Submit your work, meet writers and drop the ads. Become a member
Raj Arumugam Sep 2012
together now
let us sing
the song of inanity
the song of no meaning
it is the song of the no-light
the song of the ludicrous
the ludicrous become meaning
meaning become ludicrous
This become that
That become this
ding! ding! ding! ding!
ping! ping! ping! ping!

everything has penetrated its opposite
and the world become beastly
no beginning, no end
no origins
let us sing now
the world topsy-turvy
the brain in a soup,
the mind’s one word: baa-baa-baa
you sing one line
the other another
and then all together
the song of bad breath and yawns
ding! ding! ding! ding!
ping! ping! ping! ping!

we see King Lear walking
naked in the plains
and we have the Imposter
with his heavy **** on the Throne
which is a Toilet with automated cistern
let us sing then
not then, but now
together now
let us sing
the song of inanity
the song of no meaning
it is the song of the no-light
the song of the ludicrous
the ludicrous become meaning
*ding! ding! ding! ding!
ping! ping! ping! ping!
Companion drawing: “They sing for the Composer” by Francisco José de Goya y Lucientes (30 March 1746–16 April 1828)
Amy  Sep 2020
I'll call it a ping
Amy Sep 2020
I've been calling it a ping recently
carelessly labeled like a home movie
or a sound effect without a title,
named out of thin air to solidify.

This ping does not toast with cheers or any joy,
No champagne bubbles in this type of ping.
This ping does not involve shared embraces
Though it is silently shared none the less.

This ping, instead, is similar to the
feeling of being impossibly lost.
It's like pin pointing the ambiguous
emotion of helplessness to real time.

This ping shows up in the physical realm
even though it is but a feeling felt.
You can see it when you look at their eyes,
Refusing to come up for air, look up.

This ping exists because there is so much
that goes unspoken between all of us.
Felt it when I found your old notebook, ping.
Felt it then too but tried to smile, ping.

This ping expects me to ignore you there,
pass by without a glance or a hello.
Feel it when I see red and your sign, ping.
Feel it when I pass you and your stuff, ping.

People often question weather humans
are ultimately good or if they're bad.
I usually just laugh and look down, ping.
My eyes, they shout "Isn't it obvious?"
#Kafkaesque
David N Juboor  May 2015
Finals
David N Juboor May 2015
Ping-Pong, Ping-Pong, Ping,
I should be studying.
Ping-Pong-Ping,
But in this hour,
I am the happiest
I have ever been.

Ping-Pong, Ping-Pong, Ping,
I should have been studying.
Ping-Pong-Ping,
I did the best that I could,
For who I was,
At the time.
Paul Hardwick Mar 2012
Ping:              Past to Pong.
Pong:             Ow my turn now      is it.
Ping:              *******     yes it is!
Pong:             So swearing is the       game now.
Ping:              Just get on with     it.
Pong:             Just will  not     be put off.
Ping:              That was a good      move.
Pong:             Ping gained the       point.
Paul Hardwick Apr 2012
Ping:              Past to Pong.
Pong:      Ow my turn now      is it.

Ping:              *******     yes it is!

Pong:             So swearing is the     game now.

Ping:              Just get on with     it.

Pong:             Just will  not     be put off.

Ping:              That was a good      move.

Pong:             Ping gained the       point.
Mateuš Conrad Jul 2016
there's only one philosopher you can play ping-pong with -
even the existentialists conjure him up
like Aladdin's genie - rubbing that
maxim so frequently you'd wish
you never had the genie or a talking
goldfish with a starter, main and dessert -
you can literally bounce that Cartesian
1 + 1 = 2 with yourself forever -
it's the opposite of clarifying the waking
hour, it's less hour, less decade, less century,
less zeitgeist - it's more centimetre
it's more nano-metre - it's not a marathon
of contemplation, but a constant reminder -
that's what it is, a constant reminder -
i've been digesting Kant's 2nd volume of
the infamous critique (infamous given
von Kleist's suicide because of it) for a year or so,
i'll finish it, but i'll have to cram a few
book reviews, newspaper articles and poems
in between the claustrophobic fudge -
reading Kant is sometimes like walking
in a Crusader stronghold - those Teutons and
Hospitaller are like modern American history
cults bemused by a collective psychosis -
Jung's field-day review - it's not a question
of consciousness or the individual's association
and subsequent identification with it for
a self and subsequent will - with the collective
unconscious comes collective psychosis
of the waking hour - the Crusader knights shut themselves
up in the strongholds and performed the literal
aspects of the Last Supper - you'd think
the German football kit would be: a black shirt,
red trousers and yellow suspenders -
but they chose black and white attire to pay homage
to die Großschäffer of Marienburg or Königsberg (
Kœnigsberg - soft German tongue will do in Latin's
revision - or modern Kaliningrad: the Las Vegas of
the Baltic) - the Bach in Lao Che's Komtur -
what a tsunami! to live life and appreciate the artistic
outputs of others... a house infested with spiders
is one of joy... but even the existentialists testify
the ping-pong with Descartes - other philosophers
are narrative encapsulations - you never deviated
from them - you ingest the entirety of the narratives
and leave them be - Descartes made mathematical-grammar,
people adopted a stance to over-quote him,
or simply over-use him - some think philosophy
has a genesis in Socrates, but it really doesn't,
not these days, the genesis is Descartes -
once poets cited heroes akin to Achilles, modern
heroes are stable ******* by feminist citation -
stara panna myśli że jest sarną; to-ast! -
philosophers, well, you'd imagine that to be the case
with all that perfumery of pacifism -
say bye bye Achilles, and with the drudgery of thought
having no outlet via censor Mr. Hammer, Mr. Brick,
Mr. Stock-Exchange - oh look, a mini Mr series -
how fun! where're the monkey swings? you will
have to make poets admire philosophers -
i hate, hate! HATE, HATE! populist poets -
they're like cockroaches - they're so unhelpful -
they call themselves the people's poets -
all you need is for philosophy to germinate in the medium
of poetry for some pre-Socratic to emerge -
i HATE POPULIST POETS! it's a passion i'll never divorce -
but truly - modern philosophy will have a hard time
divorcing itself from the Cartesian 1 + 1 = 2, and given
the symbolism of math, how about a few examples?
        x
standard John Smith
(multiplier, plumbers assemble)
                                                                                            +
                                                                               (e.g. Kant,
                                                                apparently additions
                                                               to the expression: i am man)

          -
(the throng of the Holocaust,
that's minus the would-be
outlived lives)
                                                                          ÷
                                                  (e.g. Stalin, Comrade Mao,
                                              ******, i.e. the people that never
                                            allow dialectics to equilibrate
                                           in a single individual - from Socrates
                                                 many have picked up a hammer
                                                 and hammered a few million nails in -
                                                few picked up dialectics -
                                                what Socrates invented is like
                                                a haunted house -
                                                the emergence of the schizoid-mind,
                                                personas that divide people,
                                                you have Neo-Nazis to account for
                                                and proto-Communists -
                                                what a mess having the proof
                                                of a perfected debate
                                                being so undernourished -
                                          barren - in the end merely a status quo -

see what i mean by the Cartesian ping-pong?
you can't do that with Kant or Kierkegaard -
this ******* keeps resurfacing - every single time -
you just can't **** the fact that he's redrawn thinking
and being conscious and that chestnut of
a mirror and self-consciousness - Narcissus's c.c.t.v. -
it's not *** like insect conscious behaviourism -
more like date, second date, third date...
then maybe... maybe... the bony harlot, right...
sit on it for long enough and it apparently feels
like an outer body experience - still, Herr Denken and
ping-pong (alt. to Herbert's Mr. Cogito).
Michael W Noland Aug 2012
2 better days
of better ways
too bigger dreams
in better words
to the express
of my renditions
in wish-less missions
to infringe in fantasy
as i write out the years
of fearless tears
and scream
in happiness
and chant
of the blasphemers
laugh
in the murmurs
of drunken
entrepreneurs
admiring
sewer structures
plucking
the sutures
of my missed maneuvers
clueless
in my bruise-less
cutsss
toofwisss
and still strutting my luck
in abrupt
catastrophes
compliant
to the clause
of impunity
to rhyme-less scrutiny
to sooth the dream
for today
bolstering
the blame
of melancholy messiahs
playing pariah
on xbox
they gonna fry ya
through savvy ****** talk
with their mouth on your ****
but their ears on the block
to fulfill the onslaught
of a distraught
goofball
in lock
about to drop
calm
in happy bombs
of debilitating
shock
you cannot
talk
when you are
smiling
you cannot galk
when you are
smiling
violently
happy
with ******
knives
fixed to enrich
the lives
of the many
i have plenty
in the trunk
just bend down
and look
ill blend in the boom
of bass
thump
ding
the second thump
closes the trunk
strap up
with me
be blunt
don't want
a ninja on the run
in the sun
of reputation
1 finger away
from
nation-less
the mostest patientest
lyrifi$t
a bu3ro$hit
to 0bl1terat3
the glUt3nou$
of thy most muTtonest
of ch0ps
i cropp3d
the plopp1ng rainb0ws
of raindrop$
and Stopped  .
thE hoPped up ho0ligaNnry
of my N1njary
in my socks
sometimes i rock
but mostly not
i wont stop
until outlined
in chalk
until the froth
from my lips
blinds me
in trips
crossed
with a 5th
into thine own
obscurity
from the groan
of maturity
and the **** flapping
of insecurity
i try lyrically
to be free
and stop rhyming
at least stop whining
just trying
to do my thing
dost thou heart not sing
when im plowed
within the silver lining
devout
with a little shining
came hither
to where the sliding turned to slithering
delivering
my ministry
of infantry
infamously
into comedy
applauding me
in my idiocy
its daunting
in simplicity
marinade me
in a massacre
or a major disaster
watch me blow my ***
in haughty claims
of clogged
alpha/beta waves
enslaved
to a pre paid card
and charged
for helping a man up
in a corrupt
city of butts
entrusting
my paychecks to the *****
of never was
im riding the short bus
until she blushed
and brushed
the *** from her mouth
im gross
a little weirder than most
i boast
in defeat
i facebook
over tweet
as if there be a choice
as i crumple
the invoice
and rejoice
in knowing
i know nothing
i'm [Esc@ping]
Big Virge Sep 2021
Now When I Was Young...
Athletic And Strong...
I Really Did Love...
A Good Game of Ping Pong... !!!

Or That’s Right Table Tennis... !!!

But I Say This To Preface...
This... Poetic Message...

Do I Need A PING...
To Say I’m Infectious... !!!

Pings That Now STING...
Like This Corona Menace... !!!

That Now Will Send Endless...
PINGS That Now PONG...
When Their Message Is WRONG...

I Mean What’s Going On... ?!?

Do All These Pings Belong...
In A World Where It’s Said...
That We’re Now Seeing Less...
of This Need To Inject...
Or A Need To Prolong...

Distancing Measures...
As Lockdowns Are Lessened...
Because of A Drop...
In The Rate of Infections... ?!?

And Because of These Apps...
That Can Chart And Can Map...
Infections BEFORE...
You Know That You’ve Caught...

A Variant Form...
of This Corona Force... !?!

Have The Tables Now Turned...
So Corona Gets Burned...
And No Longer Fills Urns... ?!?

Or Are We Being Served...
A Whole Load of Spin...
About All of These PINGS... !?!

When PM’s REFUSE...
To Start... Isolating... ?!?

Because I’m Confused...
By Reports In The News... ?!?

Where Their Tables Now Show...
That Corona Has Slowed...
Because These Pings Know...
Where It Is... People Go...

Because of Our Phones... !!!

And Now Know Who It Is...
We’ve Been In Contact With...
So Can Trace Virus Strains...
That Are In People’s Veins...

Doesn’t It Seem Insane... ?!?
That We Have Track And Trace...
... All Over The Place... !!!

But STILL Have To Wear Masks...
To... COVER Our Face... ?!?

Or Okay Yes... Our Mouths... !!!

Does The Logic Seem Sound...
Profound And Thought Out... ?!?

Or Something Thrown Around...
Just Like Circus Clowns...
To Keep People Tied Down...
Controlled And Now Bound...
Like Some Kind of Bad Hound... ?

Are All These Pings CORRECT...
Or A Way To DIRECT...
People To... INJECT... ?!?

Because of The THREAT...
of A Quarantine Bed...
Or Being... Jobless... !?!

Because of A PING...
That Tells You To Stay...
AWAY From Working...
And Earning A Wage...

The Table’s Not Straight...
Like These Government Names...
And Their Government Games...

Are We All Being Played...
And FORCED To Vaccinate... ?!?

Because of These PINGS... !!!

Surely Something Must Give...
In People’s Thinking... ?!?

When Tech Like This Gives...
Us... BAD Messages... !!!
That Claim To Predict...
When We Will Become Sick...

It’s A Form of Sickness...
That Clearly Is Linked...
To Making Us Live...
In A World That RESTRICTS...
Because of These Pings... !?!

That Come From Our Phones... ?
Cos’ It ISN'T A Joke...
To Be Told Stay At Home...
By An App That Now Tracks...
And Apparently Can...

Diagnose Better Than...
These People In Labs... !?!

Who Still Don’t Seem Sure...
of How Variants Form...

So Are Saying Be WARNED... !!!
Cos’ These Vaccines DON'T CURE...
Or Stop Us From Getting...
... Corona Infected... !!!

Because You’ve Had Shots...

Their Singing Dud Songs...
UNLIKE... What’s Going On... !!!

And Do Not Seem Able...
To Stop Telling Fables...

It Feels Like A Game...
Where We’re Being Played...
Because of False Claims...
About This Flu Strain... !!!

I Wish I Could Say...
That Things Will Be Okay...

But Something Seems Off...
Cos’ Corona’s Not Gone...
Or Taking A Break And Going Away... !!!

Which Brings Me Right Back...
To The Days of My Youth...

When Things Weren’t So Bad...
And Filled With This Flu...
That’s Causing Problems...
For Us In... Multitudes... !!!!!

I Just Wish I Could...
Go Back To Those Days...
When I Was In School...

And Saw Nothing Wrong...
With Hearing The Sounds...

of A Game of......

..... “ Ping Pong “..... !!!
Inspired by the farcical, track and trace rollout in the UK, and the ping frenzy that initially came with it....
Sylvia Plath  Jun 2009
A Life
Touch it: it won't shrink like an eyeball,
This egg-shaped bailiwick, clear as a tear.
Here's yesterday, last year ---
Palm-spear and lily distinct as flora in the vast
Windless threadwork of a tapestry.

Flick the glass with your fingernail:
It will ping like a Chinese chime in the slightest air stir
Though nobody in there looks up or bothers to answer.
The inhabitants are light as cork,
Every one of them permanently busy.

At their feet, the sea waves bow in single file.
Never trespassing in bad temper:
Stalling in midair,
Short-reined, pawing like paradeground horses.
Overhead, the clouds sit tasseled and fancy

As Victorian cushions. This family
Of valentine faces might please a collector:
They ring true, like good china.

Elsewhere the landscape is more frank.
The light falls without letup, blindingly.

A woman is dragging her shadow in a circle
About a bald hospital saucer.
It resembles the moon, or a sheet of blank paper
And appears to have suffered a sort of private blitzkrieg.
She lives quietly

With no attachments, like a foetus in a bottle,
The obsolete house, the sea, flattened to a picture
She has one too many dimensions to enter.
Grief and anger, exorcised,
Leave her alone now.

The future is a grey seagull
Tattling in its cat-voice of departure.
Age and terror, like nurses, attend her,
And a drowned man, complaining of the great cold,
Crawls up out of the sea.

— The End —