#broadcast - Hello Poetry

she was a wireless broadcast that was when i was a receiver now i'm pickin up zilch, she's not a long repeater

0

Mar 26, 2021

Mar 26, 2021 at 12:48 PM UTC

manx-kronos-pragna

Drop A Signal

she was a wireless broadcast that was when i was a receiver now i'm pickin up zilch, she's not a long repeater

4

Red letter days and friendly fire. Will I ever go home? Your voice over the airwaves soothes. But the things you say cut like teeth, sharp and vile. You visit the hospitals, shake down the morgues. The batting of your eyelashes, a ruse to your construction: You're a steam shovel, girl. Digging for Nazis at the center of the Earth.

0

Oct 17, 2020

Oct 17, 2020 at 4:23 PM UTC

Carlo-C-Gomez

Axis Sally

Red letter days and friendly fire. Will I ever go home? Your voice over the airwaves soothes. But the things you say cut like teeth, sharp and vile. You visit the hospitals, shake down the morgues. The batting of your eyelashes, a ruse to your construction: You're a steam shovel, girl. Digging for Nazis at the center of the Earth.

15

Timing is everything when you aren’t certainly prepared to strike down your own advances in the face of extreme fun! Because fun (on the other hand) can’t and will not strike fun at the advances (that is your own product). Only to have (“timing is everything”) shrivel up and die! Except that doesn’t make any sense to have one or the other act as a simple countermeasure conjoin up with an interconnecting way of making things (all the better). But it’s already been like that too begin with! Someone once said as if by the simple means of a very lonesome echo. An echo that doesn’t have any priority to offer itself, except for the many occasions of seemingly never-ending “reverberations” that rebound off an endless process meant to coincide with something more important then itself. (“Itself”) … As in a very lonesome echo that keeps “broadcasting” every chance it could get its own “echo processing” hands on! That is if it’s not already of the “correct sorts” to measure such a claim. (Since a something can’t be seemingly claimed if not for a desire not having its own identity to bear!) For it simply trying to claim something (only to get it right the first time) is only but a fashionable illusion made to show that once something only seemingly happened once… It actually had been going on for an “infinite” amount of time without any specifications for how long it could have lasted? Or how long it’s very “reverberating transmissions” (and the effects surrounding it) would essentially last for? There was never an essential answer to this very question. Since questions aren’t in the correct sorts either, when trying to come to terms with an answer that demanded essential “answers” (right off the bat) in order to carry on forward. True…true…true…. The (someone) again once said, as if by the simple means of a very lonesome echo. How many was that…? And how many times did it resort to acting out in the best interests of something other then itself? The narration of this very passage “ticks” momentarily, as if to really “access” any of what this lonesome echo broadcasting mindlessly was “babbling” about?! When the narration did eventually come to terms about what its own “accessing” safely filtered out in the open for (all to see…not just in itself), it was confused (more then EVER)! What information it simply found out, was about how the lonesome echo repeatedly broadcasted something too many times that of course (it was not seemingly aware of…at first). Because even if it was, it certainly wasn’t caring of the repercussions bending the very instances that are (all the sudden) too alert to take…certainly lightly. Just as the narration of this very passage once took this all to heart (once upon a time ago). (If only for just a single moment). Not long after when it revealed that these very reverberating transmissions were in fact bending the very behavior of this once lonesome echo. And as if the narration hadn’t already been ticking it’s very “accessing protocols” together, revealing also another profound secret piece of information. Is that this all took place long in the past. Showing these very reverberating transmissions were the result of an overly prolonged exposure to something finally catching up too itself. Can you essentially guess what that very (something) was who finally was catching up too itself…? If you did, great! But remember this, as it’s VERY important (so to speak) …. Cast logic completely aside for only just another overly prolonged (“exposure” of a moment) having possibly been the size of another “infinite” lonesome echo broadcasting wildly! (Not to mention fusing its mindless behavior together as one!) You’d (all the sudden) get a random “alerting call” from that very someone who was essentially reaching out with tons and tons of echo’s in order to (not just make a “too long of a point”) when they essentially were only doing it for fun. Except for the fact the lonesome echo was essentially losing itself one reverberating transmission at a time. Strongly revealing another piece of the puzzle…. That it wasn’t just losing itself throughout its own “reaching out” protocol. But simply trying to keep up with its own alerting call it kept casting judgement on in order to simulate some “twisting fate” together. A twisting fate that it initiated together (in it’s reaching out protocol) as “timing is everything”!

0

Jul 18, 2020

Jul 18, 2020 at 2:35 PM UTC

simon-7

Timing is everything!

Timing is everything when you aren’t certainly prepared to strike down your own advances in the face of extreme fun! Because fun (on the other hand) can’t and will not strike fun at the advances (that is your own product). Only to have (“timing is everything”) shrivel up and die! Except that doesn’t make any sense to have one or the other act as a simple countermeasure conjoin up with an interconnecting way of making things (all the better). But it’s already been like that too begin with! Someone once said as if by the simple means of a very lonesome echo. An echo that doesn’t have any priority to offer itself, except for the many occasions of seemingly never-ending “reverberations” that rebound off an endless process meant to coincide with something more important then itself. (“Itself”) … As in a very lonesome echo that keeps “broadcasting” every chance it could get its own “echo processing” hands on! That is if it’s not already of the “correct sorts” to measure such a claim. (Since a something can’t be seemingly claimed if not for a desire not having its own identity to bear!) For it simply trying to claim something (only to get it right the first time) is only but a fashionable illusion made to show that once something only seemingly happened once… It actually had been going on for an “infinite” amount of time without any specifications for how long it could have lasted? Or how long it’s very “reverberating transmissions” (and the effects surrounding it) would essentially last for? There was never an essential answer to this very question. Since questions aren’t in the correct sorts either, when trying to come to terms with an answer that demanded essential “answers” (right off the bat) in order to carry on forward. True…true…true…. The (someone) again once said, as if by the simple means of a very lonesome echo. How many was that…? And how many times did it resort to acting out in the best interests of something other then itself? The narration of this very passage “ticks” momentarily, as if to really “access” any of what this lonesome echo broadcasting mindlessly was “babbling” about?! When the narration did eventually come to terms about what its own “accessing” safely filtered out in the open for (all to see…not just in itself), it was confused (more then EVER)! What information it simply found out, was about how the lonesome echo repeatedly broadcasted something too many times that of course (it was not seemingly aware of…at first). Because even if it was, it certainly wasn’t caring of the repercussions bending the very instances that are (all the sudden) too alert to take…certainly lightly. Just as the narration of this very passage once took this all to heart (once upon a time ago). (If only for just a single moment). Not long after when it revealed that these very reverberating transmissions were in fact bending the very behavior of this once lonesome echo. And as if the narration hadn’t already been ticking it’s very “accessing protocols” together, revealing also another profound secret piece of information. Is that this all took place long in the past. Showing these very reverberating transmissions were the result of an overly prolonged exposure to something finally catching up too itself. Can you essentially guess what that very (something) was who finally was catching up too itself…? If you did, great! But remember this, as it’s VERY important (so to speak) …. Cast logic completely aside for only just another overly prolonged (“exposure” of a moment) having possibly been the size of another “infinite” lonesome echo broadcasting wildly! (Not to mention fusing its mindless behavior together as one!) You’d (all the sudden) get a random “alerting call” from that very someone who was essentially reaching out with tons and tons of echo’s in order to (not just make a “too long of a point”) when they essentially were only doing it for fun. Except for the fact the lonesome echo was essentially losing itself one reverberating transmission at a time. Strongly revealing another piece of the puzzle…. That it wasn’t just losing itself throughout its own “reaching out” protocol. But simply trying to keep up with its own alerting call it kept casting judgement on in order to simulate some “twisting fate” together. A twisting fate that it initiated together (in it’s reaching out protocol) as “timing is everything”!

1

I dreamt I was walking across the high plains, through the husk of a small American town. The air was hazy with distant smoke. The sun was high in a muted, cloudless sky. The heat radiated through my temples. I was parched, older, leathery, searching. I came upon a rusted-out school bus on the side of a dirt road I walked in. The seats had been removed from the bus. Along the left side lay a long row of bedridden, elderly adults, comatose and naked, each one receiving the slow drip of a tincture into the mouth: clear nectar oozing from a carnivorous plant hanging from the bus’s ceiling. There were small children, also naked, standing there in the bus. Their eyes were covered with dark patches. As I turned to leave, walking back down toward the road, one of the children tugged on my leg. I turned to address the child, our faces now nearly meeting, and I saw that her eyes were not covered, but removed. Two spindly black voids hung there instead. “It's okay,” the child said to me. “You don't need to be afraid.” * * * I continued down the road, the air murky, salty, boiling, deadly. A neon billboard with an American flag waving shone off in the distance. behind it loomed a giant radio tower, hard at work transmitting, but I knew that its broadcasts were never meant for me to begin with.

0

Feb 27, 2020

Feb 27, 2020 at 2:37 AM UTC

Ira-Desmond

Dream

I dreamt I was walking across the high plains, through the husk of a small American town. The air was hazy with distant smoke. The sun was high in a muted, cloudless sky. The heat radiated through my temples. I was parched, older, leathery, searching. I came upon a rusted-out school bus on the side of a dirt road I walked in. The seats had been removed from the bus. Along the left side lay a long row of bedridden, elderly adults, comatose and naked, each one receiving the slow drip of a tincture into the mouth: clear nectar oozing from a carnivorous plant hanging from the bus’s ceiling. There were small children, also naked, standing there in the bus. Their eyes were covered with dark patches. As I turned to leave, walking back down toward the road, one of the children tugged on my leg. I turned to address the child, our faces now nearly meeting, and I saw that her eyes were not covered, but removed. Two spindly black voids hung there instead. “It's okay,” the child said to me. “You don't need to be afraid.” * * * I continued down the road, the air murky, salty, boiling, deadly. A neon billboard with an American flag waving shone off in the distance. behind it loomed a giant radio tower, hard at work transmitting, but I knew that its broadcasts were never meant for me to begin with.

33

Write about the Sky how it shines Write about the Ocean and all its tides Write about Pain Write about Belief Write about Love And how It's Received Write about Friends Write about Trends Write about Healing Write about the Feeling Write about the Cosmo Write about Speed Write about Trees Write about Greed Write about Memory and how it serves Write about Honor and what it deserves Write it once Write it again Save the draft & label The End

0

Feb 27, 2019

Feb 27, 2019 at 5:27 PM UTC

MiBoSo

A Drizzle Of Inspiration

Write about the Sky how it shines Write about the Ocean and all its tides Write about Pain Write about Belief Write about Love And how It's Received Write about Friends Write about Trends Write about Healing Write about the Feeling Write about the Cosmo Write about Speed Write about Trees Write about Greed Write about Memory and how it serves Write about Honor and what it deserves Write it once Write it again Save the draft & label The End

22

Wake up, my beauties Existence is fleeting And given you received The blessing of being I urge you two things **** it, I'm begging Begging but two things Don't let your nature Fall prey to cruelty Don't let the cruelty Undo you Should sleep better fit you Though a difficult swallow The final transmission Shall seek You Out If your soul is frayed and braided new strength with duct tape Trace with your blade if your skin demands it in crying Don't press it too deep I need you. I need you Hurt if you must hurt And I know that I must If our hearts are fractured And I'm here surviving My other lonely love birds In this pallor once vibrant Then, Where are you?

0

Apr 22, 2018

Apr 22, 2018 at 10:07 PM UTC

Simillacrum

Their Endless Broadcast

Wake up, my beauties Existence is fleeting And given you received The blessing of being I urge you two things **** it, I'm begging Begging but two things Don't let your nature Fall prey to cruelty Don't let the cruelty Undo you Should sleep better fit you Though a difficult swallow The final transmission Shall seek You Out If your soul is frayed and braided new strength with duct tape Trace with your blade if your skin demands it in crying Don't press it too deep I need you. I need you Hurt if you must hurt And I know that I must If our hearts are fractured And I'm here surviving My other lonely love birds In this pallor once vibrant Then, Where are you?

29

Everywhere I go. I get foul looks. Looks of pity. None I care for. "His parents..." "He's gay?" Yes. Yes. I sit at the television. Flipping through channels. The broadcasts. The audience. The bruises that mark my skin. ******* loser." "Not even going to fight back?" Are a reminder of my trauma. I'm friends with the colorbars on the television. The red, yellow, green and blue. The black, white and grey hues. The static that seems to scream my name. I am left with a single rose. I don't know where it came from. Or where it goes. But it's my rose. I can't take the beatings any longer. I'm sorry to her, my best friend through this all. I can't do this anymore. I can't do anything. I engrave my skin. Line by line. Until three deep strokes mark my wrist. I feel dizzy but don't sleep. She asks me where I've been. I hide my wrists and smile at her. She looks at the bruises on my face. She angrily frowns. I'm sorry to her, my best friend through it all. It's just too hard. I can't hold on. So I leave you my rose. The flower beside your bed. The bright red rose that stained everything. Crimson gushes from my wrists, from my neck. It tastes metallic. I'm happy now. I smear it all over the TV screen. Now I can become one with my friends. Come on, play with me.

0

Dec 16, 2017

Dec 16, 2017 at 3:00 PM UTC

wuxian

orphan.

Everywhere I go. I get foul looks. Looks of pity. None I care for. "His parents..." "He's gay?" Yes. Yes. I sit at the television. Flipping through channels. The broadcasts. The audience. The bruises that mark my skin. ******* loser." "Not even going to fight back?" Are a reminder of my trauma. I'm friends with the colorbars on the television. The red, yellow, green and blue. The black, white and grey hues. The static that seems to scream my name. I am left with a single rose. I don't know where it came from. Or where it goes. But it's my rose. I can't take the beatings any longer. I'm sorry to her, my best friend through this all. I can't do this anymore. I can't do anything. I engrave my skin. Line by line. Until three deep strokes mark my wrist. I feel dizzy but don't sleep. She asks me where I've been. I hide my wrists and smile at her. She looks at the bruises on my face. She angrily frowns. I'm sorry to her, my best friend through it all. It's just too hard. I can't hold on. So I leave you my rose. The flower beside your bed. The bright red rose that stained everything. Crimson gushes from my wrists, from my neck. It tastes metallic. I'm happy now. I smear it all over the TV screen. Now I can become one with my friends. Come on, play with me.

48

I stand tall, smiling manically through a TV screen. Static amidst the broadcast, what a wonderful scene. Turn up the volume, I'm showing the death of a nation. Stand up and yell, dance in formation. I open my third eye, I can see it all. Turn around and around, everyone will fall. They watch with their eyes glued. No matter what they do, they're all ******* They sway two and fro. A telecast promoting vertigo. I raise a blade to my throat and sing a chorus. Black chords all around like liquorice. They stare hypnotised at the television show. I cut my throat and blood starts to flow. I open my third eye, I can see it all. Turn around and around, everyone will fall. The screen cuts to static. A washed out town. For a mere moment, I was their king. I wore a crown. I lay on the floor of the studio, bleeding out. I hurt them all, my mind has no doubts. But I smile and laugh, coughing up red. Those ******** won't forget the things they said.

0

Nov 26, 2017

Nov 26, 2017 at 3:06 PM UTC

wuxian

kennith.

I stand tall, smiling manically through a TV screen. Static amidst the broadcast, what a wonderful scene. Turn up the volume, I'm showing the death of a nation. Stand up and yell, dance in formation. I open my third eye, I can see it all. Turn around and around, everyone will fall. They watch with their eyes glued. No matter what they do, they're all ******* They sway two and fro. A telecast promoting vertigo. I raise a blade to my throat and sing a chorus. Black chords all around like liquorice. They stare hypnotised at the television show. I cut my throat and blood starts to flow. I open my third eye, I can see it all. Turn around and around, everyone will fall. The screen cuts to static. A washed out town. For a mere moment, I was their king. I wore a crown. I lay on the floor of the studio, bleeding out. I hurt them all, my mind has no doubts. But I smile and laugh, coughing up red. Those ******** won't forget the things they said.

22

Day's last thoughts play through the creases of my sleepy mind. Questions pile like the flakes on the sidewalks outside. Square of purple light in my white wall, painted night grey, glimpse of snowfall--a buzzing, fuzzed-out scrambled teleplay. Through interference I'll slide eventually down into dreaming. and change the program. For now, the channel remains right here. The Winter flickers 'cross my face. And that window's purple square is a small piece of a tired world just trying to fall asleep; A single view of a wider picture that covers miles. Bends lines into a face. Impulses race through a fading mind. Snow is piling deeper on the bike path outside. Retrace my steps as eye lids close over distance Still that square glows--a buzzing, fuzzed-out scrambled episode. Through interference I'll slide eventually down into dreaming behind the credits. For now the channel remains right here. Half-smile flickers 'cross my face. A different place and some different ways to transmit greetings across this space and to broadcast all our withheld wishes would be fine. But tomorrow I'll wake up. And these re-runs never stop. And that window's purple square is a small piece of a tired world just trying to fall asleep; A single snowy, interfered picture. A half-formed question: Are you watching this same thing?

0

Jan 7, 2016

Jan 7, 2016 at 7:53 PM UTC

kyle-kulseth

Teleplay

Day's last thoughts play through the creases of my sleepy mind. Questions pile like the flakes on the sidewalks outside. Square of purple light in my white wall, painted night grey, glimpse of snowfall--a buzzing, fuzzed-out scrambled teleplay. Through interference I'll slide eventually down into dreaming. and change the program. For now, the channel remains right here. The Winter flickers 'cross my face. And that window's purple square is a small piece of a tired world just trying to fall asleep; A single view of a wider picture that covers miles. Bends lines into a face. Impulses race through a fading mind. Snow is piling deeper on the bike path outside. Retrace my steps as eye lids close over distance Still that square glows--a buzzing, fuzzed-out scrambled episode. Through interference I'll slide eventually down into dreaming behind the credits. For now the channel remains right here. Half-smile flickers 'cross my face. A different place and some different ways to transmit greetings across this space and to broadcast all our withheld wishes would be fine. But tomorrow I'll wake up. And these re-runs never stop. And that window's purple square is a small piece of a tired world just trying to fall asleep; A single snowy, interfered picture. A half-formed question: Are you watching this same thing?

46