Long Bitumen Poems
Long Bitumen Poems. Below are the most popular long Bitumen by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Bitumen poems by poem length and keyword.
1.
the wind is prone to grand festival
if you cook your own food
by burning your hands
in the day time
at night
then you will be also eligible
for having a ticket
this train will not stop at any station
then how would you get on board
why
then do jump in front of the wheel
the door gets open automatically
you would also be a companion
of that joy
your name will also come up
on the list of the blood donors
with blood there will also hang
pus and spew
the colonialists
with a black face
will wind up their indigo-factories
in the fire of the intellect
the undergarment will burn
there will come running
bolder and bitumen
the road is made
your lipstick will be
sometimes deep
sometimes light
tearing open the yellow afternoon
a storm will take birth
there will be no darkness
in the amloki-grove
2.
the ship is scheduled to start
from jetty no 3
i come to stand on
platform no 13
when i get on board the carriage
standing near
it takes me and runs to a vast
run-way
there are the lines of
sweet briar
i do not feel the pain of detaching
from the soil
when i am flying
through the smoothness of the lotus-leaf
i see a musk-deer was also running
in a parallel line
she stretches her hand
to take me
to the valley of her flesh
we are turning round and round
to enter into a volcano
and the flow of its eruption
is carrying us towards a ever-snow land
“Stampede: The Bitumen Blooms”
All the promises under the Sun
could never buy time, and
all that glistens on a wrist in a heartbeat succombs
peels away the romance
like tinfoil scraps, wrapped and cutting like razors
into the skin of what matters most
liked barbed wire
around a wrist bleeding
glistening golden brands like some kind of reigning crown
the so-called pulse of keeping up with the J’s
will never deliver the most precious intangible,
it burns inside out unseen
underneath the bitumen
the buried truth blooms
strange journeys crawl
and their animals released
from the cage,
eventually,
stampede;
sacrifices are made.
Candide Diderot. ‘25
Drinks fridge murmurs accusations at me
Seals connect with whoosh of door close
Defuses incriminating strip of lights lairy
Where I go from this station, God knows!
Lady taking my coins sneers, fat old wench
Bottled coffee shaking, I scope the scene
Funny country fuel stop, platform with bench
Five feet above bowsers, no other beings
Infusing creamy caffeine flows frozen veins
Squinting, suddenly morning haze is scared
Flung away by fireball promising burn's pain
Screech of rest room door makes me aware
Swaggered jean jostling cowboy, crotch itch
Rips sunstruck silver jangle of keys unfurled
His calloused hands fondle freedom tickets
Flanellette shirt, dog fur dull unkempt curls
Moment slipping, I extend my leg, stretched
Sandshoe foot dangled bare ankled amber
His attentive sway, reaction I needed to get
Casual smile exchange shows easy candour
Disappeared Adam's apple displays his nerves
Flipped flaxen cascades accompany my laughs
I appear the type of slender he doesn't deserve
Ask mystery man where his bloody car's parked
Bow legged, he saunteringly walks me across
Feet scuff on rough bitumen arrest birds
Chrome, maroon forty year old ute's new gloss
Brings his chest thrust pride, without words
Thick doors reassuringly clunk open, vynyl
Glides my compact package, legs swung in
Sun warmed cabin smells of 70's revival
Decomposing foam, dashboard shrinking
Glances to get my approval of rev shudder
I grin, grab the arm rest in readiness
Rear wheels kick dust, bold engine thunders
Gravel edges send intended impediment
Thrumming along open road, windows down
Throw my medusas in mad frenzy, big relief
Inserts itself, I need to get out of this town
Need him to take me there, encounter brief
10th September 2020
Life-Changing Love
Life changing, but where is the power, fatigue is the burden
Suffering, miserable life, affliction, painful memories, past
Oh, where is love? Love is just a tale, a fairy tale, a big fake
Life-changing is not possible, my life is in beton and bitumen
My love brought me into this living-dead life. Oh, lovely love
I needed her, just her, no one else just my amazing love. Her
My life has changed. I don’t trust them anymore. Stay alone
No, I don’t stay alone. God will send a true love, a lovely gift
She will be the Life-Changing Love. I love her. Comes light.
She!
Day Off
Easter. Just walk. Beautiful, this lake. Sit here
Beside me. Give a hand. Waited for you. Love
Easter, I love this home. Always God. Old home
Heartbeating green. Nature is love. I love God
No woman. In my life. No. No more. Pure love
Get clear. I delete all the poison. No more love
Woman. Sin. Baby. Needed. English lady. Love
Hmm. A European. I am. Despised. Deserted!
Hmm. The true love. But from. Of the deleted home
You killed or love, my love. – No love, no home
I am homeless. A soul lost its spirit. Bitumen
Did you drop me? Dusty streets. Demonic dreams
Following me. Dark romantic life. A love. The love
Your dream. Emma. Passed away. Our story. Way
Hmm. Dream is talking. About. The truth. You. Us
Hmm. Stay close. The way is dropped. Stop a love
Eternal. Wished
Passed. You, Me
You, I
Day Off
I needed
Your love
Emma
Honestly
Easter
Time
Far
Bye
“50 Words for Poe: Lillith”
Lillith was a cat on a hot tin roof
all coiled up ready to spring
Cat on a hot tin roof
dancing bare feet on a bare floor, cold bed without springs, locked in her own mind, a locked door
you could feel the heat rising off her
like heat when rain hits blistering bitumen, steam slowly raising the atmosphere, electric, charged
She smelt like heat and rain
and fresh cut silver grass and lemonade
Her mind was like the ocean
She rolled her hips as she swayed in her tight skirt
bare feet in a room next to Terror
In Room No.9
Lillith, kind of entranced in her own fire, wired
Turns her back on shadows
in the mirror
Terror’s knocking on her wall
She turns up the music in her mind, higher
She was New
after all
(LadyLabyrinth/2019)
https://youtu.be/dhGETVlOM0Y
“Melts in the wall.
And I
Am the arrow,
The dew that flies
Suicidal, at one with the drive
Into the red
Eye, the cauldron of morning.”
“We are all living in an illusion and mistaking it for reality.”
God rests His feet on the face of the sky.
The face of the sky which stares at the face of the Earth.
There is flatness in the blueness of its face,
as its sapphire eyes gaze into the blue-green
or tawny oculense of the Earth.
The Earth and skies stare into each other’s eyes.
Noticing all the movements in the other’s side.
Movements of peoples and modern things, creatures
and those who inhabit the sky.
And as the sky and the Earth give momentary birth
to grandeur we see and wonders we have yet to see.
If this is an amazing place
that was created by an Amazing Grace,
imagining all that is cool.
(If the streets are paved with gold there
As on Earth a bitumen pool)
Imagine what Heaven is like
if the sky and the Earth are His footstool.
Upon the earth, they wandered in unrest.
They spoke one tongue, and even the same words.
Then packing up, broke camp and traveled west
and moved in groups: nomads, all bunched in herds.
They found a plain in Shinar, fairly placed,
“Come, let us make some bricks and bake them well.”
Bitumen served as mortar, as the paste
To raise a tower, and in the heavens dwell.
“For we shall build a city of renown,
far better than across the earth dispersed.”
To see the tower built, the LORD came down;
He promptly saw their actions were reversed.
“Behold, they are a people with one voice,
And this is just the start of what they’ll choose.
With nothing hard, the world will be their oyster.
Come, let us thwart and baffle and confuse.”
The LORD thus sent them on their way that hour;
The earth, make their dominion, occupy.
With babble-speak, it’s hard to raise a tower,
But words aren’t what you need to multiply!
(from Genesis 11)
Neck pulsating, close shave shines over whiskers
Stiff collar pressure, raced anticipation simmers
Key twist intrigue spurs engine's orange rage
Needle throws redline on wide torque gauge
Jaw rigid, fingers grip cockpit lethal leather wheel
G-force grabs chest, insolent beast thrusts surreal
Monster inflamed incredulously adheres to tar
Salivating lion's ravenous rumble has zero par
Ripping up bitumen, sardonic responsive tyres rivet
Road shred's exhausted under rocket fume exhibit
Airtight capsule, caramel cow hide hugs tamer
Eardrums hum, a hundred mile Hyundai shamer
Brawny tawny gold, hot bonnet chrome flashdance
Purrs her melting eclair aerodynamic performance
Pride's pilot elevated by moorish horizon hunts
Hungry headlights still prey with stealthy stunts
30th July 2022
Written for Contest: Joy
Sponsor: Regina McIntosh
I go out into the bright morning,
into metaphor and the clear, autumn air,
hoping to find it, perhaps around
a corner or further down the street
where the bitumen meets
and dissolves into a panoramic
view, a portal -
but it's never there.
I listen out for it in the pause
between waves, silent places
and in the quiet lee of myself.
Sometimes when I close
my eyes I can almost hear
its presence ease softly
into a sound -
but it's never really there.
I have prayed for it to appear
in holy places, in tall forests,
running streams and deep
in the solitude of stony deserts.
I've searched for it in the stars,
in the dervish dance of galaxies
and in the smallest particle -
but it's not there.
I have sought it in suffering,
in the ecstasies of love
and in all the threads that go
together to weave a life.
I thought it would be near
when the world around me
was hurt and crying out -
but it was not there.
I go out into the cold evening,
into the dark, pitiless air
still hoping to find it just beyond
the night, a few short steps
away, through a shadow,
past a fence and the perimeter
of me, to where there is nothing -
but Being itself.