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Lawrence Hall Sep 2018
To all officers: 504 ERROR
Two German couriers DIAGNOSED WITH AFIB
THIS HAND LOTION IS carrying official documents
murdered on train from LIKE US FOLLOW US

Screen freeze: restart

Oran. AN ERROR OCCURRED IN THE SCRIPT
Murderer ELIMINATES LAUNDRY ODORS
and possible JAW DROPPING accomplices
headed for NOT RESPONDING Casablanca.

Screen freeze: restart

WE’VE GOT AN UPGRADE FOR YOU round up all
suspicious characters TRY IT YOURSELF

Screen freeze: restart

Thanks to:
https://www.springfieldspringfield.co.uk/movie_script.php?movie=casablanca
for access to the script of Casablanca.
Your ‘umble scrivener’s site is:
Reactionarydrivel.blogspot.com.
It’s not at all reactionary, tho’ it might be drivel.
Alex Burns Jun 2012
They have tried to conceal our love,
they've thrown up roadblocks, and smokescreens
to keep us from finding each other again,
but yet we always do. Our love has its own radar.
I can sense your heart beating, like an angelic drum
through the haze, and I know you can always hear the love
in my voice, even through the harsh foul static.

Even when you cannot respond, I know you know
my love is always glowing, like a lighthouse in the night.
Guiding you back to my harbor of eternal affection,
where my lips never tire of sounding the horn of our happiness.
I have stumbled for women before, like a blind man descending stairs.
But I never fell, until I tumbled head first into the bottomless pool
of your beauty. The only waters in which I would gladly drown,
have drowned, only to be rescued and resuscitated by your kisses.
  
Those who do not speak the language of our love, point their antennas our way,
they intercept our transmissions, but their code books are missing the pages
that explain how such emotion can be decoded. They only catch the grand communique,
always missing the short, but ever so loving messages, that come in daily
over the teletype of passion. Feverishly at this very moment, they wrack their brains
wondering at the deeper context of our words, but their is no hidden meaning,
behind the expression of affection. Love is its own context, and if they cannot translate it
then they are the ones at fault, not us. We have our own frequencies, and wavelengths.

Our Love shall always ring out in the darkness, even if we have to switch channels,
It will be there, to comfort us, and relieve the ache of our longing. I already have enough
in this world. Let them have the rest. All I need is our tiny daily broadcast, all I need is...
Our love.
I am back my love, It wont be long, until I kiss you once again. It's a long drive from Edinburgh to our home, but every moment is electric, because I know I am returning to you.
Ken Pepiton  Feb 2023
Social ease
Ken Pepiton Feb 2023
Nothing ever changes,
where the worth of this and that is set.

Tell'em all, who hook ah, ha, chiral

reality, hearing, hmms and bzzz meeee
whining all kinds of things,

down, dirt hertz low, as one of those
contrabassoons,
French bubinga wood,
-Google it, it is as magic may be yet,
magical contraptions contrived
in a mind,
in stages,
whistle phone, I ignor thee,
Lady, of Spain, I adore thee,

If I had chosen a differing way, some time ago,
decided I was made
to be a river kid,
but come to find out, we breed best, where
our mothers were born,
- high green vales
- home feel romantic, as such antics were
portrayed, more, more, more
in the bread and entertainment
citizenship bought
for thirty man years
of absolute loyalty
to a bevvy
of oaths
by
any child shaped for leadership, bonded
entered into the system, asked
to swear
in the name
of all that is holy, set apart, behind the curtain,

not in Oz, Jerusalem
in that mind Christ used,
right, Romans-
let this mind be
in you… word level logic magic any may imagine
we pluralize our individuated minds,
and join in seeking clear channel communication
- tear ye the dusty curtain -
after all the outs are in for the evening,
cool of the day,
spirit and truth,
wow
we
make breathing work, come to think about that,
if your will is telling us some thing we may think,

3 major sneezings 3 by 3's, gobsogreasygoferguts,
we survive,
having coughed up a tiny, eyelash-size hair,
meta vessle,
where my bet is in the bits on this side,
war
has no
lever see,
free is bein' out of bounds. We may consider Kerouac,
his teletype paper rolls that he could imagine
becoming my entire system
liquid crystal frame nets fishing
for sentient mindshare where global peace, accepts
string theory as
my gnosisnot, is it spirit if it is true. If we are paradox-
ical, we are not stupid as a species,

we've bought a bill of goods, they used to say,
we found reason to believe,
we were lied to
for a set of reasons.
- first being we all lie, we think we know.
The onto logical truth, in my case, is - in 2023,
my life is good, I am a slob, and out of the way,
so, settled in some ways, is dust fine, we flake away.

My choice is to consider the reader, who reads
for fun,
kicks
in text
be unaffordable - attention is commodity
in any other context,
some things
are words, mere, as a word,
is one of them,
a class of flavour overlooked missed,
mere [hap]
anon,
we turn the radio on, and all we hear is humms.
Abnormality, in truth we find such things used beautifully, often,
passing in flashes one can respond to for - some time, a measure of it, may
be per haps
Friday,
open one eye first
check out my surroundings
take a few soundings
make fresh coffee and
quench my thirst.

A dull pair of socks matches my mood.
I wish
I could teletype my likes and strike out
these feelings, erase self imposed limits
and smash through glass ceilings.

Friday,
one day after and one just before,
I get loaded somewhere and
become a part of the floor.
What is life for?
I wish
someone had told me, there'll be no
one to hold me in the darkness
of my falling.

She
casts a spell on me
ties me in ecstasy
sets the dull mood free
and shades me from
misery.
Lawrence Hall Nov 2020
Lawrence Hall
Mhall46184@aol.com
https://hellopoetry.com/lawrence-hall/
poeticdrivel.blogspot.com

                               All Intelligence is Artificial

No, no, we are not banks of blinking lights
And random teletype-type taps and beeps
Like Patrick McGoohan’s educational General
Or George Jetson’s mainframe at Spacely Sprockets

And we are not new Robby-the-Robots
Nor one with The Borg, with electric eyes
Scanning decaying humans for their flaws
Devouring a pancreas and a battery for lunch

We are within and through God’s intelligence -
The artificial part is that we must work it
A poem is itself.
Aditya Roy Mar 2020
Boyd and Candace
I am a backdoor man
On the front line
A hard luck soldier
I write prisoner's wives
From Western Union company

I am a dungeon keeper
If the weather allows it
A hue and cry calls from under
Tethered to a teletype desk
I am a victim of my pride
Boyd and Candace hear my plea

I am chained to a job
If I love my wife
My son grows seven
If I scaremonger in Plymouth
To call politicians fake
Boyd and Candace let me pull a gun

The judges reprimand me
With their eyes of steel
I escape my own anger
By praying that God grant
Me my death by a cocked revolver
Boyd and Candace pull a roll of tens on my bill of death
My life is mystery
An austerity

— The End —