"analogue" poems
I look back at old comments, hoping for something new to see
Some old remark of a person I once was
That stench that burns your nostrils and kills the back of your throat
Stinging into the base of your teeth and down to your fingertips
Bite your nails with yellowed teeth and suckle on the nicotine feed
That keeps you strong
Like balsawood and matchstick towers,
We built our castles in the mud and grit of it all
A glorious death had I not found my feet
Feet running
Running rabid and fast, too scared to slow down
Too nervous to stop.
Stop searching. Stop searching for something to hold onto
Let it all out of you
Hands released
Let the waters take hold of you
floating on top.
So selfish of me to not see the sun
The day breaks and falls to pieces in your hands
Crumbling down with a certain sweetness behind
Like burnt caramel that sticks
As we stand.
How beautiful it is
We talk of fun things and long weekends
Of head highs and analogue eyes
Away from the screens and the mess of addiction
white skies mottled with rose coloured patches
Sewn together jeans with embroidered scratches
Chalk line to measure my affliction
The people I’m with won’t see my addiction.
Mar 2, 2023
Mar 2, 2023 at 1:00 PM UTC
The formulae for well being
is found in those memories,
a preparedness to unearth
yesterday's yearbooks;
which releases those far flung controls of analogue,
resurrecting belt driven
record players
to play Starbuck and Brothers Johnson
reviving '76,
mentally speeding on pristine motorways,
buzzing by on a chevy corvette
humming to the suggestive "Afternoon Delight"
vying with your Radio's antenna.
Oct 15, 2013
Oct 15, 2013 at 7:05 AM UTC
@X5 BMW vehicles are truculent
Where have the real blondes gone to?
Bring back Orion Pictures
to remake Doom Watch,
resurrect Analogue tv,
ban militant cyclists from the roads
and yes the Chartists were right annual suffrage too.
Dec 23, 2012
Dec 23, 2012 at 7:07 AM UTC
In this household there’s far too much noise!...your mobile, your pager, your palmtop, your laptop, your desktop, your land-line, your radio, your plasma screen, your mp3, your ***** driver, your GPS, your audio-books, your lawn-mower, your toothbrush, your stereo, your play-station, your VCR, your hairdryer, your podcasts, your DVD player, your digital clock, your analogue clock, your juicer, my ******** your drill...
Feb 24, 2010
Feb 24, 2010 at 10:11 AM UTC
Black dots
merge to static fuzz
what happened to the analogue
barchart of colour
TV talks
shut up you’ve had enough
internal groans
sighs of bones
peach bruises from prodding
and tracks protruding from every scratch
oh elbow angled saviour
save me from this labour
oh blessed middle finger
pray within and linger
this my body
this my cup
had my fill with
not enough
Dec 17, 2013
Dec 17, 2013 at 11:58 AM UTC
The grapes haven't spoiled yet, but
will now never be tasted.
The cut flowers
still have some perplexing
life in them.
Hanging from a
tree branch, I find a message
written by a dead woman.
There's a bookmark
embedded between the
pages of a hardback, like
Excalibur lodged in
stone, and I
cannot pull it out.
It hurts to walk along
certain corridors,
past certain doors, with
no one behind them
calling to me.
The radio is tuned to Ghost FM,
and nobody with a pulse
gets airtime.
Digital photographs of
fading analogue memories.
Yet still small shoots persist
in breaking through this dark, cold dirt, and
inexplicably blossoming.
Feb 8, 2017
Feb 8, 2017 at 1:58 PM UTC
I am analogue.
made of troughs and of peaks.
My medication offers
silence with tweaks.
I'm upping and downing,
either dreaming or drowning.
So I can't stay too long
in case something goes wrong.
First thought of the day
is of impending doom.
Rain clouds have gathered
and it pours in my room.
Later on that day,
I feel I'm okay
and I don't know why but
. . . . . I'll take it.
Poetry by Kaydee.
Dec 4, 2018
Dec 4, 2018 at 5:08 PM UTC
I call it the Changeover;
like an analogue radio searching for a signal
sometimes it's clear
sometimes it's static
sometimes it's in between
somewhere between far away and near
somewhere lost in the middle
between Signal and Static.
Clear Day the signal reaches out its arms as far as the eye can see
and the ears can hear
and the senses can feel
and taste buds pop and linger
and revel in new experience
and comfort in knowing
and wrapped in wonderment.
Changeover Day is somewhere between Clear Day and Nowhere
struggling to tune in
backwards or forwards
or sideways or upwards
to something
to anything that resembles a signal
like hearing voices in another room
an argument through a wall
the indecipherable murmur of music
the clamber of ushered noise
the mishmash and cacophony
like a symphony of Morse code.
Static Day is dark day
there is no signal
no senses
no sound
only indeterminate fuzz
and the crackle of broken glass
and the foghorn
and the white noise
the confusion and delusion
the paranoia of shifting jigsaws
changing pieces that never fit together
can almost make out a face through the frosted glass
the smear like bird **** on a window
halfheartedly wiped with lackadaisical whimsy
and greasy chip shop newspaper.
In the Static there is no wind
no heart to beat
no empathy or sympathy
just
cold
hard
steel
out of place in a room of feathers and feeling.
You just have to ride out the storm
tell yourself:
it'll be calm soon
it'll be calm soon
it'll be calm soon
The Changeover
from Static to Signal
and the welcome return of voices
and breathing
and beating
and feeling.
Apr 18, 2016
Apr 18, 2016 at 7:40 AM UTC
Who'll know where the doors are?
Would you guide me till the end?
Would you lead me to a dead end?
cos I thought I saw what was a mirage
was nothing but an ugly entourage
where hawks and vultures scavenged
the dead; to witness; burial at the sea
to witness; ashes in the snow….
Will my music break the doors?
Will the lizard ever smile?
or will it burn away juvenile?
for I feel like the analogue guy
One hour behind the clock's alibi
Some sang love's the way to roll
so I loved; but lost all control
seemed like an addictive lust
like I choked within animated dust….
The doors!! could you walk your way to me?
think I'm on the other side
for the enchanted key; for the bride
I've painted static words in exchange...
else I'll lay in gloom beside the Stonehenge
I'll lend you my baby so you'll mourn when she's dead
and one day I'll see the sun shine yellow and red
and one day I'll unlock the doors…
the doors of perception!!
Apr 25, 2012
Apr 25, 2012 at 5:27 AM UTC
Step one is waking up
and writing about your day.
I want to talk about language,
your mothers cheapest wine and worst blueberry jam
staining all your best clothes with verses.
Vignettes appearing all over
the rented tuxedo from the wedding.
Dark ink and oil separates in a margarita glass
soaking into the cuts on your dry lips,
dusting your hair and the spaces
between each individual vertebrae.
Syllables dripping from the tip of your nose
and fingernails
leave novels on the linoleum and
books of sentence fragments on the hardwood.
Poets bleed into cracks on fine china
pooling into poems.
Space heaters emit quotes from dead people
I sign each word when
the analogue clock ticks,
each poem adding another minute to the day.
I’m always hoping I can squeeze in a few more hours
so I can watch the ****** orange sky
with grass in my shirt,
the Pixies mumbling in the background
leaving lyrics trapped in my teeth.
Anthologies of letters
between man and his dog
hidden onomatopoeias in every backyard.
I'll write you 364 days of the year
too many paragraphs to fill the barbecue.
Burn through pages with paper matches
making enough poems to last a decade.
Transfer phrases into the soles of my shoes,
I want to walk on water,
the "W" curled up beside my baby toe.
Every inch of the fabric we call skin,
stamps and ink pads,
turn everything to poetry.
Despite seas of fog
where breathing stops the words
from forming in your throat,
the only way to express is by experience
and frantic fountain pens.
Smoke on the balcony
writes starry sonnets about the girl in your bed
lining the waxing moon with poetry,
a **** homage to Shakespeare himself.
Serendipity;
finding something good without looking for it.
A feeling I have encountered
keeping my breathing sporadic,
rarely setting me on fire.
Living Chinese finger traps
burning blue poems on my palms
splotching the back of my neck
licking up my thigh and hips.
Let me throw away my common sense,
the final step of becoming a poet.
Jan 26, 2013
Jan 26, 2013 at 10:59 PM UTC
Her headphones,
A relic of the analogue age,
Create her mini world around her
As she
Autistically repeats the same phrase
Five hundred times on the piano's
Aching keys.
It didn't save last night.
Logic. Look it's gone.
Such a lot of stuff.
What was the point of all that then?
Are you sure you don't know how?
And the trains rumble past,
And the Shard keeps reaching up,
And the clouds keep keeping out
The sun from peeking through
From time to time -
And summer will PASS. US. BY.
Quicker than the last time.
And we will wonder
With less surprise than last time.
Jun 9, 2016
Jun 9, 2016 at 5:08 AM UTC
i can watch the
clock on your
dashboard
turning
backwards
the hands going
the wrong direction
it's rare to find a
analogue timepiece
in a car nowadays
even rarer to find one
that goes in retrograde.
and all i can think
about is that i'm not
happy but i'm more
settled inside
isn't it sad
to be living only
in hopes of your
expiration date?
yes
yes it is.
i'm missing last winter
just a little
how safe it felt to be
your shotgun rider
with that perfect and slightly
annoying thirty minute mashup
fifteen minutes there
fifteen minutes back
anxious to leave
anxious to get home
to get into another van
one that wasn't stifled
i was your
shotgun rider
for monday afternoons
and drives to craft fairs
the ball and our own
educational funeral.
*(can we petition
to rename
graduations to
educational funerals?)*
i miss the old days
when mondays were happy
not anxious
or empty
thinking back on it
we spent too much time
in the back corner booth
of the doughnut shop chain
up on the east hill outside of town
and the coffee wasn't even good
i wish we had just gone to the
grocery store and
got some of that perfect
creamline milk you never shake.
i don't remember
the day i looked
on the label of the
jug and read the date
and it very clearly
was stamped with an
expiration of next
september
but when i tasted it
it had all gone sour
and i wondered how
painful it could be
to throw milk
out early
so i'm leaving it
in the fridge
until autumn
rolls around
just thinking
about how sad
it is to be living
with the hope of dying
but don't people do
the exact same thing?
Aug 18, 2016
Aug 18, 2016 at 9:40 PM UTC
the horse rummages on the track
and the victory is owned by the ****
soon sleep will engulf my body
like the oblivious quietude of Aokigahara-jukai.
things and their semblance of utmost care.
light begins to burst
and there is little left to see,
wide-eyed, crunched by the efficacy of aches.
taking all to the very heart of hurt
as gamblers wager,
and coming back with the sound of completeness:
a man is a man in his chronology of defeat -
left torn by madness,
a cornered beast pressed against the woods.
the moon plays its lyre, white-washed,
sound wading in the very source of quiet,
hauled out of the Sun, its mother.
this hound stalks the world
with woebegone legs, a reflection of the entire world fractured
by a singular shot at the end.
i hear the guttural snarl of engine
unwavering in its limitations. say, at first light, all exists to paint darkness quicker
than any obfuscated conclusion -- hiding in
itself, its mood for squalors.
the mud dug deep for bones
pared from the slaughter of midnight,
hiding them to mask my defeat:
everything around me sparkles with
the vigor of frailty, all the same.
the nights are too long, scarce as froth
from an opened mouth left flat,
a dry gin bottle.
i imagine sad armies dissolving in pale moonlight, and crosses thumbed down to the snaking hiss of its nondescript prayer.
gears gnash like teeth in anger
of you in your young clothes, the pace of cars
hurrying back to homes.
i remember the splintered wood burning
the last in the round kiln of the Red Lion.
the upholstery of night is the twilight's
catharsis. the coast of dread widens like
the vernal metamorphosis of a young ********** in Gibraltar,
come in, come in with undecided ******
you can hear the fall coalesce with the levitation of ember, landing like feet blunt
on the asphalt beside desolate bicycles
in seedy parks.
the surreal tabulation of analogue repetitions:
death's myriad, in all corners screaming
the countenance rebel, against the floored masses.
Feb 26, 2016
Feb 26, 2016 at 7:55 AM UTC
When I first began culturing my memes,
I found the soil was rocky, had poor drainage, and little organic material
But life is relentless and these first thought experiments rooted.
They weren't much to look at from above ground,
But those roots were doing important work
Every weak point in the bedrock of my mind was found and exaggerated.
This action created micro fissures
And as the seasons turned and those early plantings faded into oblivion,
Erosion took over the heavy lifting.
With the bedrock now permeable, and the rainy season upon us,
Those cracks filled with water which then turned to ice and,
As autumn turned to winter, the mechanical action of freezing and thawing,
Was responsible for metamorphosing those fissures into actual cracks.
And with spring came more rain,
Washing organic elements into the cracks,
Now my mind had a proto-soil and was much more robust.
However, my garden was always ready, I just didn't realize it.
Life always exists,
When we use the cyclic reminder of the seasons as analogue:
It's much easier to see.
I find it much easier to see when I close my eyes.
Bring those spring rains, bring the pollen, more seeds, spores.
The pollinators are waiting
Sep 30, 2014
Sep 30, 2014 at 12:21 PM UTC
The Anorak diviners see
their market jolted, killed off
Already Magic numbers's 64 and 200
are side-lined and downed,
all they have are memento boxes of
once household brands ,
liquidation like implosion sees,
ISO granularity choice further compressed,
those remaining niched as Professional film
to milk the last remnant of expediency,
in the midst of adversity
they should pledge their mounts
as a salvo to tomorrow.
Earmark them, gifted for
Local History Musems
pristine images from yesteryear.
Jun 25, 2012
Jun 25, 2012 at 3:44 PM UTC
what i understand as a definition of
the word complex,
it requires a hyphen as a
pseudo conjunction, in that it
coordinates words in opposition,
which is why freud's right on the
money with the madonna-whore
complex, but completely bonkers
with his oedipal fetishes,
because oedipus is a complex in itself
that cannot be excavated
and theorised for the sake of a
analogue... that's a horrid plagiarism
that might plagiarise awry,
for all orthodox necessities:
a complex is aqua- -marine
aquamarine... but in terms of theory
it's evident that the hyphen usage
is still retained, before everything
goes **** up perfect *** **** of
compounding the two words like a german:
Fernmeldeverkehr (telecommunication),
der... 'nurse! pass the syllable scalpel!'
'herr doktor, der silbeskalpell.'
'ah scheiße, 'ere we go 'ere we go 'ere we go:
fern' 'mel 'dever 'kehr.'
the operation was a success, apart from
the silbeskalpell being left in the patient's body;
and i never understood why people
expect you to talk to them face-to-face
like you're reading autocue, the minute
you talk imagining off empty space
to invent a new language of comfort
they equate you with autism...
i once had a glance at psychiatric notes
sent to the bureaucratic doctor (g.p. / general
practitioner)... psst... they only care
about whether:
a. you're able to keep eye contact
b. you're / you're not biting your nails...
but that's what you get, the welfare state
policy of funding distribution of the infamous
n.h.s. (national health service)...
****** by the cartesian dualism of splitting
mind from body like the brain is some
gooey porridge mixed with cornstarch for
thickness... only 0.6% of n.h.s. funding goes into
psychiatry... i'm guessing at least 1% goes into
prescriptions for pensioners demanding ******
i already told you, cats are ontologically autistic,
hence their appeal to autistic children,
or just anyone not really into leashes, being
tugged or tugging, come rain or shine, come
7am or 7pm... they can be so inanimate sometimes
that they blend in will flowers, and when awake,
yes, like plants doing the kayan lahwi tribe's
extending neck with rings thing... ah what's it called...
ah yes phototropism... take the rings off the neck
a million swans with broken necks.
Feb 28, 2016
Feb 28, 2016 at 7:39 AM UTC
Playing to the heartbeat
Tub thumping Drumbeat
Overwhelming Synth wave
Channelling the Bass slave
Guitar jams, room shaking
Screaming voices, larynx aching
Cello in the background
Violins make mellow sound
The Snare an unholy snap
A Tambourine a mighty slap
The Cymbals crash
A Tom Tom smash
Chord change impending
Middle eight unending
Digital and analogue
Recording in its final slog
Final verse is looming
With the Bass Drum booming
The soloist’s precision
Fulfils the final vision
Aduain
Nov 15, 2018
Nov 15, 2018 at 10:01 AM UTC
i love new cds
the crinkle of sliding
plastic wrap off
how it feels to remove
the security label
in two tries or less
to see my eyes on
the backs of songs
crystal clear and
iridescent
*(too new to be vintage
too old to be cool)*
how smooth a brand
new jewel case feels
and a booklet before
fingerprints
but then again i love
finding them secondhand
a little smeared and
pages crinkled
how a brand new
album is a blank
slate for me to write
my memories on
and when the plastic
cracks and the music
plays on it all just proves
that together we lived
*(hoping and praying we didn't get
scratched to the point of no return)*
i was born in
the fall of a fleeting
shimmering silver age
the hybrid time
between analogue
for the common man
and digitization
of the masses
my childhood
when these things
were still fragile
expensive
slipping into
adulthood and
falling into
feeling obsolete
*(i am the last remaining
child of the compact disc)*
Sep 30, 2016
Sep 30, 2016 at 11:15 PM UTC
The Analogue diviners
200's swirled and drowned,
ISO granularity further compressed
in the midst of adversity
we will pledge our mounts
to prosperity.
Jun 25, 2012
Jun 25, 2012 at 3:43 PM UTC
Automatic belts
work without having to switch --
Are they analogue?
Apr 5, 2022
Apr 5, 2022 at 3:44 AM UTC
Everything changed today
Analogue to digital
Black and white to technicolour
Two dimensions to three
Grey cloud to rainbow
Normal to supernormal
With the tiniest movement
Of a miniature person
The whole world changed
Ava smiled.
Jan 24, 2010
Jan 24, 2010 at 9:46 PM UTC
The air was different back then, somehow lighter, less heavy metals floating around and nuclear sunsets I suppose. I was born in the 60's but the 70's are my era, long hair, flares, large collars and music that still haunts today. What you need is children to amalgamate past, future, present. With their mp4's, downloads, (records and CD's old hats no one's wearing anymore ) tv box set binges, live pause, catch up, iPads, iPhones, igiveup. Technology speaks to them in so many different tongues and guises, the world has shrunk down to "someone is typing" messages from the other side of the world, nay the universe, friendships based on snapchat, facebook, twitter that don't even have the decency to start with a capital letter, Skype, facetime, with people you don't even have to 'know' coming round wanting tea and outstaying their welcome, instead hanging back in the ether waiting for the right moment the right meme to slot into the conversation. I sit and let it all wash over me, a tide ebbing and flowing long into the night, stretching time zones and bedtimes to the limit, in fact talking beyond bed, those waves never sleeping always whispering, I share music and photographs that are things from my life, they will never understand beyond the boring stories I tell them, a fount of useless information that flows, analogue from the corner of the room, the old man, the old days, you never had it so good, I am in awe, everything new, all to discover, everything to play for, world full of possibilities, not the same old 9-5 humdrum waiting for the weekend so we can pretend to be free again, it's all happening now. I enjoy these moments as an observer, no need to join in just sit and smile, with an occasional LOL or amusing emoji. My daughter bought Hotel California on vinyl the other day, I'm still in there, somewhere.
Jun 22, 2019
Jun 22, 2019 at 6:06 AM UTC
Uncomfortable white man
Looks at his watch.
Uncomfortable white man
Wants to scream at the kid
Up somewhere around row 6 or 7
To simmer down,
Stop crying.
We all feel like you.
Uncomfortable white man
Signals the attendant.
Uncomfortable white man
Is thirsty..wishes he bought a drink.
Uncomfortable white man
Doesn't want to pay six dollars for a *****
Uncomfortable white man could afford it.
Uncomfortable white man
Glancing at his watch again
Not allowing it the time
To click to the next analogue minute.
Uncomfortable white man shifts,
Uncomfortably.
Uncomfortable white man
Crossed his arms,
Grasping his wrists.
Uncomfortable white man
Isn't accustomed
To being
Uncomfortable.
Apr 24, 2017
Apr 24, 2017 at 9:33 AM UTC
In a world where the virtual self precedes over the actual,
the middle ground is where your darkest secrets rest,
Near the cortex or wherever your brain has that abyss,
is where you shed your insecure thoughts, your masks, and your Instagram filters,
and there you will find yourself all alone with your actual thoughts that don't fit in the virtual world,
because you are no longer special, no longer significant, no longer you,
and the only part of your existence that truly belongs to you is that reality.
So I am logging out
with the hope that I will come find you in your abyss,
with the hope that together we can find our analogue world,
where the sun rises in the east, sets in the west,
where the smell of the first rain, still brings a smile on your face,
where the wind and the tide, usher in good memories,
memories that we made,
memories that we lived,
memories that are etched in that middle ground,
the middle ground which once, was a happy place.
Apr 20, 2018
Apr 20, 2018 at 9:15 AM UTC