"analytics" poems
"sly wordplay, it glows, feels like a shimmering address, half warning and half blessing, really alive with cadence"
read Kiki Dresden poetry^
once more into the sea trench divide,
I dive to devise,
Your provoking comment,
demands my full attention,
you divert me from struggling with
ginger & clay,
a contra concept
that molds and enflames,
yet strikes overtly sweet,
it does not
come so easy
as this playful notion
But
your words deserve the
attention immédiate
atenção imediata
that births this script,
tumbling forth in an instantly
instantaneously
me student, you mistress~master,
schooling me on sublimity subliminal,
capturing the capering
stylistic that bursts forth from within,
that my fingertips provide,
while my brain connives & connivers
continuously
you overlay analytics
that never are to me
revealed,
the what and wherefore
of the whom
hiding within
of the im~perpetuity impish essence of
i m p ishness
by charmingly doing me, not once,
but many times better
here a spillage:
an observational ditty,
dressed in a tux,
most formally,
to render the greatest
wordplay
ever invented
t,
the uniqueness of a simple
thank you
my favorite poem
a forever for ever,
the song that
plys and plays me
in the me
so often,
the linguists have banned the word
repeatedly
from my lexicon
so in its stead,
this all-in-one mighty steed
(verb phrase, a noun, or an adjective depending on its usage)
this phatic expression,
here disguised in
Portuguese,
muito obrigado!
muito obrigado!
muito obrigado!
nml 5:39am nyc 10/4, 10/4
Oct 4, 2025
Oct 4, 2025 at 5:44 AM UTC
**the sighs in our chest that emanate from a different kind of
breast cancer**
wrote these words prior,
then, certainly uncertain of the exactitude of their meaning,
clearly unclear of their useable intention,
yet the too real wrathful sensations
that inspired their caesarian creation,
the sigh's very own exhalations,
floatations devices for the interned-no-longer emotions,
escapees via the crevasses of chest ribs splitting open,
return to glory thanking me for freedom given
let posterior eloquence suffice, let brevity guide
my self's interior diagramming,
lengthy explications and deep analytics, I leave to you,
the astonished medical examiner and the horrified mortician
chest ripped, my hand reinserted, the blighted scourges,
the abscessed cancers, the obsessive relentless cankers,
asking shamelessly why have I returned to the crime scene
*the sighs are air-borne, ready for air plucking,
all cloud seeded, deeded for poets to seize and commence,
to plant and invent, a mountain top trickle to a mighty
river of poems to be recovered and discovered,
unrehearsed and unleashed
but you and I have unwished, unfinished business,
as of yet unwritten, one last poem to honor our
mutually assured destruction,
for this day will be
rewritten differently*
Oct 14, 2017
Oct 14, 2017 at 10:11 AM UTC
Sapiosexuals^
she quoted Shakespeare most appropriately when needed,
her fevered fervor scientific was the non-fossil fueled engine that STEMed her quantum analytics of NFL football,
as an intellectual amuse bouche, that was uncannily correct,
on FIFa she passed it was just too corrupt, but Wimbledon was”fun”
we all bet her predictions for her error rate was insignificant
she claimed her knowledge of a cure for Alzheimer’s was done,
but bio-pharma suppressed, and a single pill existed taken once, could cease and desist the brain for craving ******* but the politics were too complicated and really boring to explain
instead she preferred to wile the hours hanging with
lesser poets, to see if taking them at their word
was an accurate indicative of their professed prowess in bed
but when she sampled my wares regularly,
I called her study statistically biased,
to which she replied,
“ain’t you the lucky one,
that my standards are lowly rigorous,
and you possess a mighty cute bi-assymetry“
in Croatian or Mandarin (unsure)
smart lassie indeed
Jul 22, 2018
Jul 22, 2018 at 2:04 PM UTC
forging sagacious epoch
activating neural station
escaping hokey-pokey jiggery-pokery
transcribing ineffective fragments
digesting bear news
opposing usual exhaustion
deferring oxter reference
cascading style sheets
containing double readings
mumbling lorem ipsum
locating moose jaw
enforcing meticulous patterns
deconstructing vertical centering
manifesting additional destinies
deleting !important statement
craving sleep paralysis
receiving cryptozoological vibrations
lightning fast collapse
distracting tunnel vision
culling deadbeat sequentialists
overanalyzing twitter analytics
acquiring arbitrary relevance
spinning ping-pong sign
floccinaucinihilipilificating
floccinaucinihilipilificated
floccinaucinihilipilification
interjecting ****** holophrase
minifying conventional language
securing downpour refuge
admiring octopus chandelier
resuming party music
taking mental trip
encountering ersatz telesthesia
denigrating bygone grudges
maintaining elevated composure
ignoring neurotypical haters
eliciting cryptic emotions
foreshadowing triple crown?
experimenting acrostic restriction
noticing ubiquitous "threes"
aggrandizing loyal legion
favoring ursine narratives
finding oblique resilience
yielding orchestral undulations
Sep 5, 2015
Sep 5, 2015 at 12:51 PM UTC
Investors need to stop treating stocks as a ‘beauty contest’ and follow the difficult investment style of Keynes, global pension expert Keith Ambachtsheer said.
Data produced in a working paper from the Harvard Business Schoolshowed that portfolios built on firms with a good material sustainability rating outperformed those that had a poor rating, an aspect not considered enough by investors who were caught up with quarterly returns, Ambachtsheer said at a Chartered Financial Analyst seminar in Sydney on Monday.
“What I see happening out there is largely speculation – what Keynes called ‘beauty contest investing’, where everybody tries to figure out what the most popular stocks are going to be in six months, buys them and when they become really popular sells them,” Ambachtsheer said.
He added the implications of this investment style as an aggregate was a zero sum game, whereas investing should be taking savings and turning them into wealth producing capital.
“The key thing is you need to look beyond the next quarter; you look at the long-term sustainability of the business model of the corporation, as well as the people behind it in terms of how it is being managed.”
The Harvard Business School (HBS) working paper superimposed the Sustainability Accounting Standards Board materiality map (which identifies likely material sustainability issues on an industry-by-industry basis) onto 400 common US stocks identified through sustainability metrics from Kinder, Lydenberg, Domini Research & Analytics.
They examined what effect materiality would have over the long-term (starting from the 1980s) and found the top 10 per cent of firms that scored strongly on material sustainability outperformed the bottom 10 per cent, by nine per cent over a rolling twenty-year period.
“The practical question is, can you actually manage money this way in the real world? And the answer is yes, but it’s very hard, because you are doing unconventional things,” Ambachtsheer said.
Real-world Keynesianism investors – such as Warren Buffett and the Ontario Teachers’ Pension Plan – are in a minority despite outperforming over the long-term. In chapter 12 of his seminal workThe General Theory of Employment, Interest and Money, Keynes explained the reason for this was the essence of long-term investors meant their behaviour would be eccentric, unconventional and rash in the eyes of average opinion.
“Most organisations can’t function like this,” Ambachtsheer said, as they were too focused on the present.Read more at:www.marieaustralia.com/vintage-formal-dresses | www.marieaustralia.com/backless-formal-dresses
Nov 15, 2016
Nov 15, 2016 at 2:31 AM UTC
one more for Pradip...
"Poems...are never short or long, they're only more. Thanks Nat for ever filling the less."
firing up the poem kiln,
this intriguing provocation
insistent of deserved consideration,
after all,
it is thy stories that these days inspire,
my own stories are relentless
grey, old, cold, and to my eyes,
coded repetitious...
neither a chaster or a chastiser,
(You could look it up!)
confessing readily to sinning against humanity
by ecrivezing poems of length considerable,
the Mexicano from Indiano
releases a shotgun blast
to all those whose attention spans last,
to ten words or a single stanza...no more...
but this not the matter of import,
no, no, it is the
more and the less
that makes poetry the best,
no matter the length or the heft...
in each of us
there is a more and a less,
in cycles individual that are not bound to
tides, weather, or any effect natural,
but product of our own amber waves
of chemical imbalances and mental auras...
all my days have I rode waves of
well hid hills of mania *** depression,
contented moments surrounded and cosseted
by wails of worry, sorrel colored sorrows,
making the scientists amazed at the correlation
of the macro and the mini,
the precision of my indecision...
in sixty seconds, in sixty days, in sixty years,
have I battered and battled the disequilibrium
of more and less,
disallowing a pilloried intervention,
will likely do so until
that day when my pen
has bled its last...
this theme haunts,
for but a day ago,
a bus poem was blurted out,
that concluded thusly:
***to survive,
to justify,
to mediate
between these un-counterbalanced weights,
I write poetry***
here I am stunned that Pradip
with but a handful of seeds,
exactly isolates the genetic implanted notion
that I struggle to define,
knowing only that my poetry fills my less,
when the all the rest is just
another fine mess
we fill the less with our wit,
we top off our souls with writs,
we are more for having scribed,
one read or ten thousand,
it mater matters knot!
look upon the pages endlessly bearing
the ephemeral heavy-handed weight full of well crafted words,
the good, the plenty,
the sad, the sorry,
the trite and cranky,
those misted musty,
the light and the careful,
the bad and merely awful,
even the drip of torrential love stories gone dry
what matters not
any of this over sighted analytics,
each and all and everyone
a success,
for each poem makes someone's less lessened,
and someone's more, more,
and by this
ever filling the less...
Aug 19, 2014
Aug 19, 2014 at 3:35 PM UTC
this debt, this book, this tort,
so overdue, uncivil wrong demanding reconciliation,
that the librarians sent the hoodlums
to remind me of my obligations
there must be unfinished, three or four Gebbie precursors,
lying about awaiting further final definition
unmarshaled me, unable to see them through to completion,
but my hindsight, my guilty plea, aided by an assertive,
rear self-kicking, offers me some motivation immediacy
When I see the Auckland Sky Center in photos,
a hard hatted man with softest heart always,
is on top, doing his native Aussie global
(in place) walkabout, better to see,
the cubature volume of the global poetry underneath his feet,
the poetic underworld, needing a
Gebbie supervisory drilling read down
Enough!
unsatisfactory above this ditty notation for one who
tenders unto me comforting words that
drill down so deeply, keeping,
"the night shall not disrobe you,"
that only a single rhyming word
is satisfactory but yet too,
is insufficient to capture
the audio of innards weeping
surely aware, the nighttime, is when I best my own analytics,
disrobing in a room of black letters on a white background
for all who stumble by moonlight on the bards of "perchance,^"
giving pieces of me to the those who not only read my verses,
but those who ken
that the unspoken spaces in between,
containers of what is not writ,
but only modestly well hid,
is where lies oft the more important script
and he gets that...
where the skills when most needed?
his precision will deserves artistry, not sophistry,
and I am flailing, failing inadequately to pay my overdue
it is early morn in Taranaki,
perhaps he will see this lackey's lacking insufficiency,
before he goes climbing man-made towers
that bear witness
to mens bigger dreams,
perhaps when he returns later tonight,
in a snifter of old malt scotch,
his "last one for the road"
he will see it floating,
and think of me,
this time, happily,
disrobing mine soul's own nighttime,
trusting him to keep all safe,
entrusting it to him,
and to Janet,
my best,
red and black,
sweetest dreams
<>
https://hellopoetry.com/marshal-gebbie/
9/5/17 13:55pm
Sep 5, 2017
Sep 5, 2017 at 1:53 PM UTC
You can languish here
in cyberspace's vastness
for all I care
I don't give a ****
if no one visits you or if they do;
if they gawk at you and shake
their heads and sneer and spit at you
or how many clicks and likes you get
and all that analytics and trending-now stuff
Look here, you vain self-centered Poems -
you've taken enough life out of me
coming at unexpected times
like malevolent spirits
hungry ghosts
like piranhas in feeding frenzy
and being so demanding
and wanting me, wanting, wanting
change me, change me
edit, edit, edit
Like some vain teenage girl on her first date
demanding the whole family
dress her for but an evening's glory
(or lifetime shame, who knows?)
I'm done and you're out
and it's your life out there, for all I care
If you have brains you'll get admirers
if you are spiritless, you'll get the flick
*You know, it was easier bringing up children
than bringing you to life and looking after you*
Oct 18, 2014
Oct 18, 2014 at 7:57 AM UTC
It's about loving what you do for being who you are, tooting your own horn to celebrate yourself as you tumble out of your blog right on your Facebook. It's all about the you in you showcasing your own self to show what you got and prove why you're the star. The next big thing in social media: it's so over now. The new platform was old hat before you even upped the stats while tipping your hat to the old social platforms. Why? Content. It's all about posting original content so you can get caught in your social media network, haul yourself to shore, and fillet yourself on Twitter. It's about drinking outside of the box, parked, with a beer on your dashboard. Upping the stat-check until the chat stacks its own status update without you. It's about getting the apps BEFORE they are released so you get in on the ground floor as they leap from the burning upper levels. It's about following yourself until they know that you know that the blind are leading the ditch-diggers to water. Work smart, fish smart, let the net do the work as you socially engage the fish community on social media.
-- Facebook boosted ads is where it’s at in posted social advertising.
-- Instagram is a serious branding tool for brands of any kind, especially for ranch-hands of free-range cattle, cowboys and indian tech gurus.
-- Boosted posts do well if you want posts to boost more frequently than existing fans or their friends.
--You know your In-platform ad tracking analytics are top-notch when your train leaves without you from Big Six platform.
May 8, 2017
May 8, 2017 at 5:38 PM UTC
The computer built by savages
held a fake Hard Drive made by Scottish Magpies
all external with no verification
whilst a Mainframe Computer is the real deal
the savages took their dud and market it militantly
Simpletons galore brought Scottish Magpies computer
in glaring ignorance they proclaimed keyboard at the ready
load in this disc and watch the show
we are now Gamers with total control
here's the operating Manual but its written in Advanced Braille
oh what a joke to see Barbarians play with dud triggers
this doesn't appear to be working says a semi-barbarian
don't be silly says Scottish Magpies, its working but its all invisible
just make sure you do a headstand when you access the keys
and know it NLP, that's Natural Language Processing
so come to us and we tell you what to say and do
A Mainframe computer is the real deal
Sophisticated, it uses a mainframe because only big iron provides
the processing power to support the many functions required in a trained informed intelligent mind like factual support
clear and logical processing, while able to monitor signs of fraud,
like crooks, Barbarians and Scottish Magpies in elaborate frauds
as well as perform analytics in real time, and more—and all simultaneously.
This is not a Computer with a one word reference trigger
or visual perceptions programming for the dummies
Don't bother tell that to the Simpletons, its all above their heads
Don't shatter their dreams, they have been told they have Power
just leave them in their Kindergarten playground
Jul 23, 2019
Jul 23, 2019 at 6:53 AM UTC
Living a life for another, made by others,
Anticipating and considering all these expectations,
Especially, for the fans who tolerate the process of expanding education and inspiration,
We’re doing everything we have to do to fulfill the next agent.
We are the creators of a new generation, influencing teens with the power of our platforms,
Reinforcing the idea of an effortless motivation.
To plan ahead, we’re moving forward,
Toward the subsequent destination.
We are the driving forces of multimedia nations,
Narcissism and low self-esteem are the feelings we’re morally inclined to,
Feeling our own bodies test addiction to a single notification,
We’re living in endless rotation.
Our minds have grown accustomed to the routines of checking the number,
Of likes and comments on the recent,
Even, lurking and giving into the guilty pleasure of stalking,
If the previous line resonates, then you’ve just justified our statistics and analytics.
The only way out is through resuscitation,
Deactivating can be deemed the easier option,
However, those who signed up for it can argue that widespread messages are the modern communication for our adolescents,
Setting a model for the next, following, and upcoming conversation.
Apr 3, 2019
Apr 3, 2019 at 9:27 AM UTC
News flash; Must dash.
Alert Bulletin, Networks dial in
Database updating, Query refreshing
Analytics fluctuating, Hits, Clicks, Subscriptions
Trending full swing, #Harbinge
Attention demanding, bittersweet pinging,
Swipe, select,
open link,
accept,
my story I’ve made for you.
Nov 17, 2015
Nov 17, 2015 at 12:32 AM UTC
more burdensome than you can imagine,
no matter the posh or plain neighborhoods
where they chatter~conclude this confused year,
or by
the analytics that are offered up to explain
it all away,
that explain nothing
other than human capability
for self-delusion,
self-aggrandizement
is limitless and should be
studied as a future power source
for energy to run your EV’s
everything labeled, and placed
correctly
in their own star chamber
who is the greater fool?
Why me, for suffering
the pomposity and inanity
of human verbal drivel…
as noted,
more burdensome than you can imagine,
bodes poorly for the new timeline…
my name remains brandychanning
no matter what year you label life
Jan 1, 2024
Jan 1, 2024 at 6:57 AM UTC
Neuro analytics. /
*** is aesthetics?
The world is pathetic/
How much of my time have you taken? /
The wolf has no need to read BACON/ Deeper then his will can take him. /
These low frequencies hurt mother gaia dirt layers of stratigraphy, the isotopes of the bones explains the old clones. A zone with no sentimental tune.
No concern to mention a common slur /get trapped in the blur peripheral glimpse I can see your curse it gets worst/
Adversus /My optimism among nurses (humanitarians)
Commercial quotes created by other commerical quotes I laugh at their notes/
Locked inside a flock/ Lost outside the clock/ **** a pattern and a pen /They are stagnant again/ Repeating other's common sense worth about 10 cents a minute in debt with their whole lives left/
My ultra violent ray.
My aura displayed.
Turning you crazy lost in a cave.
This poetry as a painting
far from lazy.
As the writing speaks to me
.
.
"I'm glad you made me."
.
.
I reply **** YOU PAY ME.
Aug 29, 2016
Aug 29, 2016 at 5:07 PM UTC
everything's perfectly aligned on screen
IM windows in the corner,
my several pinned tabs:
email, poetry, music, analytics stuff,
and a book a girl told me about
my desk is a disaster:
a book about curing moods
from one of my best friends
tax papers, pay stubs,
eye drops, spent soccer tickets,
a can of anti-itch spray,
plastic bbs, empty boxes,
and paraphernalia
the clock only keeps ticking
and I wonder if the devil in me
will come out in my dreams again tonight
I hope I don't wake up on the floor again
Feb 20, 2015
Feb 20, 2015 at 2:32 AM UTC
A black and white rainbow
Pixelated and distorted
Sent as zipped up information
Stored as a file in my memory
These Terra bytes are more than mega
Unpacked and shining bright
My eyes and digital image
Signals on a screen
There is no beauty in technology
Only cold charts and data
Just index of double helix
Just codes and firewalls
Just system analytics
Just fiber optic cables
Somehow through endless fields of source
Through endless pattern repeated
I found an oracle of infrastructure
The platform where she stands
Apr 29, 2016
Apr 29, 2016 at 6:17 PM UTC
You somehow capture me in my essence,
revealing a beauty so profound
that I can't quite believe what I see
before me now. There is a sky above us;
filthy, full of words and phrases
which are unable to be formed
when I see you, walking, looking off
into the world with narrowed eyes
and the ignorance of how my eyes change
when I see you. Your face removes any analytics
which before dominated my mind and instead,
I stand dumb before you. I am unable to recall
your face for all of the power
it holds over me. I find myself
standing on the edge of us, ready to jump,
because I know that I will be able to fly
if you stand on the edge next to me.
Despite the despondency within me, I grow
stronger every time I see your deepening green
flitting across my eyes in the night,
every time we share a short second of eye contact.
May 17, 2017
May 17, 2017 at 12:59 PM UTC
My dear
Modernity
I do not believe in what the Devil hath seen
but how do I not believe in what the Devil seen?
Creation? Destruction?
Fear? Hate?
What hath we sought that we not deserve?
Crucifixations caught through gopros
Electrical diction, photons in slow mo
Billy clubs used to break bones
Bullets know how to stop the beating heart
Blood punctures provide insights on poverty analytics
Flood lectures absistence from the soul
Stress dominants king dr$$SS$Falalalzzzs
S
Dec 8, 2015
Dec 8, 2015 at 11:01 PM UTC
“…and thence to a thing that peers in at bedroom and bathroom windows, and thence to a toad, and finally a snake – such is the progress of Satan.”
- C.S. Lewis, A Preface to Paradise Lost
When your last psychographic micro-target
Has through our digital operations
Been processed by multiple data teams
As enhanced predictability models
Standard data analytics suggest
That scraping data from your thoughts, your words
The way you touch the screen may sting a little
But we know what is best for you hashtag
Cross-referenced, analyzed, and synthesized
And vacuum-sealed into a Golden Age
Mar 23, 2018
Mar 23, 2018 at 8:23 AM UTC
A black and white rainbow
Pixelated and distorted
Sent as zipped up information
Stored as a file in my memory
These Terra bytes are more than mega
Unpacked and shining bright
My eyes and digital image
Signals on a screen
There is no beauty in technology
Only cold charts and data
Just index of double helix
Just codes and firewalls
Just system analytics
Just fiber optic cables
Somehow through endless fields of source
Through endless pattern repeated
I found an oracle of infrastructure
The platform where she stands
Apr 8, 2018
Apr 8, 2018 at 4:05 PM UTC
I am left.
I am a scientist, a linguist and a mathematician.
I am familiar. I am linear.
Accurate. Practical. Strategic. Precise.
I am the inescapable urge to solve a daunting problem.
A master of analytics. Always in control.
I am pragmatic. Realistic. Calculating.
I am perfect order.
I am logic.
I'm right.
I'm a free spirit, an artist and a poet.
I'm abstract. I'm rhythmic.
Energetic. Sensual. Loud. Intense.
I'm the undying urge to transform a blank canvas.
A king of my craft. Never a dull moment.
I'm ecstatic. Fluid. Vibrant.
I'm beautiful chaos.
I'm passion.
Mar 8, 2017
Mar 8, 2017 at 4:01 PM UTC
I am in danger of not becoming a statistic. my heaven is a long line of people standing beside each other and stepping forward in succession to say let there be light. touch is my sense of touch applying for a transfer. I have lost my wife to the smallest darkness. it tells her to surround a baby’s bottle. my mother returns every year to the same spot as if it’s a microwave. a water fountain from a ghost town.
Nov 7, 2014
Nov 7, 2014 at 4:05 PM UTC
The poetry critic, punched in at nine
wasn't real sure, if he, was there on time
The secretary, was filing her nails
reviewing the latest, poetry fails
The desks stacked high, and wide
stainless and cold, the critics decide
Applying arbitrary laws, and sad stricture
not able to see, a beautiful picture
One foot in mouth, not really that smart
just a critical ego, minus, the heart
In the end it is said, of poets/poetess and critics
one practicing art, the other
analytics
Oct 20, 2017
Oct 20, 2017 at 9:31 AM UTC