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Nina Oct 4
I knew that I'll lose you someday
And that day
Has already past
It's been 2 weeks
Since i last saw you
And it hurts to know
That we are back to being strangers
And yet
I still keep your photos on my phone
And still smile at them
Knowing how happy i was
During that day
When i was with you
I was so happy
But all i can afford to do now
Is to smile
At those memories
Even though
Its hurting me deeply inside
Nina Jun 9
Isn't it amazing?
How a picture
Could bring back all the memories from that moment.
Just take a look at the picture
And all the memories come rushes back
All the little details
Let alone videos,
Both stores memories on its own way
Both painful
And happy memories
sir humbug Apr 14
not all **** videos are equal

one searches the index,
hopeful a screenshot
pinpricks the eye and the peculiar

peculiar need of the moment

like most things good and appreciated,
sifting through the chaff is a learned skill,
required but not intuitively sired,
not every new word in the dictionary
delights, insights, triggering a welcome!warning

the sifter’s handle fits the hand uncomfortably,
requiring egregious prodigious turnings,
till the flour is silky and manipulative, ready,
pleasure is work, luster need maintenance

you passover, skippering,
a search for the next and the next,
treasured island is constantly on the move,
it’s coordinates require GPS updating

rerouting rerouting rerouting

what does this reveal about you?

there are no simple single path pleasures,
the first bite delight is ultimately worn down,
recalled but not equally fully restored,
so we need, insistent for new thrill pathways
to get to the same old pleasured places

the body acts, the body’s acts, the body’s reacts

familiarity is a  museum collection,
everything human requires updating,
especially essentially by
the imagination’s perpetual swiping
David Hutton Oct 2017
The motion that is an echo of you
are the ghosts that bear resemblance to you.
Cat Fiske May 2015
my name is Catherine but I go by cat.
I make videos, and help out a lot with audio for others,
but I have never recorder one of my own poems.
So, this sounds kinda odd,
But I'd love it if someone could maybe help me find a few good poems,
That I wrote,
To record and upload.
Just audio for now,
I'd also be very open to those ideas for an actual video to go with it,
but I'd like for people to of helped from this site,
And I'll give credit-shout outs,
to everyone who helped,
even in a little way.
Thank you.
-Cat c: :3
yeah So I'll make a collection people can join it, the collection is called Record. and yeah just drop things in there if you like them.
Bunny Apr 2015
My favorite show is
Watching America's Funniest Home Videos with you.
Watching with you
Watching you
Your eyes glowing with delight.
Watching with delight
Watching your delight
A smile explodes across your face.
My heart explodes across my rib cage.
RW Dennen Sep 2014
An elegant lace curtain
blows on a light breeze
it gently parts
An emergence of light,
emitting a radiant beam
it delicately slices through pitch black
A dazzling
on a
***** old sneaker???

Tiny airy
golden feather
seemingly floating
then caught
forever floating
then caught on a delicate puff of wind
It rocks
to and fro,
a miniature cradle
Then suddenly
a changing tiny turbulence,
now a spinning
on a short
golden flight
lands gently

Light blue
summery silk
gently clasp
in a smooth feminine hand
a surprise-wet-******-sneeze ???

An ENORMOUS proud elephant
charges relentlessly
from a great distance
towards the camerman
in the jeep
Ground sHaKiNg
nearer nearer
dust-bomb clouds
engulf the air
he gets up
turns around
limps away
AvengingPoet Sep 2014
We have our six second culture
in which everyone has lost their mind
and nobody has time for a thing
like sitting in a silent room and reading a book
is ******* frightening.

I’d like to think people would enjoy making eye contact
but I think that is fading away as well
and ******* isn’t that frightening?

It’d be nice if someone would even see a reason to invest
their time into things anymore instead of fading away
inside a box without much reason except on occasions.

Nobody is dying to know your 140 character thoughts
because frankly most of you have nothing to say
except to complain about your empty lives devoid of anything interesting.

You stir up senseless drama in your virtuality
in order to feel some sense of purpose
but why not find your own purpose?

Find something worth saying or something worth changing
instead of provoking each and every petty thing without reason
or feeling because those things are obtrusive these days.

We seem afraid to challenge our demons
and these networks seem to provide away to avoid challenging them
and isn’t that just ******* terrifying?

If you aren’t willing to take them on and understand the concepts
of melancholy and aloneness, then how can you ever possibly function
in this world where everyone is very much alone?

I wish I could like what this so-called internet culture has become
but most of it seems so utterly useless
beyond my instant access to the information I actually care about.
Martin Narrod Apr 2014
I used to think that all of them were just bodies. She-figures, they came and went, facilitating infinite happiness and following with hellacious heartbreak, aorta explosions galore. They pass. I stay. She goes. I remain. We all take a trip, but she falls asleep while I follow the road, I sing the song, make the lyrics up as the 101 heads West, and I careen against the Pacific. I see silvery-white plumes of whale breaths spouting, they break the rocks of my rock and roll. When the levee breaks, we'll have no place to go- I'm going back to Chicago.

California. Line 5. Verse 1. She is born in Arkansas, in Denver, in New York City, in the back of a taxi cab, her parents waiting for a table at Earth Cafe, 1989. There are concerts, balconies, elevator shafts, and on benches. The gain rises, the volume up and up and up, I offer her a cigarette, I ask her if she likes my dress, I show up with two palms full of a flame, and I say hello. Browsing in high-definition, the water is warm, my feet are planted and I have everywhere to go. Classical emporium of light fill me with ease, greatness, and belief. She asks me if I'm ***. Every great confusion can be proven to be fortuitous with enough time on hand. I kiss in cars, in bathrooms, and barrooms, in hallways, on staircases, on beds, church steps, and legs. I touched a leg, ran my fingers through her hair, my thumbs curved to the height of two ears alongside a size B head. I love art *****. i burn candles, and I swirl the wax around until the walls wear masks of white. I check-in to a hotel. I stop to buy wild flowers on the side of the road, or to climb down a ravine, we open a page into an enormous patch of strawberries, wind-surfers, and the golden Palo Alto beaches. I am in Bronzeville, on my way to Bridgeport, I am riding the train, browsing magazines, and singing new songs in my head. My lips are wet with excitement and the musings of the Modern Art Museum and the gift of a first kiss; behind the statue on Balcony 2, near the drinking fountain, the Eames couch, and two lips meeting anew. Bravery in twos.

Chapter 1, Verse 2. The chorus is large and exciting. New plastic shining coats. Smocks patterned with the Random House children's stories that we played with as children. We didn't wear gloves, or hats, or pants, or our hearts on our sleeves. I was up to my knees in hormones and very persuasive. My fifth birthday was at the Nature Center, you chased me into the boys' bathroom and kissed me with your wet and four year old lips in the second stall from the door. I eased up maybe 2% since then. The speakers are a little bit fuzzy, it's like listening to the spit of someone's tongue cascade the roof of their mouth while they pronounce the British consonants of the 90s. Said and done and saving space.

I am saving up for Grace. A crush in the mid 2000s, black hair, long legs, and the only brunette for a decade before or after. We played doctor, with the electric scalpel we turned our noses red with Christmas time South American powders. A safe word for an enemy, the sun for an enemy too. You bolted out and took my early Jimi Hendrix Best Of compact disc case too. While we're at it, you took my Michael Jackson cassettes as well. I go mid-range, think Kiri Te Kanawa in the whispers of E.T.'s Elliot. Stuffed-animal closet party for seven minutes in heaven. Your family came with butlers while mine came with over-educated storage. A blue borage sky in the intestines of life, a splinter in the shanty-town of invincible daily struggles- both of us were born again in O'Hare Airport's Parking Level D. Too many nonsensical arguments in two-tone grayscale ripping open the packaging of a course about trysting in your twenties.

Your stomach's history is overpowering. It is temperamental, mettled by spirits and sleepless nights, borborygmus, wambles, and shades of nervousness you were never comfortable speaking openly about. The history of your ****** was privatized, in options and unedited films shot over and over candidly by a mini DV desk camera, nine months to read you wrong to weep in strong wintry walks back and forth from The Buckingham to the Dwight Lofts, Room 408 without a view. All of your secrets in a little miniature of a notebook, bright cerise red. You captured teardrops in medicinal jars meant for syringes. You tied strings to your fingers, named your field mouse ******, and introduced your mother as Lady Darling. Captain with stingray skin, the hide of Ferris Bueller with the coattails of James Bond, dusted with daisy pollen, and clearly weakness. You ate me like bitter herbs on Thursdays, and like every other woman I've ever met, on Tuesdays you always kept me waiting.

I have wings for everything. Yellow wings for a woman in a yellow dress, Red, White, and Green wings for Bernice from Mexico City, Purple wings for  Mrs. Doolittle the doctor who worked at Taco Bell, the Jamaican priestess who was traveling through Venice Italy- we smoked hash with the grandchild of James Joyce on the Northern pier against the aurulent statues of Apollo and Zeus, Cupids' collection of malevolent tricks, SleepingB Beauty's rebuttal in fending off GHB attackers, my two dear friends who were kidnapped in clothes, abandoned in the ****, and only remember eating chocolate donuts with sprinkles and the bruises and dirt on the insides of their thighs. Nothing clever. Nothing extraordinary. Everything sentimental, built to withstand soot, sourness, and early female bravado.

You know how to play the piano so you've said, but i only have the CD you gave me to prove it. I do have evidence of your addiction to men and *******. I have your collection of dresses with tags still on them (but every woman has some of those), there is the post office box in Kauai, the Halloween card from last November and the two videos I have stored on an external drive in a nightstand adjacent to the foot of my bed. You sleep atrociously, talk too quickly, and **** like your father abandoned you when you were five. Your talent for taking photographs is like your skill-set for playing the piano, but I don't have the CD to prove it. You don't believe in social media, social consistency, friendships, or hephalumps and woozels- with the exception of the classes we shared together in college, I've never seen you outside of the most glamorous of fashion. You hate flats, hats, and white wine, and for as sad as you can seem to be at times, I've only had you cry on me once. While we were on the phone, three days after your mother hung herself. That's when I last left California, and I haven't been back yet.

I love a Kristine, but once a Britni, a Brandi, a Joni, a Tina, Kristina, Kirsten, Kristen, and a Katherine and Kathryn too. I know rock stars who are my dearest friends, enemies who I share excellent taste in music with, and parents who've always had my back but show it in lashings of the tongue and of the belt. It's been two years and three states since I was two sizes smaller than I am now. I've never considered the possibility that I was the main character and not the supporting actor, but due to recent developments in antipathy and aesthete, reevaluation, and retrospective nostalgia. All of this is about to change.

I am me still evolving without my usually stolid and grim ****** features. i bare brevity to situations existing that would **** most or in the least paralyze a great many. There is one for every hour of every day, and one for every minute in every hour, second in every minute, and more than the minutes in every day. No one has a second chance, shares a different time, or works off a different clock. I have been called the master of the analog, king of the codependent, and rook to queenside knight. I share a parabola for every encounter, experience, and endeavor. I am three minutes from being a cadaver, one drink away from a drunk, and one thought away from being completely alone. I think upright, i sleep horizontally, and I love infinitely. I am the only finite constant i have ever known. I am the main character, the script, satire, sarcasm, and soundtrack are mine.

"I don’t care if you believe it. That’s the kind of house I live in. And I hope we never leave it.”
There's A Wocket In My Pocket by Dr. Seuss
i Apr 2014
i found
old cassettes
of my bitter past,
and twisted childhood
under my broken bed.
i couldn't stop those
unwanted memories that
flooded through my mind,
images and flashes
of blood,
and screaming echoes.

— The End —