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Kyle T Oct 19
Alex 2 breathes, stacks and unstacks papers, distantly
Alex 1, front cubicle, coughs, clicks his mouse
Eddie pulls out his drawer, pushes it back in, clicks his mouse
Alex 2, yes two Alex's, saunters up to the coffee machine
Alex 1, head down, clacking his keyboard
Mouse clicks, keyboard clicks, electricity
Monitors glow, fluorescents never flicker
Alex 1 opens a new file, two clicks of the mouse
Eddie sips his coffee, puts it down, clicks
New folder, new file, new data
Data entry, spreadsheets
Alex 1 asks did you get the email
Alex 2 has his coffee, his white shirt, under the fluorescents
Statics noise, static, mouse clicks, keyboard
Every new click, new file, new data, new folder
Data in, data out, file, click, the static electronics
Alex 2 clicks, files, new folder, new deal, new data
Eddie clears his throat, softly, the static noise, flickers,
Every new love story is a tragedy
Alex 2 opens a new folder, inputs data, spreadsheets
Numbers in, Eddie clicks his mouse twice rapidly
Stale effluvia coffee, static noise, electric light
Alex 1 sniffles, clears his throat, the clock ticks softly
Eddie opens a new file, the electric screen reflects his fixed eyes
Alex 2 sips his coffee, opens a file, clicks, keyboard clacks
Stasis, complete stasis, electricity, nodes, linear graphs
Numbers input, data, new file, file transfer
Every old tragedy is a ghost story
Alex 2 sips his coffee, breathes, clears his throat, data
Spreadsheets, monitors, electricity, static, data input, output
Every ghost story is infinite
Alex 1 gets up for a new coffee
Eddie inputs data, spreadsheet, file, new folder
Electric lights, stasis, data, file, click, file, input exp..
Kyle T Oct 12
Will there be a time when
All this technology ends

When the screens go down
We all mute the sound

Will we return to a time
Not forged in financial design

When the ROI and the GDP
Big money banks we no longer see

Or the interest rates and credit lines
Hidden fees and holdback fines

And tell them, when I turn my shoulders to the night,
I sent you to discuss the market's yield's human right
It was better when it was better.
MØ Fitas Oct 5
heated skin of July
warm, soft, fuzzy, tender
fondled by sun rays
reminds me
the touch a guy
once gave me in splendor
it ignited me in blaze
As he watched her walk past,
I asked,
"Did you used to date?"
He shook his head,
And said,
"No we never dated,
But I have clothes still at her house.
And her mattress remembers the shape of my body.
No we never dated,
But her old toothbrush rests in the second drawer.
And my mother misses her when she goes to their favorite store.
She refuses to look at me when I'm out with you.
And when you are gone, I know she will come.
But no,
We never dated."
bob and weave
i blow off
existential steam
piloting thoughts straight down
into earth's core
where they sit and lie
lonely, deprived, boiling
yet being i, leo rising:
it hurts me in noting
the obvious answers
meandering between
unjust truths and hidden lies;
the phoenix, again birthed from its own being
nature, we have not yet figured
how, then, do we few proceed
inevitably through
footprints set ahead
like trails to follow
doe-eyed and confused when
the fork trail pierces our noses
and we decide, in the heat of the moment
when future flashes across our minds,
to play it safe; decide on
precedents already
many times met;
luxury seems self-fulfilling
granted obscurely or innately  
passing along family to family
behind the closed gold doors lies
trust-fund babies;
like wealth and prosperity
knowledge is somehow privileged
and paved before us all is something;
even i admit having
not formed these footprints
often hidden deep down
amongst some dirt or snow...
but then, inevitably,
we do know some paths we all must go...
Ujjal Mandal Oct 2
Ujjal Mandal, India

Love is not a hope
But a habit of taking dope,
Love is not a star
But a lamp towards the bar,
Love is not a fame
But a plan of deadly game,
Love is not of gladness
But a threadless cloak of coyness,
Love is not a fate
But definitely cheap as sweat,
Love is not for green
Rather its hue of water akin,
Love doesn't make any history
But certainly a tomb of rivalry.
Love is a great virtue, but regret to say today pure love has lost her self-identity. We shoud revive her again to make the scorching world vibrant and lively..
My choice of poison permits the world to fade.
Every sense inside of my body becomes dull and faint.
My lungs struggle to draw in air.
Each breathe falls short causing my chest to heave.

I can feel the bitter substance hurl my empty frame off of life’s edge.
My limbs are worthless as the stale air whips through my core.
They flail back and forth in the breeze throwing my perception of time farther away with each movement.
I am left wondering if there will be any warning before I reach my destination.

My surface hits the stone with an unsettling crack.
The asphalt kisses my flesh tauntingly.
The chill of the surface sends electrical currents through my body.
Its rough surface welcomes the warmth from my flesh.

Reality has finally sunk as low as I have in my cold abstract rock bottom.
I pray for someone to help me, and listen to my thoughts.
All my helpers  repeat the same empty sentences.
“You will get better.”, or “ This is just a phase.”

Overwhelmed, I watch them as they walk the level above me.
Their eyes are focused on their own horizon.
Leaving me as empty as I was before.
Reminding me that I have been alone for many years.

The obstacle course in front of me seems daunting.
Its perfect blocks seem never ending.
Each flight curves in whatever direction it chooses.

As I begin my journey, I attempt to hide my emotions and fears from the other souls that are passing through, but
I fail miserably for they see me right through my veil.
The railing slips through my fingers as they shove me aside
My frame becomes bruised from being pushed and pulled in different directions.
Exhaustion latches it's arms around my legs in attempt to slow my journey.

Thoughts trickle through my head as I attempt to conquer the barrier in front of me.
They do not filter their words as they voice their opinions
Flowing with ease, they invade my personal space.

Will my happiness ever come back?
Is there going to be any memories that I am going to be able to share with my family?
Should I leave this cold world that lacks luster and light?

I shove them back, and attempt to shake the uneasy feeling they left in their wake.
I know that no pleading is going to turn back time.
Nothing will make my past easier.
As I trek through the rocky terrain, I promise to become brave, to let my voice be heard, to face my fears, and to love life the way that it is supposed to be.
"Rock bottom became the solid foundation on which I rebuilt my life."~J.K. Rowling.
Paul Butters Sep 17
In Cyberland, Microsoft is King
And we all pray to Google.
There is an Apple Resistance,
And Yahoo keeps on yelling,
But Microsoft is King.

Where did Jeeves go?
Remember him, you oldies?
A smiling Hitchcock fatty
You could ask things.

Remember Bebo and MySpace too.
But now we Snapchat through the day
And ask folk WhatsApp.
All in an Instagram.
(My Custom Dictionary
Is filling with new words).

So now it’s time for Tik Tok.
(See what I did there?)
That’s if the Americans allow it!
And much more no doubt.
Instagram Gratification
Flashing images
And clips.
No time for tedious talking
On landline phones
Or, heaven forbid,
Face to face conversation.

Writing – or rather typing – too is clipped
With lols & rofls & tbfs.
Lazy language
Tweets in textese
Fast and fleeting.
Facebook Funnies
With bouncy banter.

As a loyal subject of Cyberland
I do confess
To many an hour
Sifting through Facebook Memories
Even improving old posts
With coloured backgrounds
And sharper edits.
Addictive Internet indeed.

Yet
In years to come
Will we laugh loudly
At the mention of Google
And all the names I’ve said
Like we snigger at Bebo, MySpace
And Nokia Mobiles now?

The tsunami of technological change
Sweeps over our heads
Smashing the past:
Leading us
To who knows where.
For better or worse
Who can say?
Wherever we are going,
We are well on the way.

Paul Butters

© PB 17\9\2020.
By Google!!!
Äŧül Sep 17
The absurdity of modern poets.
They don't use the rhyme scale,
But they use many cuss words.
And they think writing suchlike,
They look cooler than their peers.
My HP Poem #1885
©Atul Kaushal
Perfection lies just a click away.
The day evaporates into an LED haze.

Models, actors, art, and junk;
why chase a husband
when I can stare at this hunk?

Are you online, or working remote?
Choose the red or blue pill,
use your voice, case your vote.

Consume to content, while the matrix devours.
We move far too fast -
rejecting creation with quality to last,
and chose the pixelated garden over fresh spring flowers.
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