"archival" poems
Photography,
Photo journalistic,
Everyday, realistic.
Commercial, architecture, landscape, artistic,
Industrial, fashion, ethnographic, pornographic.
Big Brother, fallace, stealer of souls, vouyer.
News seller, instant gratifier, man pleaser, woman abuser.
Barthes, Sontag, Cindy Sherman,
Virginia Woolf, Warhol. Weegie, Francesca Woodman,
Leibovitz, Adams, Arbus, Tina Modotti,
Nan, Evans, Hoffer and even the Paparazzi.
Cheap ***** digital manipulator, image poser,
Center fold, coupons, Jackie O and Marilyn Monroe.
Where did they go:
Lifeless paper product, painter's picture mess,
C-type, digital archival,
Sepia, black and white, hard drive retrival.
Image addict,
Image taker,
Image maker,
image seller,
image buyer.
Newspaper, magazine, graphics and ads,
TV, dreams, even the trash.
Billboards, subways, phones and buses:
Utopia:
Surreal, crop, stretched and air brushes.
Modern ideal.
Surface manipulator.
Brain conditioner.
Consent manufacturer.
Oh Photography,
I got you in my eye.
A few thousand dollars,
A BFA, A critical scholar.
Or maybe a nerd,
Just boys with toys.
Telephoto genitals, with motor drive action.
Studio lights, umbrella traction.
Oh Photography,
You proprietor of obscene.
Detailed, de-sensitized.
Court ordered, jury analyzed.
Click, image, copy, edit, paste, print or post.
Myfacespace, twitter, flicker,
An internet media overdose.
Pry, spy, your friend's friend's acquaintances.
Parties, picnics, reunions and shows.
Visits, vacation, style, shoes and clothes.
Pics, photos, images, jpegs and giffs.
Snap shot, portrait, panoramic, Kodak kiss.
Exacerbate:
Divorce, break-ups, jealousy, envy, love and fears.
Devour and captivate society for years.
Slaves to Western and Capitalist desires,
Destruction of Earth with psychological, monetary empires.
Jan 11, 2010
Jan 11, 2010 at 7:05 AM UTC
(contains references to sensitive issues)
She’s just a babe
he’s only two
of youth refill
they’re broken in
but leave no mark
so they're unspoiled
for clients booked
it's all arranged
no tracks you'll leave
their brain's not through
not 'til they’re three
so chill out dame
the program works
divert impel
‘'you crazy sh-t
here take this pill’
nobody hears
if told some tales
but they won't talk
their lips are sealed
from dot they’re trained
they’re here for us
don't have to guess
‘you talk, you die!’
so pay the fee
their price is high
and bring this dog
they’ll do it all
and shouldn’t you
take all you're due
you work real hard-
on nectar sup
-
Stop! Not so quick
for veils can lift
and imprints made
don’t ever die
archival facts
reveal themselves
when day arrives
you’ll face the Judge
and when you breach
a petal new
it injures both
and gear stick shifts
you've soiled life's bed
with squalid stains
now own the Sh-t
says mirror man
Sep 14, 2018
Sep 14, 2018 at 6:11 AM UTC
OLD HOUSE
They retain precious memories,
intimate feelings of inhabitants
passing through its sagging doors.
Romantic are seekers of forgotten times
memories encased in hard wood floors;
as lath plastered walls ooze remnants of a
history while we; when inclined listen.
We don't go very often, to abandon houses,
perhaps on a dare, or at Halloween.
Are we passed enjoying extremes into this
another world, musty energy a curious child.
That was the yesterday
which now waits behind
musty, dusty, derelict halls.
I stand I stand at paint chipped banister,
a faded worn carpet once carried dancing feet,
children playing before they sleep. The
broken coat tree on the floor.
From the third floor murmuring,
a wind storm jars
loose fears, of time
once lost to dreams.
Echos billow from
each room, curtains hanging
yellowed by a sun where
dancing light through holes in damask lace.
Mice gremlin's artful droppings,
tracks of nature on dirt strewn floor.
Broken shards from window
panes, confetti after New Years day.
Branches scratched
etched paths, tracks like graffiti
on sill its unread words, a glif
eerily cast shadows trigger echos from the past.
Jagged memories protrude from every corner
mixing with new, enriching our fantasies
bringing us closer renewed;
these musty memories long forgotten.
Like waves rushing back;
flooding a mind like broken
dikes they crash into our world,
Rembrandt's paintings on canvas fading.
Silent footsteps outside a door,
we hear laughter from bedroom walls;
a smell a whiff of hot butter *** silent
conversation coming our way.
Old Doc Masters listened at my chest, as
I read all by candle light, Sherlock detective stories
or the Tell Tale Heart of Poe or
Othello; all masters in the past.
A Grandfather clock
stands silent, keeping time,
lost its tick yet still striking,
it stands tall, upon a clueless floor.
Knowledge lost to a past
in a house so worn,
births, deaths, wars, wrapped
forgotten, encased by neglect,
I visited a house besotted,
neglected waiting to be
remodeled into another century
moving it to present times.
Ajerry
Archival Jan 5, 2011
Nov 1, 2013
Nov 1, 2013 at 2:46 PM UTC
Once I loved to
act. Do impressions,
impress others with my whim
now I don't do that
my ability to charm is slim
I would laugh, and make faces
in all kinds of places
and in all kinds of spaces
I'd go do these faces
Now I don't do that
when I try I fail
my throat clogs with phlegm
and my jokes have gone stale
Once, recently I tried
I got a laugh, it was great
my heart fluttered with excitement
it might not be too late
I went on and on,
having a great time
when the day was over
I went to bed
Thought about how
great things were
thought about how
I would be back for sure
I haven't tried since then
my one shot at revival
I am lonely again
my whit is archival
Feb 23, 2015
Feb 23, 2015 at 7:34 PM UTC
The presence of our contemporary age
Alters artistic vision down a spiral of emptiness.
Artist no longer create the visual page,
Their spellbound by ambitions of digital laziness.
Visions lost to the age of simplicity,
Erased to machines’ evil desires,
Deluded by storms of deception,
Creativity ceased as hell endures its fires.
Instant gratification — the new reality —
The yearning for excellence, no endurability.
Modern day artistic creativity,
Coerced by digital debility.
Tradition bankrupt by false realities,
Lost to a pallet of ones and zeros;
Artwork with no archival ability,
The future lost to modern day technologies.
Sep 6, 2022
Sep 6, 2022 at 1:32 PM UTC
*[Note: Not one of Subject B's 17,891 journal entries found
mention anything about Why Time itself had stopped.
Refer to Subject X's Archival Journal: Chapter 16
Science of an Improbability (pages 356- 387) for further research]*
___________________________________________________
February 14th, 1955
Dear Dr. Einstein,
What's up Doc? I decided it's Valentine's Day. Unequivocally! And it's a Saturday! Saturdays are my absolute relative favorite. Always have been, I think...
See, up until "yesterday" I thought it might have been almost a year since the whole time thing. I look older, that's for sure. Measured myself up on the kitchen notches and I'm just about as tall as Derrick was when he was 13-- which isn't much, we're a short family. Dad topped-off at 5' 7" and was super lucky to find my mom. She was 5' 7" as well but hated heels. Anyway, though, it could be less than a year. It gets really confusing with the sun always in the same spot, which is why I decided it's Valentine's Day. And it's Saturday! I've already cut a picture of Howdy Doody and put it on the TV.
Okay Doc, that's all. Just wanted to wish you a Happy Valentine's Day. Might move my bed up to the attic to get a better view of the everlasting day.
Sincerely,
Robbie Wilson
Jan 13, 2014
Jan 13, 2014 at 12:34 AM UTC
babbling bard's borrowed blabberpolished performers jibber jabberpinching published stolen cultureverse of a cuckoo, parrot, or vulture thespian thrush corally crowspilfered produce of past masters proseperfect posture, prancing croondotty damsels sigh and swoon shakespearian showman strutting stagesobtaining material from dead poets pagesstudious stealer's theatrical thirstrapturous robber, magpie of verse wisely walter mundane mittypoetical poacher prancing prettyempty shallow pretentious crookcrafty criminal compiling book robber of rhyme from archival shelfcopy-cat crooner can't do it himselfrouted teeth spout from mouth like a troutaudience wonder, what is he on about any question's? the laurete quizzedyes said one,...do you know where the bog is? this is a true story, i was there. and the **** concerned is the editor of poetry wales magazine. who told me that i should study other peoples work for at least five years before i put pen to paper. i promptly answered, .... too late butty, i've already published 3 books, and sold the lot (only locally mind, but did'nt tell him that). he read other peoples poems that night, that were converted from english to welsh, and no one round here speaks or understands welsh.
Mar 2, 2010
Mar 2, 2010 at 12:36 PM UTC
*[Note: Subject X's accounts contain no record of a proper name.
The following is Subject X's first entry and is believed to have been written shortly after the Time Anomaly began]*
A Full Stop?
It's all been suspended... The birds, the deer, the breeze... All of life in animate suspense... except for us, the people...
On April 18th 1955, as best as can be described, time itself-- the fundamental instrument of evolution and Life-- stopped. At exactly 7:20 am, as per the Clocktower at the end of main street. As per the pocket watch in my hand. As per the alarm clock upon my nightstand. As per the humming birds suspended mid flight in my front garden.
All of nature, still...
Have we come to a "Full Stop"?
Ask me how long it's been... ask me.
It feels as though it's been a few "days". The only indicator I have of this, is the panic spreading rapidly across town.
"Frankie's kid just dropped dead. Running track. The kid was in better shape than "Mickey" Hargitay. Collapsed halfway through his 4th lap... Nothing but skin and bones, they found. Barely a body-- you would have thought it was an old man.", told stories of high crass.
"My mother passed last night... she walked... She walked and aged a week with every step.... too weak to barely speak, she whispered, 'Here.'
After 2,600 steps the bony woman clinging to my arm-- my own flesh and bone, my creator--
laid to rest." , told stories of elegance.
As for me...
The only time I know is written on my face...
Jan 28, 2014
Jan 28, 2014 at 1:40 AM UTC
been awhile
but no matter,
boots look best
when resting
on legs extended
on a summer's afternoon
looking down on
water boats, dogs by the side,
your sleepy hollow in
my appreciative heart
for I know there is soul
in brevity,
and that ain't exactly
my finest quality
but you sir,
archival historian
of moments of man's choices,
and with noisy metal detector,
reflect on the belts and buckles uncovered
from long ago wars by which you
capture my devoted attention
they say the north won the war,
by amassing more and more
and wearing down their brothers
but I know different
r
you listening,
to you I accede,
to your fewer words,
join in happy secession,
and see us all through
with your briefs on the
human condition
Apr 17, 2016
Apr 17, 2016 at 7:44 AM UTC
She sits on the bed and reads me
Old poetry
About ****** sadness, and loss
All synonyms
For the same affliction really
Dysfunction and despair
Captured in yellowed archival snapshots
Of a girl
With a penchant for surviving pain
Mortality leaps
From the prose as she reviews her life
In hellish imagery
A transmutation of spirit occurs
Within her
As she drifts through the years
On each page
Melancholy awareness for us both realizing
That it's all real
No one can take away the scars that
Every word cuts
No one can deny the inviolable fortitude
Required to document
The war embedded and entrenched on the front lines
Just old poetry
To me they resonate like a distant bell
Her sudden silence
Whispers that the dead still scream her name
Mar 14, 2015
Mar 14, 2015 at 7:03 PM UTC
the moment I realized I could
write a novel was back in 2013
when it was one on one care-work
with a paranoid schizophrenic, and
every evening after the days events
had crowded on past, I would sit at
the counter chatting conspiracy theories
and literature elitist literati with coworker
churning out 3 to 5 pages on the mornings
notable events (*threats of suicide, talk of
ghosts, diamond planet, cigarettes*) and
after a month and a half I would have an
entire books-worth of meta-material (not
prosed and honed, be it) sitting in archival
binder, locked and clocked inside a cupboards
future reference.
SO
why not my trickling thought-seas?**
Jun 29, 2014
Jun 29, 2014 at 4:30 PM UTC
What possessed me to wrestle so long
Picking away on unchartered ground
Pushing emotions around and around
Spinning so many an unfinished song?
What carried me off into deeper waters
Wading through mire and murky corners
Falling again and again and again
Over husbands and fathers and Wonderland mothers?
Ease blows over this punch-bagged heart
I fall on soft pillows of steady stillness
Breathing freely and deeply and emotionless
Letting it all go into archival winds...apart
Oct 3, 2012
Oct 3, 2012 at 1:36 AM UTC
By: Cedric McClester
They hope against hope
For survival
But what are they?
Dead on arrival
Historic footnotes
Perhaps archival
No longer contenders
Or arch rivals
Former debaters
At the kids table
Who wanted a chance
To prove themselves able
To break out and join
The rest of the stable
All they needed
Was a booster cable
But as another one
Bit the dust
Going down
In total disgust
The frontrunners
Remained nonplussed
While observing
All that’s left is just us
See their base
Was so hell bent
On making sure
That the message sent
Was conservative to the core
As far as that went
And they we’re determined
Not to relent
Cedric McClester, Copyright © 2015. All rights reserved.
Oct 31, 2015
Oct 31, 2015 at 1:59 AM UTC
queen of pens
most glorious of archival ink
your 0.20mm lines
give me more joy
than you could possibly imagine
May 27, 2014
May 27, 2014 at 8:31 PM UTC