The swarming weak hoard on all sides
With neurostatic friends in widening divides
Some magic numbers in my filling pockets
The cables in their plugs and plastic sockets
And brackets in their rightful syntactic places
Boxing in a crowd of washed out creamy faces
Use your loom and weave your extracted words
Ending hymns on terminal Picardy thirds
I'll braid a line of code I just dreamed
Where you weren't as distant or old for me
But looked just as much the same old you
Not trapped by games of déjà vu
These games of life and magic numbers.
Bit of an empty last two weeks on the poetry front, but I will be back with more.
I was pulling up in the car park at the Immigration Removal Centre
When I realised that I'd completely f 'ed up
- portable recording studio
- condensor microphones x 2 (one of them doesn't work, dunno which one, they look the same)
- dynamic microphone (sometimes works)
- XLR cables x 2 (in a tangled mess)
- Jack cables x 2 (joining the party)
- headphone splitter (a remedy for people who are always on their phone?!)
- big-to-little adapters
- kettle lead (so named because it dates back from when the kettle was king)
- and two folders of important bits of paper (well, at least some of it might be important)
I suddenly realised that I'd forgotten the only genuinely essential thing.
You can't get in without your passport.
That's the rule and the rules don't bend.
Security is paramount.
I find my colleague, Lucky, sitting in his car.
Lucky: "Kev, you aren't gonna believe this but..."
He didn't need to say anymore.
I knew that he had done the same thing.
Lucky and I were in the same pot of s*.
But for some reason they made an exception.
We were lucky.
It must had rubbed off.
Blonde rain falls around me,
Slipping too quickly over shattered skin;
Too fast for me to recall
The gleaming highlights of your hair.
Blue grey clouds flit past,
Hovering just above broken, outstretched hands;
Too high for me to catch their colour,
And remember how your gaze felt.
Cables jerk in syncopated moves,
But even they cannot replicate the way you walked;
Too jerky, too smooth,
For the way you breezed straight past me.
In the stars lies every phase of your smile,
Too scattered to resemble constellations;
Every incandescent light, a ill remembered image
Of the way you saw my soul.
You are nowhere to be found,
Yet you are every place I run to,
Every place I hide;
Seeping unnoticed into my skin,
Until, once again, I am flooded
With flashes of a life
That I will never again touch;
You are always around,
I wish I could forget.
Just One Of Those Days
Just one of those days when not a thing goes right
You start your day with rain outside
Just one of those days no alarm went off
You must call your work and tell your boss
Just one of those days when there's no towel
The shower is cold and the furnace is out
Just one of those days when you burn the toast
The coffee is cold and you tear your hose
Just one of those days when you're running late
You loose your keys and have an empty tank
Just one of those days you cant find your coat
You turn the key and the car wont start
Just one of those days when you need a jump
The cables are locked in your husband's trunk
Just one of those days when your kids school calls
They were in a fight and will be sent right home
Just one of those days you get home late
The dog is gone there's an open gate
Just on of those days not a thing goes right
Just one of those days that I call life
Carl Joseph Roberts
Is it always a time bomb?
A constant countdown
To the inevitable
A losing battle
Before the first bell rang
Not knowing who set the cables
Was it myself
It feels like nothing can beat the past
The time bomb ticks
Our answer waiting
Behind a cloud of smoke
Do we move forward
Or do we choke
entangled in cables
laying in my bed
phone needs charging
w i i g
a t n
Looked upon music records of the vast,
those middle age people will not last.
Silly to collect musical relics gone so fast,
and they clanged onto their vanished past.
My life started during the era of Cassette tapes,
and technology was in it's top shape.
Foolish middle age people still clanged onto their records,
Cassette and VHS were new wave of the consumer hordes.
Technology of today won't end with the bust.
and those old relics are nothing but the dust.
Then the CDs came with arise,
and they were cassettes's demise.
No more rewind, or guess side A or B blind,
and skip to the music you like to find.
Press of a button to track behind,
or repeat favorite music to grind!
Few years later VHS got a face lift,
and it became a better shift.
It was the size of record disc,
and it was called laser disc.
Laser disc stood as an enhancement,
and VHS no longer an advancement.
All the function of a CD,
and watch image of 3D.
Then came out the DVD,
and the size were equal to CD,
but medium were movies.
Laser disc met the same fate as the 8 tracks,
burned bright but lost to their quick lacks.
At this time Internet boomed,
AOL, net zero, net scape loomed!
How I remember those static noise,
and connection at it's poise.
56k came with a blast,
and everything was moving so fast!
I wanted technology understood in perfection,
and wanted to catch up to technological evolution.
Music was going to MP3,
and then iPods that held music to hundred three.
TVs with the model of flat screen,
and then iPad compete their scene.
Digital distribution foretold,
and internet speed shape our future unfold!
Broadband changed the load speed to obsolete,
but I can see the future of fiber optic cables being bittersweet.
Rise of Amazon.com, replaced Sam Goody, and Circuit Cities.
All the electronics box stores are becoming relics of the past.
Some speculate Target, or Best Buy will not last.
Who cares to shop in the mall,
when Online shopping will bring their fall.
Tablet replacing books!
Border Book store vanished, Barnes and Noble struggled.
The concept of owning changed,
carrying physical copies are things of the past.
This ideal of owning something has become a relic at last.
It wasn't just a medium shifted
but the whole infrastructure drifted.
Social paradigm shifted,
and kids no longer face chatted
social media changed interaction,
and personal contacts lost to chain reaction.
People's communication turned to our relics,
and the world we knew was no longer there.
It has become a "Brave New World,"
and new era came upon us.
Is this the irony of us being humans,
thoughts of our past as relics,
but we become relic ourselves?
It is sad to see the structure of our lives changed,
but we can't stand stagnant to our past,
or we will be left in the dust.
We are the lost dreams of our relics,
stuck in our past
This will kinda give some ideals how I write, and how I think. It starts with concepts, and key words.
Then I build upon them with structures and open ideals. Now you guys can see my secrets unfold, and watch my brain work in action. Just don't blink!
Update: Near finished, just need to work on the flow.
This expression came to me when a co-worker and I came to a discussion about our society,
and how the world as we know it was changing.
Many venues are disappearing, and businesses are shutting down.
In youth I never understood why anyone would still collect record labels,
but once reaching my middle ages, I too am now missing the world I used to live.
The childhood memories of electronic stores, book stores, and such!
The world is changing so fast, and I took everything for granted.
There is a huge shift in our society, and younger kids will look at us and think we are the relics ourselves.
Forever I wondered,
Now so clearly it seems,
For I am a Vessel -
All who go, go through Me.
I am the checkpoint
At which some decide;
I am the stop sign
At which others realise
How far they have gone,
That they must keep going,
That all One can know
Is always worth knowing.
I am the Traverse,
The others climb aboard,
As more move through me,
The more am I worn.
Now I am the subway -
Diseased by character,
Ridden with burdens,
Yet having to nurture.
But with all the damage,
How can I fulfill
As a faithful Vessel?
My strength is the fuel
I use to keep going,
But no one fills a tank
Empty without knowing.
I won't ever blame you -
Simply staying on track.
But a train broken down
Goes neither forward, nor back.
So stuck here we'll be,
'Til the "Check Engine" light
Reminds you of Me
And you put up a fight
To repair what's been lost
Throughout years of hard work,
Jumpstart these cables,
And revive your Traverse.
I sat down to watch the radio
There was nothing on TV
I have two hundred channels
But there was sweet F.A for me
I could have watched one channel
And learned to fricasse
A chicken raised on wild grains
By a woman chef named Bea
I started checking channels
But I decided in mid flick
That I was getting tired
And I was also feeling sick
So I sat and watched the radio
Since there was nothing on TV
I have two hundred channels
But there was sweet F.A for me
I worked on through the listings
English, French and some bad porn
There were movies on one station
That were made 'fore I was born
Out of all the things I saw on there
The best show I could see
Was something shown in black and white
Made in nineteen sixty three
My TV s high definition
With cables left and right
But to find a show I'd like to watch
Was taking half the night
So I sat and watched the radio
Watching nothing happen fast
But as I sat there watching
I travelled bckwards to my past
Still flicking through the channels
Trying to find something to see
I thought I'd found a hockey game
But it was all in Punjabi
So, I listened to the music
Watched the radio, passing time
Then I thought, why do I have this?
With what I paid, it was a crime
eleven channels showed the same
times 8 networks made
at least eighty eight tv stations
That didn't make the grade
Twenty two were pay for view
The French networks were ten
Then the networks there in Real HD
And so, it started once again
Pay for porn was fourteen strong
New shows added two
Weather, sports and info shows
Now I was at one eighty two.
I could have bought alot of stuff
On informercials through the night
I could have bought Pro Active
But instead I watched the light
I turned back to the radio
With the station light in green
It was better than the tv set
And all the crap I'd seen
So, Tonight I watched the radio
There was nothing on TV
But as I sat there bathed in that green light
The music showed me all I need to see.
The fun fair was on the bomb site off Meadow Row. Ingrid waits on the corner of Rockingham Street and Meadow Row for Benedict. He said he'd take her around after tea. It was getting dark; the cold air was creeping up on her. She had on her old coat with the missing buttons, her hands in the pockets, collar up to keep cold from her neck. The street lamps lit up circles of light, leaving shadows of darkness. She looks up the slope to see if he is coming. Her arms hurt where her father had gripped her tight and shook her. He didn't want her to go to the fun fair, said she didn't deserve it, anyway, he said, I don't have the money to waste on such stuff. Then he'd gone out up West, to meet friends, drink and see a show (strip show more like). Her mother said she could go, but to be home before her father got back and gave her 2/- to spend. One of the last horse drawn coal carts went by, the horse weary, the driver sitting up on his seat, half asleep. Benedict came around the corner of the flats and down the slope, riding his invisible cowboy horse, slapping his thigh to get it to go faster. Sorry I'm a bit late, he says, we had rice pudding for tea and it was lush and I had second helpings. I haven't had rice pudding for ages, she says, I had bread and jam and a mug of warm tea. Should have come to my house and had rice, he says, Mum would have given you some; she likes you (and feels sorry for you he thinks, but doesn't say). They walk up Meadow Row, he talking of the Lone Ranger TV programme and how he thought of making a mask like the Ranger wears out of cardboard and crayoning it black. She listens to him in silence, looking at his cowboy hat pushed to the back of his head, his 6 shooter imitation silver gun tucked in the belt of his jeans, his old brown mucking-about-in-shoes(as he calls them), the jacket and grey shirt unbuttoned at the neck. Come on, he says, let's get to the fun fair, putting his arm under hers, making her wince. What's up? He asks, as she rubs her arm. She bites her lower lip. Don't tell me, Benedict says, your old man's been having a go at you again? She looks down at her feet, her shoes leak, her toes feel damp. It's nothing, she says, just a bruise. What a git, Benedict says; if I was older I'd thump his head with my gun butt. She looks at him. His eyes gleam in the street light. His hair is short and tidy. I've got 2/-, she says, Mum gave me. He taps his jean pocket. I've got 1/-6d from my mum and 2/6d from my old man, Benedict says. They walk onto the bomb site. The noise of laughter and machines and calling voices and screams of girls on the Big Wheel or Dodgem Cars. Ingrid follows Benedict, traces his footsteps over the uneven ground, the puddles, the wires and cables. The lights flash on and off, faces loom out of the darkness, people pass by, noises whoosh by her ears. Benedict goes to the air rifle range with its metal ducks going along at the back of the tent. He pays the man and picks up a rifle and aims at the moving ducks. She watches, draws nearer, senses his excitement, his determination, one eye shut, the other following along the barrel. Thud, thud, it goes, one duck falls from sight, the other moves on. She waits, feels the cold, rubs her arms with her hands, feels the pain in her arms, her father's grip ghostly still there. After a few hits and an exchange of coins, Benedict wins a furry toy and gives it to her. She looks at it, a dog, brown with a red ribbon around its neck. She holds it close to her chest. They move on to the coconut stall, where coconuts are in a line on holders which you have to knock off with small balls. Here have a go, he says, handing Ingrid a ball. She aims at the coconuts, but misses. Sorry, she says, not much good at throwing. He smiles at her. Not to worry, it’s the having a go that matters, he says, taking another ball and aiming and throwing. He misses. Tries again, misses. There you go, he says, even I'm not much good at it. He gives the woman another coin and grabs a ball and aims and throws. The coconut is knocked from the holder onto the uneven stony ground. The woman gives it to him with a toothy grin. He puts it in his jacket pocket and they walk on and around. Ingrid hugs her toy dog close to her. She'll have to hide it in her bedroom, in case her father sees it and asks where she got it from, and she is too frightened to lie to him, and if he found out she'd been to the fun fair, when he said she couldn't, she'd be in for it then. She'd tuck the toy dog inside her bed and hope he didn't see it. Then Benedict takes her on the Dodgem Cars and pays the youth by the side and they get in a car and sit waiting for it to start. She senses him next to her, his eyes lit up with excitement, his hands gripping the steering wheel, his foot on the pedal. She feels safe beside him. Safe and sound. When her father smacked her the other day for spilling milk down her school blouse, it stung for what seemed hours, holding back the tears until it seemed they would burst from her eyes in bucketfuls, she thought of Benedict, wondering what he'd say if he knew, if he saw. I'll plug him full of cap smoke, he said the other day, when he saw a bruise on her thigh which caught his eye. After the Dodgems, he takes her on the Big Wheel, which makes her feel sick, then they have a go throwing plastic rings over ducks in water for a prize, but didn't win, despite Benedict's good efforts and aims and misses. She has no money left. It has all gone. I've got a 1/- he says, enough for some chips from the chip shop, if you like. She nods. Warm her up; she thinks, inside and out, hot newspaper wrapped hot salty vinegary chips. They walk off the bomb site and over the crossing to the fish and chip shop with its bright lights and smells of frying and fat and vinegar and salt. Benedict buys two bags and they stand by long table at the back with a green and white wall, with pictures of fishes and ships at sea, and eat the chips with their fingers. She looks at him as he eats, his way of holding chips in his fingers, the way he lifts them to his mouth, tossing the hot chips around to cool them down. He studies her as she eats. There is something sad about her, her eyes seem fearful, her mouth opens and closes like a fish out of water, her thin fingers taking one chip at a time, wincing when she moves an arm. He knows other boys at school and round about call her names and say she smells or has head lice or stinks of piss, but he likes her, thinks she has her own beauty, like to feel her warm hand in his when they walk together or when she rides her invisible horse beside him across the bomb site plains in pursuit of Injuns or baddies. Having finished the chips and thrown the paper in a bin and walk out into the darkness of an October evening. Time to go home, he says, money's all spent, chips all gone. She walks beside him, hugging the toy dog, wondering where to hide it, fearing her father discovering. Benedict runs a hand over his toy gun, feels the smoothness, the sense of cold steel, Ingrid beside him, his cowgirl moll. The moon is a big silver dollar in the blackening sky; the stars are spun silver coins on a table in a gambling game. He thinks of home and TV, then bed, snuggling down with his Rob Roy book before lights out. She thinks of home, her mother in front of the black and white TV, laughing along with the canned laughter, shouting at the people who don't shout back, and she Ingrid, saying good night, sneaking off to her room, undressing in the cold dampness, seeing the bruised arms, black and blue, turning greeny yellow, folding her clothes on a chair, take grips from her hair, holding the toy dog near to her chest, hidden from view, snuggling down, listening out for her father's return, the slam of door, and the loud rows as loud as they were before.