Nectarous taste would not surcease
in torture now that’s my showpiece;
I sit in a hard chair pallid,
there’s solace in something solid;
Give fine obeisance to the madness,
decayed memories savor sadness;
Such enmity in your answer,
the pinnacle of gross grandeur;
Your lotion now my nepenthe,
letting me drown so easily;
Rocking on this rickety porch,
that scent hits me like a blowtorch;
Alone, I want to be swaddled
in each moment that we bottled;
I’m locked in a living tomb
rusted with such a stale gloom;
Filthy stench, can you smell it?
Perfume for some to covet;
In a cataleptic state
circumvention seen too late;
Doppelgänger could not withdraw,
prose signed ‘Edgar Ravenclaw’.
In the rarest quiet of my mind
I think about you sweet Angel love...
the maelstrom of users and abusers
that splashed your wings with blood.
Smeared coal dust under your pretty sad eyes
rusted out the final diamond of your life.
They say, your mind yearns to stray
as you loyally drag it from the fire
to save it from the serpents
the hiss of their red and yellow lies.
It's often said there's no escaping a past
pocked with sinkholes filled with quicksand and glass .
what of the future, that psychedelic maze
with the slanted floors under thins veil of haze..
Juggling blowtorch pins
with stained glass faith
hoping to keep the soul bow
a single gull note
above the dorsal fin waves.
I always wanted to be cheese the blowtorch said.
The opossum thought this funny but had to play dead.
There was a brick of cheese wrapped in waxy red.
She stated that the blowtorch had a really fine head.
After the threat left, the opossum took a tiny bite
Of the cheese and stated that it tasted all right.
The blowtorch changed his mind about cheese at this sight.
I think I will just be me, he said to the critters of the night.
The opossum did not comment but was glad she had a part.
She liked helping people’s imagination stay fresh and tart.
The cheese was embarrassed being half his original size.
He asked the opossum to please avert her eyes.
I used to yearn for the sun like a tiny sprout trying to break free from the earth
Shivering in the icy winds of grey winter
Longing for the warming touch of spring
And when spring finally arrives with all her fanfare and elation,
her warm touch turns to a blowtorch of summer; scorching my tiny leaves and sucking all the moisture from my roots
I now long for the cool breeze of autumn
A respite from the rotting heat of summer
Have yet to find that happy medium
They love to puff the beryl nicotine
Incendiary lungs
sucking down the cancerous green
Hard drag queens,
dressed to mass extinct kill,
inhale poisonous mushroom dreams
Napalm verbal smoke:
fungi promises coming out of plastic windpipes
Pinocchio nose choke
pollute the global atmosphere with mint gripes
Cigar truth snubbed in a submarine ashtray
New Cuban missile crisis
put cerulean code Leviathan in play
Naval equatorial smoke circles ...
Ring of Fire raze reprisals ends a Green Day
Negotiated denials has got a jade glow
As the wizened warlords
sell refugee passes —
Microchip markers ... gamma emerald
Dragging chain smoking kings,
boast ballast policies of reptilian oppression
Puff fork tongues pack a blowtorch sting
Black-hearted lungs
exhaling cold malignant scorch gangrene
Dirge windpipes hate the cure love brings
A short letter to this Hot Summer Day,
I get it, you’re a furnace from the sky.
And you want to play chef, to bake and to stew,
Both my feet you simmer and fry
You battered and basted and blanched and broiled
As I roasted all day in the sun.
And to help this heat wave, you turned the kiln up,
And cooked me along to well done.
Even the swim in the pool was a ruse, trap and hoax,
As my skin copped a blistering scorch.
I’d like you to stop these pretty rays of light
This pretty hot scalding blowtorch.
To end this short letter to my friendly hot day,
Here’s a phone number of a guy who mends warm.
Give him a call, invite him straight over,
His name’s Cloudy Wet Soaking Rainstorm.
Hi, this was written in January during Australia's hot summer, but has never been put in any contests. I thought it might fit your contest. It was during the 45 degree C days where it was so mega hot. Cheers.
Blowtorch to a closed mouth
til it opens for a scream,
then the torch is forced down
the throat, now gurgling.
Burnt and broken black teeth,
Jagged to the touch,
Scrape, revealing sheen,
In scars they leave on rust.
Back and forth the torch thrusts,
Perverse in his scheme,
Finally he found lust,
Just to wake from a dream.
Two inept crooks robbed my house while I was on vacation.
They left my water running and they died by strangulation.
Besides robbing me, those idiots also made me have to pay a two hundred dollar water bill.
They were already beaten by my neighbors eight year old son, as crooks, they had no skill.
I decided to go to the Police Station and post their bail.
Before I was through, they wanted to go back to jail.
I shot them in their crotches and burned their heads with my blowtorch.
Those dumbasses were screaming in agony because their heads were scorched.
Before strangling them, I used my shotgun to blow off their kneecaps.
Everybody had better start to learn that I will not take people's crap!
(This poem is based on the 1990 'Home Alone' movie.)
Don’t come in my house.
Don’t come in my house without permission!
I got a machine gun, a machete, a meat cleaver, and a magnet.
I will bear arms if you come within 3 feet of the threshold.
I am going to protect me.
Don’t come in my house without permission.
Don’t come in my house!
I got a burglar alarm, a blowtorch, my son holding a be be gun, a brass ring, and a
bully stick.
I hit you with one of these.
I am going to protect me.
That is the law!
That is the law!
And I will enforce it to highest statue.
______________________________|
Penned on May 19, 2014!
Culinary resonations my senses please
Blowtorch trimming the tapering of cheese
Cremated lactations dance on the fan’s breeze
Crab forks impaling young peas
Lightly dusting salt of the seas
Grindings of exotic teas
Marinades my taste buds tease
Savagery of an act unspeakable,
ransack of the flesh of innocence
melts the petals of the rose
with blowtorch breath of violation.
The gallows groan, with guilt are ridden,
turmoil grinds a mind of penitence,
caustic soda rivers flow
with twisted thoughts of self-beration.
The aftermath of the unaccountable,
imagined false responsibility
scars the contour of the heart,
mother love crucified with shame.
Yet man alone, his black corrosion,
incarnate evil, cruel iniquity,
from heaven's grace is set apart
and is the swine to blame.
Spoiling of a daughter sacrosanct,
crime before all of humanity,
malevolence and vile despair,
perversion of some vicious cur.
No mother in her grief and mourning
ever should endure the agony;
of every cross she has to bear
this one is not for her.