Chasing this into that chasing that into this
chasing silhouettes into a half assed crevasse
echoing " boy what is your purpose on this earth earth.
Poking the dark for a piece of velvet, a note from a harp
A claw pokes at the skin of the soul
a change of direction is needed again... pronto
Mamma was right nothing good comes from out of the dark.
Eating the light like a greasy moth
pitting parched lips against brightness.
Just another false prophet holding an empty bic
in the cul-de-sac of middle class wish.
At least it was an honest attempt to find a grain of meaning.
In the dusk of my breath, the same silhouette yaps...
"Man" what is your purpose on this earth.
Arid eyes
burn in the Mohave heat
where Camels
eat and smoke
dehydrated Frosted Flakes
with mold
and disease on them . . .
preserving
this mirage of life.
Here lies Martin Jacob "Sparky" Trent
Service Station Attendant
Smoking while fueling
Can be quite grueling
A flick of the Bic and away Sparky went.
Written November 14, 2022
The truth can’t be seen through blinders.
Eyes and ears covered with hatred.
The tongue’s ready-lash sidewinders,
twisting and spinning what’s sacred.
The truth, the fact, reality
masked - the masses bobble their heads.
The illusion of blasphemy
here, when the scripture’s left unread.
No need for truth, when it’s made up.
“What is truth,” plank’s in Pilate’s eye.
Pilate knows - the charges trumped-up.
Wolfish masses prefer a lie.
How often the accusation,
front page news, folks - everyone’s riled.
The leak, having no foundation,
reneged where no one looks - exiled.
But still the crowd cheers old nick.
The stage decked out in crimson fire.
A civil war waged with a Bic.
No matter the damage - it’s dire!
The law, “Love others as yourself,”
truculent in divisive ways -
‘stead hate and pride speech off-the-shelf.
Lollygagging verses… no one prays…
Spend time in the prayer closet.
It’s worth every cent! Spare time!
Hear God - work up the composite.
Don’t listen to the world. PEACE TIME!
9/3/2022
Teacher said to choose a passion
And explore where the wind takes us.
I like paper airplanes and fire, I said,
But what science starts with that?
My mind filled with flights of failure,
But my momma said,
You'll still be my favorite second place talent.
So I set it up, might as well try,
A launcher used to launch into the sky,
A timer to see the time fly by,
Fold the paper exactly right,
A cheap bic lighter to set it alight.
How long does it burn? How long does it fly?
My momma convinced me it'll be fine.
After all, she said,
You'll still be my favorite second place talent.
Now, needless to say
I didn't win.
I walked out the door
With a participation ribbon.
But when I remember the day,
No matter how old I get,
You'll still be my favorite second place talent.
To you I'm a number
A census head count
A baseline, statistic
Not special
Tantamount
A blip on a radar
A bump in the road
I'm just human traffic
A bipedal drone
I'm only a age range
A line on a graph
A check with a Bic pen
A dot on a map
I want you see me
Know who I am
That I breathe,
That I'm tangible
Just touch me again
Show me you want me
Tell me I count
Not one of the masses
Not common
Tantamount
Through a moron's dark light
I hear the muffled how of yesterday
black bars to every sin
No one knows I killed the inner wicked flipping the Bic close to the courted fuse
Jailer spit in my disgust every time where he had written my shape as water that drips from the stone and iron windows
they could not see her nature with his hidden tail from his back
her dolls blank eyes and hidden claws
until red eyes flash at me in violence creatures drawn from my way in
not lust of killing but killing to stop suffering from hell's own generals
need love for that unblaming sleep
Installed in cargo pockets,
A vivid-glass, a little green bag,
A pod, silverplatted case,
Which Guca-hides, Pallmalls, and a bic.
You're barfoot in tombstones.
You're father, son vulture slumped,
You befor etched letters on rock.
"Him", a glutton of Karma,
Rein ended, your fourteenth year,
Now, belly-heavy, smoking his brand.
On a Drive-by, visit home.
You're showing Gene shooter,
You're an arsenic lane of skin,
You tremble-digits, in belt loops.
A trailer in time,
Secluded woods, with pine scent,
Anger stranded from earshot,
Hand-fead, his hate's red attic.
Father giant, yelling lasting filth,
Son flesh impersonal,
Dark-spotted, and tie-dyed,
From Basketball champ fists.
You retreated-rightly to martyr mirth,
You still look for his bold heading,
Still Questing for embrace.
Pulling tube and ziplock from Cargo,
Following in bone-bared footsteps,
You spark, away walking,
Keeping his Armageddon.
I lie in this bed and just thank,
as my mind strays and plays tricks and pulls pranks. Deeper into the quagmire I sank.
My thoughts as free as a fish is in a
tank.
Frankly to be quiet frank, frankly I think Franky spoke frank, quite frank to the fact that Richard didn't know dick about the bic with the wick and the trick with the brick and Donald duck with his flying kangaroos.
Slick Willie told bold Billy that broke William was so silly and empty Phil can't feel it really but he can really fill it full.
Now Miss Millie told slick Willie to tell broke William to tell bold Billy that empty Phil should foot the bill really and not steal that was the deal.
But bold Billy told slick Willie to tell broke William to tell Miss Millie that empty Phil just ate a pill really and still will not foot the bill,
but after William, Billy and Willie drink their fill and feel silly, they will foot the bill for really, and charge it to empty Phil.
Their lighters
allow me to smoke
joints and cigarettes
that inspire depressing poetry
written in their pens' ink,
which I cut myself to with
their razors.
Thanks BIC!
Lighting A Fire
Bic
Light it, the fire
It's burning desire
Desire to be lit,an endless flicker
Like a time clock quite the ticker
I'm yearning, it's burning
The whole flame
You can out it out
It will change
Have you ever lit a grill
With the coals
Did you ever know that you had control
You can put vinegar and water
On it and it will calm down
That's what happens
When you light the fire
What if it were to rain
Would the flame still be lit
What if you wanted something so bad
You would do anything to have it
Light it, even when it's dim
Light it, when the tunnel is cold
Light it,Because it's in you
Light it for all you've been through
Light it until the flame is out
Then relight it that's what it's all about
Written by: Concetta Hardnett
12/26/2019
it was a dark and stormy night
a flick of a bic
and a radioactive polonium glow
he said he went ballistic
the other day
it was all over an interpretation
of what,
a psychotic little smile
I'm just Sancho Panza
a sidekick in this life
it's all good
I suppose.
Two candles flickered a fight
When the lights went out, just after midnight
One thought he was slick
When he blew out the other one's wick
So the other one had to fight without light
But the other one was quick
And he waxed up a trick
That indeed, was a little bit bright
At the site of the fight in the light of midnight
He flamed up from a flick of his Bic
Some say don't fear while others fret
On all of the happenings
We've struck a match to our past
"Now the house we've built is burning"
Our forefathers built with blood, sweat, and tears
The foundation we have here
Well into two hundred years
"What lessons are we learning"
The contract in which they wrote down
Constitutes sacred ground
Flick the Bic and burn it down
"Not worried over who we're hurting"
Generations yet to come
What will we be teaching them
That hard work makes great kindling
"Does anyone else find that disturbing"
Overtime it was bound to run its course
Now we know why Miss Liberty carries a torch
We tossed a molotov cocktail onto our own front porch
"Now the house we've built is burning
MISSING CHRISTMAS
memories i may or may not
recall. the year without a tree.
how long did our presents wait
for our return? kids squeal
with happiness, as only memories
are left, and a silent river hastens
too many days in fast motion.
mom and dad must still be
parents, sleeves dripping wet,
many towns left behind. trees
wave from the tops of cars,
from storefront windows.
pine needles stab at a speeding
station wagon, puddles splashing,
snow freezing dewy faces. heart
wants to stop but heaves heavily.
stop motion...dad stares a long time,
lingering as if fate has locked down
this moment. won’t there be
plenty more? but only his mother
will bring presents, year after year.
perhaps that is why, dad waits
until the last minute to put up a tree,
then takes it down again, just as fast.
11/28/2017
Childhood Christmas Memories Contest
Sponsor - Bic Gi-Sa
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