"bleeps" poems
Pounding bass.
Sub-sonic strobes.
Synthetic smoke.
Alone on the dance-floor
I was glad to see another
clubbers curves move in rhythm;
Uninhibited by the foot tapping brigade
who watched with intensity.
You edged ever closer
Till our smiles became infectious.
An uncertain bond of understanding,
amid an endless rush of acidic bleeps.
Uncluttered.
Uncrowded.
Mystically shrouded in transient beats,
we strangers come together in unity
Your hips move to the pneumatic bass
as transient hardhouse and
tribal breakbeats embrace,
The foot tappers again resume,
Spontaneous rushes
and some sulphur that is sour to taste.
We may have unzipped and consumed
to electronic tunes,
but the tune remains the same -
Beautiful stranger dream a dream for me
because now all we have between us is
Rain.
Nov 2, 2012
Nov 2, 2012 at 10:09 AM UTC
Boots sanction the hearts of men.
The victims are wailing and smiling
Death keeps on knocking and waiting
Who will liberate us?
Denial of our voices made us cry
Downtrodden wept as their voices
Dwindle and cracks for liberation
Who are the kindhearted?
Nation begets unruly masters
As the country pretends to smile
Honest people are followers!
Why the contradiction?
Bemourning the scourges of men
Humanity strives to speak but ...
Money, power and fame supercedes
When are we going to rise?
Hatred is begging to put on a smile
Laughter covers herself with rags
The future bleeps and sorrows
Can we revolt against the status quo?© Uzo
Mar 1, 2023
Mar 1, 2023 at 6:13 AM UTC
Fibre optic cables,
clipped conversations,
partial strangers,
networked communications,
keyboard ambiance,
anxious remonstrations,
system failures,
nicotine meditations
smudging frames,
hierarchical mediation,
computerised bleeps,
opaque mechanisations,
brightening windows,
verbose inflections,
silks ties,
limited reverberations,
exaggerated flirtation,
bowel eliminations,
pointless days,
power imitations,
numeric values.
insurmountable situations,
digital bleeds
eventual discontinuation
Oct 17, 2018
Oct 17, 2018 at 11:16 AM UTC
a cyclical road map to nothingness
littered with fragments of do not enter signs
swimming through a sea of crumpled paper
my ink stained hands ***** walls of judgment
the ever rasping door scrapes open with hesitation
hello fear, I’ve been expecting you.
no time for formalities
fingers bent back
mouth taped shut
mind strapped down
and in the distance, the monitor bleeps its disapproval,
“sorry, we’re not interested in your work at this time"
Dec 1, 2014
Dec 1, 2014 at 6:04 PM UTC
Crash
Over me
This wave of emotions
Comes to crash
Over me
Comes to drown me in tears and screams
And the fear of insanity
*All around me the people, they scurry
All around me, they move around me
They might as well go right through me
I’m not here, don’t you know?
I don’t exist, don’t you know?*
Am I real? I’m not sure
It’s confusing to think about
Why I am and what I’ll be
Whowhatwhenwherewhyhow
It all spins around so I can’t sleep
When I do sleep, the conflicts chase me
I see in technicolor
A kiss from my love
And a love letter from a gay
Gay boys don’t write love letters to straight girls
A confusion, sparkling prom dress
Left in shreds behind my closet door
What’s happened? I don’t know why
My silver shoes are turned red
Why are my nails crusted with red?
Wake up, sleep again
Wake up again, now sleep
Alarm bleeps, but I’m not awake
**** it all, I’m not awake
Fix a smile to my face
Tell the world I’m okay
Then yearn for the end of a long day
Inhale the breath of my love
He distracts me from
The tidal wave looming over my head
The faces under the water titter
As I kiss him hard, he kisses harder,
Heart rates speed up in sync
And around us, the noises try to send me
Scurrying under a desk, into a corner
Quick, hide under your jacket!
And when I look into his eyes,
Those warm brown eyes,
I see his fear and it scares me
It’s good to know someone cares,
But I hate to cause him pain
The look in his eyes as
he gently pulls me out from under the desk:
Concern, fear, a swirl of stress and anxiety
I don’t want to be the cause of someone else’s anxiety
Yes, it’s nice to be loved
But it hurts to know that my emotions cause them pain
These emotions which I cannot control,
These impulses to eat and eat
To bang my fist, then my head, against the wall
Standing in the shower,
Burning hot water,
I look up into the spray
I see myself with lungs full of water
Gasp, pull away, squeeze my eyes shut
Open them again, there’s the silver cord
The link between the main showerhead and the detachable one
The loops glitters
See it hanging around my neck
God, oh, god, why do I see this?
I do not wish for death, I fear it
So why do these visions come to me?
There’s a name for this, all of this
This insanity which is mine
The first word is borderline.
(Borderline Personality Disorder)
Apr 15, 2016
Apr 15, 2016 at 7:29 AM UTC
Hideous static,
dreams orbiting,
a dark planet,
granular daydreams,
gasps of conversation,
footfall drowns out conscience,
layered chatter to infinity,
that which is not man
......bleeps.............
a regret rimmed thought,
............afternoon's perpetual zombies.........
plucking at a keyboard's harp strings,
evaluated,
numerical data streams
no contemplation will set you free,
from 8 hours dragging on,
Oct 17, 2018
Oct 17, 2018 at 11:52 AM UTC
break ups do **** a little
it's mostly the silence that gets to me
i like having someone to tell all the funny little things that i think of
during the day
my phone is very quiet without you
no musical little bleeps or blinking lights
but i can take the silence this time around.
and for that i like it
even relish it
the long gaps between my replies to you
if i reply at all
this time i am powerful
it is nice
but it is also frightening
Feb 15, 2016
Feb 15, 2016 at 8:37 PM UTC
*Etched within reason
I knew the truth
But decided to ignore it all the same
Don't try to sway my opinion
I'll nod my head
Smile
And move towards the back
Yep your opinion counts
But I'm not interested
It bores me
I'm fundamentally proud
whatever that means
But hey
I watched them plant a willow tunnel in the grounds today
And now I want one
I really, really want one
Smack bang in the middle of my garden
Yes I know I wont have much garden left
But hey I can hide away from the world
The eternal bleeps of life
A poetess and her den
fragmented in her belief that life really is worth living
No really
It really is worth it
But you have to believe in yourself first
Or you just wont get it.*
Mar 6, 2014
Mar 6, 2014 at 5:38 PM UTC
all the blurred lines
all the demonic chants
all the bleeps and stricken words out
all the venom in your bloodstream
all the **** in your mind
with all the ***** you give
it's nothing
with the pain
you left me
(before leaving)
and the
profanities
i shared with myself
Jan 3, 2014
Jan 3, 2014 at 4:10 PM UTC
Half Life
by Ryan P. Kinney
Welcome to the digital age.
Where man’s best friend is Internet ****
And a woman’s only friend is her ********
We’ve traded a heartbeat for an electronic pulse.
Blips and bleeps in an imagined humanity.
Forgetting that living means leaving the house.
And that sandals and boxer shorts are not formal wear.
We live in the information age
Full disclosure is no longer optional
We are sharing information.
We are contributing to the death of the self.
Or are we finally mastering intelligence?
There is an epidemic of inaction
Entropied Progress
The mobius sloth slides down into its own gluttony
And I just want to have *** with someone who is still alive
Have you seen the latest episode of Walking Dead or Breaking Bad?
Have you looked in the mirror?
Reality shows?
Who’s reality?
We are social creatures
And social control is how you keep the pigs in their pen
Until it’s time to offer us up as sacrifice at the altar of decadence
We willingly give them our intelligence
Our spirit
For another video game
Another TV show
That promises a better reality
See it all in HD
While we dubstep to our doom
Up Jacob’s Ladder
Built out of the 15 minute prophets
Sell me another artificially derived addiction
Masquerading as sustenance
Trading them like baseball cards
Tell me how much I need it
Need you
Preach it with the fear of the unorthodox on Fox News
While everyone’s getting high on your life
Televangelist CEOs
Sell us the next salvation
The anarchists are screaming,
“Legalize it.”
And the stoners aren’t helping
The half-life of modernization guarantees that if enough of our individuality decays
There ceases to be anything worth calling human
Dec 16, 2015
Dec 16, 2015 at 11:28 PM UTC
They stand with their hands in their pockets.
One man adjusts his mesh cap, an excuse.
Something tiny, precious, real bleeps furiously through cargo khakis.
He types expertly with one finger and smiles chapped lips to himself.
Leaning against the uneven coffee counter, he reaches for his latte
and walks out the door with his fashion twin and best work friend:
grown men who assimilate in substandard choices to fit-in
years past high school.
Jan 9, 2017
Jan 9, 2017 at 3:02 PM UTC
Loads of bubble wrap piled behind
and it crackles like how a stomach
gets twisted on itself after
eons of sleep
decoding it's diaphragm to follow
the blips and beeps and bleeps
encrusted on trusting
a tight gut reaction to
wanting to touch
you.
But waiting is so difficult.
Loads of suds creep up
forming in cysts or scabs
upon stomach encasings
all slimy and orange inside
with a stretchy cover all
deep royal purple with
dark pink veins coursing
through it encoding the
rapture of film recording while
the lining inside gets all clammy
with arousal secretly clenching
this yearning and aching just
wanting to touch
you.
But waiting is so difficult.
It's a difficult, messy procedure that leaves the body exposed if it comes in contact to actual skin and flush and heat and mucus but
it is a necessary step to
colloquial banter within
the clustering of organs all
internally arguing while the
overwhelmed brain tries to keep order and the genitalia hums
all quiet in the corner
because she knows she runs
the show.
And it's funny because the brain knows he'll have to give in to
the actual world of living folks
and climb out of his bundled
fabulous fantasies in order to
make reality plausible.
And in wanting you
and in waiting
I've found myself in visceral shock
to the point where I panic and
all that's jumbled up and bound inside me seems to clench tighter.
And I fear that in waiting for your mutual touch
and I fear that in wanting to be with you so much
I'll collapse under the weight
and never get up.
Loads of words hide beneath me
resting in tubes that resemble
the small intestines in looping
nests of unbridled questions.
Will it be enough to see you
and not touch you?
Will it be enough to talk
with you and not kiss you?
Will it be enough to be chaste
and respectful when all my brain needs to do is test you?
When all my brain wants to do
is clobber you whole, chew, then swallow, spitting out bones?
Jan 20, 2017
Jan 20, 2017 at 2:19 PM UTC
They say women are moody creatures
But I think men are still worse
The only difference between the two
Men don’t get the monthly curse
They’re moody when they get hungry
When they haven’t got their beauty sleep
In fact they don’t seem to need a reason
To turn into complete bleep bleeps.
Jul 23, 2010
Jul 23, 2010 at 6:31 AM UTC
In the place of bright dust
We ransack the sun
Back from her bed
We stretch high/baseball bat/wood
Crack in earthen shower
You are there behind the fence
Holding the baby
On easter sunday
We walk in wedding circles
Discuss the tropics, somewhere
On your back I write
Sixteen dances/crickets in tall grass/waves melting shore rocks
I pour you coffee as you squeeze the yolk in deviled eggs
And I fumble with the crepes
Halfmoon/full/french peninsula/the photograph of your riding a merry-go-round
Full, wordless smile
I search for the soothing leak that
Sleeps with frankincense
First, nameless day/nameless, silent bowl
You place the fruit in stained glass
Watch the skins reflect blurred jet-plane/kind sky
What’s left is my burning muscles
Aching for you in tiny flint
Your lips
Your thing that bleeps with breath
With the empty canteen
I leave it in the car
Reset
Cigarette kiss to your bird,
My best friend
Cuddled in croissant
You make rain a baker’s dozen
Awake
The body inhales
Apr 23, 2019
Apr 23, 2019 at 3:22 PM UTC
few and far
undetected from the radar
as it sweeps and bleeps
but out of sight is out of mind,
disconnected
out of place,
wires crossed
intent misplaced the elusive days
insanity takes,
eluding all for falsity's sake
to make some sense
in a senseless state.
Mar 26, 2012
Mar 26, 2012 at 7:10 PM UTC
Words on the wall.
Go with Paul.
So profound.
Like a crystal ball.
Okay, all coming back.
Should have read.
Julie, will you go with Paul.
But it didn’t.
Surely a message.
A deeper meaning.
Check the celestial phone.
A message awaits.
You ***** lying scummbag, drop dead.
Should I tell her there's only one M in scumbag.
Could this be another message.
I enlighten her.
The other M is for ************
But is it.
Is there an even deeper meaning.
The celestial phone bleeps.
I peruse the heavenly text.
Actually there should be an extra B with the extra M, *******
I see pain in her text.
I feel it myself.
There is a wanting.
Flowers and chocolates.
I feel comfort walking through the graveyard.
Knowing random people are helping me in the pursuit of love.
I throw a pebble up to her window.
Holding my mixed bunch of flowers.
Old Mrs Jones looks down, smiling.
If I was seventy, I’d do, I digress.
I bade her in, throwing the pebble up to my true love.
Who opened the window maybe a tad too early.
She screams my name.
Which was comforting in a strange way.
Old Mrs Jones looked out, recoiling in horror, knocking herself out in the process.
I realised I had forgotten the chocolates.
Darling, could you borrow me ten pounds.
Something in her one good eye told me no.
The paramedics told me to go.
The Police read me my rights.
Putting me up for the day, and the night.
Still, as the Councilman said as I was scrubbing the wall.
It’s not like you’re Banksy, is it Paul.
I felt a deeper meaning.
A thought had occurred
It would take a lot of paint.
But would be worth the pain.
I worked through the night.
Such a delight.
I threw a pebble up to her window.
Old Mrs Jones looked down at the naked mural of me, and dropped down dead.
Julie sort of squinted in dread.
But the gun in her hand.
Well, enough said.
The Police charged me with indecent exposure.
Though the court said that wasn’t quite true.
Still, the Councilman said.
I’m really impressed.
I mean, it's different.
Maybe you should have added a verse.
He stopped me scrubbing.
We bowed our heads.
As old Mrs Jones passed by in the hearse.
May 6, 2016
May 6, 2016 at 12:54 PM UTC
Hello?
Is anyone there?
We're in a lonely vessel
on seas of a size beyond the parameters
of what we can imagine.
We're a lost ship
riding tides,
tearing through blue mountains-
Always against the wind,
always in search of home shores
that we've lost track of on our maps.
Our charts tell us
which direction to head
but we never see the horizon change.
We can't remember anything but this,
This constant sail toward..
we don't know.
We have no goal,
no memory of home,
but something tells us this is a journey,
and aren't those supposed to have a destination?
We see bleeps on our radar,
The same size and shape as our metal shell,
but our trajectories never meet.
Your heart beat
beats out a morse code SOS
but no one hears the message.
Full-stop.
There's too much interference,
too many seagulls stop our signal,
squealing and wheeling
in those empty clouded skies.
Full-stop.
The waves are too high,
The spray too loud.
There's a storm coming, always.
The clouds advance.
Full-stop.
Too much
Too many
Too high
Too loud
A storm.
Full-stop.
Has anyone seen the shore?
Have you seen the birds land?
Where is this home?
This mother that is supposed to provide for us?
Full-stop.
The waves are bearing in
like walls of barren grey doom.
The sky shrinks
The ground shifts
You slide.
You send your final dot and dash cry out,
out to the greyness whipping you around.
Too much.
Too many.
Too high.
Too loud.
The sea,
too wide.
A storm.
Full-stop.
Jan 14, 2015
Jan 14, 2015 at 3:20 AM UTC
Blue skies.
White clouds.
Yellow sun.
Warm eyes.
Warm smile.
Warm heart.
Charged phone.
Loading app.
Message sent.
Shining eyes.
Happy smile.
Fluttering heart.
Long wait.
Shrugging shoulders.
No response.
Sad eyes.
Wane smile.
Fragile heart.
Phone bleeps.
Short reply.
Wrong response.
Teary eyes.
Missing smile.
Broken heart.
Blue skies.
Empty promise.
White clouds.
Hide feelings.
Yellow sun.
Go away.
Jun 21, 2015
Jun 21, 2015 at 8:14 PM UTC
by Ryan P. Kinney
Assembled from works by J.M. Romig and Ryan P. Kinney
Once you log into The Network, you can't log off.
Once you're plugged in, you can't opt out.
That's the way things are.
Your life becomes your Channel.
Your world becomes your Show.
Have you seen the latest episode of Walking Dead or Breaking Bad?
Have you looked in the mirror?
Reality shows?
Who’s reality?
We live in the information age
Full disclosure is no longer optional
We are sharing information.
We are contributing to the death of the self.
Or are we finally mastering intelligence?
We know how to play the system
how to get followers,
when to drop a hashtag,
when to upsell a sponsor,
We are social creatures
And social control is how you keep the pigs in their pen
Until it’s time to offer us up as sacrifice at the altar of decadence
The Rich are locked up
in their floating wi-fi enabled panic rooms,
High above all of the pollution.
Living vicariously through the shows
broadcast by The Network.
Sell me another artificially derived addiction
Masquerading as sustenance
Tell me how much I need it
Need you
Preach it with the fear of the unorthodox on Fox News
Meanwhile on the ground,
people are caricatures of themselves -
the byproduct of generations
of narcissism as survival mechanism.
Nostalgia, and criticism
as a means to pay the bills.
Unless you choose to never log in.
Choose to ignore the cameras
following everyone everywhere
You can always get a real job -
If you can find one.
Most people don't.
It's the new economy.
In exchange for our data, and privacy,
we get ad-revenue and a chance at stardom.
We willingly give them our intelligence
Our spirit
For another video game
Another TV show
That promises a better reality
See it all in HD
While we dubstep to our doom
Up Jacob’s Ladder
Built out of the 15 minute prophets
We’ve traded a heartbeat for an electronic pulse.
Blips and bleeps in an imagined humanity.
Forgetting that living means leaving the house.
When the feed is quiet -
we take the occasional moment
to breathe – cough -
and look up to where all the stars used to be.
Created at the Winter Writing Workshop (Dec. 27, 2015),
HEYMAN! Productions
Jan 2, 2016
Jan 2, 2016 at 9:21 PM UTC
I talked with a poet friend
On the phone today
Can't say I didn't find it all
More than a little strange
The conversation went quite naturally
No bleeps, burps, or dead air
Funny she should call me
Me being here, her being there
I understood her English accent
Her, me my Southern draw
We both got a good laugh in
Isn't that why she called after all
This is something I have dreamed of
By chance to one day meet
Some of the special friends
That I have made through poetry
So this day I will remember
In my diary, pencil it in
That poets have real voices
They don't all just talk with pens
Jun 18, 2015
Jun 18, 2015 at 5:14 PM UTC
Of what weight does love hold?
Cosmic gigantic love
Streatching from star to star,
from time to time,
Leaping all barriers,
In an insane hurtle race
Run by rabid contenders,
Frothing at the mouth,
Colidicopes in their eyes
Swirling,
As they clear fence after fence
Hardly catching themselves
As their sloppy foot falls land,
All ankles, knees, wobblingly
catching themselves
Their brains decifering
the confused code
Of signals beamed
from legs heart and stomach
All culminating in this
Borderline
Purposeful looking
Yet unintentional
Floppy mess
For in the sake of their love
, Of some thing that they hope
will make them immortal,
or at least super,
That temporary and basic seemingly
Irrefutable good that one feels in his pit
Expanding them and inflating them till they float
High enough above others
To squintingly look down, into the eyes of those unable to bouey bob above the rest.
Lights flicking on their foreheads so
Even if they don't talk people know
Where they are and how splendid
Their bobbing is.
And let's not kid ourselfs
Look at those two
Out in the dark and deep
The 2 hrtz signal allowing them each
To be sure the other exists
Flashes reveal the hidden expressions
Those times of clarity so sparce
When all you want to do is look at them
For a good long time
Take in the other completely
for in those nights
When all thoughts clump
Turning colours to brownish purple.
An you cannot see the other
to have them help as they so enjoy.
Two distant bleeps of light
Red but none the less visible
To all around
After all I guess they will be serving as warner's, out their on thier own.
What rocks and reefs the will they arbrais
What swells will the brave,
And what will we learn from
watching From shore,
Whishing them luck as the sun rests on the other side, as the white caps tumble, as the clouds roll on overhead.
Its a very wet scenario.
Jun 26, 2016
Jun 26, 2016 at 5:39 PM UTC
Raw thoughts, yeah?
Nah, not today, man
Too bad, I was expecting them
You'll get them, just shut up
It's just noise
They all want me and my noise
But it's all just noise
It scratches
It creaks
It beeps
It boops
It bleeps
It beams
It beckons
It goes on for oh so, so, so, so, so, so, so long
Why do you want it, you disgusting *****
shhhhh
khhhh
tshhhhh
krrrrr
bhhhhh
ssssss
trrrrr
But it doesn't make sense
None of it does
It's me
It just goes on and on and on and on and on and on and on
Why do you want it, tell me that
Who are you to ask my why I want it if I do
I'm tired of this can I just make peace with me
Yes you can
No you can't
Yes you can't
No you can
Yes you are
No we aren't
No I can't can
.......
.......
.......
-------
-------
-------
ooooooo
Who are you?
Nov 8, 2017
Nov 8, 2017 at 3:24 PM UTC
sitting here in the quiet
thinking about you,
and what we could be,
in some alternative universe where you care as much as i do.
my phone bleeps and it's your name on the screen,
i get excited and fumble with the passcode.
with hopeful eyes i read your messages but begin to frown.
you've worded every hope and dream in our alternative universe
the only difference is it's a reality for you and him.
i smile through the sting of my tears,
i trick myself every time
into thinking some day you'll talk about me like that.
Sep 3, 2017
Sep 3, 2017 at 4:35 PM UTC
Click,
Slick,
The whir of Jenny,
Tinny Jenny on ball bearing wheels.
A slick *****
Clicks his fingers,
Jenny glides to his side,
Pen and paper in hand.
Jenny purrs,
LEDs wink under false lashes,
Mechanoid pretence at femine,
Tips a wink and lifts a steel leg under tin foil skirt.
“Your order Sir”, she chirps,
As Slick **** ***** an eye at aluminium thigh.
“Chips, silicone chips”, he replies,
Jenny’s circuits fry,
Dumb waitress cry’s light oil from glass eye.
Slick *****
Rick,
Laughs as Jenny’s electronic whine murmurs incoherent bleeps,
Systems down,
Fuses blown,
Jenny’s memory erased.
Jul 29, 2019
Jul 29, 2019 at 3:57 PM UTC