"blockbuster" poems
As I go to sleep
Dreams come knocking
My subconscious mind
In a rendezvous with me
Am I asleep?
The REM phase kicks in
What do I want to view?
I do not have a choice
I am just a spectator
For another movie
Do I know the cast or crew?
Is it a blockbuster or horror movie?
The conclusion is inconclusive
I may not be a protagonist
Maybe a figment of my imagination
Or, a vivid description of my days events
It requires psychoanalysis
My subconscious mind is in control
Why can’t I have control?
It’s not within my control
I am asleep and my mind is awake
Freud wrote extensively about it-
In the ‘Interpretation of Dreams’
But still, outside our realm of understanding
The symbols and motifs can give clue
Ancient cultures have recorded on clay tablets
But we may not be ever sure
Or maybe the soul is guided somewhere
Or it could be our inner desires
Maybe it’s an unknown world
Where we go out to venture
Let there be beautiful dreams
And dreams that inspire
Sep 25, 2014
Sep 25, 2014 at 10:46 AM UTC
The story teller writes
For a naked character
On a bare stage.
The one character,
One line play.
Profound, all encompassing;
A brief run,
But a blockbuster
With opening nights
In all the capital cities.
The visualist
Could use one brush stroke,
One lump of unmolded clay,
An unchiseled stone,
Weathered driftwood
Or a piece of glass
To display in the great museums
For our interpretation
Of the exposed truth.
One note could orchestrate
On string, wind or skin,
And the composition would be complete.
The maestro could bow and walk;
No encore could repeat.
I want one line of verse
To embelish my yearnings;
To explain the cosmos,
The meaning and crux
Of this place,
Including us.
Mar 29, 2016
Mar 29, 2016 at 11:50 AM UTC
This poem is a Google Adwords ad,
Intruding into the sidebar of your heart.
It’s a 1-800-LAWYERS commercial
Making you money off your personal injury.
It’s a brutal, ****** UFC bout,
Weak in its ground game but knows its Jiu-Jitsu
And it’s got you on the mat, begging you to tap out.
This poem is *****
a SNAFU waiting to happen.
It’s the sarin gas Syria used against its own
And it’s the attack America will be responding with,
Using ****** to punish murderers.
This poem is a bucket of Kentucky Fried Chicken
Getting your finger-lickin’-good fingers nice and greasy.
This poem is yet another poet writing yet another poem about poems,
With the word poem repeated ad nauseum.
This poem is a bunch of awful band names,
Like Clap Your Hands Say Yeah, Tapes ‘n Tapes, and Chunk! No, Captain Chunk!.
It’s a summer blockbuster and a teen dystopian trilogy.
It’s riding *****
In your ex’s car.
This poem is anthropogenic global warming
Whose CO2 emissions are dangerously high and climbing
While its polar bears are stranded on the broken ice floes of its verses.
It’s a baseball crowd speaking the words “no hitter”
In the midst of a no-no
Which itself is a no-no.
Its bad grammar, who’s comma’s are all, out of place
And its’ apostrophe’s, are meaningless.
This poem is Zooey Deschanel,
Who will not marry me some day, any day, in the future.
In fact, it doesn’t even know I exist.
Feb 27, 2015
Feb 27, 2015 at 3:35 PM UTC
Blocking
Others
Way
May
Not
Step
You
In
Blockbuster
Unblock
Your
Thought
Which
Leads
You
Towards
Blockbuster
- Amisha priya
Sep 17, 2025
Sep 17, 2025 at 12:49 PM UTC
I
Am
An american
I take too much.
I take everything for granted.
I have more than enough food to feed a family of ten,
Why not waste a meal or two,
who am I really hurting?
I don’t see the scars I’ve dug down deep in the skin of others.
I don’t know the pain I’ve caused.
The wounds are oozing over but,
I don’t have to worry because
Momma says “shh, baby, it’s okay”
If only she knew that I’ve sent a 6 year old boy in a grown mens battlefield,
land mines and bullets surround him,
I’m corned by MTV re-runs and empty Pepsi cans.
I’ve never had to deal with the pain of watching my mother be beaten in front of my eyes
Just to instill my loyalty
I’ve never watch everything I love burn down to the ground,
I’m too busy chatting up the latest blockbuster movie.
The money won’t pay for the 9 kids walking the streets,
It’s not much of a game when theres actual lives on the line.
They’ve been bashed and bruised,
Claiming their okay,
Even they know Mona Lisa has a fake smile.
I wish I could show the demons I’ve sent out in the world
They’ve been torturing the souls of the weak and hopeless
I’m hopeful I’ll catch the next Jersey shore episode.
How can you expect me to understand my devastation
when I’m told it isn’t even my fault.
I’ll never be able to tell you all of the wrongs that I’ve done, because I don’t even know what they are.
They’ve been melted and creamed in a blender
Take a sip from the cup of destruction
Genghis Kong
would be proud.
I guess I’ve taken too many steps in the wrong direction,
make an exception
because the expectation, is that
I can’t be the one to blame.
My pride is set before the fall of ours,
I’ll never get to see where they land.
Maybe they can find their way to a place where they can hurt people freely.
They’ll take too much.
Take everything for granted.
They’ll waste a meal or two
But,
Who aren’t they really hurting?
Oct 29, 2012
Oct 29, 2012 at 7:44 PM UTC
Morning rituals make you rush
But someone gets up earlier than you
You never get the chance to be first
Ah, there's a wet towel on the sofa...again!
The tiny water puddles on the floor leading to the bedroom...
The kettle is whistling now
You bump onto each other in your haste
And you both stop.....to look at each other
Eyes brighten up....slowly give out beamish smiles.
There's toast and jam on the table
Steaming instant coffee is ready, but first,
You make a cup of fresh brew, hand it to him
His eyes squint, while he sips his hot tea,
You sit, eat, without much talk...just looking,
Like, looking at each other, and what would follow,
Would suffice to complete the hours of the day...
But, you're both dressed up... all set for work...so
You start your day....he starts his...you always leave ahead...
In the office, you remembered:
"What's the matter with me?"
You forgot to charge your cellphone and ipad last night
So you look for the charger
Only to find out, both are fully charged...
Your eyes sparkle...with much longing
Ahh, you wish for time to fly
So you could head for home, fast!
He's usually very hungry when he arrives
You hurry...chicken afritada, it will be...
Wait...the frozen chicken has been thawed...gone!
Hey!
You see a *** of chicken adobo...you salivate!
You surmise, he must've done this after you left this morning,
You look up...thank God for this angel He has given you,
And for microwave ovens, too!...you tell yourself,
"Okay, okay....I'll do the dishes tonight! ...and the coming nights!"
Life is perfect with its mix of the sweet and the bitter
Blockbuster moments and flops...together...apart
Uncontrollable smiles, frowns... tickles, tears
Even the coming....and passing of life
Days don't always end up on a high note...yet, now,
You sit, and recall all that had happened this morning
And the past mornings, evenings, weekends...
All that he did....does for you each day
All that you did...do for him everyday
All the chats you share before bedtime...until he snores,
All these combined efforts are much better ways, better proofs...
He rarely says those three words most often said by lovers,
But, you soar to Heaven, when before falling asleep,
He puts your head on his chest, and whispers to you:
"You mean the world to me."
Sally
Copyright March 2015
Rosalia Rosario A. Bayan
Aug 25, 2015
Aug 25, 2015 at 2:28 AM UTC
How uncanny!
Your stoic:
so suave,
so dapper.
How uncanny!
Your voice:
so sweet,
such a trapper.
How uncanny!
Your hair:
so fragrant,
such a teaser.
How uncanny!
Your eyes:
so magnified,
such an abrupter.
How uncanny!
Your lips:
like a bubblegum,
filled with eager.
How uncanny!
Your hands:
on mine,
no answer.
How uncanny!
Your silence:
in your mind,
like cancer.
How uncanny!
Your thoughts:
thorough rejection,
my soul's attacker.
How uncanny!
Your breaths:
fumes of disdain,
silent killer.
How uncanny!
Your scent:
faint whiff of trouble,
a heart-breaker.
How uncanny!
Your dreams:
misaligned with mine,
an eerie blockbuster.
How uncanny!
Your soul:
my bulls-eye,
a sharpshooter.
How uncanny!
That night:
I wish,
lasted forever.
How uncanny...
That night...
you wish...
hadn't transpire.
-my demise-
Mar 24, 2013
Mar 24, 2013 at 5:29 AM UTC
1.
I feel
fractured splintered defeated
entirely insular
and spread to thin
all at the same time
covered with insecurities
like a cheap suit
or hollow exoskeleton
nothing more than a lie. I grow tired.
I'm bluffing my way through this life
a brutal honesty
I lack the courage to accept
hiding my face
from every mirrored surface
a halfhearted attempt
to prolong this detrimental denial.
I can't ******** my way
through self-reflection
and trying to improve my image
feels positively improvised.
I lack sincerity and authenticity
an individual breathing without zeal
I need a break.
2.
Here I am again a lonely itinerant migrating
to the proverbial and often visited crossroads
rather than contemplating
a direction worth navigating
be it following in the worn footprints of others
or a path long overgrown with neglect.
I'd rather lie down on the gravel road
and nap in the open air
just to wake up confused and temperamental.
The destination remains unknown
my indecision remains intact.
I give impetuous a bad name
by reputation and repetition alike
conjoined twins that speaks to
fate and circumstance.
Like Houdini
I'm secured in a long sleeve shirt
dangling upside down from a burning rope
placing blame on the flame.
I need a break.
3.
I'm not as intelligent
or insightful as I once thought
my wasted youth is a testament.
A modern ruin
like so many a Blockbuster
I've outlasted my usefulness.
I imagine what could have been
clueless as to what lies ahead.
A jovial repentance
seems as likely as
success, or stability, **** simplicity.
Is it all too much to ask?
I've been on break too long.
4.
reboot jumpstart
Alleviate my stagnant, vacant lot in life
and cast off these first world problems.
Consider not the flat champagne
or the distance that separates
today from death.
Speak positively to the people
that would not otherwise attract minimal attention.
Set goals both grand and plausible
with no worry of dividends
and release cynicism
and determine a trajectory
that I may see through to completion.
If for no other reason
but to say that I tried.
It's not so bad this imagined and dire circumstance.
Relax and go on break.
Feb 11, 2013
Feb 11, 2013 at 7:48 PM UTC
I have never really been into poetry,
Nor have I been into theater.
I was never interested in animated films,
Or movies in general
And music was just a hobby for me
Then I met you...
And now it seems as if,
I have found myself remembering you, by just listening to music,
And spending many nights, sleepless and lorn.
I'm patiently waiting for the next blockbuster hit
To appear in cinemas, so that I may ask you
For a single day together, once again.
Now my ambition is to create a cartoon,
Similar to that of Ghibli's, because you had me by a thread,
On that day we watched Spirited together.
I became the stage manager of a production,
Worked hard so I could make you say
That you were proud of me, but more than that was
To simply make you something beautiful.
And now all I can do
Is write poetry,
Every time,
I think of you.
Feb 17, 2016
Feb 17, 2016 at 11:25 AM UTC
There's a room somewhere,
locked fast behind an unassuming door
looming grey-brown at the end of a
misshapen corridor.
Inside, the relics of a time lost in time
to time.
A mitt, engraved with the counterfeit signature
of a ballplayer whose name once rang a bell,
smelling of adolescent sweat,
still dusted with sandlot crumbs,
a reminder of those ground *****
that sped by too fast to field,
those fly ***** just out of reach,
suspended in a June twilight
lost to time.
Ribbons and awards and certificates,
signed by leaders of puny regimes
paved and repaved over,
proof of a world before this,
an era of (now) perceived achievement,
legitimized, glorified by Old English type
printed on recyclable stock paper.
Ticket stubs from blockbuster flops,
receipts of a linear plotline:
Drama, comedy, a budding romance -
Temporarily amusing on such a spacious screen
but ultimately unfulfilling;
the plot peters towards the end.
Lost in time the boy cries out
with no one left to answer but the man
who, as quietly as he entered it,
exits the room,
as always, leaving the door just ajar,
enough to muffle the shrieks of a little boy
chasing an invisible horizon.
Oct 23, 2012
Oct 23, 2012 at 8:46 PM UTC
Give me a dollar until I am dead
Paint the whole sky blue and red
Count out the days until tomorrow
I’ll be waiting
Waiting
Waiting for the rains to fall
Stop the car just to yell at the trees
Close your eyes so you can feel the breeze
Write down your history so that you aren’t forgotten
I’ll be waiting
Waiting
Waiting for the leaves to fall
Line up your books in all the wrong orders
Put on tinted lenses for the city in different colours
Call your brother’s voicemail just to hear him again
I’ll be waiting
Waiting
Waiting for the towers to fall
Burn up old certificates for the fun of it
Eat a hundred chocolates for a golden ticket
Watch every blockbuster here in town
I’ll be waiting
Waiting
Waiting for the tides to fall
Whisper your wishes across the ocean
Trace your crop circles out in the open
Three letter words are hardly important
I’ll be waiting
Waiting
Waiting for the hammer to fall
Break the hourglass to hold the grains
Run after the last train until your chest heaves
Write down your last words on wilted flowers
Search for the den where the old fox hides
Out in the sun, you couldn’t be happier
Oh if someone’s listening
If anyone cares
I’ll miss my own funeral
If it means you’ll be there
Cause I’ll be waiting
Waiting
Waiting for your ***
Waiting
Waiting
Waiting
Mar 15, 2021
Mar 15, 2021 at 8:40 AM UTC
We’re making movies that no one will see,
about things that mean the world to us,
at a certain moment in time and space,
but that mean less than a rat’s *** to anyone outside our bodies.
We never regret the echo in the large hall,
nor the words that OUR scarlett and OUR rhett say to each other
during the 126 minutes long director’s cut –
their tears are ours,
their love,
despair and
hunger for life
will be included in next month’s newsletter.
We’re making movies about those parts of our lives
that weren’t played out so well.
It’s our way of saying “sorry” or “thank you”.
We’re making movies that some don’t even call “movies” –
intimate quantum leaps, inner fights between our bodies and minds.
It hurts us, yeah. We’re not (all) made of stone.
We, sometimes, get frustrated and don’t even know exactly why.
We wake up in the middle of the night,
running the entire dialogue list in our head,
sleepwalking through the entire movie,
screaming at our non-suspecting sleeping significant other to be quiet and to get out of the frame,
“cause we’re ******* making a ******* movie here and every ******* second matters”.
We’re making (silent) movies because
we’re tired of all this noise,
because
that’s the only way we can have some “Aaaaaction” in our lives
and some frames to be proud of.
We’re not making movies to prove that the world is wrong
nor that we possess the ultimate truth.
No.
We’re not making movies to prove that the world is beautiful
and that we know nothing and that that nothingness should tickle your funny filmic bone.
No.
We’re making movies that make the entire world think that there’s something wrong with us,
that we can’t relate to our surroundings in a healthy and normal way.
We’re making movies so WE can experience, in the most familiar way,
the new wave long shot convention that YOU all hate
and diss in the digital environment,
as if your lives were made out of fast cut blockbuster shots
and not lonely, long walks through a dull park. Good for you, Max!
We’re making movies because
we don’t wanna have to explain ourselves,
like I’m doing right now.
Reality sometimes needs its own subtitle and.. **** You know what?
The truth is that we’re not making movies.
We’re making moves.
Jul 12, 2016
Jul 12, 2016 at 10:08 AM UTC
The blockbuster sequel
To The Handmaid's Tale,
Will star one lonely,
But very safe male,
In,
The Handjobber's Tale.
No LGBTQ?,
No human, animal, child, politician, religious person, flora, fauna, fish, bird or insect will be in this movie,
But him.
Jan 25, 2018
Jan 25, 2018 at 9:22 PM UTC
I take my knowledge from architects, medieval painters and galore.
I walk along the stretch of times, Read the Canterbury Tales from folks of yore.
I've written literature in my own dialect, through the beautiful English language.
I find awe in the act of creation, new etymologies where old writers anguished.
My words: symphonies of the beloved and dead Beethoven; like the arias of Wagner.
I am the high priest, the new catholicicist propogandising as your Cardinal.
I am the spiritual technology, provided to the ailment of what we call society.
I am the new Ghandi, the Dalai Lama deservedly inspiring your piety.
I am the Luciferous angel of life, breathing heaven through the cesspool of Earth.
I am the post-modern Romeo and Juliet, Warhol's 15 minutes of fame and worth.
I am the Alexander Mcqueen, the metaphilosopher of fabric illusions.
I am the lyricist of society, speaking through the castrated eunychs.
I am Stephanie Myer, inspiration of vampiric genius to adolescent impressionables.
I am Jane Austen, author of new age thrillers such as The Secret and Lesbian Misérables
I am the eclipsing of twilight, the post-mortem autopsy of a rotting cadaver.
I am Heath Ledger and Michael Jackson, legends inspiring a race of sleeping pill grabbers.
I am the Blockbuster, the Titanic Avatar, $4.9 Billion to children in poverty.
I am Gangnam Style, 2.5 Billion viewers of the Palestinian Bombings.
I am modern philosophe, the birth giver of Socrates, Plato, Nietzsche, Derrida.
I am Steve Jobs, terrible father, tyrant and billionaire technological reliever.
I am God, the predeccesor and successor of all eternal life.
I am Satan, damnation and strife.
I am Tupac, rapper of gangster warfare. Inspirational to first world degenerates.
I am Oprah, most powerful black woman with white hillbilly aesthetics of Ellen Degeneres.
Thank you, to world's only true Genius.
Hail Kanye West, our one and only revered Yeezus.
May 25, 2016
May 25, 2016 at 4:18 AM UTC
between past numbing's, she
couldn't believe it was over like
the oder-neisse. 'subversive! Exhilarating!'
raved Time Magazine-- 'just what we've
been waiting for- a true summer
blockbuster!'
he didn't mean it.
Really, he didn't.
Jul 16, 2013
Jul 16, 2013 at 3:28 PM UTC
if i were any good at songwriting,
perhaps i’d be like clairo,
and write about how soft you’ve made me feel,
or the gaping hole you left in my stomach that spells out
s-u-m-m-e-r
if i was any good at romance,
i’d have straight up told you
how cool you were
how cool your creations were
how cool it’d be if we hung out
even as my heart is ablaze,
like sunny hong kong,
the wind singing along,
*you are wrong, so wrong,
for this*
perhaps i could write a novel, then
of a forbidden love between two lovers
in a summer long, long
ago
except it’d be fiction,
but maybe i’d lie and preface it with:
“based on a true story”,
if it means making a blockbuster,
lover
so come on virginia,
i think we could do it if we tried…?
Mar 23, 2020
Mar 23, 2020 at 5:00 PM UTC
How real a dream can be
when your mind has no limits
a spirit wandering free
with no human laws to bar you
paradise and exotic places
where you can find happiness
without fear of reprisal
pleasant dreams to nightmare
time and space ours at last
the physical body no resting
travel to the future or past
be in a blockbuster the big hero
or the villain even a pop star
limitless imagination to explore
what we see is for us alone
personal dreams only we own!
The Foureyed Poet.
Jul 27, 2014
Jul 27, 2014 at 3:42 PM UTC
It is surely in the hour of the day that the moment lives and gives us more than we think that the moment we live in gives,
when in the passing of the scattering of the fleeing images, we see some sense of an ending,some order to finality.
I may be right or wrong,
and that is the long and short of it but I am caught up and intend to free flow with it,to whatever that finality may be.
I see the end as beginning and in beginning this end, I tend to muse on those thoughts that are sent to confuse and send one into a spin,it's a waltz on the fairground,
a merry go round,a wurlitzer,blitzer,blockbuster and the lustre is still there,
shine on sweet time.
And it's all in those moments we often forget,those what if we did's and we didn't do yet,
and the wish it was me's but it is if please,
dismiss the hours in a day,
and those moments in absentia would lead you into dementia where you would not know the real from the moments that feel,right or wrong,each day is as long as the rest,
take the best of them
knit them in gold and hold onto them,without them you're old and grey and the day is still there,
watching you stare at the blank and the bleak and next week?
Next week
another moment will seek you,may find you but what you do is what counts in the end.
Oct 15, 2013
Oct 15, 2013 at 7:29 AM UTC
Goodbye blockbuster
The internet killed your biz
No more crap late fees
Jun 26, 2014
Jun 26, 2014 at 1:10 AM UTC
die satt so füttern.
as usual.. blah blah... and then auschwitz & blah blah...
kindergarden and allah... palestine and ha ha...
whatever... you censor me you censor
whatever you wish to die;
and i will ensure you die, ensuring
a **** had more mercy than me upon death
as i hadn’t in life!
unto you the sacrilege of the deathcamps
the coffee breaks of the lost words when the found words
ought be spoken weren’t!
hey, but i’m not a speilberg about to make a blockbuster
and get away with it...
i’m the poor polish girl about to bake a bagel...
but **** you america... turns out china owns the world
worth speaking of... because the world worth thinking of
doesn’t exist... whether defined by heaven or hell.
Dec 10, 2015
Dec 10, 2015 at 11:33 PM UTC
Eli tended toward mothering his louche
friends, not that he was any better. He
had a bank account that never tapped out
& his pals were so low rent no one ever
saw any money; worthless rubles & rupees
or priceless dollars & Euros. He had a
name that was as good as a meme. Eli
Simple. The leading blue-chip painter of
his 'generation', a somewhat elastic
designation.
Eli had no 'generation'. Ivan & Igor
had busted out of the confines of mere
State censorship by publishing nothing
or producing the cheapest squalor. They'd
made a fortune. [ZOZO] One way or
another either Ivan or Igor are related
to Eli, whose fortune was made on the
auction house circuit; priced as invaluable,
Eli Simple's work stood beside such esoteric
notaries as David Hockney, Francis Bacon,
& Jean Michel Basquiet; He could get any
price he asked for anything whatsoever, his
imprimatur guaranteeing a fortune. Gold-
diggers were not Eli's type. He liked women
who had nothing & could care less. That was
their charm. A female body was enough
of a chore. He'd been raised Mennonite &
always hungered for more. He'd made it to
the top on Wall Street, Fifth Avenue & Holly
wood
w/out breaking stride & w/ only minor setbacks
that seemed enormous at the time. Accused of
murdering an A-lister's father dampened his
popularity but not his budget. He was huge in
Europe & Asia; a bankable Blockbuster. In
America no one cared about Art w/ the Royal
Capital 'A'. He had never had an American
retrospective, never even been offered one.
That got Eli's goat just than & furious, he
attacked the girl. Then he called his dealer.
Nov 17, 2018
Nov 17, 2018 at 6:29 PM UTC
i had a dream we were holding hands in a blockbuster video store.
everything was made of wood.
i had a dream we drove across country
and stopped at a bridge to stare at the sky.
your hair was brown. your hair was draped over the passenger seat.
you held my hand again like you meant it.
i was a window for your fingers.
i was something else while you pointed at an airplane
and stretched your body to it.
you thought you’d never get so far.
i hung out in a mall parking lot while you became the stars.
when i woke up the longing still wasn’t gone.
Feb 10, 2014
Feb 10, 2014 at 7:31 PM UTC