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Yasha Harkness Apr 2015
Tipping sideways
Deja vu strikes
You've been here before
Never this much pain
Metal and flesh
Birthed apart
Grown together
Merge line carries pain
The lightning bolt strikes
You've been here before
Familiar pain
Rippling out from the spine
The one they broke
To remove our broken heart.
i dream of a world where i wasn't fully human
A lot of things left to see
Before I leave this earth to be
Somewhere else far from here
But do not fret, it will be near
For I will travel the universe and maybe even          
    Mars
Discover far more than the moon and stars
Because so much more is left to be
    discovered
But keep it a secret, this completely
    undercover
However, while I am still here on earth
I will tell you about this planet's birth
How? You may ask and wonder
I am a time lord and a traveller
Keep all of this to yourself
Because I am here to help
But in silent and in shadows
No one must know but you
I trust all of these to you
Hannah Beth Feb 2015
There is a boy over there

            No more than seventeen

No less than insane

(To some, that is. Some who can't see.)

This boy has a friend
(And yet no friends at all)

Who wears a great big mask at night
And makes Donnie feel small

Two universes,
One fate that can't be fought

versus a lonely boy,
a lonely girl,
and all of their genius thoughts
A poem for my favourite film :)
There once was a carnivorous plant,
Who was tired of home’s tireless chant,
It rose from the soil,
Dressed in foil,
To walk on the lackluster land.

In the great city of New New York,
Where everything was made from cork,
Amongst reptilians,
A million gazillions,
It was a duckling next to a stork.

As the reptilians prepared for war,
Our protagonist felt a feeling sore,
The feeling of trust,
Fading to dust,
As all that was good was no more.

A deception planted in the mind,
Of freedom and peace was declined,
By a terrible war,
Death and gore,
Spawned by the vile humankind.

The plant visualized its tombstone,
As it walked the catacombs of Rome,
Eyes were closed,
The heart exposed,
As it missed the mantra of home.

Before it got to leave orbit,
It met an awful fate so morbid,
They needed rope,
Grabbed its throat,
Now sliced and sold at the market.
theresa the tree Jun 2014
“you shall carry my bones up from here” (Genesis50:25)
yea Little nymph of numbers has six teeth each with ******-chic epiphanies
protrusion of epiphyses thirsty for a fresh bonejuice deathblast
stringy strung theoroized skelecoded out arieal fractal sonix
lix hits antigravity dreambeats chew on infra-red-infractures
to explosively burn constellations out into dust bowls all heavily cranio-******
up with a soul narrowed down to a skelleconex technoillogical prototype
a freshly teased nanoNymph_2.0 osteo-tissue paper thin prototype
designed to bemuse, amuse and be a muse to forgotten infinite epiphanies
endlessly download digitisternums, clavicles whatever desired by the cranio- ******-
enough to risk phantom organic pain in time to playback biofeedback turnt up to deathblast
It’s the artificial cardiaudio arteries show featuring manibrium marrow leakage from infra—red-infractures
and six skinny feminine femora to sing blackened covers of diva demeter love sonix
diamond data mapped thick with smokey persephone bloodkiss shadow sonix
peruse the meanderings of the nanoNymp2.0 a double(triple) pianissimo prototype
fragile: prone to falling (ie) misunderstanding sharp blades pulled from infra-red-infractures
***** bonebuzzed off nothingness nectar numb drunken epiphanies
triangulated ossification between 1st 2nd and 3rd eyes lead up to deathblast
fossilized iconoclastic forethought will achieve status of cranio-******
this poem has no need to lobotomize fetal craniotomies; it’s all cranio-******
betwixt BANG BANG banging is clatter clix scatter bone-dance sonix
electricity sings in the key of major deathblast
crack open a bone on a nanoNymph skelleconex system and a replacement will be sent of the latest prototype
well calculated little nanoNymph’s all programmed  to know as why approached one, X approached ∞ -of cracked open epiphanies
triangle shaped fire, ▲shaped heart, equilateral to a dead sea, sacred geometric infraRed-infractures
biowired endless visions of these infraRed-infractures
Anthrenusverbasci (carpet beetles) eat away at bleached bone clean cranio-******
vertebrae of the Ouroboros eating itself epiphanies
grinding jaws brittle scurvy romantic-suicide die sonix
son of nyx an erubus have mercy installation psychopomp prototype
bring on one more broken septum to end =sempiternal deathblast
“bone of my bones” (genesis2:23) indeed; bring on an ablazed deathblast
fragmented spiraled and inside out infraRed-infractures
every one ends up broken, every bone of every prototype
smashed open coronal suture in everyone cranio-******
thanatos shadow between eros supraorbital sonix
godless and wandering without but epiphanies
soulless nanoNymph burns into dusty nothingness of a prototype
and the emptiness of silence is the deathblast sonix
some exposed spine litter vallies of dry bone epiphanies
Ben Ditmars Jun 2014
lifelike confessions
play out like make believe

your metal warms
against my skin
reprogramming resistance

fabricated sweet talk
counterfeit concern
become too real

and I am drawn
more willingly
than magnetized.

© Ben Ditmars 2014
I wrote a poem inspired by Charity Parkerson's book Inoperative: Cyborg One. Be sure and check out her awesome story on Amazon.
Talarah Shepherd Jun 2014
What do you want me to do about it? You're acting like, like we can't
do anything about this, Nandu. Like you're, I mean you're acting like,
this is my fault, here. What was I supposed to do? I mean, I had no way
of knowing, man. Oh ****, might have to shok this guy who's ****** little
kids -- wait a sec, better not say anything about ReFresh water! I mean, what the ****?

I am blaming you because that was the worst joke I've heard.

In how long, ever?

In a long time.

Look, I'm sorry, okay? I'm sorry. But this is not my fault. We should fight this.

They're doing what they're doing. If you do something like this again, I'm firing you.

You're not gonna fire me.

How do you know that?

You're not gonna fire me because, people make mistakes. And you know that.
This is a conversation between Miriam Marcus and her boss, Nandu Kumar.
Talarah Shepherd May 2014
Again, the path of pink, crystalline, digital highway twirling its corkscrew all around,
close, as if it were my eyes themselves, the only thing to see for miles and miles,
blistering by at a breakneck pace and straight through me. There's only sweat and
the highway. The days are long and the nights are not at all. Just the pink on
black for miles and miles. When, where will I be when the road ends? I know
what I'll be doing, that's for sure.

— The End —