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Words die little deaths,
Hopeful kamikaze runs,
Endings on windscreens.
Tizzop Sep 15
where's my mobile, i been missing you
if you were here, i would be kissing you
where's my mobile, i been missing you
if you were here, i would be kissing you

where's my mobile, without you, i'm not global
if i'm not global, i'm not really mobile
good heavens! it's twenty-four to eleven
i have to call shannon but i can't find my mobile

what can i do without my mobile? life is trite
don't know the difference between day and night
without my mobile! i freak out, suffrin' from a black out
i'm prayin' to god, lightin' up a candle, hopin' to find it

where's my mobile, i been missing you
if you were here, i would be kissing you
where's my mobile, i been missing you
if you were here, i would be kissing you
Mobileys...
Brian Turner Sep 8
Oh mobile you are the one for me
It all started with my Moto Razr V3
If only other could see
The mast on the M4 disguised as a tree

From text to WAP to offnet rendering
More love from you I will be sending
That scratch on the screen I will be mending
I work in Mobile Telecoms. I entered this into a cheesy valentines day competition and won a bottle of champagne, some sweets and a pink inflated balloon. The head of the department (A lady) was not impressed as I stood waiting in the car park with said pink balloon and champagne. For some reason she could not lower herself to ask why I had all of that :) There were many more verses but this is what I remember from 12 years ago. Look out for the mast on the M4 that looks like a tree.
Dreamer Jun 1
Imagine you kneading dough...
and then something falls down....
and then you bend to reach it.......
and your elbow causes the flour to fell down too,
And you slip and fall on the mess....
Moreover, your mom comes and gives you a lecture, which automatically ends on

"That devilish mobile phone of yours.... get rid of it"

Hell yeah! Like my mobile phone caused all this!
The world has turned into a global village
No one can deny on that...

But..remember the phone we had placed on that beautiful table mat?
Yes...it was a matter of pride to have one..

The only fastest medium of communication we had at that time
It too had models...the rotary phone, the keypad and many fancy ones

We talked, laughed and sobbed sitting at one place as we were tied with the corded set with everyone.

It was safe.....no fear of radiation or loss of eye sight .

Though it was much too costlier than what it is today....people still communicated and talked their heart out

Now...every hand has a cell phone which comes with many features overcoming the limitation of the old one
People can connect anywhere in no time
Then why...?
We are so disconnected.....!

May be we mastered the art of telepathy?...or we are blessed with a magical wand...?

We talk no more
We only make groups
We love forwarding messages

We have become mute.....

So can we again move to landline?
Come out of the virtual world by talking to our dear ones at this time?
Can we try and understand what they are hiding behind their smiling whatsapp profiles?

Let's do things one at a time...rather than multitasking with phone on one hand and laptop on the other...
Let's give them the love and respect when one needs from your side.
So ..... sit back and dial a number of your loved one...and help the world again to become one if not through landline but may be your heartline!!

Bina Mukherjee
Nigdaw Feb 18
we make camp at the coffee shop
turning a table and four chairs
into temporary home
decorated with a decor
of scarves, coats and bags
an invisible wall
focusing in on our refuge
the intimacy of the cups, saucers, plates
and conversation

in the corner
a man on his own
invades the whole room
conversing into his mobile
which I am not convinced
is in a call
nudging everyone into looking
beyond the realm
of their comfort zone
Tizzop Dec 2019
emma, 13 years old.
alfredo, 61.

emma: hi grandpa nice to see you what's your wifi-password?

alfredo: i don't have wifi.

emma: written altogether?
Today is a good day.
Tizzop Dec 2019
countless nights
the same dream:

awaking in black water
dressed in jeans and a
rugby-shirt

legs under water so i
am trying to protect my
cell phones from

damage
24 HOURS. Keep coming back.
Left Foot Poet Mar 2018
cellphone to heart, mobile to immobile, electric dead to living

you know that sleep and I are but passing acquaintances,
when it drops in, to heavy my lids, it is through a cracked window slivered, just enough for a Pan boy to grab me and away me to Almost Neverland

when the alarms sound that it’s sleepy time,
(quite like that quiet verse)
no time to delist the “those pre-shluffy to do things,”
cell drop upon my chest, like an open mic,
then the raging observatory tapestry begins!

the cell lies directly above my ventricular chamber,
and communication is live, the brain cutoff switch, well, cutoff

all manner of imps, devils, rejected poems, angels and
Greek gods and some Indian as well, stand in line for to make
free calls via a beating human message call center, utilizing my friends and family verizon plan to register complaints,
close out unfinished biz, or just contact, friends, family or other
mischievous imps or even you, in other time zone worlds

though my brain may not interfere, like the CIA, it records all
conversations and give me a list of new poem titles, notions, stories glories and wrenching heartbreaking heartbreak,
requiring “fleshing out” when I awake from my three fingers
of scotch, glass eye tears drops made me drunk,

damning this transmigration chorus of voices that offer up a treasure of divine humankind’s hopes and travails,
and the occasional call on the divine’s 1-800 confession line,
hear it all, my chewing out by one particular god of mine who does not suffer my criticisms well of his ungodly actions, nope not sweetly and

when else would he dare contact me, except when no edgewise
words of mine can appear to contradict his mealy mouth excuses

did you musty misty mistake  my poems  as the product of
the miracle water wages of my imaginary inspiration,
no, not, from the replaying of your desperate exclamations,
the cancerous shrieks of loss and prickly investiture of the aesthetics of soft whispers and solitary foot treads,
that is where my insanity is bred, and tumbling s-words, sworn

don’t consider it eavesdropping as there is no signed rental agreement, consider this unfair warning, if you should secret use my cellular line, your everything is now ******,
your genetic material is materialistic mine and my poems yours,
this bittersweet sentiment is a measure of our bloods commingling,
your tears and impish silliness, are shiny hidden within mine

somehow I feel compelled to state this unique statistic:

I love you

4:47pm on 3/11

who writes poems like this?
silly old boys with gray hair, standing on one left leg.  but you knew that, right?
Nigdaw Sep 2019
We walk
In glow of silver screen,
We talk
In acronyms and SMS slang,
The star
Of an everyday movie
Camera man, script writer, director
Floating in the ether
Weaving our tapestries,
Between radio masts
Life on earth, live on earth
Spaceman, time traveller
On a voyage of discovery,
Walking and talking to ourselves
Without noticing the outside world,
Only interested in our own
Biographies;
Time for another selfie…………….
"The people will not revolt. They will not look up from their screens long enough to notice what’s happening" - George Orwell ©
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