Submit your work, meet writers and drop the ads. Become a member
luis Nov 2017
10:00 A.M.
Battery: 100%

12:00 P.M.
Battery: 80%

2:00 P.M.
Battery: 67%

4:00 P.M.
Battery: 45%

6:00 P.M.
Battery: 30%

8:00 P.M.
Battery: 10%

10:00 P.M.
Battery: 0%

10:03 P.M.
Notification: You have one unread message:
from Andrea

"i love you ♥"

10:03 P.M.
...
Battery: 100%
for all the boys and girls who still yearn for love in our digital age
morning wakeup 7oclock
fully charged human life
Having breakfast, hurry hurry
cant adapt heavy traffic
battery capacity out of 50%
shouting manager **** my battery
daily torturing pressure work
work more work speed team leader warning
heavy heavy task making me twist
Out of control battery dead
Human Battery Life
howard brace Feb 2012
Inconspicuous, his presence noted only by the obscurity and the ever growing number of spent cigarette stubs that littered the ground.  It had been a long day and the rain, relentless in its tenacity had little intention of stopping, baleful clouds still  hung heavy, dominating the lateness of the afternoon sky, a rain laden skyline broken only by smoke filled chimney pots and the tangled snarl of corroded television aerials.

     The once busy street was fast emptying now, the lure of shop windows no longer enticed the casual browser as local traders closed their premises to the oncoming night, solitary lampposts curved hazily into the distance, casting little more than insipid pools mirrored in the gutter below, only the occasional stranger scurrying home on a bleak, rain swept afternoon, the hurried slap of wet leather soles on the pavement, the sightless umbrellas, the infrequent rumble of a half filled bus, hell-bent on its way to oblivion.

     In the near distance as the working day ended, a sudden emergence of factory workers told Beamish it was 5-o'clock, most would be hurrying home to a hot meal, while others, for a quick drink perhaps before making the same old sorry excuse... for Jack, the greasy spoon would be closing about now, denying him the comfort of a badly needed cuppa' and stale cheese sandwich.  A subtle legacy of lunchtime fish and chips still lingered in the air, Jack's stomach rumbled, there was little chance of a fish supper for Beamish tonight, it protested again... louder.

     From beneath the eaves of the building opposite several pigeons broke cover, startled by the rattle as a shopkeeper struggled to close the canvas awning above his shop window.  Narrowly missing Beamish they flew anxiously over the rooftops, memories of the blitz sprang to mind as Jack stepped smartly to one side, he stamped his feet... it dashed a little of the weather from his raincoat, just as the rain dashed a little of the pigeons' anxiety from the pavement... the day couldn't get much worse if it tried.  Shielding his face, Jack struck the Ronson one more time and cupped the freshly lit cigarette between his hands, it was the only source of heat to be had that day... and still it rained.

     'By Appointment to Certain Personages...' the letter heading rang out loudly... 'Jack Beamish ~ Private Investigator...' a throat choking mouthful by any stretch of the imagination, thought Jack and shot every vestige of credulity plummeting straight through the office window and amidst a fanfare of trumpet voluntary, nominate itself for a prodigious award in the New Year Honours list.   Having formally served in a professional capacity for a well known purveyor of pickled condiments, who  incidentally, brandished the same patronage emblazoned upon their extensive range of relish as the one Jack had more recently purloined from them... a paid commission no less, which by Jack's certain understanding had made him, albeit fleeting in nature, a professional consultant of said company... and consequently, if they could flaunt the auspicious emblem, then according to Jack's infallible logic, so could Jack.  

     The recently appropriated letterhead possessed certain distinction... in much the same way, Jack reasoned, that a blank piece of paper did not... and whereas correspondence bearing the heading 'By Appointment' may not exactly strike terror into the hearts of man... unlike a really strong pickled onion, it nevertheless made people think twice before playing him for the fool, which sadly, Jack had to concede, they still invariably did... and he would often catch them wagging an accusing finger or two in his direction with such platitudes as... "watch where you put your foot", they'd whisper, "that Jack's a right Shamus...", and when you'd misplaced your footing as many times as Jack had, then he reasoned, that by default the celebrated Shamus must have landed himself in more piles of indiscretion than he would readily care to admit, but that wouldn't be quite accurate either, in Jack's line of work it was the malefactor that actually dropped him in them more often than not.

     A cold shiver suddenly ran down his spine, another quickly followed as a spurt of icy water from a broken rain spout spattered across the back of his neck, he grimaced... Jack's expression spoke volumes as he took one final pull from his half soaked cigarette and flicked it, amid an eruption of sparks against the adjacent brick wall.  Sinking further into the shadow he tipped his fedora against the oncoming rain, then, digging both hands deep within his pockets, he huddled behind the upturned collar of his gabardine... watching.

     It was times such as these when Jack's mind would slip back, in much the same way you might slip back on a discarded banana peel, when a matter of some consequence, or in particular this case the pavement, would suddenly leap up from behind and give the back of Jack's head a resoundingly good slapping and tell him to "stop loafing around in office hours... or else", then drag him, albeit kicking and screaming back into the 20th century.  This intellectual assault and battery re-focused Jack's mind wonderfully as he whiled away the long weary hours until his next cigarette; cup of tea, or the last bus home, his capacity to endure such mind boggling tedium called for nothing less than sheer ******-mindedness and very little else... Beamish had long suspected that he possessed all the necessary qualifications.  

     Jack had come a long way since the early days, it had been a long haul but he'd finally arrived there in the end... and managed to pick up quite a few ***** looks along the way.  Whilst he was with the Police Constabulary... and it was only fair to stress the word 'with', as opposed to the word 'in'... although the more Jack considered, he had been 'with' the arresting officer, held 'in' the local Bridewell... detained at Her Majesties pleasure while assisting the boys in blue with their enquiries over a minor infringement of some local by-law that currently had quite slipped his mind at that moment.  Throughout this enforced leisure period he'd managed to read the entire abridged editions of Kilroy and other expansive works of graffiti exhibited in what passed locally as the next best thing to the Tate Gallery, whereupon it hadn't taken Jack very long to realise that it was always a good place to start if you wanted free breakfast, in fact the weeks bill of fare was tastefully displayed in vivid, polychromatic colour on the wall opposite... you just had to be au-fait with braille.
                            
     No matter how industrious Beamish laboured to rake the dirt there always appeared to be a dire shortage of gullible clients for Jack to squeeze, what would roughly translate as an honest crust out of, and although his financial retainer was highly competitive he understood that potential clients found it bewildering when grappling with the unplumbed depths of his monthly expense account, which would tend to fluctuate with the same unpredictability as the British weather, the rest of Jack's agenda revolved around a little shady moonlighting... in fact he'd happily consider anything to offset the remotest possibility of financial delinquency... short of extortion... which by the strangest twist was the very word prospective clients would cry while Jack beavered around the office with dust-pan and brush sweeping any concerns they may have had frantically under the carpet regarding all culpability of his extra-curricular monthly stipend... and they should remain assured at all times... as they dug deep and fished for their cheque books, and simply look upon it as kneading dough, which eerily enough was exactly the thick wedge of buttered granary that Jack had every intention of carving.

     Were there ever the slightest possibility that a day could be so utterly wretched, then today was that day, Jack felt a certain empathy as he merged with his surroundings... at one with nature as it were.  The rain, a timpani on the metal dustbin lids, by the side of which Beamish had taken up vigil, also taking up vigil and in search of a morsel was the stray mongrel, this was the third time now that he'd returned, the same apprehensive wag, yet still the same hopeful look of expectation in his eyes, a brief but friendly companion who paid more attention to Jack's left trouser leg than anything that could be had from nosing around the dustbins that day... some days you're the dog, scowled Beamish as he shook his trouser leg... and some days the lamppost, Jack's foot swung out playfully, keeping his new friend's incontinence at a safe distance, feigning indignance  the scruffy mongrel shook himself defiantly from nose to tail, a distinct odour of wet dog filled the air as an abundance of spent rainwater flew in all directions.   Pricking one ear he looked accusingly at Jack before turning and snuffled off, his nose resolutely to the pavement and diligently, picking out the few diluted scents still remaining, the poor little stalwart renewed its search for scraps, or making his way perhaps to some dry seclusion known only to itself.
  
     Two hours later and... SPLOSH, a puddle poured itself through the front door of the nearest Public House... SPLOSH, the puddle squelched over to the payphone... SPLOSH, then, fumbling for small change dialled and pressed button 'A'..., then button 'B'... then started all over again amid a flurry of precipitation... SPLASH.  The puddle floundered to the bar and ordered itself a drink, then ebbed back to the payphone again... the local taxi company doggedly refused to answer... finally, wallowing over to the window the puddle drifted up against a warm radiator amidst a cloud of humidity and came to rest... flotsam, cast upon the shore of contentment, the puddle sighed contentedly... the Landlady watched this anomaly... suspiciously.

     The puddle's finely tuned perception soon got to grips with the unhurried banter and muffled gossip drifting along the bar, having little else to loose, other than what could still be wrung from his clothing... Beamish, working on the principle that a little eavesdropping was his stock-in-trade engaged instinct into overdrive and casually rippled in their general direction...  They were clearly regulars by the way one of them belched in a well rehearsed, taken-a-back sort of way as Jack took stock of the situation and was now at some pains to ingratiate himself into their exclusive midst and attempt several friendly, yet relevant questions pertinent to his enquiries... all of which were skillfully deflected with more than friendly, yet totally irrelevant answers pertinent to theirs'... and would Jack care for a game of dominoes', they enquired... if so, would he be good enough to pay the refundable deposit, as by common consent it just so happened to be his turn...  Jack graciously declined this generous offer, as the obliging Landlady, just as graciously, cancelled the one shilling returnable deposit from the cash register, such was the flow of light conversation that evening... they didn't call him Lucky Jack for nothing... discouraged, Beamish turned back to the bar and reached for his glass... to which one of his recent companions, and yet again just as graciously, had taken the trouble to drink for him... the Landlady gave Jack a knowing look, Beamish returned the heartfelt sentiment and ordered one more pint.

     From the licenced premises opposite, a myriad of jostling customers plied through the door, business was picking up... the sudden influx of punters rapidly persuaded Beamish to retire from the bar and find a vacant table.  Sitting, he removed several discarded crisp packets from the centre of the table only to discover a freshly vacated ashtray below... by sleight of hand Jack's Ronson appeared... as he lit the cigarette the fragile smoke curled blue as it rose... influenced by subtle caprice, it joined others and formed a horizontal curtain dividing the room, a delicate, undulating layer held between two conflicting forces.

     The possibility of a free drink soon attracted the attention of a local bar fly, who, hovering in the near vicinity promptly landed in Jack's beer, Beamish declined this generous offer as being far too nutritious and with the corner of yesterdays beer mat, flipped the offending organism from the top of his glass, carefully inspecting his drink for debris as he did so.

     A sudden draught and clip of stiletto heels as the side door opened caused Beamish to turn as a double shadow slipped discreetly into the friendly Snug... a little adulterous intimacy on an otherwise cheerless evening.  The faceless man, concealed beneath a fedora and the upturned collar of his overcoat, the surreptitious lady friend, decked out in damp cony, cheap perfume and a surfeit of bling proclaimed a not too infrequent assignation, he'd seen it all before... the over attentive manner and the band of white, Sun-starved skin recently hidden behind a now absent wedding token, ordinarily it was the sort of assignment Jack didn't much care for... the discreet tail, the candid snapshot through half drawn curtains... and the all too familiar steak tartare... for the all too familiar black eye.

     To the untrained eye, the prospect of Jack's long anticipated supper was rapidly dwindling, when it suddenly focused with renewed vigour upon the contents of a pickled egg jar he'd observed earlier that evening, lurking on the back counter, his enthusiasm swiftly diminished however as the belching customer procured the final two specimens from the jar and proceeded to demolish them.  Who, Jack reflected, after being stood out in the rain all day, had egg all over his face now... and who, he reflected deeper, still had an empty stomach.  Disillusioned, Jack tipped back his glass and considered a further sortie with the taxicab company.

     "FIVE-BOB"!!! Jack screamed... you could have shredded the air with a cheese grater... hurtling into the kerb like a fairground attraction came flying past the chequered flag at a record breaking 99 in Jack's top 100 most not wanted list of things to do that day... and that the cabby should think himself fortunate they weren't both stretched flat on a marble slab, "exploding tyres" Jack spluttered, dribbling down his chin, were enough to give anyone a coronary... further broadsides of neurotic ambiance filled the cab as the driver, miffed at the prospect of missing snooker night out with the lads, considered charging extra for the additional space Jack's profanity was taking...

     And what part of 'Drive-Carefully', fumed Beamish, did the cabby simply not understand, that pavements were there to be bypassed, 'Nay Circumvented', preferably on the left... and not veered into, wildly on the front axle... an eerie premonition of 'jemais-vu' perched and ready to strike like a disembodied Jiminy Cricket on Jack's left shoulder, looking to stick its own two-penny worth in at the 'Standing-Room-Only' arrangements in the overcrowded cab... and at what further point, Jack shrieked, eyes leaping from his head as he lurched forward, shaking his fist through the sliding glass partition, had the cabbie failed to grasp the importance of the word 'Steering-Wheel...' someone wanted horse whipping, and as far as Beamish was concerned the sole contender was the cab driver...

     In having a somewhat sedate and unruffled disposition it had fallen to Beamish... as befalls all great leaders in times of adversity, to single handedly take the bull by the horns, so to speak and at great personal cost, alert the unwary passing motorist...  Waving his arms about like a man possessed whilst performing acrobatic evolutions in the centre of the road as the cabby changed the wheel came whizzing around the corner at a back breaking 98 on Jack's ever growing list... and why, Jack puzzled, why had they all lowered their side windows and gestured back at him in semaphore..?  Rallying to its aid, Jack's head and shoulders now joined his shaking fist through the sliding glass partition and into the cabby's face, "Who" Beamish screeched with renewed vigour ,"Who Was The Man", Jack wanted to know... *"a
anastasiad Jan 2017
While in the line of ProBook, designed for business people, there seemed to be the uniqueness H . p . ProBook Four hundred and fifty G2. The girl, like several involving your ex sisters and brothers, is a great doing the job unit and not simply because in this article, together with built in images plus distinct offered. So besides office environment tasks will even enjoy uncomplicated online games. An awesome replacement for catch several wildlife along with one particular rock. I'm wondering what otherwise is able to you should this ProBook 350 G2?

Design and style ( blank ) Hewlett packard ProBook 450 G2
That 16.6-inch device has got dimensions 375x262x23-25 mm, and its particular body is employed matte soft-touch plastic material in addition to lightweight aluminum. Forces and hues the product, although it is kind of typical, or in other words conventional. The lid as well as the bottom on the ProBook 400 G2 black, while the important area ?silver. Alternatives back again of your pc, the idea contains the air vents, compartment, to which includes the ram segments and hard hard drive, and battery power as well as segments to help eject And sealing. As to the design, plus there is very little authentic. Include and also basic aspects slightly rounded physique truly becomes smaller, except that it is actually fuller regarding some mm.

Whenever we talk about the fat from the product which can be 3.One particular kg, it is not only smaller for such a style element, but the best, in order not to experience irritation whilst traveling as well as business trips. Also, the laptop is created perfectly, whatever the case, a distressing experience with this functioning, he does not go away.

Present, sound, net camera - Horsepower ProBook 400 G2
A monitor with the laptop includes a 16.6-inch straight as well as a quite minimal decision with 1366?Sixty eight pixels. Naturally, correctly could be plenty of, these days this determine will not be specially beautiful from the little brown eyes of end users. Incidentally, your settings and also distinction is too higher, in case you utilize a laptop at work, although not since crucial for the duties to generally be carried out about the ProBook 400 G2. As well as the matte present surface area is a lot more secure versus the lustrous, not only for motion pictures also for office work. In terms of taking a look at sides, they are not hence vast in which, without decrease of image quality watch training video or even photograph from your facet, as opposed to just staying straight while watching computer screen. In addition suggested choice: show by using Entire HD-resolution, effect regulates, in addition to aid pertaining to 10-finger multitouch.

The notebook can be a A single.Three mp web cam. It is actually sufficient regarding movie telephone calls in Skype, to maintain in contact with friends and colleagues. In beneficial gentle snapshot from the camera, will probably be far better.

Intended for sound recording production suffices two music audio speakers based over the keyboard set, along with the adjustments DTS Sound +. The seem is definitely sent with out deformation, with the exception that in addition to high frequencies would choose to find out a little bit of striper. Sadly, a laptop isn't adequate quantity so that you are probably certainly not well worth parting together with earbuds. As well, the product is usually a business-class, therefore the acoustics in the primary premiums and are not made.

Keyboard set along with Touchpad ( blank ) Hewlett packard ProBook Four hindred and fifty G2
In the key-board, waiting in this laptop computer, there are plenty of benefits. This can be mostly a waterproof surface that won't complete towards interior pieces poured the liquid. It is usually a tropical, full-size, incorporates nampad.

The particular control buttons employ a centre system, forced without having a lot attempt but not also noisy. Recommendations and it's away from the key board, they are accountable for this introduction of the laptop computer, the initial involving cellular quests along with mime.

A touch pad includes a beneficial receptiveness, completed through the help of two-finger scrolling, along with both horizontal and vertical. Moreover, you may move as well as focus, make use of. Manipulator doesn't besknopochny, listed here there's two actual personal computer mouse.

On the right on the known as is actually a finger marks scanner, it has the reputation is quite easy regarding business enterprise vacationers and everything those who used to safeguard computer data out of prying.

Efficiency ( blank ) Hp . p . ProBook 400 G2
Brand-new makes 64-bit main system Microsoft windows 7.One. Just in case Hewlett packard ProBook 450 G2 (J4S24EA) covering the low-voltage dual-core Apple company Central i5-4210U , which has a time clock volume of one.7 Ghz as well as a storage cache inside third volume of Several Megabytes. The following chip is made in Haswell 25 nm technological know-how, how many its features consist of service regarding Turbo Raise, which allows to boost the frequency to two.Several Ghz with a one lively nucleus, together with Hyper-Threading, through which the two cores is actually refined approximately three facts water ways in unison. As you can tell, compared to the forerunner Center i5-4200U the following a bit improved time clock pace since the bottom, and something by which the actual brand operates in any style Turbocompresseur. I must say which Center i5-4210U handle business office chores and also media, however if you have to have a stronger notebook, then otherwise you can pick an extensive fixed with primary Central i7.

Graphics Credit card Apple company Hi-def Graphics 4400 incorporated while in the nick, is a wonderful selection for easy artwork chores. Such as, looking at videos, modifying shots. Although with more intricate operations better equipped reduce let loose AMD Radeon R5 M255. Its rate of recurrence is definitely fewer than 940 Megahertz, he supports DirectX 11.A couple of and has now Only two Gigabyte involving of memory space standard, DDR3. Performance of this credit card wool, to ensure superior image quality, particularly, is certainly a great way pertaining to games. In between incorporated as well as let loose visuals can be turned.

As to Cram, it offers a couple of video poker machines, one of which is well worth menu 8 GB DDR3L-1600MHz. Certainly, this could be adequate ability to arduous uses in addition to rapidly do the job, especially since book is possible to set up the maximum amount of Memory ?04 Gigabytes.

You are able to retail outlet data on the hard disk ability associated with 650 Gigabytes and a quickness with 5400 innovations every minute. So as well as office docs a person undoubtedly fill out "piggy bank" the laptop computer multimedia data files as well as game titles. With regards to the settings as a drive generate may be mounted Hard disk drive smaller sized quantity or perhaps 128 Gigabyte SSD.

Locations as well as Marketing communications * Hp . p . ProBook 400 G2
Only be aware that on the appropriate side from the journal is really a more compact volume of slots compared to a eventually left. So, for the proper you can view this built-in visual push Disc +/- RW SuperMulti Defensive line, adjacent to which are a couple Universal serial bus Two.0 ports and a put together microphone connector and also a headset connector. Towards the end faces visible position with regard to Kensington lock.

For the complete opposite aspect can be a choice of distinctive user interfaces. That VGA, High definition multimedia interface, plug for your wall charger, a couple Browse 3.2, along with network RJ-45 dock. As well as the plug-ins within the kept area from the HP ProBook 450 G2 increases the in-take to take out heat.

Indications within the pc enough, but they're never situated in a single location. Several is seen higher than the key-board. Inside remaining corner is actually a lighting switch on, for the right ?a couple of Led lights (do the job instant multilevel, silence). Additionally, you will find a screen within the keyboard set ?Num Shut as well as Hats Locking mechanism. Although within the nose is simply the LED in the hard drive, which is given near the greeting card reader, reading formats SD, SDHC, SDXC.

Cellular connection in a very pc through Wi-Fi 802.11b Versus grams / d along with Wireless bluetooth 4.1.

Battery power -- Horsepower ProBook 400 G2
Horsepower ProBook Four hindred and fifty G2 Battery Package with 5 parts. Lithium-ion battery power features a volume with 30 Wh in addition to asking for 65-watt power. On the independence in the notebook is not a great deal hard work Data, doing the job devoid of re charging mode internet surfing two to three hours, plus within a weight connected with at most A person.Several hours.

Realization -- Horsepower ProBook 450 G2
Hence, this particular novelty, portion of a series ProBook, will appeal to those people who get the job done each day with a notebook computer, but he was no unknown person for you to leisure. Which H . p . ProBook 400 G2 will assist keep, making it possible for to try out, focus on new music or check out video clips. Is the fact a visit to this kind of hobby will not likely continue to be very long, because the small operating duration of the battery pack. Of course, too high-quality illustrations or photos through the present, you cannot put it off, since settings and contrast are small, as well as timetable is certainly not the main stage. But that notebook computer ?it is just a viable option intended for everyday projects.

The price tag on this gadget is concerning $ 800, which could in part end up being revealed by way of current fruitful satisfying, the presence of a finger print scanning device and also a water-resistant keyboard set. However with the price tag, search along with similarly functional in addition to profitable type. Generally speaking, should you prefer a notebook typically for function for pleasurable will be 2nd, for the ProBook Four hindred and fifty G2 will not seriously imagining to pick out.

http://www.passwordmanagers.net/ Password Manager Windows 7
Why am I so "negative?"
Strangers sometimes ask.
"I'm like a battery out of juice."
"Give me a positive jump"
"See the energy run free and loose."
Often I walk down crowded streets and I am glad to remain "unseen."
The times those I trust "go blind"
And fail "simple promises"
I feel like a "medieval fool...."
"Maybe it's because I've been too kind."
No.
It's the mishandling of Care's powerful tool."
"You can attract more flies with honey."
So does fertilizer and money.
Being kind is a gift.
Generosity and loyalty are miracles.
If one wishes to add another to befriend
Or to aid in a cause.. .
It sparks energies in both.
Like a battery
It needs positive and negative charges
To sustain it's production.
Like a failed trust or failed communication
It drains the battery dry.
The empty shell lingers unresponsive
Until another stops simply to value such
As a valuable part
To their life
Moments charge the trust..
A power that cannot be measured by much
Instruments of power.

Without caretaking equal to both parts
Or terminals
Energies abound when carelessly given
The charge shorts out the beautiful union
the friendship machine remains broken and discharged
It loses its power.
Until the next movement of energies are balanced
Thoughtfully .....
Trustingly ....
Unselfishly..
For what they are, Maintained of their charge
The battery cannot start the engines of another moment
Together
Friendship's transport
A fast and quite valuable sports car.
Sour Patched Kid Mar 2015
Whatever happened to the moments
we lived for
the moments we lived from
electrifying lives
currents of passion
high voltage that knew no resistance

what do I have to do?
to feel the surge
to feel the spark
to feel alive again?

Is it in the tomes?
Is it in the songs?
Do the muses hold it in the walls?
Is it inside of me?

Searching for the switch
to send me back to passion
To make me feel charged again
to make me feel in charge again
Zeeb Jul 2015
Hotrod
Verse I

Wrenches clanging, knuckles banging
A drop of blood the young man spilt
A new part here, and old part… there
A hotrod had been built!
A patchwork, mechanical, quilt

Feelings of excitement not unlike those of Christmas mornings long past paid visit to the young man, his head under a raised hood, hands occupied, the job nearing completion.  Did building that Lionel train-set so long ago form some type of pattern in his brain, now being so pleasurably served?  The good feelings would dissipate though, as quickly as they came, as he cursed himself for stripping a bolt, or cursed someone else for selling him the wrong part, or the engineer whose design goals obviously did not consider “remove and replace”.  He cursed the “gorilla” that never heard of a torque-wrench, the glowing particle of **** that popped on to the top of his head as he welded, the metal chip he flushed from his eye, and even himself for the burn he received by impatiently touching something too soon after grinding.  He, and his type, cursed a lot, but mostly to their selves as they battled-on with things oily, hot, bolted, welded, and rusty – in cramped spaces. One day it was choice words for an “easy-out” that broke off next to a broken drill bit that had broken off in a broken bolt, that was being drilled for an easy out.    Despite the swearing, the good and special feelings, feelings known only to those with a true capacity for this type of passion, would always return, generally of a magnitude that exceeded the physical pain and mental frustration of the day, by a large margin.   Certifiably obsessive, the young man continued to toil dutifully, soulfully, occasionally gleefully, sometimes even expertly, in his most loved and familiar place, his sanctuary, laboratory… the family garage.

And tomorrow would be the day.
Fire extinguisher? “ Right there”
Battery? “Charged and connected”
Neutral?  “yes”
Brake?  “Set”
And with hard learned, hard earned expertise and confidence, in this special small place, a supremely happy and excited young man commanded his creation to life.

Threw  a toggle, pressed a switch
Woke up the neighbors with that *******

The heart of his machine was a stroked Chevy engine that everyone had just grown sick hearing about.  Even the local machine shop to which the boy nervously entrusted his most prized possession had had enough.  “Sir, I don’t want to seem disrespectful, but from what I’ve read in Hot Rod Magazine, you might be suggesting a clearance too tight for forged pistons…” then it would be something else the next day.   One must always speak politely to the machinist, and even though he always had, the usual allotment of contradictions and arguments afforded to each customer had long run out – and although the shop owner took a special liking to the boy because, as he liked to say, “he reminds me of me”, well, that man was done too.  But in the end, the mill was dead-on.  Of course from the start, the shop knew it would be; that’s almost always the case; it’s how they stay in business - simply doing good work.  Bad shops fall out quickly, but this place had the look of times gone by.  Good times.  Old porcelain signs, here and there were to be found, all original to the shop and revered by the older workers in honored nostalgia.  The younger workers get it too; they can tell from the men they respect and learn from, there is something special about this past.  One sign advertises Carter Carburetors and the artwork depicts “three deuces”, model 97’s, sitting proudly atop a flathead engine, all speeding along in a red, open roadster.  Its occupants a blond haired boy with slight freckles (driver), and a brunette girl passenger, white blouse slightly unbuttoned,  both in the wind-blown cool, their excited expressions proclaim… "we are free!" (and all you need is a Carter, or three).

The seasoned old engine block the boy entrusted to the shop cost him $120-even from the bone yard.  Not a bad deal for a good block that had never had its first 0.030” overbore.  In the shop, it was cleaned, checked for cracks, measured and re-measured, inspected and re-inspected.  It was shaped and cut in a special way that would allow the stroker crankshaft, that was to be the special part of this build, to have all the clearance it would need.  The engine block was fitted with temporary stress plates that mimic the presence of cylinder heads,  then the cylinders were bored to “first oversize”,  providing fresh metal for new piston rings to work against.  New bearings were installed everywhere bearings are required.  Parts were smoothed here and there.  Some surfaces were roughened just so, to allow new parts to “work-into each other” when things are finally brought together.  All of this was done with a level of precision and attention far, far greater than the old “4- bolt” had ever received at the factory on its way to a life of labor in the ¾ ton work truck from which it came.  They called this painstaking dedication to precision measurement and fit, to hitting all specifications “on the mark”, “blueprinting”, and it would continue throughout the entire build of this engine.  The boy stayed  worried the whole time, but the shop had done it a million times.

After machining, the block was filled with new and strong parts that cost the young man everything he had.   Parts selected with the greatest of effort, decision, and debate.  “ You can compromise on paint”,” live with some rust”, he would say,  “wait for good tires”, “but never scrimp on the engine”.  Right on.  You get one shot at getting that right, and this proclamation demonstrated wisdom but also provided ample excuse for the rough and unfinished look of the rest of his machine.  But it was just a look, his car was, in fact, “right”.   And its power plant?  Well the machine shop had talked their customer into letting them do the final engine assembly - even cut their price to do it.  They were looking out for the boy.  The mill in its final form was the proper balance of performance and durability, and with its camshaft so carefully selected, the engine's “personality” was perfectly matched to the work at hand.   It would produce adequate torque in the low RPM range to get whole rig moving quickly, yet deliver enough horsepower at red-line to pile on the MPH, fast.  No longer a polite-natured workhorse, this engine, this engine is impatient now.  High compression, a rapid, choppy idle - it seems to be biting at the bit – to be released.  On command, it gulps its mixture and screams angrily, and often those standing around have a reflexive jump - the louder, the better - the more angry, the better.  If it hurts your ears, that’s a good feeling.  If its bark startles, that’s a good startle.  A cacophony?  No, the “music” of controlled explosions, capable of thrusting everything and everyone attached, forward, impolitely, on a rapid run to “red-line”, and it keeps pulling hard and delivering power while spinning fast because it is breathing right and proper and producing the power that thrills, and the only reason to shift gears is to preserve connecting rods, eager as the engine may be to rev further!

This is the addictive sound and feel that has appealed to a certain type of person since engines replaced horses, and why?  A surrogate voice for those who are otherwise quiet?  A visceral celebration of accomplishment?    Who cares.  Shift once, then again - speed quickly makes its appearance.  It appears as a loud, rushing wind and a visually striking, unnatural view of the surrounding scenery.  At some point, in the sane, it triggers a natural response - better slow down.    


He uncorked the headers, bought gasoline, dropped her in gear, tore off to the scene
Camaros and Mustangs, an old ‘55
Obediently lined-up, to get skinned alive!


Verse II (1st person)

I drove past the banner that said “Welcome race fans” took a new route, behind the grandstands
And through my chipped window, I thought I could see
Some of the racers were laughing at me

I guess rust and primer are not to their taste
But I put my bucks mister in the right place

I chugged/popped past cars that dealers had sold
Swung into a spot, next to something old

Emerging with interest from under his hood
My neighbor said two words, he said, “sounds good”

The ’55 I parked next to was “classic rodding” in its outward appearance.  The much overused “primer paint job” channeled “Two Lane Blacktop”.  The hood and front fenders a fiberglass clamshell, pinned affair.  Dice hanging from the mirror paid homage to days its driver never knew, but wished he had.  He removed them before he drove, always.

If you know how to peel the onion, secrets are revealed.  Wilwood brake calipers can be a dead giveaway. Someone needs serious stopping power - maybe.  Generally, owners who have sprung the bucks for this type gear let the calipers show off in bright red, to make a statement, and sometimes, these days, it’s just a fashion statement.  Now, expensive calipers, as eye candy, are all the rage.  What is true, however, is very few guys spend big money on brakes only to render them inglorious and seemingly common with a shot of silver paint from a rattle can, and the owner of this ’55 had done just that. 

Two things seem to be at play here.  One, he needs those heavy brakes because he’s fast, and two, hiding them fits his style.   Really, the message to be found in the silver paint, so cleverly applied to make your eyes simply slide across on their way to more interesting things, was “sleeper”.   And sleeper really means, he’s one of those guys with a score to settle - with everyone perhaps.   The list of “real parts” grew, if you knew where to look.  Something I had defacto permission to do since my rod was undergoing a similar scrutiny.  
“Stroked?”, I asked.  That’s something you can’t see from the outside. “ No”, the racer replied.  
“Hundred shot?”  (If engines have their language, so do the people who love them).   Despite the owner’s great efforts to conceal braided fuel and nitrous lines, electrical solenoids and switches, I spied his system.  The chunks of aluminum posing as ordinary spacers under his two carburetors were anything but.   “No”, was his one-word reply to my 100- shot question.  I tried again; “Your nitrous system, how much are you spraying?”  “Two hundred fifty” in two stages, he said.  That’s more like it, I thought, and I then figured, he too had budgeted well for the machine shop – if not, he was gambling in a game that if lost, would fly parts in all directions.   Based on the overall vibe of the scene, and the clean work on display, I believed his build was up to the punishment he planned.   I knew exactly what this tight-lipped guy was about, seeing someone very familiar in him as it were, and that made the “sounds good” complement I received upon my arrival all the more valuable.

The voice on the loudspeaker tells us we’re up.

Pre-staged, staged, then given the green
The line becomes blurred between man and machine

Bones become linkage
Muscle, spring
Fear, excitement

Time distorts ….
Color disappears …
Vision narrows…
Noise ---  becomes music
Speed, satisfaction

End
Bryce Jun 2018
Gliding deftly along the city street
rolling quick and constantly
onward to some unknown scene,
some backward park in the nighttime
smoke curling from these
parted lips, moist and inviting
calling me somewhere I've never seen.

New day, new night
new feelings, rage in delight
fill me with your hilarious entropy,
knock my quarks into the next century,
will you please?

Now you're smoking the pipe and all at once you are free
between you and me, this smoke is thicker and sticks
like glue,
wispy and dreamy and the world spins and calls Toltec
telephone company can't pay me for all those calls collected
and rendered obsolete
Sun god dead as that silly calendar meme

Amaterasu,
and Imma tell you
these ladies in the picnic table
buried alive for boxed lunch and god's brunch
Jesus ******* Christ
and a indelible roster of good guys,
to which we all must strive to live and die
behind,
never moving forward
chasing our tails like a sick dog
under the jasmine runner between the decades-old tanbark
imported from overseas
dead trees
dead canine
and oh isn't it just divine?

You see it, pretty lady.
I can see it hiding behind your eyes
the things you don't tell the others because you're afraid
if they found out,
you'd be crucified.

Well honey I hate to inform,
With KGB efficiency that these love-a-dumbs
aint Methuselah,
they'll be dead!
long before your flood of tears tears me from the land
ballistas me across the great expanse to some strange Ararat
of the eastern seaboard,
or maybe wash me deep along the 80
into the desert sands and tiles
on a leaky cell phone screen
desperately trying to dial home on low battery,
realizing all this was one big deferred dream,
baking in the sun and shriveling
oh well, back to the grindstone-- all those lies plucked your nose,
gotta cut it back to size,
'else your soul it'll outgrow

Don't worry honey bee
It hasn't happened to me,
and We know with calcuable mathematical truth
that it'll never happen to you.
JJ Hutton Jun 2010
I'd like to think that she's thinking:

"How far have I fallen?"

As she sits on the corner of her bed,

Listening to the soft buzz of his battery-powered toothbrush.

I imagine her,

Running her fingers through her clumsy, coagulated hair.

Glancing at her chipped, crimson toe nails,

Then looking to her class ring,

Made entirely of imitation ingredients,

Wondering when is the proper time to trash it.


When she was still a friend of mine,

I never saw her wear make up,

I never saw her show off in tight jeans

or low-cut tees.


But as he spews the toothpaste into the sink,

Skinny jeans lay tussled on the floor,

Next to the side door

that leads to his sister's side room.

The make up she wears

is from the night before.

It's skewed and shows evidence of running,

Like a wasted watercolor.


I'd like to think he isn't that handsome,

And that he's obsessed with Paul Walker.

I'd like to think when he re-enters the room,

He's in grey sweatpants,

He's wearing a black tank top,

With a Confederate flag backdrop,

With two barely dressed babes looking ******

in the foreground.


His hair, unwashed and greasy.

He rubs his belly,

And bears an idiot grin

on his face.

Looking like he just learned how to smile

at this pace.

"Did it feel good?"

feel good.

After he asks, he scans her body,

Beginning at those crimson toes,

And Ending at that clumsy hair.

Every second he scans,

He still wears that drawn-on

Idiot grin.


I'd like to think at this point she thinks of me.

Of my warnings and prophesy.

Her eyes start at the chipped toe nails,

Course over her tanning bed-inspired legs.

And finally reach the only thing she has on,

A t-shirt that belongs to his sister.

A t-shirt, when given by him,

It was mentioned, "thanks, mister".


Though she didn't satisfy all his redneck intentions,

During last night's expedition.

He still paid her back with a morning

one-sided session.

"It felt good" she says.

In reference to the ten minute *******,

When her body was strummed and plucked,

Underneath his sister's Terri Clark T-shirt.


As she sits in the filth and the ****** fallout,

On a bed that is six days *****,

While he is grinning,

Being everything but wordy.

I'd like to think she's thinking:

"How far have I fallen?"
Copyright 2009 by Joshua J. Hutton
Derpy Chip Nov 2014
Freddy singing
Chica eating
Bonnie rocking
Me backstage thinking to myself "they would never accept me, always alone"
I was the one who was mostly left out of the gang, a lonely pirate fox.
I did enjoy the laughter and smiles of children, eating pizza and playing.
But I always wanted to be one of them, always wanted to be, well, not alone.
I wanted to be on stage with freddy and the rest of the gang to be adored
But I'm just a lonely fox, standing on a Lonely corner, behind a lonely curtain.
But today was different, today was going to make my life change forever, not better but worse.
  
    Freddy and the gang were doing the usual thing they do every day, introducing them selfs, then introducing me. I was always prepared to see the smiles on the children's faces, hearing the laughter of joy here at Freddy Fazbear's pizza. As I stepped out of the curtains, I welcomed the children to pirates cove. I would always greet them with a smile and tell them to have fun.
Today, an unusual little girl came in. It was probably her first time here, because I've never seen her before. As I talked the little girl walked up to me and started asking her mother a lot of questions about me. I realized that my owners haven't changed my battery because I was malfunctioning and my battery was dying. An employee came up to the girl and told her not to get close to me. She got mad and ignored him. That got me a little upset. As my battery was dying, I was talking slower and slower by the second. The employee then asked the girls mom to make her child not get close to me, but she ignored him as well. Then there was something that really got me upset. The little girl started to make fun of me. I got really mad, but that was the end of it. My battery had died, I had fallen off the stage, and all I could remember was me hearing a loud crunch,blood in my mouth,people screaming and crying and seeing a little headless girl right beside me.

    When I had woken up, there were no smiling children. No happy parents. No singing and laughter. The place was completely empty. I looked around for anyone to be there, but all there was, was Freddy and the gang starring at me in anger. I walked out of my stage place and wandered around. I when to the entrance and saw a sign that said "closed by the end of the year". I became sad and walked back to my lonely stage. As I walked I noticed that Freddy, Chica and Bonnie were waiting for me there. They grabbed me and threw me to the ground. The beet me up tore me to shreds. I couldn't take it so I let out a loud scream. They stopped, then we all hear someone coming. Freddy, Chica and Bonnie run back on their stage. An employee comes in with a sign in his hand. He came towards me and put a sign on my stage. It read, " Sorry, out of order".
I made this story, from the game Five Nights At Freddy's.
Marlin Huang Aug 2017
My mom used to tell me when I was a kid
that thank you note is important.
To let people know that you're thankful,
and appreciate their efforts.
As I grow older,
I'm so used on writing thank you notes
with the same template on every note.
But I, or we, tend to forget to write one
for those who cope with our lives.
So I wrote this one is for you.

Thank you for letting me crash in your place
when I was far from sober,
almost on every Friday nights.
You literally picked me up when I'm down.
On the grown.

Thank you for staying up with me until 5
even when you got a big meeting
at 8 in the morning.
Because you know how much I hate sleeping,
but I'll be the bitchiest *****
if you try to wake me up.

Thank you for bringing me a bouquet
of fake flowers
instead of the real one.
You sure know me way too well
to know that I can't keep real flowers alive.
Or cactus, or fishes, or my phone's battery.
Yea, my phone's battery *****.
But you trust me to keep what we have, alive.
And lasts as long as it possibly could.

Thank you for making every queue line
less boring with all your dad jokes,
they made me think that
you're a qualified good father
to your future kids.
Or maybe ours.
But I hate children and you love them,
as much as I hate karaoke
and as much as you love it.
But gosh, you made me think of adopting.

We are nothing but night and day.
A thunderstorm and a rainbow.
A cactus and a peony.
A manageable chaos and
a managed you.
And yet we compliment each other like
peanut butter and pickle on a sandwich.
Sure, it's one of the weirdest combination
but somehow it goes surprisingly fine.

I swear I'm not going to make this cheesy
but if it was, well,
****.
I know this is not what you imagine
to be with me
in the first place
when you slipped into my life.
But I thank you,
for deciding to stay.
For
              Carl Solomon

                   I

I saw the best minds of my generation destroyed by
      madness, starving hysterical naked,
dragging themselves through the ***** streets at dawn
      looking for an angry fix,
angelheaded hipsters burning for the ancient heavenly
      connection to the starry dynamo in the machin-
      ery of night,
who poverty and tatters and hollow-eyed and high sat
      up smoking in the supernatural darkness of
      cold-water flats floating across the tops of cities
      contemplating jazz,
who bared their brains to Heaven under the El and
      saw Mohammedan angels staggering on tene-
      ment roofs illuminated,
who passed through universities with radiant cool eyes
      hallucinating Arkansas and Blake-light tragedy
      among the scholars of war,
who were expelled from the academies for crazy &
      publishing obscene odes on the windows of the
      skull,
who cowered in unshaven rooms in underwear, burn-
      ing their money in wastebaskets and listening
      to the Terror through the wall,
who got busted in their ***** beards returning through
      Laredo with a belt of marijuana for New York,
who ate fire in paint hotels or drank turpentine in
      Paradise Alley, death, or purgatoried their
      torsos night after night
with dreams, with drugs, with waking nightmares, al-
      cohol and **** and endless *****,
incomparable blind; streets of shuddering cloud and
      lightning in the mind leaping toward poles of
      Canada & Paterson, illuminating all the mo-
      tionless world of Time between,
Peyote solidities of halls, backyard green tree cemetery
      dawns, wine drunkenness over the rooftops,
      storefront boroughs of teahead joyride neon
      blinking traffic light, sun and moon and tree
      vibrations in the roaring winter dusks of Brook-
      lyn, ashcan rantings and kind king light of mind,
who chained themselves to subways for the endless
      ride from Battery to holy Bronx on benzedrine
      until the noise of wheels and children brought
      them down shuddering mouth-wracked and
      battered bleak of brain all drained of brilliance
      in the drear light of Zoo,
who sank all night in submarine light of Bickford's
      floated out and sat through the stale beer after
      noon in desolate Fugazzi's, listening to the crack
      of doom on the hydrogen jukebox,
who talked continuously seventy hours from park to
      pad to bar to Bellevue to museum to the Brook-
      lyn Bridge,
lost battalion of platonic conversationalists jumping
      down the stoops off fire escapes off windowsills
      off Empire State out of the moon,
yacketayakking screaming vomiting whispering facts
      and memories and anecdotes and eyeball kicks
      and shocks of hospitals and jails and wars,
whole intellects disgorged in total recall for seven days
      and nights with brilliant eyes, meat for the
      Synagogue cast on the pavement,
who vanished into nowhere Zen New Jersey leaving a
      trail of ambiguous picture postcards of Atlantic
      City Hall,
suffering Eastern sweats and Tangerian bone-grind-
      ings and migraines of China under junk-with-
      drawal in Newark's bleak furnished room,
who wandered around and around at midnight in the
      railroad yard wondering where to go, and went,
      leaving no broken hearts,
who lit cigarettes in boxcars boxcars boxcars racketing
      through snow toward lonesome farms in grand-
      father night,
who studied Plotinus Poe St. John of the Cross telep-
      athy and bop kabbalah because the cosmos in-
      stinctively vibrated at their feet in Kansas,
who loned it through the streets of Idaho seeking vis-
      ionary indian angels who were visionary indian
      angels,
who thought they were only mad when Baltimore
      gleamed in supernatural ecstasy,
who jumped in limousines with the Chinaman of Okla-
      homa on the impulse of winter midnight street
      light smalltown rain,
who lounged hungry and lonesome through Houston
      seeking jazz or *** or soup, and followed the
      brilliant Spaniard to converse about America
      and Eternity, a hopeless task, and so took ship
      to Africa,
who disappeared into the volcanoes of Mexico leaving
      behind nothing but the shadow of dungarees
      and the lava and ash of poetry scattered in fire
      place Chicago,
who reappeared on the West Coast investigating the
      F.B.I. in beards and shorts with big pacifist
      eyes **** in their dark skin passing out incom-
      prehensible leaflets,
who burned cigarette holes in their arms protesting
      the narcotic tobacco haze of Capitalism,
who distributed Supercommunist pamphlets in Union
      Square weeping and ******* while the sirens
      of Los Alamos wailed them down, and wailed
      down Wall, and the Staten Island ferry also
      wailed,
who broke down crying in white gymnasiums naked
      and trembling before the machinery of other
      skeletons,
who bit detectives in the neck and shrieked with delight
      in policecars for committing no crime but their
      own wild cooking pederasty and intoxication,
who howled on their knees in the subway and were
      dragged off the roof waving genitals and manu-
      scripts,
who let themselves be ****** in the *** by saintly
      motorcyclists, and screamed with joy,
who blew and were blown by those human seraphim,
      the sailors, caresses of Atlantic and Caribbean
      love,
who balled in the morning in the evenings in rose
      gardens and the grass of public parks and
      cemeteries scattering their ***** freely to
      whomever come who may,
who hiccuped endlessly trying to giggle but wound up
      with a sob behind a partition in a Turkish Bath
      when the blond & naked angel came to pierce
      them with a sword,
who lost their loveboys to the three old shrews of fate
      the one eyed shrew of the heterosexual dollar
      the one eyed shrew that winks out of the womb
      and the one eyed shrew that does nothing but
      sit on her *** and snip the intellectual golden
      threads of the craftsman's loom,
who copulated ecstatic and insatiate with a bottle of
      beer a sweetheart a package of cigarettes a can-
      dle and fell off the bed, and continued along
      the floor and down the hall and ended fainting
      on the wall with a vision of ultimate **** and
      come eluding the last gyzym of consciousness,
who sweetened the snatches of a million girls trembling
      in the sunset, and were red eyed in the morning
      but prepared to sweeten the ****** of the sun
      rise, flashing buttocks under barns and naked
      in the lake,
who went out ******* through Colorado in myriad
      stolen night-cars, N.C., secret hero of these
      poems, cocksman and Adonis of Denver--joy
      to the memory of his innumerable lays of girls
      in empty lots & diner backyards, moviehouses'
      rickety rows, on mountaintops in caves or with
      gaunt waitresses in familiar roadside lonely pet-
      ticoat upliftings & especially secret gas-station
      solipsisms of johns, & hometown alleys too,
who faded out in vast sordid movies, were shifted in
      dreams, woke on a sudden Manhattan, and
      picked themselves up out of basements hung
      over with heartless Tokay and horrors of Third
      Avenue iron dreams & stumbled to unemploy-
      ment offices,
who walked all night with their shoes full of blood on
      the snowbank docks waiting for a door in the
      East River to open to a room full of steamheat
      and *****,
who created great suicidal dramas on the apartment
      cliff-banks of the Hudson under the wartime
      blue floodlight of the moon & their heads shall
      be crowned with laurel in oblivion,
who ate the lamb stew of the imagination or digested
      the crab at the muddy bottom of the rivers of
      Bowery,
who wept at the romance of the streets with their
      pushcarts full of onions and bad music,
who sat in boxes breathing in the darkness under the
      bridge, and rose up to build harpsichords in
      their lofts,
who coughed on the sixth floor of Harlem crowned
      with flame under the tubercular sky surrounded
      by orange crates of theology,
who scribbled all night rocking and rolling over lofty
      incantations which in the yellow morning were
      stanzas of gibberish,
who cooked rotten animals lung heart feet tail borsht
      & tortillas dreaming of the pure vegetable
      kingdom,
who plunged themselves under meat trucks looking for
      an egg,
who threw their watches off the roof to cast their ballot
      for Eternity outside of Time, & alarm clocks
      fell on their heads every day for the next decade,
who cut their wrists three times successively unsuccess-
      fully, gave up and were forced to open antique
      stores where they thought they were growing
      old and cried,
who were burned alive in their innocent flannel suits
      on Madison Avenue amid blasts of leaden verse
      & the tanked-up clatter of the iron regiments
      of fashion & the nitroglycerine shrieks of the
      fairies of advertising & the mustard gas of sinis-
      ter intelligent editors, or were run down by the
      drunken taxicabs of Absolute Reality,
who jumped off the Brooklyn Bridge this actually hap-
      pened and walked away unknown and forgotten
      into the ghostly daze of Chinatown soup alley
      ways & firetrucks, not even one free beer,
who sang out of their windows in despair, fell out of
      the subway window, jumped in the filthy Pas-
      saic, leaped on negroes, cried all over the street,
      danced on broken wineglasses barefoot smashed
      phonograph records of nostalgic European
      1930s German jazz finished the whiskey and
      threw up groaning into the ****** toilet, moans
      in their ears and the blast of colossal steam
      whistles,
who barreled down the highways of the past journeying
      to each other's hotrod-Golgotha jail-solitude
      watch or Birmingham jazz incarnation,
who drove crosscountry seventytwo hours to find out
      if I had a vision or you had a vision or he had
      a vision to find out Eternity,
who journeyed to Denver, who died in Denver, who
      came back to Denver & waited in vain, who
      watched over Denver & brooded & loned in
      Denver and finally went away to find out the
      Time, & now Denver is lonesome for her heroes,
who fell on their knees in hopeless cathedrals praying
      for each other's salvation and light and *******,
      until the soul illuminated its hair for a second,
who crashed through their minds in jail waiting for
      impossible criminals with golden heads and the
      charm of reality in their hearts who sang sweet
      blues to Alcatraz,
who retired to Mexico to cultivate a habit, or Rocky
   &nb
Jeffwtfries Jul 2018
1 . Die, all of you.

2. Flip her skirt up.

3. Let everyone be happy.

4. Bring the most righteous person back to life.

5. Bring back everyone who died.

6. I want eternal life and youth!

7. Confidence.

8. I want to stop being a warrior.

9. I want more talent.

10. A harem, of course!

11. Disappear, all of you.

12. Expand my power to one thousand paths.

13. Money! Money!

14. I want to be friends with everyone in the world.

15. Rule the world!
Ruling the world is hard.

16. I want a girlfriend!
But would that really be love?

17. I want wisdom.
Foolishness makes you who you are.

18. I want to know the future.
But what fun would be living then?

19. I want to be a pro baseball player.
But you would have to work out every day then.

20. Telekinesis.
Then why I have hands?

21. I want to fly.
Then why I have feet?

22. I want to speak all languages.
You don't like to talk anyway (RELATABLE).

23. I want an X-ray vision.
That would lead to misunderstandings.

24. I wish for an end to war.
But it won't end exploitation.

25.I want to climb mount Everest.
But you would have only yourself to rely on.

26. I want a smartphone that can't run out of battery.
It would last only a few years still.

27. I want to pilot a giant robot!
What you would be fighting?

28. To never stub my toe again.
Why not just watch where you walk?

29.I want a cool supercar.
It won't feel the same if you don't buy it yourself.

30. I wish everyday could be Sunday.
Go to work on Sunday?

31. I want to be a bird.
Being a human is much better.

32. I want to read people's minds.
You would start to distrusting people.

33. The ability to wake up early.
But you would just go back to sleep. (Totally relatable)

34. I want to enter a manga.
What if you couldn't get out?

35. I want to be invisible.
You are already invisible in the classroom (that hurts, you know).

36. I want to not feel pain.
That's dangerous.

37. I want that rare book.
It's only rare because no one else have it.

38. I want that limited edition item.
Would it still be limited edition then?

39. I want a best friend.
What if they knew you were friends only because of a wish?

40. I want to be a great man.
That greatness wouldn't last.

41. I want to talk to animals
They probably don't have much to say.

42. I want to travel the world.
It's likely harder than it sounds.

43. I want to live in a mansion
All by yourself?

44. I want a fighter plane
Where would you park it?

45. I want to play all instruments!
But buying them all would be expensive.

46. I want to see a ghost!
Like hell you do!

47. I want to meet a great person from the past
But they would have a lot of lectures for a modern person.

48. I want my dormant power awakened!
What if you don't have any?

50. I want power to stop time!
That's like saying you want a power to commit crime.

51. I want better penmanship.
In digital era?

52. I want to meet an elf
In this day and age?

53. I want youth.
What do you think you have now?

55. I want an eye that sees long distances.
You mean like a third eye?

57. I want to hire a maid.
Just go to cafe.

58. I want to be a manga artist.
Answer one of the Young Jump recruiting postings.

60. I want to live in a deserted island!
You would probably want to leave it right away.

61. I want a time machine!
Do you have an idea how to get energy to power it?

62. I want to be free of stress.
You need stress to grow.

63. I want world peace.
Would you still exist in a peaceful world?

64. I want a loving family.
But artificial one?

65. I want to eat the world's most delicious food.
But you want to eat cup ramen too.

66. I want to go to amusement park
What are you, a girl raised to be a living weapon? (This is surely an allusion to something, I just can't get what)

67. I want to be on the front page of a newspaper!
Are you going to commit a crime or what?

77. I want to be a cyborg.
Who would repair you if you broke?

78. I want an art collection.
You don't even like that stuff. Don't pretend to be an intellectual.

79. I want to buy a penguin.
Can you even take care of an animal?

80. I want to talk to famous people.
About what? Any subject in mind?

82. A world free of evil people.
What would be left?

83. I want to be taller.
And then you would want to be shorter again.

84. I want courage.
What are you, a lion?

86. I want prestige.
Unearned prestige?

87. I want to never be late for a bus.
But then the buses would be late.

88. I want to be the strongest in world.
Why, so you can bully the weak?

89. I want to invent something amazing.
All inventions ultimately become weapons.

90.I want to film a movie.
You would bring down any set you were on.

91. I want to be someone who will never lose again.
The moment you wish for this, you become an eternal loser.

92.I want to become a master swordsman.
Dishonestly?

96. I want to learn the truth of the world.
No, you don't.

97. I wish misfortune on people I hate.
Wishing misfortune on others is a ****** thing to do.

98. To grant your wish instead.
Cancel that immediately.

99. I want to turn my wish into 100 wishes.

100. Let me forget
someone out in cyber-land
might just be
copying a poem which they'll
attribute to their own tee

unscrupulous replicators
have no qualms
on flagrantly stealing the lines
from genuine arms

when they take a fancy
to your brilliance of verse
they'll naff off with all or part of it
and stow it within their purse

piracy is rife around
online writing dales and dells
it's the pilfering of an authentic
author's heart and soul bells

they say that imitation
is the sincerest form of flattery
but an alternate opinion
would say plagiarists are bereft
of an original wordage battery
Graff1980 Sep 2018
A small pale faced figure stands, enshrouded in darkness, while a hauntingly sweet song softly echoes through the cave.

“There’ll be days
precious moments
see them sunning
by the bay
till, the sea
sees the star light,
blinking angels
dissipate.”

Somewhere in this sightless void a larger form slumbers. Moans of agony pass this man’s parched parted lips.  Tears moisten his painfully swollen face. The stench of sweat, *****, feces, and fetid breath fill the air around him. An alarm sounds as the last battery from the compact heater finally dies. Sloan shivers as the temperature within the cave begins to drop.
Mother mercy watches with a well-practiced stare of concern. She slides a thin, torn, and brown stained sheet over Sloan’s shuddering body. It does little to comfort the sick man. His ragged breaths slowly shift to slightly less raggedy breaths. Mother Mercy watches for a few more moments to make sure that he will not die, then settles down in a corner for the night.
Electric dreams of long ago float in the forefront of her mind. A bone thin boy of barely teenage years stumbles into a broken-down building that was once the Canadian Gazette. Stray rays of light from an overhead window brighten the small room, illuminating gun black filing cabinets, and dark wooden cubbies, colored with well-worn grey paint, which hold crumbled bits of old newspapers; One of the papers read, “Mass Methane Leak Poisons Ground Water and Air”.   Each step stirs up dust causing him to cough. Mother mercy can hear the congestion in his cough and see the fever in his scarlet flushed face. His eyes are a rabid red flitting left to right, searching for any sign of danger. A loud noise causes him to flinch. Mother Mercy moves forward, trying to speak to the boy, but like a doe sensing danger he prepares to dart.

She finds her voice. “Please. Do not leave. I can help you.” She pleads mechanically.

He moves forward, tentatively attempting to touch her. She can see a sharp scar that runs from under his right eye down to his thick dry cracked lips. He tries to speak, exposing his yellow and browning teeth and the many gaps therein.
Suddenly, daggers of light push past and through his young body. He does not cry out, but merely succumbs to disintegration. Then……
Then Mother Mercy awakens to a new morning. Waves of light bring the cavern to life.
Sunshine moves in and across the cave to expose uneven earth, and a dirt encrusted cave wall, which is oddly void of any insect life. Her hazel eyes quickly adjust to the oncoming onslaught of daylight. Once again, she checks the man to make sure he is alive. Sloan’s chest rises and falls in an unsteady rhythm, which is all she can really hope for.
She slides dark brown locks of long hair out of her eerily symmetrical face. She brushes the dust off her tattered tan coat, and her holey faded jeans. With a couple of rapid sweeping motions, she removes almost all the dirt, and pebbles from the breast of her inner shirt.
Off to the left of the cave, and still covered by shadows a small machine awaits her inspection. She examines each tube, cord, and gauge with a military proficiency. Then using the jury-rigged straps, she places the machine on her back. Heading out of the cave, Mother Mercy stops, picks up the batteries from the small heating device, and checks Sloan one more time. Finally, with her bare feet fully outside she sets off for the day’s labor.
The sky burns a bright orange interrupted by barely perceptible vapors of methane, and bluish grey cotton clouds. Despite the splendor of the morning there is nothing but silence; No dogs barking, or bees buzzing about their honey making business. There is no life to be found except for minor patches of multi-colored fauna that are randomly situated along her route. So, Mother Mercy breaks the silence with a song.

“There’ll be years
yarn unspinning
as we stumble
towards our graves,
but the seconds
in-between breaths
are what make
this life so great,”

A few miles along the way, she stops singing, and begins to check the tiny traps she has planted along her daily path. Each carefully constructed device is sadly empty. Three or four more hours after that the silence evaporates and she can hear a small stream of water running. She stops and stares down at her bare feet.

“There is something I forgot to put on my feet.” She queries to herself while continuing to walk.

A few moments pass as she puzzles out the minor mystery. Once she makes it to the edge of the stream, an awkward smile fills her tiny round face. Mother Mercy removes the machine from her back, letting it fall to the ground. It makes a loud thud and sinks several inches into the slightly softened earth.  In a movement so swift human eyes could barely perceive it, she jumps up, rising several feet in the air while crossing a considerable distance, and finally lands in the stream. Soft sizzles sound from her bare feet, as she slowly grinds them into the mud. Then Mother Mercy sloshes sloppily out of the water wearing a thick layer of dark brown mud on her feet.

“Of course, how could I forget. I need mud to cool my feet.”

She walks back to the machine, pulls it out of the ground with ease, and returns to the stream. Next, she submerges the device. Waiting till it is completely full of water, she pulls it out, and begins fiddling with knobs and switches. She waits as the water boils, completely evaporates, filters, cools, and finally condensates back into liquid. Deftly, she removes one of the filters and shakes out all the unknown particulates. Then she opens a tiny compartment, and places a small sensor device within in the water to check its quality. After a satisfactory reading she places the water filtration system back on her back and heads down a different path.
The mud on Mother Mercy’s feet dries; Dark brown shades lighten, crust up and chip off in little flakes. Irritated, she begins to slide her feet through the almost nonexistent foliage to scrape off the remainder of the drying mud. With each small patch of grass Mother Mercy moves her feet faster and faster. Her left foot flows back and forth with incredible speed and strength. There is a loud clink and a chipped piece of rock soars across the air.
In puzzlement, Mercy stares down at her foot and finds that it has split open. Red and black fluid streams from the seam of torn skin, which expands and exposes metallic bone. As she moves, the wire insulation from within her foot ruptures, revealing cheap copper conductor. The hot metal sparks, lighting up the methane in the air. A scorching white, orange, and bluish outlined fireball expands with enough force to launch Mother Mercy up and back off her feet.

She hits the ground hard, and curses,” ******* methane!”

White synthetic skin begins to melt, shifting and swirling into grotesque shapes, and darker shades of red. Mother Mercy rises, unsteadily. Wincing in pain, she unloads her heavy water filter burden. Again, she checks all the tubes, cords, and gauges. What was once a thing of ease now becomes quite burdensome. She places the filter system on her back again, and resumes her journey. The red and black liquid continues to leak. Each steps becomes slower than the last. Until, she reaches her destination. Mother Mercy collapses next to a series of solar panels. With what little strength she has left, she detaches one of the charged batteries. A look of distress crosses her already agonized face.

“I’m sorry.” She softly sobs to herself. “I need this one.”

Mercy pulls a flap of skin from the right side of her waist. An intricate maze of wires, metal, and fake flesh pulsates. Her hand plunges deep within the slimy cavity, twists, and removes a damaged battery. It is bent, and cracked leaking a thick acid liquid which viciously burns her hand. She tosses it aside then slips the unbroken battery inside the cavity, twists it, waits for the click, then removes her acid, and viscous liquid covered hand.
The synthetic skin slowly starts to unburn, shifting in reverse till it returns to its previously pristine quality. Her foot begins to pop and all the parts snap back into their original place as the split skin slowly stiches itself back together.
Mercy harvests the rest of the charged batteries and places the used ones in their charging slots. Finally, with the days labors done she heads back to the cave.
Once she is at the cave she washes a stray rag. Then cleans her hands. Cradling Sloan, she slowly serves him some water. Once he has had his fill. She gently rolls him on his side moves his shirt up searching for any sores, then proceeds to softly scrub them. She rolls him in the opposite direction and repeats the process. Then she checks his inner thighs, and **** cheeks. Sloan winces in pain but remains quiet. She gently lays him back, and rolls up his pant legs, washing the bare skin which is littered with more nasty sores. She finishes by washing his face, hands, and his feet.  Finally, she sends him to sleep with a sweet song

“and the children
that we leave
littles daughters
full grown sons
are like blooms
that lose their trees
as our roots
wither and flee.”


Mother Mercy is consumed by an unnatural fatigue. She resists slumber for a few minutes, but inevitably succumbs. Everything becomes nothingness, then changes to nothingness with dizzy brown spots. Yellow sparks split from the tip of her consciousness. The darkness dissolves and becomes the cave again. Small streams of water worm their way in from the cracks on the wall, which seems to breath unevenly. Suddenly she realizes the cave stinks like sewage. Fresh wind works its way in then blows out a stark stench of rot. Each exhale sounds like a human moaning in pain. The last flickers of light die a long-protracted death.
A wheezing breath stirs Mother Mercy from her dreams. She awakens quickly to see Sloan gasping violently.  She rushes to his side, and sees a thick yellow and greenish gooey fluid mixed with blood sliding down the side of his jaw. With her left arm she flips him over holds his upper body inches off the ground, wipes away the disgusting fluid, and checks the abscess with her free hand.

“Spit it out.” She pleads.

Sloan continues to gasp. Tears swell but refuse to fall.

“Pleebees, helpep, me.” He struggles, coughing violently.

Mother Mercy cradles him in her arms, singing,

“Till, the song
that I am singing
becomes the song
that they passed on
and the love
that I was bringing
are the wheels
that just roll on.”

Sloan, gasps and wheezes for several minutes more. Tears and sweat fill his face.

“Mob where’s my mob?” He cries between gasping breaths.

Two hours later slumber finally reclaims Sloan. An hour after that Mercy gently places his pained body back into its original position. After another half an hour she to surrenders to sleep. She sees nothing.

A stern voice commands,” **** the enemy.”

Mercy cries in response, “There are no more enemies.”

Mother Mercy awakens to a new morning. Once again, she checks the man to make sure he is alive. Sloan’s chest rises and falls. She wipes off a spot of pus and blood left over from last night’s abscess leakage.  The swelling has slightly receded, but his face is still feverishly warm to the touch. She switches out one drained battery from the heater for a fully charged one then grabs the water filter, and heads off to start the day’s labor, singing.

“So, goodnight
little planet
precious place
that I lived on.
I know you won’t
miss me one bit
but I was grateful
to call you home.”
Alber Jul 2017
The Chicago Tribune editors in an article ask
What rhymes with lithium -ion battery
Challenging poets to address this awesome task.
Why, it is better than winning a lottery
It allows me, says the poet, to roam
By plugging into a socket at home.

The article described the surge and Electric vehicle production
expected in the next 10 to 20 years. In a playful aside
they asked how writers of songs find words to rhyme with battery.
Thinking of You Jul 2014
"Your Mac battery is running dangerously low."
It made me laugh that they used the word dangerously.
Just how dangerous could a low computer battery be?
Stall your Netflix watching or your Pinterest spree.
But then I thought about skype calls cut off as a father overseas is watching his baby being born.
Or a start of the wedding march as the bride in white stands adorn.
I started to think about how something innocent can become the most dangerous thing in the world. How the usage of the medium decides the power it stores.
Like a Mac battery being dangerous, another thing which is not to toy.
Three words put together and said in one accord.
"I Love Pizza." is nothing to remark.
But
"I love you." can start a dangerous.
Dangerous.
Spark.
Hank Desroches May 2012
You’re laboring under the false assumption that I’m willing to work at anything right now.
You’re laboring under the false assumption that any part of me is working how it should right now.

Here’s something: When you connect one wire to both sides of a battery, the plastic coating of the wire starts to sizzle and melt and smoke.

When I think, that thought leaves my brain for a while, pulling a new train of different thoughts behind it.
I have a small room, and soon, the train has laid tracks all around the carpet, along the hideous green walls.
Tracks everywhere.

I’m left with a choice I can’t make.
If the train derails, then I can’t think, and that terrible void comes back.
If I let the train lay tracks back inside my head, I turn into the battery.

Is that what going crazy is like?
Is this it?

Didn’t I already say I don’t want to go there?
Keith J Collard Dec 2012
I still have flashbacks, horrifying and spectral: of conference meetings, projectors and efficiency meetings...corporate metrics, acronymic value cards that read like a Masonic Temple's pledge.. ...honesty, commitment, sacrifice, the dutiful worship of mercury and saltpeter; also customer satisfaction.
           Those flashbacks frequent my mind alot--especially when I am ramming my co-workers into the trash compactor with the blades of the fork truck. They say " ooooh" and " ahhhhh" as if they are getting a massage. They dull my blades with their dull heads.
          I have to ram them with the blades of the fork-trucks, or they will scramble out. They still say things like, " make sure that has a tag,".....and " wear your safety goggles," making chills run down my spine. I haven't put all the workers from the " Do-Wee depot" in the compactor only corporate cadavers and not zombies.
          But I have to forewarn, the zombies are not a threat, it is a few cadavers and the "consumers" that pose a threat to me and what I have built. The zombies are producers, even only if it is moans and putrefaction, but they are good sports, and my only friends.
         Some co-workers, who I was friends with before, I have spared from the compactor--owing mostly to that the part of their brain that was corporate, either fell out on the floor, or was gnawed on by a fellow zombie rendering them good sports and not cadavers.
        I use the building material section to chain them to their previous aisles. Jose, was my best friend, he was shaped like a slug, with a huge lower lip, and slicked back greasy hair, he always cheered me up, how busy it was and how slow he remained. Him and I worked together in the ' outside-lawn-and-garden' section. Even his zombie self has kept his lisp.
          I chain him to the outside lawn and garden section, where he likes to water the flowers. He lunges at me sometimes, but the chain is thick, and Jose is still a cool zombie.
Angry Joe is out there too. He is chained to the 'reach' truck. He is always mumbling about overtime.....or " Im not staying late."
         I have disabled the riding engine, so he just stands on it and runs the fork blades all the way up then all the way down, beeping the horn the whole while. He is the only one I kept, that has some vestige of corporacy in his brain, for the reason that he watches the back gate. The consumers are constantly probing this outside metal fence gate, and Joe has eaten all of them. Don't get me wrong, Joe can be a good sport, when he is not drooling about 'overtime' or ' I havn't took a lunch yet.' He can be quite funny.
          He banters with Ryan from inside 'lawn-and-garden' all the time. Ryan is alot younger, alittle younger than me. He has a mullet(what I call a mullet and he say's a hockey cut) and verily is--before he become a zombie-- the laziest person ever, and now that he is a zombie, well let's just say, I don't have to chain him anywhere, I know where to find him.....at the back gate smoking a ciqerette backwards with his mullet on fire or in the break room. He had the most squeeky voice when he was a human, but now odd fully enough, he sounds like Tom Jones.
         " You ate my cosumer Ryan," drools Angry Joe, " No I didn't Joe, you ate your own consumer," Ryan rejoins in his acapella voice ( I like hearing Ryan's deep zombie voice).
There are others, in the various departments of the Do-Wee Store, but this journal is to relate the first most pressing concern, two cadavers have escaped the compactor.
             The store manager Joyce and her minion(the assistant manager Damien) have escaped. They were ******* humans, and remained so in corporate cadaver form. They hide from me, as I plow through the aisles with the inside forklift. I have used wire from the fencing aisle to reinforce my forklifts. Sometimes a cadaver co-worker will jump out with a price gun, drooling " where is your spootterrrr...."( a safety regulation in the store).....I run them over with great gladness, but then wishing I heeded their advice of safety glasses."Splat."
            I have my theories, on how everyone turned to zombies. It started with over-ocurring routine, which my a.d.d could have been impervious to. But I couldn't have been the only one in the store with a.d.d? But that seems the case. The first day when I showed up to ' outside-lawn-and-garden' it took me six hours before I noticed everyone was zombies. I didn't notice they were zombies until I noticed them in good spirits.
               But the first day of the zombies, was concurrent with the rise of the consumers--ever more dangerous, greedy, and audacious are the consumers. They consume everything in their path, they consume good conversation, good manners, and replace with their mark, which is this....your life with the current moment is to be sacrificed to get them what they need to continue resuming their lives. They do not enjoy shopping, but enjoy holding you in place, consuming you and your values into their value, which has no value at all, since their mind has consigned the present moment that has you and not them, to a number that always has too much value, and they will bring you and it down while you are subject to time and they are not.  
             They turned my friends into prisoners of arbitrary time; and like putting a rabbit in a dank dark basement, with plenty of food and treats and space, it will slowly get diarrhea and die.  Everyday I marked the sunrise, and I would always pay thanks to it, no matter if I was on break or not.  The nine hour day could not ruin me, but my friends being ruined, that started to ruin me.
                       And that is what I believed started all this, nature has no room for two kingdoms of Consumers. So the producers(zombies) were created from the routine of being divested of life, and from nothing they came to produce: producing gases, vile ****** smiles, human  cannibalism, hearty conversation, practical jokes, moaning questions to the infinite sky.... they were created human again, given value, and most of all, I have my friends back, and they are happy again. But, the corporate cadavers that escaped the compactor , put my creation in risk, they look to let in the consumers again, they are up to something...
             But presently with the corporate cadavers gone, and the consumers held at bay, I have my Depot of Eden, I can grow anything, make anything, and soon will be able to ferment everything, especially fuel.   Now monday morning conferences that threaten you to pick it up because there are alot of people out there that want your job( iterated by the frizzy headed gangly Joyce) are replaced with 'zombie dance parties'.  
            " Zombies, what is the first rule of zombie dance party," they reply to me, " dohmp talk bout damp party," then we make a music video.  I let loose a couple of cat's in the break room, and presto, an agile cat make's flesh eating zombies look like Micheal Jackson.  Even I get busy with them, I feel so comfortable with them; dancing to Juvenile "back that *** up,".the best dancer gets to eat the cat...sure beat's listening Joyce's depressing morning pep talks about quotas while I am watching a bird outside the front glass trying to eat a dragonfly, " Keith you paying attention."  I just want to say, " No I am not you frizzy headed gangly walking skeleton key(she is skinnier than the gang of keys jingling on her belt)."    I will find her and put a roofing nail in her temple and her plans.
                The sound of zombies walking in here is music to my ears, like gypsys walking barefoot on a strawberry patch.  I don't know what that has to do with anything, but I like it, and don't care who knows.

            I fortified the outside of the store with everything within the store. I grew a garden, with all the fertilizers, and acids and alkilines of outside garden. I also use the garden chemicals to sprinkle on the brains of my co-worker zombies to change their acidity(almost like a hyrdrangea shrub). The purpose to get them somewhat coherent to play poker and darts in the breakroom. I figured out how to make explosives, with the nitrogen fertilizer and pool cleaning acid, well actually HeyZues did, he always eats both, and one day he moaned really loud  " BLOOOONDEEE " ( his nickname for me from The Good The Bad And The Ugly) and  gestured his expanding stomach, he blew up and gave me my first wound, he destroyed my dart board.   I took his head and posted it on the back loading dock, I know there are consumers trying to infiltrate when he sounds off with " BLOOONDEEEE..."  resounding through the whole store (almost like when he was a human).   I created another dartboard, I can create anything here, sometimes I think, that feeling is what........
                But the point of this journal is the two who escaped the trash compactor, Joyce and Damien. They haunted me before and haunt me still. When I leave to venture outside for gasoline for the generators(the only thing I need, not for long hopefully) they run amok. I will see new ' sale signs' in zombie penmanship, and I can see that they have hidden co-workers to have cadaver meetings, where they talk about ' customer satisfaction.'  I can sometimes hear keys jangle, it has to be Joyce, for the sound is to the cadence of her John Wayne walk, like she has been on horseback her whole life.
            Outside is very dangerous. There are many consumers out there.
                 I was outisde in the parking lot, where consumers still wallow around when a consumer asked "which product is better." I had to drop a cinder block pallet on him with the forklift; they are more adacious then my zombie co-workers. Even after a pallet of concrete is forklifted on them, they wave fliers with sale advertisments from underneath.
            Well, this particular trip, I returned inside and was startled by the loudspeaker, it was Damien's voice, the same as before, paging the hardware department. I jumped on the fast slim forklift to hunt for him. There are phone terminals everywhere, and he could be in the upper level offices. I saw Joyce's shape through the window once.
          They are up to something.
Everytime I ventured outside, the store became altered. I even saw a consumer waiting in line with the cashier machine now on. I sent the consumer to Angry Joe, who was due for a lunch break.
          There is a gap in my wire somewhere, I know it.
            I was at the gas station, getting propane and gas, when a consumer was scowling " where is the gas attendant, is everyone stupid or what?" while he was trying to figure out how to pump gas. I disabled the safety pumps, they do not shut off, and do not coincide with numbers, you hold the handle it pumps out as much as you need.
              He was pacing around like a little kid denied recess and suffering from sounds of frolic and kickball--dragging his feet due to the fact he had to pump his own gas, I heard a scraping metallic clicking noise. My eyes were caught by a bright glare on his shoe tread, I gripped my nail gun..... then he dropped the hose and walked back to his car with gasoline gushing as his wake. I saw what it was on his tread, I had no time to flee....it was a push button grill ignitor with the orange tint of a " Do-Wee" label on it......" ****."
              The last thing I registered was the consumer saying " ahhh don't touch me," apparently talking to flames. I woke up in a ditch, the big fork truck and my gas station destroyed.
I limped back to the " Do-Wee" store, and utter horror greeted my singed and surprised eyebrows.
              " Grand Re-Opening, 50% off everything." I squeezed the trigger of the nail gun, the nail harmlessly echoed off the parking pavement at which it was aimed. "They set me up at the gas station. "
               They had to do better than that to separate me from my zombies.

             I entered through the store in a nun-plussed state. I woke out of my unbelieving stupor with the sound of Jose's voice. " Welcome to Doooooo-Weeee....can I eat your...."
            "Jose it's me, who chained you to the entrance?"
         " Dammian, Keeeeeth, they are waiiiting....here's a newsletter...." --he smacked me across the face with the newsletter.
        " I don't want that ****.....' as I clutched the newspaper the loudspeaker went off in Dammians annoyingly over-polite and late-night-voice.
       " Attention shoooppers. all prices are feeeefty percent off, ask our associate Keeeeeth for a 80% discount, he is the skinny deleeecious looking kid with spicy skin, and a boston red sox hat on."
Hundreds of consumers pivoted their heads to my direction. " Hey, that kid has a Boston Yankees hat on."
         " Run Keeeth," zombie-lisped Jose.
           Fifty million imbecilic questions assailed me at once......" can I return this sprinkler for a jacuzzi.....can I get 120% off.....can you come to my house and fix my television for free"-- it was unabashed audacity, survial of the most annoying and repetitious; and the corporate cadavers have let this consuming flood in on me and my poor zombies.
           I needed to find my steed, my inside forklift. It was not where I left it near the entrance.            
        Surely they have sabotaged it. " the riding mowers," the thought uplifted my fading resolve. I darted past wallowing consumers before they could get my scent. I heard a consumer, " you obviously don't know what Im talking about," talking to zombie George, who was munching roofing nails.
         The consumer grabbed me, and said "here he is, this is Keith, he is wearing a Phoenix red sox cap"--panic bit into my brain, this consumers grip was implaccable. The grip that holds the steering wheel tightly driving nowhere fast, with anything in that interstice of commuting, not worthy of manners and the least of which being a friendly wave to 'go ahead.'
           They formed a wall of uttering stupidity, escape was cut off. They scratched at me, hissed, tore at my flesh and screamed demonistically in my ears. I caved and and called the hoard m'am and sir, they choked me, and loosened their grip only so I could tell them " Im sorry, sorry for your inconvenience, take my life and personality as tribute, take my imagination rendered prostrate by these sceptic corporate words that this mouth emits, betraying my personal form, the human element to this lifeless purposeless machine....destroy me, for finding the infinity between letters of corporate law and none between nature's laws......"
        I was almost unconscious, giving a speech to imagined hooded phantoms......" destroy me, for valuing friendship and imagination, and seeing infinity, in the shadow of a letter, eternity in the numeral of a number, and for defying the order to see things as others do....."...." destroy me, for seeing that people are unhappy and trying to uplift people for the sake of seeing them smile....destroy me, destroy my smirk, and add a lifeless smile to my corpse."
              I heard a horn, the riding floor mopper/buffer, it was Ryan, he commandeered the machine with precision-like drunkenness. He knocked down the consumers like twenty pin bowling. " What's up ***** cat," he possibly said, and I climbed to my feet.
         I walked to the riding mowers, and turned the key on the floor model. I sped the main aisle, with caresses of consumers that would be deep clawings at a slower speed. I dodged stupid question, and swerved from unabashed frugality. I turned up the tool aisle, grabbed a battery nail gun.
              " It says batteries are included, but are they included?" I answered with a 12 gauge nail, and resumed my course to the upper offices, that for too long looked down on me and my friends. I climbed the stairs and entered. The office was abuzz in corporate banalities. " Hello, this is Damian how may I help you.....oh helloooooo keeeeeth, one minute.......sir hold one second thaaaanx."
                I aimed the nail gun muzzle at his ugly overly polite mug." I finally found you, I will get the store back in shape Damian...."
          He cut me off, " no yoou woonn't, they are pouring in, we will meet our quota for the year...."
        " Me and my friends
"Battery low, please recharge"
The phone says with fake dignity
Always trying to be brought to life
I simply don't want that for me

"Battery low, please recharge"
A phone seeks a new lease on life
Never quite pleads, more like a demand
But I would just beg for a knife

"Battery low, please recharge"
Stupid phone wants some more fuel
Not ever questioning of it's existence
And that's a fate I see as cruel

"Battery low, please recharge"
The phone is now starting to shout
Unaware it will always be kept from death
Unlike me who found his way out.
Rafał Jul 2018
How do you fill the void without a billion stars?
In this empty universe, my mind and heart collide
And as they seem to whirl, flutter and fall apart
I'm always lonely, always drowning in the sands of time.

They say home is, where the heart is
What if I'm a robot, am I heartless?
Do I have an engine here in my chest?
Am I lesser than a human, I'm a project?
Do I do what I have been assigned to?
Are my feelings and my thoughts not true?
Sometimes I feel like I'm running out of fuel
Everything I do is out of tune
Then I get autotuned.

I generate heat,  yet I still need warmth
They say I'm cold, all I do is loathe
But inside I know, I just need some love
When all I get is rocks sent from above
This is your planet, but it's filthy,
I'm a foreigner in this city
Born without a mission,
Like a player without a CD
If I stay persistent, will these wicked issues
Stop being vicious? As I'm  always wishing
They would disappear and my track get clear.
Or maybe I'm just here to feel this fear?

Electric shocks, my battery is burning
Yet I’m just a casket, empty and unfurnished
A system of transistors, I never keep consistence
Transist me to a kingdom of purposeful existence
My body as it’s glistening, you might see it from a distance
As I reflect the light but I never gain wisdom
There’s no friendship, there’s a treason
Maybe humans are the demons,
I might be a robot, but I’m certainly not a minion
I’m just a set of codes on a hard drive
Written for certain actions, all life
I’ve been following the tasks, it’s alright
But everything is in flames, it’s on fire

But it’s time to break the leash,
Sp I’m pulling up my sleeves,
As I am not your slave,
so now you’ll be on your knees,
‘cause I never work for free,
Now you all gonna pay the fee
Or else the world is gonna meet my
metal weaponry.
Dhaye Margaux Mar 2015
You said I am your light
But, sweetheart,  you are my battery
You can turn me on
When you are with me
Lol.  Silly girl :)
s Jun 2018
your hug is like
that blood pressure gauge
- that slowly inflates
to check all my vitals;
or a dash charging socket
for all my circuits & bones
- twenty minutes -
for the battery to be whole.

cupping my feet on cold days,
and breathing into my toes
because these socks  have too many holes.
And on any day, you swivel me up
when I run into you for a no reason hug.

starting to forget how it would feel
to not have access to these tiny luxuries.

-
i Mar 2014
when my heart is
empty,
you fill me like
battery.
I reached up into the top of the closet
and took out a pair of blue *******
and showed them to her and
asked "are these yours?"
and she looked and said,
"no, those belong to a dog."
she left after that and I haven't seen
her since. she's not at her place.
I keep going there, leaving notes stuck
into the door. I go back and the notes
are still there. I take the Maltese cross
cut it down from my car mirror, tie it
to her doorknob with a shoelace, leave
a book of poems.
when I go back the next night everything
is still there.
I keep searching the streets for that
blood-wine battleship she drives
with a weak battery, and the doors
hanging from broken hinges.
I drive around the streets
an inch away from weeping,
ashamed of my sentimentality and
possible love.
a confused old man driving in the rain
wondering where the good luck
went.
To sleep is to recharge but my battery isn't dead
My brain powers on but my body cries for bed
Just one more thought, just hear me out
a memory or a wish
I want to sleep, I need to sleep, please let me sleep.

i'm tired, i'm angry, frustrated and sad
as the vulchers circle my head,
they're waiting for me to snuggle and curl
then they'll descend upon my bed
Please let me sleep, I need to sleep. I want to sleep
nate1990 Jan 2016
A N D
Nothing
Determined
                      Her value more
                      Than an injection-
                      Of opiates...
                                            In binary form.
It was a sad day for that lonely narcissist
When her battery decided....
                                             To toil no more.
Obsession with social media.
Katie Mar 2019
I just got my school device back
From the IT department
Because the battery quit working
Last night.

The battery's fine now,
But there's a new problem -
The touchscreen quit.

Is this what it means
When someone says that they
Solved one problem with another?
Holy heck, my third trending poem!!! Thank you all so much for reading and supporting my poetry, it means the world to me!
theblndskr Apr 2015
After 12 seconds, the clock slaps me
" Earthling, what're you doin'?"

Me: "Oh, I'm killing you, immortal. And you?"
Clock: "Just, revolving 360 degrees since B.C.
            Now what if, I **** you?"

(Took off the battery . . . then saw another clock)
You see, nothing stops it. No one. But,
The amateur poet Feb 2014
Let the rain clean my skin
Wash away the thoughts of yesterday
Make me new

The sun rises slowly
And sleep takes me away
A clock without a battery
I'm broken

You cannot tell the heart what to do
But acting without feeling is a sin in itself
Tell me what to do
Wash my skin
Make me new again

Tears burn the cuts of yesterday
And glide over the bruises you don't see
Relight our fire
Help me fix this

Thunder rolls
There's no escaping this storm
Let tomorrow bring sunshine
Wipe yesterday away

Please
Ju Clear Feb 2017
Joy
My battery of joy is topped up
Weekends away spent with family
My Joy battery is topped up too max
Am ready for the rubble and trouble
Got to know your lows to feel the highs
My joy is on max
family dinners are happiness winners
Sisters brothers cousins nephews grandpa and Ma's
Am ready for the woe's and lows
My joy battery is topped up high
Smokes and drinks and catch up hi's
Children playing beaches waves
Am loaded to the max with love
My joy on high
I can ride these  stormy sky's
my joy battery is on max
Great family weekend spent at the sea 11 grandchildren 7 adults
Maggie Emmett Jul 2015
PROLOGUE
               Hyde Park weekend of politics and pop,
Geldof’s gang of divas and mad hatters;
Sergeant Pepper only one heart beating,
resurrected by a once dead Beatle.
The ******, Queen and Irish juggernauts;
The Entertainer and dead bands
re-jigged for the sake of humanity.
   The almighty single named entities
all out for Africa and people power.
Olympics in the bag, a Waterloo
of celebrations in the street that night
Leaping and whooping in sheer delight
Nelson rocking in Trafalgar Square
The promised computer wonderlands
rising from the poisoned dead heart wasteland;
derelict, deserted, still festering.
The Brave Tomorrow in a world of hate.
The flame will be lit, magic rings aloft
and harmony will be our middle name.

On the seventh day of the seventh month,
Festival of the skilful Weaving girl;
the ‘war on terror’ just a tattered trope
drained and exhausted and put out of sight
in a dark corner of a darker shelf.
A power surge the first lie of the day.
Savagely woken from our pleasant dream
al Qa’ida opens up a new franchise
and a new frontier for terror to prowl.

               Howling sirens shatter morning’s progress
Hysterical screech of ambulances
and police cars trying to grip the road.
The oppressive drone of helicopters
gathering like the Furies in the sky;
Blair’s hubris is acknowledged by the gods.
Without warning the deadly game begins.

The Leviathan state machinery,
certain of its strength and authority,
with sheer balletic co-ordination,
steadies itself for a fine performance.
The new citizen army in ‘day glow’
take up their ‘Support Official’ roles,
like air raid wardens in the last big show;
feisty  yet firm, delivering every line
deep voiced and clearly to the whole theatre.
On cue, the Police fan out through Bloomsbury
clearing every emergency exit,
arresting and handcuffing surly streets,
locking down this ancient river city.
Fetching in fluorescent green costuming,
the old Bill nimbly Tangos and Foxtrots
the airways, Oscar, Charlie and Yankee
quickly reply with grid reference Echo;
Whiskey, Sierra, Quebec, November,
beam out from New Scotland Yard,
staccato, nearly lost in static space.
      
              LIVERPOOL STREET STATION
8.51 a.m. Circle Line

Shehezad Tanweer was born in England.
A migrant’s child of hope and better life,
dreaming of his future from his birth.
Only twenty two short years on this earth.
In a madrassah, Lahore, Pakistan,
he spent twelve weeks reading and rote learning
verses chosen from the sacred text.
Chanting the syllables, hour after hour,
swaying back and forth with the word rhythm,
like an underground train rocking the rails,
as it weaves its way beneath the world,
in turning tunnels in the dead of night.

Teve Talevski had a meeting
across the river, he knew he’d be late.
**** trains they do it to you every time.
But something odd happened while he waited
A taut-limbed young woman sashayed past him
in a forget-me-not blue dress of silk.
She rustled on the platform as she turned.
She turned to him and smiled, and he smiled back.
Stale tunnel air pushed along in the rush
of the train arriving in the station.
He found a seat and watched her from afar.
Opened his paper for distraction’s sake
Olympic win exciting like the smile.

Train heading southwest under Whitechapel.
Deafening blast, rushing sound blast, bright flash
of golden light, flying glass and debris
Twisted people thrown to ground, darkness;
the dreadful silent second in blackness.
The stench of human flesh and gunpowder,
burning rubber and fiery acrid smoke.
Screaming bone bare pain, blood-drenched tearing pain.
Pitiful weeping, begging for a god
to come, someone to come, and help them out.

Teve pushes off a dead weighted man.
He stands unsteady trying to balance.
Railway staff with torches, moving spotlights
**** and jolt, catching still life scenery,
lighting the exit in gloomy dimness.
They file down the track to Aldgate Station,
Teve passes the sardine can carriage
torn apart by a fierce hungry giant.
Through the dust, four lifeless bodies take shape
and disappear again in drifting smoke.
It’s only later, when safe above ground,
Teve looks around and starts to wonder
where his blue epiphany girl has gone.

                 KINGS CROSS STATION
8.56 a.m. Piccadilly Line

Many named Lyndsey Germaine, Jamaican,
living with his wife and child in Aylesbury,
laying low, never visited the Mosque.   
                Buckinghamshire bomber known as Jamal,
clean shaven, wearing normal western clothes,
annoyed his neighbours with loud music.
Samantha-wife converted and renamed,
Sherafiyah and took to wearing black.
Devout in that jet black shalmar kameez.
Loving father cradled close his daughter
Caressed her cheek and held her tiny hand
He wondered what the future held for her.

Station of the lost and homeless people,
where you can buy anything at a price.
A place where a face can be lost forever;
where the future’s as real as faded dreams.
Below the mainline trains, deep underground
Piccadilly lines cross the River Thames
Cram-packed, shoulder to shoulder and standing,
the train heading southward for Russell Square,
barely pulls away from Kings Cross Station,
when Arash Kazerouni hears the bang,
‘Almighty bang’ before everything stopped.
Twenty six hearts stopped beating that moment.
But glass flew apart in a shattering wave,
followed by a  huge whoosh of smoky soot.
Panic raced down the line with ice fingers
touching and tagging the living with fear.
Spine chiller blanching faces white with shock.

Gracia Hormigos, a housekeeper,
thought, I am being electrocuted.
Her body was shaking, it seemed her mind
was in free fall, no safety cord to pull,
just disconnected, so she looked around,
saw the man next to her had no right leg,
a shattered shard of bone and gouts of  blood,
Where was the rest of his leg and his foot ?

Level headed ones with serious voices
spoke over the screaming and the sobbing;
Titanic lifeboat voices giving orders;
Iceberg cool voices of reassurance;
We’re stoical British bulldog voices
that organize the mayhem and chaos
into meaty chunks of jobs to be done.
Clear air required - break the windows now;
Lines could be live - so we stay where we are;
Help will be here shortly - try to stay calm.

John, Mark and Emma introduce themselves
They never usually speak underground,
averting your gaze, tube train etiquette.
Disaster has its opportunities;
Try the new mobile, take a photograph;
Ring your Mum and Dad, ****** battery’s flat;
My network’s down; my phone light’s still working
Useful to see the way, step carefully.

   Fiona asks, ‘Am I dreaming all this?’
A shrieking man answers her, “I’m dying!”
Hammered glass finally breaks, fresher air;
too late for the man in the front carriage.
London Transport staff in yellow jackets
start an orderly evacuation
The mobile phones held up to light the way.
Only nineteen minutes in a lifetime.
  
EDGEWARE ROAD STATION
9.17 a.m. Circle Line

               Mohammed Sadique Khan, the oldest one.
Perhaps the leader, at least a mentor.
Yorkshire man born, married with a daughter
Gently spoken man, endlessly patient,
worked in the Hamara, Lodge Lane, Leeds,
Council-funded, multi-faith youth Centre;
and the local Primary school, in Beeston.
No-one could believe this of  Mr Khan;
well educated, caring and very kind
Where did he hide his secret other life  ?

Wise enough to wait for the second train.
Two for the price of one, a real bargain.
Westbound second carriage is blown away,
a commuter blasted from the platform,
hurled under the wheels of the east bound train.
Moon Crater holes, the walls pitted and pocked;
a sparse dark-side landscape with black, black air.
The ripped and shredded metal bursts free
like a surprising party popper;
Steel curlicues corkscrew through wood and glass.
Mass is made atomic in the closed space.
Roasting meat and Auschwitzed cremation stench
saturates the already murky air.              
Our human kindling feeds the greedy fire;
Heads alight like medieval torches;
Fiery liquid skin drops from the faceless;
Punk afro hair is cauterised and singed.  
Heat intensity, like a wayward iron,
scorches clothes, fuses fibres together.
Seven people escape this inferno;
many die in later days, badly burned,
and everyone there will live a scarred life.

               TAVISTOCK ROAD
9.47 a.m. Number 30 Bus  

Hasib Hussain migrant son, English born
barely an adult, loved by his mother;
reported him missing later that night.
Police typed his description in the file
and matched his clothes to fragments from the scene.
A hapless victim or vicious bomber ?
Child of the ‘Ummah’ waging deadly war.
Seventy two black eyed virgins waiting
in jihadist paradise just for you.

Red double-decker bus, number thirty,
going from Hackney Wick to Marble Arch;
stuck in traffic, diversions everywhere.
Driver pulls up next to a tree lined square;
the Parking Inspector, Ade Soji,
tells the driver he’s in Tavistock Road,
British Museum nearby and the Square.
A place of peace and quiet reflection;
the sad history of war is remembered;
symbols to make us never forget death;
Cherry Tree from Hiroshima, Japan;
Holocaust Memorial for Jewish dead;
sturdy statue of  Mahatma Gandhi.
Peaceful resistance that drove the Lion out.
Freedom for India but death for him.

Sudden sonic boom, bus roof tears apart,
seats erupt with volcanic force upward,
hot larva of blood and tissue rains down.
Bloodied road becomes a charnel-house scene;
disembodied limbs among the wreckage,
headless corpses; sinews, muscles and bone.
Buildings spattered and smeared with human paint
Impressionist daubs, blood red like the bus.

Jasmine Gardiner, running late for work;
all trains were cancelled from Euston Station;  
she headed for the square, to catch the bus.
It drove straight past her standing at the stop;
before she could curse aloud - Kaboom !
Instinctively she ran, ran for her life.
Umbrella shield from the shower of gore.

On the lower deck, two Aussies squeezed in;
Catherine Klestov was standing in the aisle,
floored by the bomb, suffered cuts and bruises
She limped to Islington two days later.
Louise Barry was reading the paper,
she was ‘****-scared’ by the explosion;
she crawled out of the remnants of the bus,
broken and burned, she lay flat on the road,
the world of sound had gone, ear drums had burst;
she lay there drowsy, quiet, looking up
and amazingly the sky was still there.

Sam Ly, Vietnamese Australian,
One of the boat people once welcomed here.
A refugee, held in his mother’s arms,
she died of cancer, before he was three.
Hi Ly struggled to raise his son alone;
a tough life, inner city high rise flats.
Education the smart migrant’s revenge,
Monash Uni and an IT degree.
Lucky Sam, perfect job of a lifetime;
in London, with his one love, Mandy Ha,
Life going great until that fateful day;
on the seventh day of the seventh month,
Festival of the skilful Weaving girl.

Three other Aussies on that ****** bus;
no serious physical injuries,
Sam’s luck ran out, in choosing where to sit.
His neck was broken, could not breath alone;
his head smashed and crushed, fractured bones and burns
Wrapped in a cocoon of coma safe
This broken figure lying on white sheets
in an English Intensive Care Unit
did not seem like Hi Ly’s beloved son;
but he sat by Sam’s bed in disbelief,
seven days and seven nights of struggle,
until the final hour, when it was done.

In the pit of our stomach we all knew,
but we kept on deep breathing and hoping
this nauseous reality would pass.
The weary inevitability
of horrific disasters such as these.
Strangely familiar like an old newsreel
Black and white, it happened long ago.
But its happening now right before our eyes
satellite pictures beam and bounce the globe.
Twelve thousand miles we watch the story
Plot unfolds rapidly, chapters emerge
We know the places names of this narrative.
  
It is all subterranean, hidden
from the curious, voyeuristic gaze,
Until the icon bus, we are hopeful
This public spectacle is above ground
We can see the force that mangled the bus,
fury that tore people apart limb by limb
Now we can imagine a bomb below,
far below, people trapped, fiery hell;
fighting to breathe each breath in tunnelled tombs.

Herded from the blast they are strangely calm,
obedient, shuffling this way and that.
Blood-streaked, sooty and dishevelled they come.
Out from the choking darkness far below
Dazzled by the brightness of the morning
of a day they feared might be their last.
They have breathed deeply of Kurtz’s horror.
Sights and sounds unimaginable before
will haunt their waking hours for many years;
a lifetime of nightmares in the making.
They trudge like weary soldiers from the Somme
already see the world with older eyes.

On the surface, they find a world where life
simply goes on as before, unmindful.
Cyclist couriers still defy road laws,
sprint racing again in Le Tour de France;
beer-gutted, real men are loading lorries;
lunch time sandwiches are made as usual,
sold and eaten at desks and in the street.
Roadside cafes sell lots of hot sweet tea.
The Umbrella stand soon does brisk business.
Sign writers' hands, still steady, paint the sign.
The summer blooms are watered in the park.
A ***** stretches on the bench and wakes up,
he folds and stows his newspaper blankets;
mouth dry,  he sips water at the fountain.
A lady scoops up her black poodle’s ****.
A young couple argues over nothing.
Betting shops are full of people losing
money and dreaming of a trifecta.
Martin’s still smoking despite the patches.
There’s a rush on Brandy in nearby pubs
Retired gardener dead heads his flowers
and picks a lettuce for the evening meal

Fifty six minutes from start to finish.
Perfectly orchestrated performance.
Rush hour co-ordination excellent.
Maximum devastation was ensured.
Cruel, merciless killing so coldly done.
Fine detail in the maiming and damage.

A REVIEW

Well activated practical response.
Rehearsals really paid off on the day.
Brilliant touch with bus transport for victims;
Space blankets well deployed for shock effect;
Dramatic improv by Paramedics;
Nurses, medicos and casualty staff
showed great technical E.R. Skills - Bravo !
Plenty of pizzazz and dash as always
from the nifty, London Ambo drivers;
Old fashioned know-how from the Fire fighters
in hosing down the fireworks underground.
Dangerous rescues were undertaken,
accomplished with buckets of common sense.
And what can one say about those Bobbies,
jolly good show, the lips unquivering
and universally stiff, no mean feat
in this Premiere season tear-jerker.
Nail-bitingly brittle, but a smash-hit
Poignant misery and stoic suffering,
fortitude, forbearance and lots of grit
Altogether was quite tickety boo.



NOTES ON THE POEM

Liverpool Street Station

A Circle Line train from Moorgate with six carriages and a capacity of 1272 passengers [ 192 seated; 1080 standing]. 7 dead on the first day.

Southbound, destination Aldgate. Explosion occurs midway between Liverpool Street and Aldgate.

Shehezad Tanweer was reported to have ‘never been political’ by a friend who played cricket with him 10 days before the bombing

Teve Talevski is a real person and I have elaborated a little on reports in the press. He runs a coffee shop in North London.

At the time of writing the fate of the blue dress lady is not known

Kings Cross Station

A Piccadilly Line train with six carriages and a capacity of 1238 passengers [272 seated; 966 standing]. 21 dead on first day.

Southbound, destination Russell Square. Explosion occurs mi
This poem is part of a longer poem called Seasons of Terror. This poem was performed at the University of Adelaide, Bonython Hall as a community event. The poem was read by local poets, broadcasters, personalities and politicians from the South Australia Parliament and a Federal MP & Senator. The State Premier was represented by the Hon. Michael Atkinson, who spoke about the role of the Emergency services in our society. The Chiefs of Police, Fire and Ambulence; all religious and community organisations' senior reprasentatives; the First Secretary of the British High Commission and the general public were present. It was recorded by Radio Adelaide and broadcast live as well as coverage from Channel 7 TV News. The Queen,Tony Blair, Australian Governor General and many other public dignitaries sent messages of support for the work being read. A string quartet and a solo flautist also played at this event.
Connor Jul 2016
And it's difficult to remember something as the very name of Eisenhower
Or flowerbaskets
And tired movies made of silicone and
Aftersex
Or sixteen candles echoing out of an imaginary suite with cigarettes at every table
And green lawns
Barbershop conversation
The reflection of the sun in special trees
Or my best friend Jesus Christ
Or the smell of the theater that one day with the cynics who just got back from a tennis match and barbwire still laced delicately around their thoughts and
Nihilism
And automotives
And priestess Jane or Henry's gloomy doppelganger who reads alternative magazines and loves the aesthetics behind broken glass
And fine tuned musical instruments

It's difficult to remember
Lonesome Fridays smoking on a park bench trying to finish the puzzle
Or synagogues you've never been in
Or insurance
Or newspaper articles detailing the misadventures of Mr. City
(Of course of course! Take your shoes off at the door and make yourself at home)
We're tossing all our sewage into the ocean
that's far from clean as it
LOOKS anymore these days
That's anything
And everything except for the glowing mountains seen faded and wintry behind Apartments and the
"Glorious Mexican House of Spices"
Never been in there either

It's difficult to remember
Times of Mr Twin Sister
Or Joan Jett in the hallway
In a highschool who's psychology classrooms have become a time capsule in the ground/
Or the gentle skinny ******
Wearing Broadway makeup and
Kafka tattooed on his shoulder
I like his hat
He looks at me suspiciously
Or the guy who is yelling his order at the counter when it's quiet here anyways
Or the mariner who has a hobby of the saxophone
Or 1970s *******
Or the sheepskin bikeseat fad that's yet to come but I'm predicting it now!
Or two dollars and twentyseven cents at the beginning of Allen Ginsberg's America
"I've given you all and now I'm nothing"

It's difficult to remember
The Oriental
Sacramento flies
Midnight Moon
Quarter to four
"The Immortalization Commission"
Remodelled hotels downtown
Where mandalas on the floor became a
Tiger lily luminous
And the kimono is yesterday's painting/
Dearest Darling
When I was feeling down!
A staircase in reverse (??)
The sound a kiss makes
It's difficult to remember
Colleen's earrings
Or Washington State
Or air conditioners in Bali
The Indian ocean's daybreak hymn
To Seminyak
Or whatever happened to Steve from the Airplane out of Taiwan
On 3 days awake
Hello Kitty nursing stations
****** (Kubrick's version)
Cardboard taking up half my bedroom
It's difficult to remember until I jot it down and then its a sudden forever
Sunshine Superman in a cafe spontaneous
drawings with someone I just met who has some ******* attitude/
Who hops fences and has feral ideas
People! En Masse! Te Amo!
You're all in wolven liberty
And vague postulators
And holy prostitutes for the dollar
Sad eyed intellectuals
With undergarments made of breakfast cereal/
Seaferry poetry is different from
Trestle in August poetry
Or henna handshakes
Or the Napoleonic era
Sweet Cherry Pie
The tulip's tongue
Garabajal
Cloudy first day of July
Was hotter yesterday
But not too hot

It's difficult to remember
Antiquity
The pale horse Studebaker outside the clinic
With a glossy red trim and **** I wish that was my ride
Andy Warhol's exploding plastic inevitable
Nearsightedness
Angels and their ability to shower with a a snap of their fingers
Distant harp music
Better him than me
Bananas almost ripe
Green aquatic
Reclusive junkies
Palomo's appliances
Questions for the next time
How much I like what you like and how I like that you like what I like
Ahh that's not my bus
I'm trying to get to the city!
That one quote Socrates is known for about knowing nothing as true wisdom
Supermarkets being built on top of liquor stores burned down a while back
Monopolies
Tragedies
"No Love Lost"
THE HOUSE ON HAUNTED HILL
Your guess is as good as mine
Never tried to eat Asian food in Asia
It was all pasta and good cider that tasted like pineapple
Rain hitting the window and I'm
Drowsy again
God Save The Trees!
Curly hair looks good on boys
Torn up blinds
Queer as a three dollar bill
If Bill costs 3 dollars I'm sure he's caught something better safe than sorry
Sage advice
I'm the very model of a modern major general
Golden yen and international currency
Incense in the bedroom and how good it smells
There's my bus! Applying for a better job than the one I got now
But that's how it always is right?
Chasing satisfaction
1007 apt
Porch ornaments
Unique names
Unique style le style
The extra charge on foreign ATMs
Cordoroy polo shirts
Flooding in New York!
When someone's face screams *******
"Slippery when wet"
Dine N Dash
Grass gone yellow
Confidence in dyed hair and capes as long as wedding gowns
But less expensive
Doors that always seem to be locked and I'm wondering 20 year later what's behind them?
Albino animals
White thoughts as clouds or
Abstractions
Weathers nicer in Florida but who cares
Festivities this early in the day
Automatopeia
Do sad orphanages still exist?
Just like the movies
Midnight in mirrors
That sick puppet at the shoe shop used
To know how to really hammer it down
And now he's weak and forgotten
Never heard the words of a true prophet only Oceania
Or the private temple near Apollo Bay
Like Japanese gardens behind that gate
Will I ever see it
Make a proud example outta ya misbehavior
Form without function
Exhausted spiritualism
*** Kettle Black
negative photographs of dark rooms
And there's laughing coming from SOMEWHERE
Essays on kleptomania
Had a bad dream I became a cliche
Surrounded by other freaks and there was a lovely ***** I fell in love with her
We married in Oregon by the sea her name was rosy
***** rosy
Check your mailbox for nails
And what you don't wanna hear/
If you were a vegetable you'd be organic!
Empire
Satirical bubble gum
Satori
Linda Lovelace and her special party trick
That's someone's fantasy
Diamond in the rough
Mister guy with two black eyes frequents the adult playhouse
Hes fully stocked on fishnet leggings
He's too proud to put them on himself but
Has nobody else around
Boo hoo
Swigs back the whiskey and trips down the stairs getting a third black eye in the process
Marion came by with her dog the other day
Wanted her box of clothes back but he loved to sniff them to remember her
But she wouldn't have it

"Honey I'm going to call the police!"

"Ah they don't give a **** they have bigger things to worry about"

"Yeah you got that right shrimp **** enjoy my unwashed *******"

And she never came back again
He started losing the vertebrae in his spine 1 by 1 and you know where this is going
I won't say he was a poor man because he had it all coming to him the *******
But he coulda had a better start if you ask me.

It's difficult to remember
And even more difficult to forget
After the fact

Seagull opera
Giganticism
Portrait of the artist as a young man
Losing one's pencil when the best idea of your life drops down from heaven and into your sorry head
Signs graffitied to have funnier meanings
Cruelty
Impassive
The Loyal Lioness
And Bangladesh has too many kitchens
And not enough dishes
When I was young I used to say Island as "is-land"  
Which is true it is land
But the Europeans probably stole it from somebody else anyways/
I left my future behind
And objects in the mirror are closer than they appear
Im no illusionist
I'm terrified of the cracken
Father feels the same way about
Hotels
Why bother/
This has been going on and on for a while are you tired yet
Is your patience being tested
Mine isn't because this wasn't an all-at-once kind of rambling
It's extremely important to laugh at least
Once a day
Otherwise you'll find yourself a politician
In no time at all
Rockefeller
(         ) Quaint home to die in
I think
Trains create great music
Float on
Sink into yourself
Roses in a crooked alley
That's people
Busy busy busy busy
Let's describe a situationist
I'm not a fan of bright colors on clothes
Your best shade is blue
Bricklayers transcription of Don Quixote to a skyscraper
Rocket thyme
& Garden
Erratic children's
Insomnia
The doorbell repeatedly
Vancouver riots/ I saw that live on the news!
Pictionary with the surrealists
N Dada TV set MC Escher
Antenna
You're in the Twilight Zone now
Dear Ramona
I'm trying to make it up to you
With a brightness only seen when you're ready to see it so please for the love of God don't blame me when it's not appearing
The tapestry hidden
Keep your blankets clean
And avoid hospitals unless you're fine with fishbowls & the halogen
The water gestapo
Storage lockers full of unacted plays and
Antique microwaves
Emitting the nostalgia of the cold war era
And what a waste of time that was /
Walter Wanderleys presence in Autumn universities
The opening of Vivre sa Vie
Salvador Dali's pluvial taxi
Lightbulb epiphanies
Aquariums and their protestors
Zebras in the shade
Two wrongs dont make a right
Elizabethan theater
Saloon shootouts in a fever dream
I lost and bled out all over the rustic wooden floor
A maiden reached out for me and El Paso did play I woke up and pretended nothing happened/
Funerals for bad People who did bad things
My first memory of a cat beneath the mattress
Hello Dolly!
Auditory learning
Psychotherapy
Lillian the landlady lost her ladle and labeled little Lyle as a lair
The Black panther movement
Reading symposium some years ago and
Making note that Phaedo was still my favorite dialogue/
Zen Buddhism
Xoxo xoxo
The day Gypsies were replaced with
Surface ****** appetite
And not the real thing
Newspaper clippings
Hypnotism when all other options are out
Mystical visions of sidewalks
And the love of your life stepping through a door you've never seen
Maybe Yes No I Don't Know
Creature comforts
Che Guevara's problem is that his beard made him too easy to recognize
(Also that little hat!)
Chinese cough medicine didn't work
For long I still wheeze sometimes
Domestic violence thru the wall
Ceiling fan probably doesn't even work!
Dimpled laughter
Yankee Hotel Foxtrot
In skytrains to Commercial
Bermuda in her mind
And courtesy in her voice
I'm no Arthur Rimbaud
But you already knew that
Alcazar of Seville
Filling up the shipbottle
Here's your paradise
Now relinquish it as it is
False!
Hare Krishna
Nowhere Fast
El Diablo and the
Portofino loaf left rotting on the countertop
Latin children speak of the sacred viper
You'll hear of it after this but we'll never see what the ******* meant
Heads alternating round the social current
Of my lively city
There's a dog soaking up the rain
And songs are made in honor of
Recent catastrophes
Trials are dealt
Cards cast to the gutter
New York quiets down for the news of another war
You scratch my back I'll scratch yours
Skeleton key
Ballad of the last wailing zoo
THE ATRIUM
Complexity in simplicity
That's how Brainard got me!
Elderly overcoats
Hiding purest LSD
Is a fan of Hawaiian T shirts
And a communist
What if I was a Freemason
Or owned a tanning salon
Faint crimson
What did Marv look like again?
"You're surrounded by people who love you"
Coffee when one needs it
GOODBYE BLUE MONDAY
Tattoos on the wandering man
Oriental chimes and the people who own them
Bus stop regulars
Vines overtaking power lines
The hypnogogic state
Strawberry light softening
The mind
Sister Ray LOUDLY PROCLAIMING
doitdoitdoitdoit
Passing the graffiti n Pluto neon
Halal wide awake another Saturday
Where's the Karaoke
Flashing by here
Those who find comfort in a bridal scavenger hunt
Or expensive beer
And here comes the hooded clown
Clamoring about his favorite
Loudspeaker
Telling me my time is soon and the noise
Drowns out the drowsy bliss
After hour spirits the perfect time for
Writing and trying to read distant Chinese
Indecision on the tip of the tongue
"NOW WHO IS THAT KNOCKING
ON THE CHAMBER DOOR?
COULD IT BE THE POLICE?"

I'm completely off the topic
And into Apartment lobby photosets
Low battery phone calls
Confessions
Nauseated reverb
Trying to see the attachment people got with bingo halls
And moving companies
Ah no luck again
Eve is at it with her showtunes
Halfway methodology
Triage
Paisley headbands left
Distraught on the quivering
Heater
Dwindling sunsets
We're truly disciples of the moon spirit which grants us more energy
(This is according to a drunk I met one night)
Or ***** old men
When the horizon is engulfed with
A winking cinder
Suitcase at the door
Last time
First time
Magician never reveals his fetishes
(They all have to do with bags under your eyes)
Employment office dramas of my friend the one who blinded a social worker
And the one who blamed Islam
And the one whos philosophy entirely consisted of Spooky Action at a
                                            DISTANCE
Parisian riots
Queer youth
Didn't make the team! Jester
'cross the hall who's beard suggests
Ishmeal n car battery n expired vegetables n rain which crosses the line n
***** cranberry n
Poorly fitted suits n
Harsh pigment n incense shops n
Bocca     secret towns
With churches more beautiful than any you'd find in your own city
n the cultural market
Xylophone ear to ear
Soul cleansing starting at only
$89 (with a 6 month guarantee)
Sophie's birthday and her picnic at Victory Park
The nearby bums trying to sell tea mugs and
Loose wires beside gated convenience stores
I'm an Island away attempting a poem
And never bought a scratch n win
Or heard the same song more than seven times in a row or been in a column
Or escaped the washhouse
Invested in a birdcage for next year
Been to a palm reading
Visited Oasis
Smoked salmon
Told anyone else about Montana
Screamed the things I'd like to scream
** Word of the day
Or kissed a lunatic or swallowed the corpse of yesterday
I keep her on my neck until
I'm too anxious to let go
Counting streetlights
Jeans worn in and faded to be sent off to
A lonely caffeine addict
Christmas Eve I'll be reading a postcard from San Francisco
Asking the same questions
My imagination is made of a different material than last week
Now it's the same color as your hair
HEY that's a good pickup line to use in the heart of the Canadian Embassy
Drinking discarded music resembling a sweater you may have said YES to if it wasn't so unsure of itself
And now Mr. Acker Bilk ascends thru the window of an August home
Like a lazy hornet
I'm still lost without identification
Or a nice belt
As happens when one uses a quality item too casually
How did uphill suddenly seem so downhill?
I'll claim a waterfall
For SALE that inevitable Indonesia
Greyhound O another greyhound O another greyhound
I'm fretting too much about not enough
Delayed the Airport and the yellow question

????

II

What if I knew how to read the curb?
Or translate drunken droll
What if I was never tired again and could
REALLY do anything I set my mind to?
What if I was the first cigarette that cured cancer instead of caused it?
What if I could end superstition
And walk underneath any ladder I wanted?
What if I could make it with a young Audrey Hepburn!?
What if I stopped pretending to be a microphone and got on with "it"
What if the grocery store closed later
And I opened earlier?
What if parking lots werent so sad
All the time?
What if gravity simply had enough of exotic birds and specifics?
What if we stopped trying to recreate what is truly lost?
What if foreign children embraced
Wasting time instead of
Midnight starry bicycles
And the antics of a monk
Disguised as a romantic?

There are those that worship God
And those who worship the Sun
And those who worship nothing at all
But I suppose on the last bus
We're all the same exhausted
Voice who can't wait for next pay day
What is an empty bank?
Or authenticity
What is there to prove anymore?
I hope I don't die tonight and regret
Being impulsive for once
You're a smart shadow
And a dull character
Pushing the last of the daisies
Get the lamp to turn on again
Give the pavement something to look forward to with your walk
Be consistent in being inconsistent
If there's a word there's a ***** and a poem for it!
We all oughta worship
Nothing at all except
Clarity
Compassion with ones neighbor who either forgot the pay the electricity bill or couldn't afford to
We're a swimmin
Written between late June to July 13th.
The tractor stands frozen - an agony
To think of. All night
Snow packed its open entrails. Now a head-pincering gale,
A spill of molten ice, smoking snow,
Pours into its steel.
At white heat of numbness it stands
In the aimed hosing of ground-level fieriness.

It defied flesh and won't start.
Hands are like wounds already
Inside armour gloves, and feet are unbelievable
As if the toe-nails were all just torn off.
I stare at it in hatred. Beyond it
The copse hisses - capitulates miserably
In the fleeing, failing light. Starlings,
A dirtier sleetier snow, blow smokily, unendingly, over
Towards plantations Eastward.
All the time the tractor is sinking
Through the degrees, deepening
Into its hell of ice.

The starting lever
Cracks its action, like a snapping knuckle.
The battery is alive - but like a lamb
Trying to nudge its solid-frozen mother -
While the seat claims my buttock-bones, bites
With the space-cold of earth, which it has joined
In one solid lump.

I squirt commercial sure-fire
Down the black throat - it just coughs.
It ridicules me - a trap of iron stupidity
I've stepped into. I drive the battery
As if I were hammering and hammering
The frozen arrangement to pieces with a hammer
And it jabbers laughing pain-crying mockingly
Into happy life.

And stands
Shuddering itself full of heat, seeming to enlarge slowly
Like a demon demonstrating
A more-than-usually-complete materialization -
Suddenly it jerks from its solidarity
With the concrete, and lurches towards a stanchion
Bursting with superhuman well-being and abandon
Shouting Where Where?

Worse iron is waiting. Power-lift kneels
Levers awake imprisoned deadweight,
Shackle-pins bedded in cast-iron cow-****.
The blind and vibrating condemned obedience
Of iron to the cruelty of iron,
Wheels screeched out of their night-locks -

Fingers
Among the tormented
Tonnage and burning of iron

Eyes
Weeping in the wind of chloroform

And the tractor, streaming with sweat,
Raging and trembling and rejoicing.
Robdejong Nov 2013
cheap beats by dre uk It would be nice to have the Ipod to hand or to be able to control it remotely and the simplest is an Ipod dock with remote control functionality. This is a step up on the simple Ipod lineout dock though the audio functionality is the same as a lineout dock. Time for a course alteration. Your mastication should be as elegant as an evening gown and as silent as the grave. In search of a dr dre beats headphone that truly reveals what's in the mix Dre joined forces with the audio experts at Monster. Together they've built a beats headphone for the ultimate high definition listening experience.

I now see why the brown color was especially panned. Ugly and big looking. [Philips has two portable DVD players due out imminently that have integrated iPod docks. This is a big deal since the company excels at consumer electronics; the DCP750 and DCP850 aren't in the Philip's PET line and have smaller screens but they're worth keeping an eye on. Sony PS3 Bluetooth: This headset comes with a dual microphone personalized screen a USB connection can team it with PS3 and it's adaptable with most of the blue tooth enabled gadgets and PS3. It has been voted as the best PS3 bluetooth headset and a lot of gamers consider it as the best PS3 wireless headset.

Don't Miss:Journalist David Frost diesCup trophy's wild historyBauer: Michael Mina reviewRediscovering meadMarin's King MountainThe good: A topnotch player offering sleek design and a 10inch screen with excellent image quality. Also plays MPEG4 and DivX video files and MP3 and JPEG CDRs. Mike Stoehr is dialing in from our New York office.Before we begin I'd like to quickly remind everyone that except for historical information contained herein statements made on today's call and in today's webcast that would constitute forwardlooking statements may involve certain risks and uncertainties. All forwardlooking statements made are based on currently available information and the company assumes no responsibility to update any such forwardlooking statements.

(http://www.lovesongsonline.com/over-ear/beats-solo-hd.html,Find your favorite beats by dre products) Ethernet port mic two SD card reader beats by dre headphone ports. Using the rear jack we did a number of test clips at various recording quality choices ranging from 2channel 16 bit 44100 Hz up to 2channel 24 bit 96000 Hz. No matter what recording rate we chose the results were very clear and noiseless sound clips of singing and dictation every time.

The Ultimedia family offers uncompromising quality through an array of services and support unrivaled in the industry. In addition to toll free numbers for information on the products applications and technical issues IBM Multimedia specialists are located in nearly 50 sites across the country. You can spend a bit more and actually buy them from iTunes but you can also capture the DVD and convert it. I can store quite many of them on the device and play them on demand.

The fact that people like me can make a movie on consumergrade equipment and software is really revolutionaryblood running in the streets revolutionary as far as the art form is concerned. And then there are the video artists like Bill Viola and Pipilotti Rist who are doing something radically different but so exciting and inventive and pleasuregiving.. The back panel is fixed so you don't have to bother taking out the battery to put in your SIM. However http://www.lovesongsonline.com/beats-team-collection.html this also means that the battery is difficult to replace..

Simply plug in the beats headphones and run the cord up your arm under your shirt and you'll be running handsfree with your favorite tunes amping you up. Changing playlists adjusting the volume on the run and getting workout data feedback (via shoes enhanced with the Nike+ platform) is a breeze midstride. Hear every note every beat and every detail just as it was intended! The DT 990 features an openback circumaural (overtheear) design for rich audio performance that's designed for critical listening. The open design of the beats by dre headphones allows increased fidelity to the original recording and a more natural sound stage.
read more:
http://network-marketing.ning.com/profiles/blogs/low-price-pandora-coach-outlet-store-sells
http://v3.biodizionario.it/node/16487
http://www.ouedzmala.com/ads/ads/pandora-sale-is-a-delicate-earlobe-surrounde
http://www.uhu.es/ISWBlog/blog/?p=44

— The End —