"buggy" poems
That pure innocent smile,
Your childish face and that side profile,
Your silky hair and that perfect hairstyle,
Would never forget you.
**** I miss you!
The touch of your smooth skin,
That beautiful little chin,
Your blushy cheeks and that grin,
Still I adore you.
**** I miss you!
Those big dope eyes,
That Stupid nose ,
Those size 7 feet and pinky toes.
Your medications and Ayurvedic dose.
Wish again to feel you.
**** I miss you!
Baby I still remember,
that freezy December,
The day we fell off the scooter,
Your stupid buggy computer.
Our first date and the perfect kiss,
That raining night we spent in balcony
When you burnt the toast and macrony,
That birthday card you made me,
Helping in projects and assignments,
You taking care when I got sick,
I recall all those perfect memories of you,
still there's a place for you,
**** I miss you!
I wish you would have waited,
I would have come back,
But I can't blame you,
It was me who needed the space,
The fault is my OWN!
So I am the one left ALONE! :'(
Jul 26, 2018
Jul 26, 2018 at 11:42 PM UTC
Mario hits it with the sounds
of bodies hitting plexiglass.
My horses hit it without a sound. They want to escape it.
And I am trying to drive this dune buggy
off this cliff, but the clipping is strong here.
In Pac-Man, the tunnels were circular. I don’t know
if people realized that they were trapped in a sphere.
In Asteroids when you get to the edge of the universe,
you begin again.
And that Snake. His body could stretch all over his world
looping, but he could never eat his tail.
If all your electrons were in the right place, and all the wall’s
electrons were in the right place. You could feasibly walk through
the wall.
What would you do while in the wall? Think. Fear.
The superposition could rip your body into ragdoll parts.
When I turned clipping off, I expected the freedom to walk through
the wall and suddenly the floor
fell out from under me.
Every time I respawn I feel like my inventory is heavier,
and my flamethrower burns colder.
Jul 21, 2011
Jul 21, 2011 at 7:08 PM UTC
The night is only a sort of carbon paper,
Blueblack, with the much-poked periods of stars
Letting in the light, peephole after peephole --
A bonewhite light, like death, behind all things.
Under the eyes of the stars and the moon's rictus
He suffers his desert pillow, sleeplessness
Stretching its fine, irritating sand in all directions.
Over and over the old, granular movie
Exposes embarrassments--the mizzling days
Of childhood and adolescence, sticky with dreams,
Parental faces on tall stalks, alternately stern and tearful,
A garden of buggy rose that made him cry.
His forehead is bumpy as a sack of rocks.
Memories jostle each other for face-room like obsolete film stars.
He is immune to pills: red, purple, blue --
How they lit the tedium of the protracted evening!
Those sugary planets whose influence won for him
A life baptized in no-life for a while,
And the sweet, drugged waking of a forgetful baby.
Now the pills are worn-out and silly, like classical gods.
Their poppy-sleepy colors do him no good.
His head is a little interior of grey mirrors.
Each gesture flees immediately down an alley
Of diminishing perspectives, and its significance
Drains like water out the hole at the far end.
He lives without privacy in a lidless room,
The bald slots of his eyes stiffened wide-open
On the incessant heat-lightning flicker of situations.
Nightlong, in the granite yard, invisible cats
Have been howling like women, or damaged instruments.
Already he can feel daylight, his white disease,
Creeping up with her hatful of trivial repetitions.
The city is a map of cheerful twitters now,
And everywhere people, eyes mica-silver and blank,
Are riding to work in rows, as if recently brainwashed.
15.4k
Under the old house
cast in conglomerate mix
the cataract window
and cracked sill
broken joists
and cross beams
wringer wash
and saddle set
A draw string light
brings life
to the corner bench
fowler toads
and fingerlings
jitter bugs
and dazzy vance
dirt planks filled
with mason
crown classics
Buggy whip
and whippletree
shelved on the
chopboard
tackle and mucks
stacked at the back
horseshoe and jack rod
bend the pike pole
a sawhorse placed
for the Martindale push
Gallon jars
and growlers
prepped
for the taking
ropes and reins
for transport
and fest
goggle eye
jumps the flyer
setting up nicely
for the
Haldimand town fair
Jan 28, 2017
Jan 28, 2017 at 12:31 PM UTC
i give them my executables and
ask them to reverse engineer me
to look into my code for reasons
reasons that i'm not just broken
not just slow
not just bad
if these letters
on this line
mean
that i am programmed to worry
then it is not my fault
not my fault that
i have wasted years
years of my life in fear
it's just a bug
looping too many times
using too many clock cycles
my code may be broken, but
if it is broken
then i am not
maybe, just maybe
i am a good processor
given bad code.
not my fault.
no one could blame me.
it would mean
i do what i am told to
perfectly
quickly
efficiently.
but
what i am told to do is
buggy
unoptimized
inefficient
my programmers are lazy -
not me.
when i find
a function in my code
that never works
and they say
"that code is fine"
then why?
why does it never run?
something must be wrong with me after all
me, myself, the processor
i don't do what i am told
but no, no, no
i don't want that
i can't be broken, overheating, dusty
segfaulting
bluescreening
panicking
no!
the code must be wrong
it must be
so i look again and again and again
i lose myself in my code
i click and click and click
2x more and 2x more and 2x more
COMT and DRD4 and ANKK1
rs53576 and rs7794745 and rs1858830
lower risk and normal risk and higher risk
of the same thing
in me at once
conflicting
overwriting each other
there is no code to add risk objects
and no one knows
whether
they make a group or a ring or a field
or just
something
useless.
like dividing by zero.
you can...
but it's useless in the real world.
just like me.
i look for more code
for more functions
for more comments
more more more
give me more
take my rights
make me open source
as long as i can see me too.
602,000 lines are not enough
not when i run millions
stick your wires in my veins
take the code from my blood
decompile it
untangle it
i need to see it all
i need to know
that i am a good little processor
even if i am doomed to
forever
run BASIC and
a million GOTO statements
and ugly ugly spaghetti code
i am still good.
Dec 27, 2017
Dec 27, 2017 at 5:43 PM UTC
I get allowance.
I get my own things.
I get Hot Wheels.
I have an ATV
and a jeep
and a van
and a helicopter
and a dune buggy.
Jul 17, 2012
Jul 17, 2012 at 7:20 PM UTC
mmm, palce lizać, albo wsadzić je w dúpe i nadawać sygnał wriggly-wriggly alter: wriggly-pigglety; counter-alt? calling it: the miracle of five croutons, and two pieces of sushi... c'mon, let's go crazy! and take it to the excesses permitted by the original feat! (yes, i mean the fish parts of sushi, there's enough carbohydrates in the croutons, so yes, no rice-bed for the tartars).
ć is the puritan's aversion to cz / chai;
or at least an exfoliation curbor.
i write honey,
honey honey honey,
i write honey,
honey honey honey
p'ooh bear
droned in on it.
when i write,
i write honey,
honey honey O'Milee.
from serving in the US and A
navy, to a beach-buggy
accident.
when i write, i write
honey -
*** e -
Atilla styled liquorice -
lee co reesh - not
liquidated rice -
ghosts of latin almost everywhere;
quadruple that.
convene and converse -
contrary collective.
some say this might as well
be the famous goldberg sardines;
when i write, i write honey,
i write: honey honey honey...
will you be my Duracell bunny?
honey, will you be my
******** par excellance?
i see... no, you won't be.
the museum of Greek sculpture
was vandalised!
guess what they took,
the ****** fiendish crooks!
with a wet splash of colour
comes the cold marble artifice -
a bit like the cool-mouth
refrigerator of a woman during
felatio... still don't know
how she gets that gob down
below room temperature.
(heresy input, never start a
sentence with an) and
there you have it,
writing, catering for
abstractionism,
just after he said: they're on a diet.
Dec 14, 2016
Dec 14, 2016 at 10:49 AM UTC
I was moving out
Parked my bike down the street
With a cart hinged on the bolt beneath the rusty pole
connected to my seat.
The yard was steep, and the stairs leading down
the front
Vanished each car-
go carrying trip
of dictionaries and travel guides that
could have been lumped together in boxes
separately tossed into the neon
green
synthetic fiber
rain-proof buggy
Connected to my seat.
I ran across the lawn, one last time
Buckling the watch I found from high school
remembering it’s broken and not caring
then I saw men wearing polos beneath
Greek symbols beneath a doorway
and held my breath as they stared at me.
This vacant lot held something which I carried back
to find
my bike was gone, replaced
by a life-sized depiction of a bike saying
“no bikes--” A girl inside, explaining where I could find mine
I walked down the grey spiral of handicapped access ramps
surrounded by aquariums or tvs
which comprised the store's interior.
The last ramp faced an exit and went straight past
refrigerators next to vending machines
In the alley behind this office supply store were two old men
Roasting my bike on a chain beside the others
Disconnected, hung
its tires lying on the ground beside their feet
and the carriage slung aside like a bloodied gazelle's neck.
“What the ****
A woman got into my face “don’t use that word”
***** a perfectly good word, after all, it’s how we
got here”
One man smiled.
He felt bad.
They helped me put the bike together and I walked it back to my house.
I saw my car down the street.
I thought about the long trip to the interstate and wondered why I’d
rode my bike
Then I went back up the stairs of the blue sided hill,
to see the roommate I hated
and thought about stealing his SNES and stereo
but took only my one possession
and walked past rotting turkey bacon in a plastic pouch
on the top of a table
beside some legos
and left.
Apr 22, 2012
Apr 22, 2012 at 1:21 PM UTC
Echo, cricket,
Thump, stump.
The very loud things
Galloping through the silence.
The creaking of stairs like the breaking of bones
That snapped tin cap,
Clinging onto the prophesied labor of your last breath,
Oscillating through your liquefied ontology.
Ethanol overflown and embodied.
Cricket cricket,
The underlying intrinsic.
The empty tone of a distant voice.
The spaces of letters and words so magnified
So wide,
Expanding like an unstoppable void.
Oh my,
Here it comes,
Shadowed by your hissing tongue.
You are glittered,
Pinnacle bitter.
Cloaked in pure white.
Not a thread of disguise.
Twinkle, twinkle,
Buggy, rugged eye.
Those razor touched lines,
Translucent and caressed,
Reminiscent and enmeshed,
Like faded pale stripes,
Hugging the armor of canvas flesh.
Walking among these thin lines,
Head down, musky powdered stench,
Awaiting the inevitable rise and fall.
Of the intangible crux of a hollow memory,
Woven inside the synthetic fabric of the undelivered.
Oceanic cold shiver,
Piercing through our empty, untethered souls.
Dec 1, 2016
Dec 1, 2016 at 11:32 PM UTC
Brown-gray whiskers
chaotically twirling
wreath his face.
A testament to hardship
and wisdom accumulated.
His eyes are an ocean
deep and unknowable.
Monsters swim in its deep,
Indescribable.
His face is cracked and wrinkled
but the skin is taut
too tight and jawline stretched.
Mist-like hair meets shoulders,
greasily tangling.
In front of him a rust spotted buggy,
creaking
groaning
holds his world.
Trash bag continents slide against each other
making new mountains,
transforming
shopping cart geography.
I meet his eyes on the sidewalk
but quickly look away.
I always look away.
Dec 31, 2011
Dec 31, 2011 at 1:04 AM UTC
Have you ever wanted to do something just once,
Only once and never again, and then have it be as if
You'd never done it at all?
It was summer, like now:
Hot, hazy, sweaty--even in the evening.
The brook ran low, between banks covered with alders,
Overhanging, tall, immense;
The mountains were purple, indefinite through the mist;
The pines looked almost black.
You could smell the summer--scents from the marsh--
Things in their prime--you could hear them,
Tweeting and chirping and buzzing and peeping and croaking,
And barking and hooting:
Dead mid-summer--hot, sticky, buggy.
After the sun set, but before it was dark,
When you can still see, but everything's a different color,
I stood on the old bridge
Where the brook runs under the back road
On its way from the marsh, down through the village,
To the big river and the lake beyond.
I was looking up towards the plateau, trying to lose myself,
When around the bend, banking against the alders,
In formation, like separate missiles shot from different cannons
At the same moment, at the same velocity,
In the same direction
With systems to navigate and turn, elevate and descend, dart,
Follow the stream bed,
And stay exactly the same distance from each other,
Like an entity with an awareness
The no one part could experience,
Came a flight of bats, moving too quickly to count.
They rocketed under the bridge,
Appeared on the other side, raced
Down a straight stretch, veered right
And disappeared with the brook into the meadows
Headed for the dark pines, the rapids and beyond.
You could hear the swish of their wings as they passed
And their high-pitched pings, like the highest notes on a harp.
In a blink they were gone, in their ecstasy flying on,
And I wanted to be them, all of them at once--
Just once.
Jul 15, 2017
Jul 15, 2017 at 11:58 AM UTC
There were grass-hoppers once, in these fields of green.
Leaf-hoppers too and a myriad other tiny wing'ed ones.
Now bees fidget fretfully along the hedgerows.
Lady-bugs, now only the twelve-spot greenhouse slaves.
Monsanto's beetles badgering them as they fiddle.
These ditches that once housed frogs and musk-rat, ferocious diving beetles,
The sky absent the wheeling martins, the boisterous larks.
Gone the pests, I rue the dearth,
bring me back my mud, my earth.
Never was I annoyed by them, always an ally that buggy thing,
Who yet knows how the June bugs sing?
Nov 19, 2012
Nov 19, 2012 at 8:34 PM UTC
I know how it was in that time
sixty years ago when roads seen
from above were little more than
two thin tracks through grass.
My mind has heard the noiseless roads
cutting unfenced fields, passing cherry groves,
skirting steepest hills and flat lakes,
making settled burgs where roads cross.
I know how it was in that time
when many-handed harvests,
sweet smells and back breaking work
were wrenched away without referendum.
Wrenched away by Ford's cast iron.
Wrenched away without option of staying
to enjoy the scale of day-long trips
on foot, in wagon or buggy.
Our innocent grandfathers too,
wrenched away, not unwillingly, from plowfields,
to be told by newspaper and newfangled radio
of the one-day Atlantic crossing.
I know how it was in that time.
I've seen it from three or five hundred feet;
the quick shadow and lake-mirrored
image of fabric covered wood and wire.
I've gently flown, pocketa, pocketa,
in that time; in a ship as much a product
of those shifting decades as of its tinkerer/
designer, builder, pilot, Pietenpol.
Sep 15, 2016
Sep 15, 2016 at 9:03 AM UTC
It seems crazy
To change something
Thats working
The horse and buggy
Was working
It seemed crazy
To stop using that
But then they
developed the car and..
Well that destroyed the planet..
So that's a bad example
Oct 6, 2021
Oct 6, 2021 at 6:04 PM UTC
Snow is on the ground,
Faithful memories fill the air all around,
A faint sunrise is painted in the sky;
And a snow-covered church stands nearby.
A covered bridge stands tall,
The trees are snow-covered from last night's snowfall,
All around the song of winter fills the air;
With a horse and buggy here and there.
All the houses are snow-covered too,
This is just too beautiful to be true,
It's so beautiful I'm ready to cry;
And I look up at the pastel painted sky.
This place is too beautiful to be real,
The landscape is just so surreal,
In my heart this place will always be;
My Faithful Memories.
~Marian~
Jul 31, 2013
Jul 31, 2013 at 7:22 PM UTC
My aunt had a yellow Volkswagen Beetle
As bright as her hair, as fierce as her mind
With a sharp tongue, she left every man behind
She thought she could change him
But
My aunt is the one bearing the scars.
-lf-
Jun 5, 2013
Jun 5, 2013 at 12:57 AM UTC
Oh you, for whom I have settled for.
How I long to eat alone no more!
My thought may wander,
but you do sometimes cross my mind.
Like when I am tantalized by images,
your buggy eyes and large right breast.
They cause my heart to swell with excitement!
Waiting, for my return at long last to the apartment.
My soul yearns for your companionship.
I shall fill you with love!
When only I return,
I will release the flood gates of emotion.
I shall smother you in affection.
so be warned,
my return is neigh!
Jun 4, 2012
Jun 4, 2012 at 6:05 PM UTC
What ever happened to that dining room table?
As a child
The dining room table
Was my play house.
It was a big table
With legs on all four corners.
My dog Trixie and I
Would spend a lot of time
Under that table.
Mom was making drapes
On top of the table..
The radio was on with all the old shows.
But I was busy dressing
Trixie up in old baby clothes.
I even had room to pull
The little doll buggy under this table.
I had a dog that was
Quite content being lazy in the buggy.
What ever happened to that dining room table?
We always had that dining room table
Filled with family on holidays.
Lots of food on the top...
Mom was a great cook.
Her specialities were
Pork roast, tomato pudding
And plum cake...
Dad would have German music
Playing in the background.
What ever happened to that dining room table?
It was old, and traded in for a new model.
Which also had four legs on each corner.
Was blond oak, and very modern.
My memory of that one,
Is of my kids, playing games,
Eating snacks and also
Holidays filled with family,
Eating moms pork roast,
Tomato pudding, and plum cake.
And I added Pink Stuff.
What ever happened to that dining room table?
Gone...
House sold...
Left, only the memories...
By Judy
Aug 1, 2014
Aug 1, 2014 at 6:40 AM UTC
Blithering blather of bothering biting bothers that botherly blather their blantant blatherings of bumbling bemusings brought by bringing blue berries back by blue babaoons bumping beehives behind bubba bears big buggy before biggoted bums braving boorish battles
Aug 23, 2016
Aug 23, 2016 at 1:15 AM UTC
AN AMISH WEDDING
It’s a life I have always wanted to live
The Amish culture has so much to give
Close family bonds and a fondness for the old ways
No modern conveniences are used and are kept at bay
Horse and buggy take you where you need to go
Even on the coldest days as it starts to snow
A warm blanket is spread across your lap
The women always wearing their white prayer caps
They have no use for television, computers or cell phones
Fun for them is a singing at a location well known
The boys are on one side; the girls on the other
As curious eyes are kept on one another
When the singing is over pairs start to form
Talking outside while trying to stay warm
If a boy likes you, you are offered a ride
Sitting in his buggy very close to his side
You are courting now; soon to go steady
Marriage is published just as soon as you are ready
Planting celery in the garden is the next thing you must do
It’s the indication of a wedding where lives will start anew
Sep 27, 2013
Sep 27, 2013 at 2:12 AM UTC
Somethings last longer when kept in cool dry places
and I for one have found the perfect resting place,
surrounded by plenty of taken up shelf space
where I can store up my strength, and sit contented
in this inspired, quiet space, amongst the bookcases
where we are encouraged to slow our pace
in the long-lasting embrace of Carnegie’s generous bequest.
Yes, we’re blessed with quiet, at least for the most part,
apart from the softly voiced query and help at the desk,
apart from the dad reading aloud and reading time’s louder address
to cross legged, momentarily suppressed younger guests.
It’s quiet apart from the regular swish of the obliging doorway
swinging wide its welcome followed by
the vital wipe of wet feet on the new red mat,
punctuated by the unsnapping of buggy straps
and empathetic mum to mum picked-up-from-last-time chats.
It’s quiet apart from the regular slap of scrabble tiles,
clicking knitting needles
and the long considered placing of a jigsaw piece
accompanied by a contented creak
of a chair as someone adjusts a numbing *** cheek.
It’s quiet apart from the buzz of book clubs and poetry recitals
exchanging much treasured lines and long loved titles.
It’s quiet apart from the beep of books returned or issued out
under the arms of rested readers, no doubt
heading home to their own cool dry places,
reading lamps and carefully positioned comfy chairs.
It’s quiet apart from the spoken thankfulness of readers young and old,
each enjoying spending time within the fold
of this, our beloved Hanwell Community Library.
Apr 1, 2023
Apr 1, 2023 at 2:32 AM UTC
or
Pave the Planet Earth
Not too long ago
It was just Harvest time
That the farthest distance
Was traveled from home
Perishable bounty
Had to get to market on time
In the progress
Of wheeling and dealing
Cash crop
While still fresh
Before its value dropped
Only the Horse and Buggy Doctor
Would need to travel
Any farther or faster
The rest of the year
Trading his service to protect life
For tangible scarce resources
Without shifting a gear
Oct 29, 2014
Oct 29, 2014 at 6:13 PM UTC
A Bridge
As a teenager we lived on a rented farm just one hill over we started down the property of the adjacent
Farm at the bottom of the hill we came across the remains of a bridge nothing was left but the steel it
Was rusty and there was so much undergrowth it would have been missed if we had been walking
Fifteen feet to either side it created a mood the knowing that at a time in the past others commonly
Traveled this as a road of necessity now I think of the pastor’s words when he spoke my mother went
From the horse and buggy to the space age yes what a trip in this hidden now forgotten bridge and road
The weeds and nature reclaimed what man disturbed the life once lived now lost and forgotten a finality
Of crossing a bridge a future layered with progress change a different order for sure idyllic days the
pace slower more deliberate harder because modern conveniences were still in the future but there is
A raw connection when you work closely with animals put the harness on the team of horses the barn
A few bins of grain a hay mount with fresh hay how the ladder is worn from use smooth and shinny we
Will tone it down the slight hint of manure straw in the stalls mix it all together it makes up the whole
Farm with a theme of richness and then the memory of their voices even some conversations are
Remembered it can involuntarily bring stillness to today’s hustle and bustle of speed and their white hair
Wasn’t a point of disdain but one of honor you looked upon them as heroes hanging on each word they
Spoke slow and even recounted earlier days times and there content held you spell bound and it wasn’t
Just because you were young and easily impressed you stood in the middle of the bridge of time you
Flowed back and then they would shift and speak of the future then you flowed on this wave of
Expectation of what the future would hold guarding your mind from the awful truth that you would be
Alone because their journey as glorious as it was had the markings of coming to an end but in the mean
Time they filled your world with thrills and contentment and for the rest you looked forward to the day
When you would meet them on the bridge that started in time and the far end was eternal never would
You know separation again
Nov 17, 2011
Nov 17, 2011 at 11:08 PM UTC
It’s been a weird day today,
the noon appointment
lasted nearly four hours,
I don’t even remember the return trip.
Ever since I got back to the office,
there’s a constant ringing
in my head,
people seem to be moving
in slow motion,
their eyes look buggy,
I don’t feel right.
And when did I get a
triangular tattoo on my temple?
This is really getting weird,
I’ve heard about such things,
I need to report a possible abduction.
Jan 17, 2014
Jan 17, 2014 at 4:25 PM UTC
Without any reasoning
And without any sort of logic
The praying Mantis assumes the worst in others
For others assume the worst in
Itself
The praying Mantis does not simply pray
As one might to believe
No the Mantis is always on alert
Just like a cactus with flowers
The Mantis has beauty
But up close hurts like a *****
The Mantis prefers to be in solitude
Who can blame?
Many view the Mantis as odd
With its eyes and such
The Mantis back in high school
Would get called "Buggy eyes"
Or just "buggy" for short
Boy did the Mantis get flared at that
But would anyone even have known
The raging flames from within?
Of course not.
You see even though the Mantis is alive
Its not like is has feelings or anything
Poor Mantis!
Who can behave such a loving face
Like that in any crude way?!?!
Let me tell you,
Itself.
Oh the Mantis may appear to be a
Smart intellect fellow
But what it happen to miss
Was its own abilities
The Mantis lives the day with the harsh comments
Twaddling along on two feet
Slow and consist.
The Mantis waves its long behind
Trying to please Caterpillar Cally
Caterpillar Cally was the ideal insect
With her curves and fuzzy volume hair
How Mantis wishes Caterpillar Cally was his
He awwed at her
From a distance of course
Mantis would do literally anything
To make her his
As says the old saying
Once you got what you wanted,
You wont want it anymore.
But this he ignored.
They were in love
Well, as close as two bugs could be
But one day on the leaf Cally had a confession
The dumping hit hard for Mantis
"It's not you, its me. Once I transform,
You wont want me anymore"
Mantis was confused and asked
"Why?"
"I'll lose all my hips and thighs"
He thought in silence...
Trotted away with one last saying
"I wouldn't change a thing."
Alone that night Caterpillar Cally cried in tears
As the cocoon wrapped around
Her curvy body till it was bound
The light hit like a laser
The cocoon cracked under her new expansion
She slowly crawled out
To find... the Mantis?
Butterfly Cally was in shock
Him seeing her like this
Was only going to end in mock
She turned the other way
Getting ready to fly
But something gripped her
And it held her by surprise
Locked in the Mantis grip
She struggled and pushed
Until they met lip to lip
"No stop. Don't look at me like this!"
Mantis only stared
"I Wouldn't change a thing."
"Just look at me! I'm skinny as can be,
It's almost sickening!"
"I wouldn't change a thing."
"Please just let me go! Just let me be!"
She tried to flee
"Can't you see I'm no longer pretty?"
Mantis brought her closer
Touching her wings
"I wouldn't change a thing."
Mar 9, 2015
Mar 9, 2015 at 6:08 PM UTC