"backlog" poems
.*if, and however many mistakes i made in typo... attempting to compete with Spawn, using the black panther... ****** please... it's like that "healthy" competition of butter, using margarine... Black Panther isn't Spawn... Spawn is... Spawn... yeah... thanks for ruining my 12" wish fetish... i was so dying... to... i was never going to **** an English girl to begin with... thank god.*
you're seriously going
to "correct" me
using black panther....
seriously?
spawn was the ********
to what....
to whatever you're
doing these days....
i don't want to be
the blank panther...
**** being black panther...
************
i want to be *spawn"..
******* quasi-nigger...
john coltrane...
you a mariah carey
back-up singer or some
otherwise alien whacky
alien-backlog?
compared to spawn...
the black panther
looks like a ******* ******
wing guy...
for what's deemed
12"...
black...
mire like bleak Parthenon...
some columns,
no spirals...
waste of time...
black Panther, what?
so Spawn...
was just a waste of time?
Spawn was the gran-daddy
where the Batman was the daddy
given the Joker
was the gran-gran-daddy...
you get me?
Miles Davis too much for you?
the blank panther is such
a ***** move...
it's like... come Kosovo...
when expecting Sarajevo...
****** this **** will not
stick...
high flying ****
if you think this will become
a ******* pancake...
no, ******
take your blank panther back
to Yakanda, or whatever...
your Spawn was cooler than
Lego Batman...
**** your white *****
and leave me to my existentialism
of... making a "heroic" exit..
akin to Elvis...
but more or less minding
Roy Orbison in a sing along.
p.s.
lego batman movie quote:
black panther *****
spawn go go go! spammy!
Oct 31, 2018
Oct 31, 2018 at 12:02 AM UTC
My worst fear realized
Beyond scared & paralyzed
the moment I recognized
the signs in the fading eyes
of a lover as she re-lives the lies
& cries herself to sleep with sorrowful lullabies
Ones only heard by the clouds and the stars they pass by in the night skies
The ones just as lonely and as distant as a sunrise
on the moons romanticized dark sides
mingling with the anticipated replies to the backlog of "why's"
that don't even bother with fly-bys
Somewhere out past where hope dies
Where both love and hate are lobotomized
then cannibalized
even weaponized
for passion triggered crimes
leaving no one surprised
Where the only allies one finds
arrive in disguise
as the best of times
as the worst of times
building up to a multitude of inevitable good-byes
How was I to vocalize
a mess of this size
when I don't have the ability to visualize
even loosing such a prize...
©2024
Feb 21, 2024
Feb 21, 2024 at 12:06 AM UTC
I usually fall asleep with the light on
Because in the morning it seems like the darkness never came
My body is a perpetual light switch
Always swept up in a rapid shift from darkness to florescence
Giving someone like me mania after long spells of depression
Is like giving an alcoholic a shot of whiskey
I need it to feel like I am worth something
I need it to feel like I can get anything done
Why did God, whoever the hell they are,
Decide I needed the super power
Of dragging myself out of the pit of my bed
Only to be blindsided with some sort of dangerous drug
See, most of the time I only reach an abridged version of that mania
But when it peaks it is just that:
Dangerous
It is my favorite brand of tequila
And the last drag of a cigarette
The one where the backlog from the filter gets lost in your throat
But it keeps you buzzed for a while
You see, mania sends you spinning
A trip only a certain kind of acid can take you on
You are constantly carnival
With lights and sound and fire
That no one can calm down
You are never quite at home in your body
Which might be why others can make it theirs so easily
Most days you binge on ***** and **** and ***
Are manic days
Manic depression is like losing control of the car
And other days, forgetting how to drive
Mania is like ****
You don't need to sleep when it's got you
Mania after depression is an abusive lover who knew you were coming home
Knew you would be back for more
It was only a matter of time
Before you collapsed into their arms
Oct 4, 2016
Oct 4, 2016 at 11:31 PM UTC
Things are getting better
Look at all the weight I’ve lost
The pounds are falling off of me
But I’m asking, at what cost?
I haven’t left my bed in days
I can’t be ****** to cook
I can’t be ****** to do my work
Or read a poxy book
Things are getting better
I’m relaxing more and more
I feel less and less anxiety
Knocking on my door
But I’ve got deadlines I need to beat
I’m falling well behind
The backlog of things I need to do
Is playing on my mind
Things are getting better
The pills are staying down
They keep me on an even keel
Upon a safer ground
I don’t get too emotional
Over petty ****
Or feel too much elation
Once I’ve had my little hit
Things are getting better
I went to have a blood test
They wanna see if there’s a medical reason
Why I’m feeling so depressed
But I wonder if my blood can show
What’s going through my head
Or can give a rational explanation
For why I can’t get out of bed?
Things are getting better
I’m less and less inclined
To listen to the ********
That passes through my mind
And I wonder, if things keep on changing
Where are they gonna go?
‘Cause if this is getting better
Then I really don’t wanna know.
Nov 15, 2013
Nov 15, 2013 at 9:57 PM UTC
The bane of my existence
As a HePo writer
Every time I go to read
I get this stupid blighter!
Don't know what is up
What is going wrong
I have a reading backlog
10,000 miles long!
I'm really beside myself!
This is the last straw!
I want to read your poetry
Not test Murphy's Law!
Just be patient please
I'm under the gun
A LOT of folks
are out there
And I will read everyone!
May 18, 2017
May 18, 2017 at 9:25 PM UTC
Without a suitable rival, the sad brigade lingers
Conscripts for an unpopular and non-believable cause.
After a drawback, the sober war machine parades.
The collective forces mimics a ploy of belligerence
The transient atmosphere moans a superfluous order.
A wit decides a banner epic for its backlog to dictate
In the ***** populace there waves circular innocence.
The twisted ranks value the immediate imperative
This sudden attitude dresses into a signature.
And a written tragic script obscures their pain.
While the reluctant ones wait for peace to break out.
Jun 11, 2014
Jun 11, 2014 at 1:40 AM UTC
Allow 3 seconds,
to enter,
ignore him for he is nobody really,
the sun has not yet risen,
the stairs or the lift?
These are the choices you make,
20 calories per floor,
How long do you want this?
chose your story,
Your rib-cage molests your skin nest,
You are not the youngest,
face reality,
What have you achieved lately?
Be present in the moment,
Do not fail emotionally,
Keep on fighting in spite of being wounded,
Your bi-yearly evaluations have been consistent,
This is to be applauded in light of your recent health troubles,
Some things are clear to the naked eye,
It pleases us immensely that you have decided to stay with the organisation,
However, please adhere to company guidelines regarding the dress code,
If the train is late so much you should consider driving,
Bake a cake for the cake sale,
Your colleagues are all here to support you,
We are organising a departmental night out on Friday, attendance is mandatory,
Consider working extra time in order to clear the backlog,
Breaks are to be restricted to 15 minutes,
Ensure the correct status is inputted,
Give us everything you have,
You are our company.
Oct 18, 2018
Oct 18, 2018 at 12:52 PM UTC
I sit at the window sill
Summoning for spring's till
Of thickets of green mandates fill
The procession and succession with frill
All rise with new blossoms being a thrill
My spring garden fitting the bill
For the little birdies that mill
With their pleas of a worms swill
First, let's arrest the lingering winter chill
The deliberating ill
Citing that bitter bitter pill
That sentences my grief's overspill
With the last backlog of snow on the hill
Of the icy roads that overkill
Free my hammer from waiting still
For the arrival of springs shrill
And the exit of winter's will
My eyes hold court for the first daffodil
Logan Robertson
4/08/2019
Apr 8, 2019
Apr 8, 2019 at 5:38 AM UTC
some people see through the guises of death and birth and see the emotional void created
( in )
motherless mother absence.
i feel when i walk-
in death i walk safe -
in life, i like talking walks
curious of realms beyond time and space
each universe person a beat of drum , a snare, a snake an elephant
a human
sometimes --
i feel the revolutions swing in motion and leave all past notions in the bin just
to search through them to feel again,
sometimes the pain is a mess and i kinda like it
( but i don't ) i grow from it and it feeds me
lyrically
emotional backlog untampered.
kept from childhood stance
to womanhood chartered flights.
to smoke signal nights of cinnamon daytime incense and reveling in universal flows with a jaded partner in 'crime'
my friends feel the intangible lines
i am glad i walk this path with friends
sometimes
i just feel that we are not working together
as a whole
as a fluid aspect of nature
through the perspex glass of freedom
the free doom
promised -
there lies beyond
fields of wild flowers and untainted mountain spring of green water flows
carving streams of minds flow onto blank screen filled
in the darkest crevice of my mind
i find
hope.
in people.
i find faith in humanity again. and again,
in myself
if i can,
you can,
if you can,
anyone can,
what can we do? now that is a question i'd like to ask.
what can we afford to do? what can we afford to not do?
(a smile is free)
riddle me this, humor me if you will ...
what can we do?
Aug 29, 2013
Aug 29, 2013 at 1:04 PM UTC
Fleeting expressions culminate
in rich tapestries given a chance,
you , tripped over my shoe.
I , touched your arm
We tumbled into conversation , we tumbled out of bed , we tumbled in emotion
history unsaid
Cultures with the same mind , how we are running the game
Tourists who go by the same name a single sigh when words escape our minds
Reeling as the waves roll in.
In ,
In,
In,
The tide is coming out again , we can walk across the quicksands with the chartered marks written by the corrosive tides , i'd whisper this to you , but there is no distance
Space but an illusion
Aug 1, 2013
Aug 1, 2013 at 10:02 AM UTC
Encircling...I dare the Full--
pluck eyes from their nooks,
mind from its niche.
I, incumbent of all lines drawn
and crossed...wear the metaphoric
face of All Things.
My redundant farewell is a galactic
backlog....as memory asks: may I be
excused from these tables?
By light's celerity, light all the more...
One in One, and out of One in One--
foreknowledge to Knowledge.
Encircling...I dare the Full--emissary
to mine own circle, with news so
pressing I stumble into deaths cut to
new forms of life.
I waver my convalescence, discharge
myself from the throes of creation...
a gladdened prophecy...self-fulfilled.
Encircling...I dare the Full.
Jun 10, 2012
Jun 10, 2012 at 2:21 AM UTC
What was the time when we started the evolution of ourselves ?
What was the time set when the first clock was built ?
Past is only an abyss overcomed ,
Passed and been through with our minds physically and mentally
And future a chasm to be magnetized into and dragged down in ; working and going so hand in hand that like writing this piece of verse being the present is being my future as well
The window of transition from present to future being so narrow it actually overlaps one another in ways
So thoughtful and ineffable
The present being me writing these lines and the future being the outcome the whole verse which is now in process while I write this
Only a thin line of perspective and time difference or backlog occurs between them
Keeping the both distinguished from
each other letting them mean what they truly attribute for
There are three abstracts working simultaneously -the past present and future
The cognition of the brain undergoing a change in every single milli - seconds ; a transition from its current state of mind , carrying the neural data of the past nostalgia into the future
Those 3 abstracts Playing its game of mutation and novelty over mind and body ...
While in all this the soul is the one feeling the time .....
Apr 22, 2015
Apr 22, 2015 at 6:23 AM UTC
no one is getting passports theres a big delay
no one can leave the country for there holiday
people kicking off because of all the stress
backlog applications sit there in distress
holidays are cancelled people just cant go
when will they get there passports. they dont dont really know
so they sit and wait in anger and dismay
waiting for there passports for there holiday
Jun 11, 2014
Jun 11, 2014 at 8:23 AM UTC
Have ever you noticed that liars
Cross their fingers when they lie?
They seem to think it absolves them from
A judgement, up on high,
For fingers crossed means they didn’t mean
The thing they’re telling you,
But if you’re silly, and fall for it
They make you think it’s true.
I knew a terrible liar once
His name was John Coltrane,
He always cried on my shoulder then
As if he was in pain,
He said that life was short-changing him,
That there was nothing fair,
It only took just a minor thing
To drive him to despair.
We both worked then at an auto plant
And used a giant press,
Knocking out doors and bonnets there,
And working under stress,
For time and motion had set a rate
That we could not fulfil,
And truth to tell it had seemed like hell
And was making Coltrane ill.
No matter how fast we put them through
The steel kept banking up,
Thanks to the other press’s crew
Who’d stop, and have a cup,
While we were struggling then to clear
The backlog, piled up high,
And John was constantly in my ear,
‘I think I want to die.’
I said that he didn’t mean it,
It was just a lousy job,
But he just kept on repeating it
And even began to sob,
To tell the truth, it got on my nerves,
It really began to grate,
I lost my cool, and I said the fool
Was really tempting fate.
He seemed to go a bit crazy then,
Lay backwards on the dye,
I tried to pull him away, but he
Lay staring at the sky,
The press came down with a mighty thump
And it flattened out his head,
Two hundred and fifty tons per inch
Said John Coltrane was dead.
We all of us stood around in shock
When the press released him there,
All that was left was a headless corpse
With blood and brains to spare,
His corpse let out a terrible sigh
At the judgement he had lost,
For though he said he would want to die,
He lay with his fingers crossed.
David Lewis Paget
Aug 31, 2017
Aug 31, 2017 at 8:04 PM UTC
The relationship between Christ
and Yahweh is an eternal dialogue;
a constant communication ensures
His intercession isn’t a backlog
of burdens, borne out of the pain
He suffered and endured at Calvary.
Having been clothed with the dust
of Humanity, He understood beauty
that’s found in our soul’s nature.
After all, we were made to worship
Him openly, freely and easily, with
an unfeigned heart of fellowship.
Made in His image, with the idea
to reflect the Godhead’s purpose
of living and loving everyone, we
delve beneath humanity’s surface
to discover… our identity in Him!
Jan 12, 2017
Jan 12, 2017 at 12:49 PM UTC
Watching black and white flicks
From nineteen thirty four
With overacting stars and
Rinky-tinky scores;
Heroines with painted lips
To make them twice their size
And everyone with black liner
Smeared around their eyes.
Those were the big old movies
After school in the afternoon.
There were even snappy teasers
That told us ‘coming soon”
But television was free to us
And movie shows expensive
So, my backlog memories became
Inclusive and extensive.
I still can name most of the stars
And even say the name of the flick
And name some supporting actors
And I can do it super quick.
Because that was the entertainment
In a family with no movie budget.
If a movie came on I hadn't seen,
You can be sure I would watch it.
Later TV went to color shows
And it truly made my life great.
I’d see a favorite was coming on
Like Wizard of Oz, I couldn’t wait
To see it in color! Well, at least
Once Judy and the house landed.
It was enchantment for sure
No matter how heavy handed.
But for a decade or more, I watched
And was perfectly content to see
And not have a clue about their hair
Or color that their eyes might be.
For happy in a black and white world
Pleased the young, unspoiled me.
After all, those fabulous stars
Were there for greedy young me!
Aug 5, 2018
Aug 5, 2018 at 8:11 PM UTC
Life is so confusing
I don't know what to do
I am vexed it's so complex
My very soul is blue
I have so little time now
Don't know which way to steer
But it's agreed that there's a need
To read my poets dear!
But I have a backlog
I have just begun
I have a need so I can read
Each and every one!
I will read each person
I will make a start
I won't be dim and I won't scim
I will give my ♡
I know that I've reposted
Quite a bit in past
I can no longer do this
But this state will not last!
When I'm caught up on my reading
I will begin again
To do more than just ♡ you
For you are my friends!
Yes, I will do more than ♡ you
That gets very old
You don't just get Survivor's ♡
*You also get my SOUL!*
SoulSurvivor
7/27/2016
Jul 27, 2016
Jul 27, 2016 at 8:11 PM UTC
Struck was I
By the sudden thought
Of my fathers love!
Denied so long ago
But there
Re-found.
Like my nose;
Clearly presented
Yet somehow overlooked!
Right there
For the world to see
But
Unseen.
Like a letter not received
Or a cheque not cashed
Sat on the dresser
Unused
Disallowed
Latent
But still potent
Waiting
To be heard
Today
I heard
Listened
And the backlog of father love flowed, deluged
Re-hydrated
Affirmed
And I feel
Alive
Sep 8, 2015
Sep 8, 2015 at 11:55 AM UTC
~~~
The poet holds her pen
Overwhelmed by the backlog
She writes of other things
Senryu
SøułSurvivør
(C) 7/7/2017
Jul 7, 2017
Jul 7, 2017 at 10:07 PM UTC
Reflections are tricky things
Man didn't create them
Only trapped them
Hung them on a wall for his own vain glory
The glassy stillness of a lake
Was first
To echo reality above it
Distorted
It ripples like a gateway
At the kiss of a stone
It calls, it beckons
l have mystery lurking
What will happen if you
Little you
Dared to pass through
With no intention of return?
One might find oneself upside down
Standing in the sky
And brushing their feet against the stars
Or there might be monsters
Real ones
Which we can touch and feel and fight
And see while fighting
The seeds of monstrous things
Separate themselves from us
In the last few seconds of life
And we see them laid out
Even knowing this
The water calls
To the nine tenths of us it possesses
Enticing us
With the idea of a world
Identical to ours
I think
Have you ever stopped
Looked
Counted the branches?
It would be impossible
So we assume
And as the water accepts you
Feet
Waist
Hands
Shoulders
Hair, drifting like seaweed in the tide
It whispers to you
Just a little deeper now
So you go on
On
Until you discover, or drown
Or
Until you are pulled upwards
Arms grasping you around the chest
As your lungs burn with the ache of tipped scales, the balance within you lost
And you hear the voice whisper
Breath warming your ear
Not like this
My friend
Not like this
Sep 6, 2018
Sep 6, 2018 at 11:04 PM UTC
stranded, 10 a.m. and ahead
of me Salem, the great witch trials,
although not against hypnotising women
of great beauty, but against artists -
gone the hedonism of the 1960s
and the way the public revelled in
it as much as the artists - bog standard
ontology - you allow me to do my bit
i make you happy, done... next!
but no, not these days, everyone these
days demands toilet cubicle *******
sniffers to give you anything
decent art... honey... too much shame,
it was planted for a purpose, it has to be
smoked, drank, or sniffed... no point creating
an idea / ideal as the only escape route from
this massive **** vacuum with a few glittery
bits and pieces - you got to smash the piñata
somehow...
but yeah, the 5 p.m. metabolic rule (should
you have been exposed to a frequent
use of alcohol) - meaning i can't take it
after 5 p.m., i can binge on the x-files
(backlog of 6 episodes, yes, they're screening
the whole **** programme on spike),
prepare dinner (a stew with groats and a salad
on the side), but waiting longer for my
medical surrender to this great sedative is
that after i drink to reach a certain plateau
i can relax, read, write what i find...
i never understood art to have ever been written
without any sort of intoxication and sane...
unless of course you practice what René Magritte
did, and paint everything as if you had a *****
shoved up your *** (i.e. wearing a suit).
May 4, 2016
May 4, 2016 at 12:32 PM UTC
Give me a screen
A blank document
A field of snow
I will not be afraid
I would trample my footprints
Leave my mark
I would not be afraid.
Not today.
Because today, I am as empty
As the text box
As the screen
And it would be a relief
To see a mark
Visible
And left by my hand
Sep 7, 2018
Sep 7, 2018 at 9:15 AM UTC
Certain kinetics are involved when one needs to drain water from the ears. Poolside, you see freshly moistened swimmers bounce, when the laps are over. Head shaking and pinkie probing, along with vigorous jiggling may shimmy a pop of the slurry. It's a pleasing, almost orgasmed, satisfaction. Such accomplishments in life seem trivial, but for something stuck out of place for too long, that releasing can be ecstatic. I figure when this reservoir of penned up annoyances, breaks through the dammed existence I live presently, that surge may jettison and squirt from my head like centrifugal lawn sprinkler. A coming of such the world has never seen.
Feb 5, 2016
Feb 5, 2016 at 9:58 AM UTC
silently living a life
feeling the dull heart ache
you stick in the sharp knife
your eyes have rolled back
replaced by a cloud of fog
and my hurt sits in your backlog
you don’t notice each word
you never realise
you make me feel unheard
lifeless soul healing through my cries
i’ll be gone
but you won’t see
because I was never number one
not important, just a nobody
Feb 22, 2021
Feb 22, 2021 at 5:07 PM UTC
Serious talk
The morning service was about
Taking one day at a time
and forget your worries
While the piles of backlog unpaid bills bow
in the letter rack, the bill collectors calling
every hours of the day using those 1 800 numbers
And there I was standing by the kitchen sink,
doing the dishes from the night before:
while I pondered about the ambulance bill,
the credit card bill, so many ******* bills,
If I was to drop dead today,
Who would pay those bills?
Who would wash those dishes?
So I took out my small *** from under the counter,
And filled it up with water and gently turned on the stove
I began to cook my favorite porridge,
Oatmeal mixed with saga
I clean down the kitchen counter,
I gather my thoughts, I became the cookie poet of the month
while i munches on my words
*Learn from yesterday, live for today, hope for tomorrow.
The important thing is not to stop questioning. Quote:*
As I continued to stir the mixture together on the stove top
I kept thinking about the homeless people
Less worries, no bill, no bill collectors, no
Letters rack, just the last car on the last train track
And a sign that read do you have any loose change?
Jan 28, 2017
Jan 28, 2017 at 12:31 PM UTC