names. One can be called "God", "Heroic Harry", "The White Knight", whatever you envision as good, this **** is it. He is the reason you guys are still alive.

LIZ:
And the other?

DEREK:
Ahh, him. He can go by "Satan", "The ******", "The Angel of Death." He's the reason ol' crusty here no longer bothers you.

LIZ:
So you're basically ape ****, right?

DEREK:
Pretty much! Now where was I? Ah...yes

                                                       ­                                                                 ­                                    CUT TO:

6. INT. Small wooded area behind the house --- Early evening.

DEREK has made himself a nice little HANGOUT in the woods! there is a trunk with tons of comics in it, an arsenal of sharpened sticks and rocks, Batman action figures, and a Game Boy Color. He is drawing a picture at the moment.

LATE 20'S DEREK:
(OS)
There I was in my element. ****** at my mother, then all of a sudden, a deep, angelic voice rang out.

VOICE #1:
(OS...of course)
You don't have to hate her, you know. She loves you.

LATE 20'S DEREK:
(OS)
And then another, this voice sounding more playful and mischievous then the other.

VOICE #2:
(OS)
But, for how long? Do you think she meant to have you?

DEREK:
Where are you guys?

LATE 20'S DEREK:
(OS)
And then they appeared.

A 13 YEAR OLD BOY with BROWN hair and a FLANNEL overshirt over a Nirvana T-SHIRT with baggy torn blue JEANS with stains on them appears.

BOY #1:
Don't hate your mom.

VOICE #2:
(OS)
But, watch her close.

DEREK turns his head. We see another BOY roughly the same age with slightly long BLACK hair and a TRENCHCOAT over a Nine Inch Nails T-SHIRT with tight black CHICK PANTS with a CHAIN leading from his pocket to his BELT. He has a lip piercing and he is smoking a cigarette.

DEREK:
Who are you guys?

BOY #1:
Just think of us as older brothers your mom can't see.

DEREK:
Wow! I should introduce you guys to my friends!

BOY #2:
No!

DEREK:
Why not?

BOY #2:
You are the only person that can see us. Don't go telling anyone and don't talk to us in front of anyone. People will think you are nuts!

BOY #1:
Think of us as two ghosts that give you advice. Don't listen to him though, he'll get you in trouble.

BOY #2:
Shut up! Or I will kick your *** again.

BOY #1:
Not in front of him. He doesn't need to see that ****. Not now

DEREK:
What are your names?

BOY #1:
That's up to you.

DEREK:
I'll call you Joe, and him Jerry.

JOE:
Works for me, for now. Call us whatever you feel like calling us whenever you like. If you wanna call me ******* and him poophead, go right ahead.

DEREK:
Okay, but for now you guys are Joe and Jerry.

JOE:
We are going to leave now. We will show up when we think the time is right. Sometimes you will see us others you won't, but we are always with you.

JERRY:
Even when you ****.

                                                          ­                                                                 ­                     CUT TO:
7. INT. Apartment 3.

LATE 20'S DEREK:
And then I went back home and they disappeared. I reconciled with my mom and for the next few weeks I didn't see them. Brad started hanging out with me again and school was good. The years go by and still no sight of them. 4 years pass by. It's 1999 and my tastes changed. Instead of Ninja Turtles and Batman it was KISS and Freddy Krueger. By this point me and Josh had made up and Brad was in middle school. And so we go to where me and the voices meet again.

8. INT. Taft Elementary
A class of roughly 25 children in your average 5th grade home room with a stout middle aged gentleman teaching. JOSH and DEREK are in the back row sitting side by side.

TEACHER:
...And that's how the metric system works.

JOSH:
(to Derek)
Dude, did you check out RAW last night? The Undertaker crucified Stone Cold!

DEREK:
**** I missed it. I was doing homework.

JOSH:
(loud)
****!!

TEACHER:
What did you say Mr. Jarvis?

JOSH:
Sorry Mr. Cannib. I forgot to do my homework.

MR. CANNIB:
Josh, Derek, outside!

LATE 20'S DEREK:
(OS)
The old man had taken kids out of the classroom before and they always came back with tears in their eyes. As we walked outside I heard a familiar voice.

JERRY:
(OS)
If he touches either of you, kick him in the nuts!

MR. CANNIB:
I told you boys too many times! None of this **** in my classroom! Josh get over here you little *****!

OL' TEACH GRABS JOSH by the NECK.

DEREK:
Hey ******* keep your hands to yourself!

CANNIB begins to throttle JOSH. DEREK pushes him off of JOSH and KICKS the TEACHER in the nuts with FURY about 3 times and jumps on top of him while JOSH watches holding his neck.

JERRY:
(OS) While we see Derek's mouth moving

Look here, *******. You think you can be called a teacher for drinking on a farm, ******* cattle and beating children so you can have Summer vacation every year? *******, you spiteful sad man.

DEREK SPITS in the *******'S face and begins to PUNCH him when JOSH pulls him off.

JOSH:
Dude, the door outta here is right there. Lets go to our lockers, get our **** and get outta here.

DEREK:
(Breathing heavily)
Did I just do that? What the ****? Let's get out of here...now!

                                                    ­                                                                 ­                                           CUT TO:
9. EXT. Taft Elementary
A bunch of playground equipment next to an alley with a fenced in field. JOSH and DEREK are walking down the alley. It is sunny outside but about to rain.

DEREK:
That wasn't me that did that.

JOSH:
If it wasn't you who was it?

DEREK:
It w...

JOSH:
(Interrupting)
It reall
Harry J Baxter Apr 2013
so i have this lighter,
I love the thing
more than I love most people
It has a place of permanence in my pocket
so that I never leave home without it
the chrome box glints in varying lights
and it makes a cool click when you open it up
it's enough to feel like some sort of
John Travolta greaser wannabe
but it isn't a real zippo,
I had a real zippo once
which my grandfather gave me
it was from WW2 and it was gold
but time broke it to ****,
no now I'm stuck with the fake one
just a small sized bic
in metal casing
any bic would fit
not unique
but somehow distinguished
I think that's why
I like it so much
A Zippo lighter with a smoker's cough,
propositions the ladybug
clinging to a flannel pocket,

You can always trust a tealight
to warm the neglected beetles,
that cling to your chest.

this Ritual of the staring contest.
attention behind the curtain:

When You blink at the Rorschach shadows
tell me, they are not mailboxes.

The spirits linger; we stumble into entanglement

birch trees weaving
baskets from our branches

I'm known to cave on integrity, for the taste of freckles,
flickering tealights in the hearthstone, with a smokers cough.
Fake Name Nov 2016
Blue Bacon and Mexican Swiss Cheese with Krusty Jam




My name is Bam Da Pam
Bam da Pam my name is


Dat Bam-da-Pam-I-am
Dat Bam-da Pam!
I like Dat
Bam-da-Pam-I-am


Do you like blue bacon and mexican swiss cheese with krusty jam


I like them,
Bam da Pam
I like
Blue bacon and mexican swiss cheese with krusty jam


Would you still like them
In or out
Would you not like them
In a spout


I would like them
In or out
I would like them
In a spout.
I do like
Blue bacon and mexican swiss cheese with krusty jam
I do like them,
Bam-da-Pam


Would you hate them
Up or down?
Would you hate them
All around?


I like them
Up or down.
I like them
All around.
I like them
In or out.
I would still like them
In a spout.
I like blue bacon and mexican swiss cheese with krusty jam
I like them, Bam-da-Pam-I-am.




Would you hate them
On a platter?
Would you hate them
with a splatter?


On  a platter.
With a splatter.
In or out.
With a spout.
I would eat them up or down.
I would eat them all around.
I would eat blue bacon and mexican swiss cheese with krusty jam.
I do like them, Bam-da-Pam-I-am.


Would you? Could you?
in a bar?
Hate them! Hate them!
Here they are.


I would,
I could,
in a bar


You may hate them.
You will see.
You may not like them
in a bee?


I would, I could in a bee.
In a bar! You let me be.
I do like them on a platter.
I do like them with a splatter.
I do like them in or out.
I do like them in a spout.
I do like them up or down.
I do like them all around.
I do like blue bacon and mexican swiss cheese with krusty jam
I do like them, Bam-da-pam


A train! A train!
Could you, would you
on a train?


“On a train! In a bee!
In a bar! Bam da Pam! Let me be!”
I would, I could, on a platter.
I could, I would, with a splatter.
I will eat them with a spout
I will eat them in or out.
I will eat them up or down.
I will eat them all around.
I do like them, Bam-da-Pam-I-am.




Bae!
Would you, could you, in the dark?


I would, I could,
in the dark.


Would you, could you,
in the rain?


I would, I could in the rain.
In the dark. On a train,
In a bar, in a bee.
I do like them, Bam da Pam, you see.
On a platter. With a splatter.
In a spout. In or out.
I will eat them up or down.
I do like them all around!


You do like
Blue bacon and mexican swiss cheese with krusty jam?


I do
like them,
bam-da-pam-I-am.


Could you, would you,
on a hippo


Would you cook it with a zippo


I could and would on a hippo
I will, I will cook it with a zippo
I will eat them in the rain.
I will eat them on a train.
In the dark! In a tree!
In a bar! Please let me be!
I do like them on a platter.
I do like them with a splatter.
I will eat them in a spout.
I do like them in or out.
I do like them up or down.
I do like them ALL AROUND!


I do like blue bacon and mexican swiss cheese with krusty jam


I really like them,
Bam-da-Pam


You do like them.
SO you say.
Try them! Try them!
And I will walk away
Try them and you may I say.


Bam-Da-Pam!
If you will let me be,
I will try them.
You will see.


Bae!
I hate blue bacon and mexican swiss cheese with krusty jam!
I do! I hate them, Bam da Pam
And I would not eat them on a hippo!
And I would not cook them with a zippo...
And I will not eat them in the rain.
And not in the dark. And not on a train.
And not in a bar. And not in a bee.
They are so bad, so bad you see!


So I will hate them on a platter.
And I will not eat them with a splatter.
And I will not eat them in a spout.
And I will not eat them in or out.
And I will not eat them up or down.
Say! I will not eat them ALL AROUND!


I do, I do, I hate
Blue bacon with mexican swiss cheese and krusty jam!
I HATE you!
I HATE you,
BAM DA PAM!
Feedback please, i am turning this in and would like some other peoples thoughts
Months of stale, cigarette smoke
and spilt **** water pleasantly
offset the stench of cheap cologne
and ratty, abused furniture.
    
Fictitious stories occupy this tiny, dim
apartment, birthed on the lips of
rebellious juveniles whose tongues
pierce the ears of our elders.

In a forsaken corner, Jeremy lounges
awkwardly on a grubby-plaid sofa that
suitably complements his button-down shirt.  
I join him.

Behind his right ear rests a lonely cigarette, while
another sits snug between his lips, set ablaze
by the 1968 Slim Model Zippo he inherited from
his beloved grandfather.

His transparent sense of self-worth emanates
from his grubby, grease-stained hands, scuffed boots,
blotchy-checkered flannels, and faded blue jeans
that are completely obliterated with holes.

I look into his pale blue eyes, the depth of which
often goes unrecognized.  Jeremy is a soft-hearted,
pudgy youngster with the kind of chunky cheeks
that all grandparents love to torture.  

But his marred, acne-ridden face betrays the transition
that has been forced upon him.  Slowly, his trademark
grin appears across his face – subtle, mischievous, and
typically without reason.  But this time it appears justified.

Jeremy takes a moment’s break from his cigarette to drop two
hits of acid.  A new drug for him, he hopes to find relief from
his seething anxiety, evidenced now by the wide expansion of his
chest as he takes another, more lengthy and powerful pull from his cigarette.

The mundane chatter that fills the room continues, a seeming
necessity to offset any potential awkward silence. I feel as if
this noise is closing in around us.  But just as suddenly as I
feel overwhelmed by this sensation, the noise stops.

I look around, noticing everyone’s eyes staring in my
direction.  Jeremy is still next to me, now giggling
like a little school girl.
I begin to feel sick.

Jeremy swiftly leans forward, giving his
cigarette a premature but honorable
death, eliminating its glow as he smashes
the cherry into tiny bits against the ashtray.

As he sits back against the couch, I can see that
his eyes are now indifferent. Foreign.  With a perplexed
and fascinated stare, he watches the pearly-white smoke
slowly slither upwards towards the ceiling.

There’s no question in my mind that his
soul has fled. Jeremy sinks further into the
couch, turning his vacant eyes in my direction.
I want to *****.

His high-pitched giggle has now subsided into a
low whimper.  Gradually extending his left arm into
the air, he tilts it from side-to-side, examining it as if
an infant discovering his genitals for the first time.  

Bike wheels appear in the corners of the room.
Entertained, his eyes rapidly zigzag from the
corners of the walls to his hands. He asks me
if I can see the wheels. I don’t respond.

Intervals of psychotic emotion begin to cycle. Jeremy’s eyes
fill with tears as he tries to understand the hallucinations
engulfing him.  The expression on his face betrays the reality that
he has stepped onto the never-ending theme-park ride from hell.  

Together we leave and walk to the bus station, Jeremy
walking slowly and whimsically. The bus arrives,
and I hand him a few crumpled, single-dollar
bills as I attempt to instruct him where to get off.  

All I can envision is his mother’s first reaction to her son’s arrival.  
Would she collapse at her son’s knees, crying like a mother whose boy
has come home from war?  Would he forever be an awkward guest
at the dinner table? Would she disown him?  Would he become a feral child?






I no longer know what day it is. I am surrounded by lockers
and students, trapped in a tunnel of shadowy walls.  As I stand
alone, I find myself entranced by the blinding, January sunlight
that floods through the double doors a mile away.

My vision is unexpectedly blocked by a figure
standing in front of me. Clothed in little but jeans
and a bright, white t-shirt, Jeremy stares at me, his eyes
mirroring the emptiness I now feel.  

“Do you have a lighter?”  My hands pointlessly search my pockets for
what I already know is not there. “No, man. Sorry.” A look of confusion
spreads over his face, and I suddenly cannot help but notice the sick irony
of the scene in front of me - Jeremy flooded in light as if born again.  

My thoughts linger here too long, and just as swiftly as Jeremy
appeared, he is a mile away sauntering out through those double
doors. Estranged, I continue to stand here, hoping with
futility that this isn’t the last time I have looked upon him.
Year: 1995
madeline may May 2013
any hope I ever had left long ago
lost in the wind
a kite with a broken string
the scissors held in the trembling hands
of my mother
and now she wonders
where the child she once loved
has gone
and I don't have the heart
to tell her
that she burned the kite with a
gas station zippo lighter
and the ashes were poured
into a glass
of merlot.
Eli Seth Salazar Nov 2014
Clink!
Zip ...zip..zipp
No matter how many times you try to ignite the fire, the flame will not kindle without a spark to the fuel.
A gas as thin as air, and as invisible as emotions.
A spark to arouse the very atom of the fire
a spark at the right time, at the right spot.
a spark such as the one we felt when our eyes met for the very first time.
it comes down to
a fascination with his Zippo lighter

his flamboyant wrist flicking the
silver lid open
and closed

it feels wrong,
this nauseous overdose of each other

falling in love with the metallic sound,
working its magic, and
reminding me of a time
when he was

special.

Written by Sara Fielder © Apr 2017
Patricia Drake Jul 2014
They are objects
Of no importance
In our lives
Often carelessly scattered
Ominous
Over ripe
Crinkled
Left
For somebody else
To pick up
But he takes them
To centre stage
On big canvases
With lots of colours
And no filter
Even sewn up wounds
Shine
Beyond the ordinary
Everyday decadence
They become parts
In our stories
Like memories of past
Or future lives
Like they have not been
Before
He saw them
This way
And let us see them
Too
Poetic review  of Cornelius Völker's solo exhibition at Esbjerg Museum of Contemporary Art
August Mar 2013
I read something from a long time ago.
And it made me cry.
The thunder outside told me to shut up.
And then I realized it was raining.
But I stopped crying.
Because I'm not supposed to, cry, I mean.
And I grabbed a cigarette.
And my zippo that says lucky on it.
Made of '04.
I love that lighter.
I went outside and lit it.
But I didn't want my mom to come out.
And see how I was.
So I started walking in the rain.
I didn't want my cigarette to get hit by the rain.
So I stuck it underneath my shirt.
And then I walked.
And while I was walking, I tripped.
I accidentally burned my belly button.
How the **** did I manage that.

I'm so stupid

So I walked to the side of the house.
There is a little porch big enough for one.
I finished my cigarette with my eyes closed.
Just listening to the rain.
When it was done, I walked up to the steps.
And I sat down, still getting pelted with water.
I realized I couldn't keep sitting, I was shaking.
So I got up and started walking towards the back of the house.
I walked to the very back, towards the alleyway.
Making sure to drag my feet in the puddles, soaking my pajama pants.
I got to the back gate.
And I started crying again.

You are hopeless, this is hopeless, what are you even doing here?

The thunder told me to shut up again.

You are wasteless

I saw my old trampoline and started jumping on it.
When I was little, I used to sing to the rain.
I would sing good songs, to try and soothe it.
Never sing 'rain rain go away'.
That's makes the rain upset.
And the thunder says to stop.
So I jumped.
And I sang a little bit.
Then I laid down and closed my eyes.
Just got completely soaked, y'know.

You are going to be okay, everything is okay.

Just felt the pitter patter of rain drops on me.
Tried to bury my zippo in my clothes so it wouldn't get wet.
Then I got up, cried a little more.
And I walked back.
I walked back towards the front of the house slowly.

You are going to be okay, everything is okay.

Dragging my feet in puddles.

I miss you Grant, I hate you Sam, and I love you..Well, you know who you are.

Just getting completely soaked.

You are going to be okay, everything is okay.

And I went inside, smiled at my mom.
Went downstairs.
And changed my clothes.
Began getting ready for work.


You are going to be okay, everything is okay.





*You are not okay, everything is not going to be okay.
© Amara Pendergraft 2013
Ritalin Rat Jan 2014
Anxiety.
It's like a big wave that crashes over you.
It drowns you almost.
It's like being drowned.
You can hold your breath at first.
You can act like your fine.
But then it builds.
And builds.
And builds.
Until you break and you can't breathe.
Your gasping for air but you don't get any.
You can't hear.
Only muffled screams.
Telling you to calm down.
But you can't.
You have no control.
None.
Zero.
Zippo.
Zilch.
~m.a
Max Neumann Jul 2021
Wondaland, a.k.a. The Magic Metropolis
June 13th, 2021

Esteemed Readers and Writers, Gangstapoets and Hangarounds,

Gangstapoetry proudly declares that CREATION 96 is now the second unit of our Global Movement.

We are welcoming our new members. You are now a part of us. Much Love.

Tizzop


GANGSTAPOETS


**** 13.8  *  MIKEY DA STREETWISE  *  EAZY LEGS *  ADORABLE GREGGIE  *  MONICA MATADORA  *  SLY BOOTYGIRL  *  COLLAPSIN CHAOT  *  THE LADY REVENANT  *  BEEN  *  WOOZY WIZARD  *  TELLY  *  CRATERSKATER  *  CHEYENNE IS STARVIN  *  CASPER THE PSYCHOTIC GHOST 


GANGSTAPOETS


DESERT SAMURAI  *  PRESTON  *  ALBOW  *  SNOWBLADE  MUTANT  *  SAMBA  * 
UNKLE OF DOOM  *  PLAY  *  ANTWONE  * 
BOBBY BUTCHAH  *  TINA  *  JOEY  *  DREAM SEEKER  *  TRANCE DISCIPLE  *
*  MOTH  *  DR. ****  *  KOBA COBRATONGUE 


GANGSTAPOETS


SVETLANA  *  GUNJAHTOOL  *  LOUIS ORTGIES  *  MISHU BRAVE BEAR  *  GÖKHAN TATCHOUOP  *  DESOCIALIZED KID  *  WIND DIGGER  *  SABIÇ  * JUAN  * DEAL  *  LUCY TARANTULA  *  TEXAS HOLD ME  *  SOUTHSIDE DRILL ASSASIN  *  SHAWN  *  JAMMED JAY 



GANGSTAPOETS


THCO  *  TIMMY ROTTEN  *  PLATIN ZIPPO  *  WORLDWIDE WAGGING  *  ZOMBIE NEIGHBOR  *  BUTCH  *  KWAME'S LOST SON  *  TRANCE24/7  * JIMMY  *  JOSE, FELIPE & CATHERINE  * LAST OPTION PHIL  *  KIAN  *  MAX NEWMAN  *  MAGIC GOON
Erika Castaldo Dec 2015
I remember it so clearly,
The dark oak of the table,
The smell of her cigarette smoke.
We would sit every night and play
500 Rummy.

Then she started to get weaker.
I would watch in horror
As my grandmother’s hands shook
With every set she put down.

The oak table turned to the
Bland plastic of the one in the hospital
And her cigarettes were replaced with
An IV and an oxygen tank.

The next night
I sat in the living room,
Glaring at the empty table
And the unopened pack of cards.
They mocked me.

I dressed in black today,
When everyone tossed dirt
I tossed an Ace of Spades
And an old Zippo.
addy r Apr 2015
you laughed. laughed heartily while we were at your garage getting drunk on happiness. at some point I picked your gasoline up and I began to douse myself with it.
your hands didn't stop me at first. in fact you were amazed that I was even doing that in the first place. after twenty minutes you had a Zippo in your hand and you set me aflame.
I revelled in your fire. I relished it like no other.
after a while you got bored of me. seeing the same old flame burn was way too monotonous for you
yet you said nothing and just watched while I continued pouring your gasoline on my bodice.
I realised that you had stopped lighting me.
I asked why.
there was no reply, only, "I am not worthy of you." in quiet hushed tones.
I missed your fire.
I grabbed your Zippo and set myself alight, but again you only watched and it did not feel the same.
there was no warmth in self-inflicted burns, and your eyes seemed to wander.
here i am, cinders of that one time, and still I wish you would set me alight again.

-x.o.
Mike Essig Apr 2015
Elegy for the Forgotten Oldsmobile**

July 4th and all is Hell.
Outside my shuttered breath the streets bubble
with flame-loined kids in designer jeans
looking for people to **** or razor.
A madman covered with running sores
is on the street corner singing:
O beautiful for spacious skies…
This landscape is far too convenient
to be either real or metaphor.
In an alley behind a 7-11
a Black **** dressed in Harris tweed
preaches fidelity to two pimply ******
whose skin is white though they aren’t quite.
And crosstown in the sane precincts
of Brown University where I added rage
to Cliff Notes and got two degrees
bearded scientists are stringing words
outside the language inside the guts of atoms
and I don’t know why I’ve come back to visit.

O Uncle Adrian! I’m in the reservation of my mind.
Chicken bones in a cardboard casket
meditate upon the linoleum floor.
Outside my flophouse door stewed
and sinister winos snore in a tragic chorus.

The snowstorm t.v. in the lobby’s their mother.
Outside my window on the jumper’s ledge
ice wraiths shiver and coat my last cans of Bud
though this is summer I don’t know why or where
the souls of Indian sinners fly.
Uncle Adrian, you died last week—cirrhosis.
I still have the photo of you in your Lovelock
letterman’s jacket—two white girls on your arms—
first team All-State halfback in ’45, ’46.

But nothing is static. I am in the reservation of
my mind. Embarrassed moths unravel my shorts
thread by thread asserting insectival lust.
I’m a naked locoweed in a city scene.
What are my options? Why am I back in this city?
When I sing of the American night my lungs billow
Camels astride hacking appeals for cessation.
My mother’s zippo inscribed: “Stewart Indian School—1941”
explodes in my hand in elegy to Dresden Antietam
and Wounded Knee and finally I have come to see
this mad *** nation is dying.
Our ancestors’ murderer is finally dying and I guess
I should be happy and dance with the spirit or project
my regret to my long-lost high school honey
but history has carried me to a place
where she has a daughter older than we were
when we first shared flesh.

She is the one who could not marry me
because of the dark-skin ways in my blood.
Love like that needs no elegy but because
of the baked-***** possibility of the flame lakes of Hell
I will give one last supper and sacrament
to the dying beast of need disguised as love
on deathrow inside my ribcage.
I have not forgotten the years of midnight hunger
when I could see how the past had guided me
and I cried and held the pillow, muddled
in the melodrama of the quite immature
but anyway, Uncle Adrian…
Here I am in the reservation of my mind
and silence settles forever
the vacancy of this cheap city room.
In the wine darkness my cigarette coal
tints my face with Geronimo’s rage
and I’m in the dry hills with a Winchester
waiting to shoot the lean, learned fools
who taught me to live-think in English.

Uncle Adrian…
to make a long night story short,
you promised to give me your Oldsmobile in 1962.
How come you didn’t?
I could have had some really good times in high school.
Indian/Native America/First Citizen (take your PC pick) poet of considerable talent and power.
A Mareship Jun 2014
I bury into the memory foam with a
Strange boy's finger up my ****.
Stubby white soldier,
Cherry ****,
Phone off.

Lily- pads wind their way towards the bathroom
(pizza boxes, six pizza boxes)
"skip carefully towards the ****** stash
or else you'll sink...

they're under the sink

...uh, uhhh, come back and

sink your way in"

Welcome to the Bad Life Bingo!
Every hour is the end of the world,
There's nothing to play for
and no time to play it in...

...I am shaking off this dry truth
with a flannel that has seen better days.
My english tan is coming off
and nothing works.

He tries to light a joint in my bed

the zippo strikes three -
click - fzzzz
click - fzzzz
click - fzzzz
and you're out .
ych
david badgerow Mar 2015
we live our lives in harmony according to no one else
and after a saturday night full of dope fiends and loud club music
i wake with her giant hair covering my face like a black sunflower
or wisps of a bonnet stretched around my chin
she is a sedated beauty after growing up in an all girl ***** den
i begin searching for her magenta lips with my own
stopping thirsty at the softest spot behind her ear and
this moment is immortal glowing ferociously in my mind

it's a misty sunday morning i'm
watching cartoons in my underwear
while she paints a bowl of oranges on the kitchen table
for the twelfth time this month
when she has it perfect she strips
the windows of their canary yellow curtains and
dances passed me in sock feet singing cake for breakfast
with a japanese cherry blossom branching toward her belly-button

i am drowsily courting my lady after practicing
barefoot naked yoga on the front porch together
like a cricket struggling at a zippo touch on a midnight
tree branch after the rain stops hammering rooftops like meteors
but the air is still wet hot waiting on a sunshow and
the water has sealed my legs together

after following her into the kitchen hands
lunge fast and happy into crevices of hair and sweat
she poses with a wistful smile as
i press her into a tile corner and she
becomes malleable on top of my fingertips
whispering you are the mountain
into my dilating sternum
and we give the sun to each other
two warriors in an open rainbow
alpha rhythm projected on the wall

after drinking a cup of grapefruit juice
she joins me in a short pair of worn out levi's
and a torn sleeveless shirt for an overcast sunday
afternoon walk by a fissure creek as pine limbs
bend and crack overhead in middle florida
we exhale royal purple smoke clouds in a
deep loop through remembered shame

after a long day of frolicking breathless along
perfect beaches of connecting energies
our toes entangled rolling in the grass
i see the clouds reflected in her green eyes
with her head tilted back toward the ceiling
and lightning fingerbanging a starless sky outside
my hands once again find the deep reaches of her hair
and i pull her close to kiss her face muscles tight
with pain from laughter i confess that the sound
of her late night heartbeat still turns me on
nick armbrister Dec 2019
Boom! goes the dynamite as we fish for fish
No line, net or hook needed
Just a few sticks of dynamite and a Zippo
Light the stick and toss it in
Wait a few seconds and Boom!
There’s a dozen fish ready for the ***
Try not to use fast burn sticks
You’ll end up in heaven or hell
And make sure you throw it far
You don’t want splash backs
Or to sink your boat if afloat
I’ve caught sticklebacks and great whales
And a U-boat and dozen other types besides
Ate my fill in twenty nations
While dynamite fishing
It’s no good for the reefs
But we pay off the officials
No permits needed
You know how it is cash talks
So I’m allowed to fish where I want
And am off to France soon
Followed by Spain and Italy
To do some illegal Boom! fishing...
from Side of the Hill – Varied Poems...  Nick Armbrister
Zero Nine Apr 2017
Hit too hot hit too hot
Now my throat burns
Watching Workaholics
I'd say Blake is my favorite
His hair is cute I like his face
Wild red hair creating umbrella space
Flick the engraved Zippo the gift from wifey
Blunt in the bowl smoking
Spent ten on a three
My other lover might sit with us soon
Three in a room sharing hands
Possibly kisses, massive attack
Playing mezzanine we'll either touch
Each others' skin or carry conversation
As it turns out I've found peace with
Either outcome or any other potentiality
While it's pleasing to be receiving I'll be
Lying if I tell you I don't appreciate the fine
Details in simply spoken word between us
.....
David boyer Jul 2018
West bound
kroooaaooo  kroooaaooo!
I stand at the door of an old Santa Fe car, snow falls silent,  dusting everything in visual sense, the better January air bites my cheeks ,as two hundred tons of steel push through the night.

kroooaaooo kroooaaooo!

One by one. The orange glow slumbering towns, passes  by
A Hudson rambles ,down the blacktop towards the crossings

kroooaaooo kroooaaooo!

I retrieve my zippo ,and light my cigar and melancholy ,takes over
The sun peeks over the horizon ,reflecting like a billion diamonds nestled in the snowy Fields.

kroooaaooo kroooaaooo!

I daydream of a diner with black coffee, cold marble counters eggs and bacon.
I daydream of a  cheap room ,with a soft bed to rest my aching mind
A gleeful sleep.
kroooaaooo kroooaaooo!

The whistle blows  Kroooaaooo ,leaving the sole evidence that we were there we push down the steel trail ,into the pale dawn with Miles.

Kroooaaooo!

Miles and miles with no sleep,
I miss Octobers copper air,                                                             ­                                   Old honest me,
I seek to find.
A full October moon,
A warm wind,
autumn leaves,
The sound of silence ,in All its distractions.

kroooaaooo!
Samir Oct 2011
of straight jackets...
different color for each purpose

dancing shoes to match
polished and ready for me to skateboard with

someone rob me...

i want someone to hurt me...

i'm disintegration on the inside

collapsed lungs

choking

bleeding while i ***** my vital organs
all over the gravel my face forwards into

i turn around and look at the sky
as i reach for a cigarette out my front left pocket
i keep my phone in the right one...

no one ever calls though...

so i take out the zippo she got me on our anniversary
and as i inhale and death fills my lungs

i wonder...

would anyone stop me if i were to be jumping off of a cliff in this straight jacket...

sideways... all i see are different shoes scurrying past my face

and i wonder...

is my closet too full?

maybe it is time i got a new wardrobe

or maybe it is time i put myself in one of those shiny closets

you know...

the ones that you wear your clothes in.

they make you wear a fancy straight jacket

black with silver lines...

and a noose around your neck
designer most likely

you know its the one from that riddle...
"who makes it but doesn't use it... who uses it but doesn't enjoy it"
i fail to remember, it goes something like that...

anyways, it's the best you'll ever look in your life...

i've never understood that...

who's going to be looking at you when its closed?
Joe Jun 2015
Habit defeats,
ripping wounds appear in my mind
in the form of ash;
Tucked between my lips.
They swim around me.
It's not what I wanted, it's not the way it was supposed to be.
A life barely lived.
"They all quit you," the voice says.
Tradition over the mind.
One long hit;
a raw, beautiful pain in my throat.
Winners never quit,
or another of thousand cliches.
The zippo ignites.
...don't worry, it won't hurt...
ahhh nicotine
Savio Reyes Mar 2014
We were up all thru out the terrible night
sniffling like ******* addicts
like sick little youth 1930's depression oh the Great
our fat lips hung like dying mosquitoes in the coming brothel of winter and her long scorched dress
that I inflamed with my Vietnam stolen lover zippo of gasoline
in a Sober frenzy of jealousy
now her Glare is angled narrowly at lust
tobacco
coughing up and down side ways in dreams as if I were a butterfly addicted to cigars

we were up all thru out the night
counting our skin cells
watching the television laugh at our faces
He sobbed “how the orange metallic streets
bent to our theatrical emotions on 12th street”
oh the glory of our thoughts and touch was ransom
was devil
was god
was god watching in his leather seat?
Wearing his glasses
reading the Bible?
Or does he read Russian Literature
or does he only read Latin

I and I were up all last night
guessing Morphine
using the Sister's pay-phone copper to connect with silly 3 eyed hipster hookers
their eyes wide and green with white salt like a ***** lake
that you stumble upon drunkardly with a laughing Angel
High on Cough Syrup and mortality
amused
exhilarated
passion-ated by this new opportunity for Adventure's drawback which is death or Boredom

MY innocents
is deteriorating with Age
like the alcoholic richness of 100 year old Wine
sadly
money monday
didn't go to church
hope that lady with wisdom in her hands forgives me

then I ate
now I starve
clutching at the windows
painting a boy staring at me

wondering if I were real
As I wonder if his thoughts are my own

We were up all night
translating the moon's shadows and hiccups into finger paintings and strep throat.
Revolute Jay Nov 2013
You need to know this. Whatever this is supposed to be.

You know what I mean when I say this.
If I look at a star, a bud of a new flower to be blooming next week
The scars on the arms of the man waiting
Sitting right next to me
Of I grab a zippo that's been in the sun
The burns make my hands drop it
The world around leaves me spun
I stare at a fire I built
Amazed at what I have done
But still the world leaves me at zero to one

I stare at the sky, and the plant, and the man
Wondering how much longer on my legs I can stand
Because everything I look at my eyes stick to like glue
Everything, anything, brings me right back to you.
As if every single element, atom and nucleus groans
At the day I was forced to remember with such darkened tone
That I have always and remain standing alone.

Now, this time, I mean this moment, the present
Had allowed me to see what is quite not and quite relevant
If you little by little continue loosening grasp on the covenant
Than I shall rip off my skin for the evidence
Of ever having painfully been welded against it
My due penance.
Remnants.

If I am forgotten, do not lift a mind's memory's frame to remember
Do not look for me, for my picture will have been completely dismembered

For my own real-life self's internal tremor,
I will have to rip every photograph so as to never remember.
Someone said forever.
Forgotten means never.

If you take a moment to focus your mind
On the countless theme songs, and background noise of my life
Be it through the love and the pain and the might
And maybe one day I'll get word you decide
To leave me at the riverbank where I had taken root

Mark that day on a calendar closest to you.
On that day, that hour, that millisecond in time
I will spread my arms and rip my roots and the vines
Off in search of another place unconfined.

But if--every single **** day,
Every counted passing hour.
You feel you really are that future-blooming flower
With your vines crawl up towards that sunlight that is me
Use your lips to find mine and I'll cut you from your tree
And in my heart's vase you'll be free.
All that fire will be revived, relived, remembered.
Nothing is extinguished or forgotten.
Deep down I know I will not allow myself to grow putrid and rotten.

My love feeds on your love, my lovely beloved.
As long as you're alive, it will be in your hands.
Without leaving a vine wrapped around my legs.
This life is our land.
Calling it ours, one day hand in hand.
Samy Ounon Aug 2013
I saw it a few days ago
I chanced a glance into the void
The place in which all emotions fall and seclude themselves
The place where there are no stars and there is nothing but loud space
She'd just tore away from me
A small tear in the muslin
But she pulled and pulled
Until the void was exposed in my shredded star chart
That subtle darkness in the undertones undulating thickly
Turbulent waves beneath the glorified surface thinness
And behind the closed door it-
It was just a second really
And the hopeless scientist behind me
The dark and big and pragmatic and meek
He didn't see
But he knew
And he wanted it back
And again
She left me frayed

In another winter
Before I could look to the skies and find meaning
When our world was lit only by the fires of forthcoming fears and futile flickers
What clouded the far-off pinpricks, the soft pinching of reality knocking at my door?
It was her straight-edge fragility
And her straight-edge solution
Now her world is lit by a different kind of fire
A fire that numbs
So she said
A fire that heals
So she claims
A flickering flame that destroys every membrane of my being
And binds my hands to my feet
And shoots wildly across the sky
So I cry
And I weep
And I, a universe of atoms
     feel like a lost atom in her universe
I safely encased in my crinkled paper, but
Hot holes slowly eat their way through

No maps or constellations face any competition before her
But all she sees is a world of comets and fire
My short fuse is wilted
So she unzips her skin with a zippo
And she freezes time
And she runs across my horizon
Bright, beautiful, blazing
She is forever above my hands
Her path unseen and unforseeable
A spectators daydream
The astrologists' nightmare
Sundown in the Paris of the prairies
Wheat kings have all treasures buried
And all you hear are rusty breezes
Pushing the weathervane Jesus

In his Zippo lighter he sees the killer's face
Maybe it's someone in the killers' place
Twenty years for nothing, well, that's nothing new
Besides, no one's interested in something you didn't do

Wheat kings and pretty things
Let's just see what the morning brings

There's a dream he dreams where his high school's dead and stark
It's a museum where we are locked in it after dark
Where the the halls are all lined all yellow, grey and sinister
Hung with pictures of our parent's Prime Ministers

Wheat kings and pretty things
Let's just see what the morning brings

Late breaking story on the CBC
A nation whispers, "We always knew he'd go free"
They add "You can't be fond of living in the past"
'Cause if you are then no way you're going to last"

Wheat kings and pretty things
Let's just see what the morning brings
Wheat kings and pretty things
Let's just see what the morning brings



Gord Downie
Just one of the many pieces written by The Tragically Hip's front man Gord Downie.
Klaus Baumgarten Jun 2014
The rapid Pulses increase as  air finally fuels the fire
It came to combust. to spark the flint to the fullest
To centralize all that could be, a widespread social desire
forgoing logic in the name of being
the shattering of illusion is, you guessed it, a figment fractured formally from the rock
obsidian reflecting afterimages.  motions of forced feigned reaction
a wordless line of thought, speechless in it's pure refracted intent.
to beam these ideas to that manifestation, not to dance around fumbling a thesaurus
admiration follows the music and turns the dial accordingly.  ******* scenesters
it humbles to and fro, perpetually ignoring the perfect fine tune
If being is becoming, then what was it?
I could say the words, whisper into lulls, look down the full extent of the great Y in the sky
Would the divine feminine find it's way down those dark channels and see before the divide?
and become the she that should be with me
Am I the He that should be with She?
These concepts sometimes seem a superstitious pogrom, only in place for the sake of continuity
THE HUBRIS!!!!
geese Louise, If only we had counters for practically meaningless revelations and a tic-tac for each one.
Man-Oh-Man, would my breath be too fresh for primetime.
The loaves rise as the yeast fornicate in the manner of Hottentots
gotta butter that bread, son
Too many fuzzies are broken by too many Lennys
too many sparks are extinguished in the name of normality
Too many mountains erode to grains of sand in the name of eventuality
but now they're stoically perfected and ready to be shaped into castles
so much of creation is for destruction, forcing impermanence so repeat customers can sully their honey
words...um... sentences.. and. thaaattt. oh yeah, cognitive thought
People should not fear conversations.  No premise nor opinion should be overlooked due to emotions
You can't fake Lockjaw,  I know you're just chewing that sugar daddy to buy some time
Look not to the answers you find, but to the questions you ask.  The real truth is there.
yeah, It's kinda the inverse of the norm and it usually feels weird when you feed your ***
But it's nowhere near as painful as the **** that comes out your mouth sometimes
I'm scared too
And this stupid Scar on my knee!! AAAAHHH!!! never ever ever take your knees for granted!!
Smile when you see a friend
Smile when you see a frown
Frown when you're upside down
But try not too rhyme too much, it's corny
I write for those I've admired, in the name of the will to create
something far beyond the corporeal, adjacent to the surreal... I mean alabama
stop yourself when you inch to a serious concluding gorge
You know, my father was a bridgemaker, *****
You can't solve all your problems with fire.  I'd like to think that Prometheus said that before lending us his lighter
hmmm. this Zippo's almost out of fluid... pif whatever, we can just monkeyfuck each other until someone figures out a better way
Laugh and don't get too taken up by the rhythm.  Don't polish your stones, no one else can see your pretty face in them anyway.
A persons ease of words on the fly can sometimes be related to their ease of telling lies.
Where's all this coming from?
I'm not sure, but I hope it finds who it's going to.
Bernardo Soares Feb 2015
Different places seem the same
And once your down you can't quite explain it, like a fading dream
You're in and then out to preach
To muddle through an imperial speech
Walk unashamed
You play the game
Until the castles breeched
Soldiering on through the blind war with all weather shades and a score to settle.
The air tastes funny yet I ain't laughing
Incensed
What shakes you, resonance
What makes you, persistence
Rainbows but not a drop of rain there she goes again and again
Case it and flash a zippo at your homework inscribed with S.T.U
Time and again the disposable friends recycle themselves degrade
You shook me all night long and as I begin to shake back
Your dust drops
I'm unemployable
Unmistakable
Unthinkable
Undeniable
Untenable
And often incredible
But impossibly unlovable
Love
For no other reason
Like a movement
By the hand
Of a spectacular
Like you did
Cos you could
And you meant it.
Stay away it's just a game we play
Holding you to ransom trying to take a swipe
At fame.
Heavy heads drag heavy legs slowly scraping by
Propped up by the magical
The illusive
Dollar sign.
******* I knew it something's very very wrong.
No matter what we cannot simply play along.
Changing shape from place to place
On the edge of something real
Slowly realising you're running on a wheel.
No more
cigar, cigarette cigarillo
don't smoke no more legal ****
ain't chasing a dragon
don't speed me up the street
oh my god I'll tell you though
My Zippo is litigated to candle
Kim Keith Oct 2010
Inspired by “The Burning Giraffe” by Salvador Dali*


I am defined by what clutters my drawers:

• Aortic—a tattered matchbook with a phone number I never called
    scrawled to the inside cover as an inscription to everything
    I never wanted.  A half-empty can of butane with a missing
    cap alongside a dollar’s worth of pennies that weight a scrap
    torn from a newspaper tragedy: four killed, faulty smoke
    detectors to blame.

• Ankle—a charred picture, curled in upon itself and kept as a reminder
              of what I could become; a blackened nest as an omen of
  losing all I’ve ever known and an ointment tube, squeezed
  in the middle as a talisman against blistering tempers.

• Thigh—an empty Zippo with a scarred case, dull and pointless; a coiled
             stove element with an ashen haze that could testify that water
doesn’t douse all flames; and an oily fuse, plucked from the top
of my head to serve as a yardstick of minutes, seconds, then
nothing.

• Knee—a fine layer of charcoal dust and half of a briquette from last
            summer’s backyard barbecue when the wind kicked up to spray
red embers into the air like a meteor shower, streaking in bright
sparks and fluttering to shrieks and stop-drop-rolls along dry grass
until the itching ceased and the bubbles formed in small foamy
patches along arms and strapless backs and sun-red cheeks.
First published by LIES/ISLE: http://liesisle.com/issue04/fuse.html
Mike Essig Nov 2016
An obvious homage to AG*

America it is time for an update.
I am still sick of your insane demands,
just shut up and try to listen.
America, it's 4 AM. November 5th, 2016
and you have become a shambling giant
crushing us all as you stumble on.
America we have come to a parting of the ways.
America your founding fathers
were rich white men who sold their truths
for power and then ***** their slaves
and whipped the People into shape.
America Clinton and Trump
really are the best you have to offer.
America I am voting NO!
I no longer accept your vicious lies.
The Wobblies and anarchists were right.
To rise from the ashes something
must first burn and die.
America I am holding a Zippo.
America I am thinking about you.
Your cities are scoured by ******;
your heartland drenched in ****.
Your jails overflow with potheads.
Your police have become assassins
who cry like little girls
when their victims shoot back.
Your banks have stolen
all the money in the world
yet I am broke as usual.
In the 60s I actually thought
there was some hope of redemption.
Youth and drugs create such illusions.
Now I live alone with a sociopathic cat.
My friends are dead or scattered.
I am a poet in a country that can't read.
America your brainwashed minions
stare into their TVs, awaiting further orders.
America I don’t own a TV.
America we are well and truly ******.
America once I fought a war for you.
I would never do that again.
America you have turned your guns on hope
and devoured it, feathers and all.
Now that is a Thanksgiving dinner.
America don't you ever weary
of eating your citizens' dreams?
America let me get to my angry point.
I am declaring my independence from you.
I am in you but not of you.
Stick your baubles up your ***.
You have enough slaves. You don't need me.
So long America. I gave you an honest chance.
America, don't call me, I'll call you.
Wanderer Jul 2013
Houston woke up early. Yawning. A cigarette away from just packing his meager possessions and leaving everything this dusty room did not have to offer. A spark of zippo flame had his lungs drowning in chemical filth. Sometimes it felt good to get *****. Often enough now that he had forgotten what it felt like to be clean. The yellowed pages of his favorite books stared back at him in a mismanaged pile on his writing desk. What few thoughts he had managed to scripple out kept them company on crumpled napkins and ink stained pages.The sheets a sweaty twist around his pale form. He knew something had to give or he really was going to go over to Silvia's to just "talk" but do what he had been thinking about more often of late and  drown her in the kitchen  sink sloshing over with ***** dish water she never drained. Gods but that woman drove him crazy. The clanging of glass every time he took a step a testament to those emotions. All he could do to cope with the damage she had wrought was lose himself in a bottle. Any bottle would suffice but his favorite was spiced ***. It used to burn going down but they had gotten so used to each other it was like old people having *** with the added bonus of actually reaching fulfillment.  The company he had kept last night lay sadly on it's side next to his worn mattress. It's cap somewhere in the wreckage of Houston's hundred dollar a month room. He looked down at it and sighed, picking up the neck and now stale sips left in the bottom. He knew that this one swallow would only stoke the flames of his desire for more yet he could not help himself. Autopilot had taken control weeks ago. The glass on his lips was comforting but the not enough taste left on his tongue was sour. Today. Cracking of his spine echoed as he stretched. Today he was going to get revenge.
She's numb
To the last crumb
Eyes like stale bread,
Lying there as if dead
Her bed no coffin,
But wood not lacking
She welcomes no feeling,
Her hair pushpins
Nails like chalk,
She won't talk
All her thoughts are sins
Send her reeling
Hear a cat hacking
Fur ***** and she's coughing
Blood into her hands
Blink again
And it's saliva and phlegm,
Clouds and rain
Are all to her; pain,
The skie's greys are black
Makes her heart a heavy sack,
To push much less carry
She can't even cry
Just sigh all dark and dreary,
Return to sleep, living lie,
As her hope is flickering
But she's a Zippo among BICs
And though her thoughts are bickering,
No heart beating is just she's a Rolex with no ticks...
© okpoet

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