"camcorder" poems
Part 1:
Mami let me get with you, wanna share my bed with you,We can have *** in H.D. digital,
It ain't really difficult, let me see your ******* boo,
Dance for me baby, just move how the strippers do,
My private lil prom queen, doing all the wild things,
Never seen yourself giving head on the flat screen,
Instant celebrity, natural star to me,
Sit back and rewind the part when you was riding me,
Ran out of blank tapes, need another blank tape,
One more scene and we got ourselves a *** tape,
Your friends know I'm filming ya, they seen what I did to
ya, We can even use a camera phone like Vivaca...
Part 2: We can play like actors, know you not a amateur. You can have the lead role, and I'll be the director. Setting up the camera, get into your character. Come up out that little dress, and let me climb on top of ya. Now baby let's just get involved, with the camera on. You see that red light, that means I've pressed record. Now mami look it's easy, go ahead, come on please me. Now we can put on repeat, and play it back on t.v.Let's make a ****** *** tape, show the world your head great. Show the world you good with it, back shots, hair pulling. Time for some action, Kimmy Kardashian
Lil camcorder that's pointed at your *** again
Jan 30, 2015
Jan 30, 2015 at 8:19 PM UTC
when i was eight
my mother and i
left my ****** father
after our bar play date
and here i am now
reliving their mistakes.
i wonder if they felt the same way?
i had a boy
who i had dreamt about,
who melted away my fears
and showed me how to be devout,
but i left him,
my willing victim,
for a man who breathed my name
and believed me to be the same age
as his brother,
his juvenile brother;
and he thought it was quite alright
to sneak a peek upside
my pleated skirt
with his camcorder
and sell what he had found to his friends.
boy, that's tough.
what i once thought was love
became a funhouse maze of
broken trust and confusion
mixed in with potent smoke
and i at seventeen became the underage joke
that he sat and laughed at
while i grasped at the ledge,
tried to pull myself up,
and the boy i had loved
heard about my new crowd
and left off to college without a single sound.
he wouldn't have me
and neither would the man
who choked me out with his blood stained hand.
now i lie in his bed and cry
for i have lost everything i had
all because a blue eyed boy
promised me everything he had
and i believed him.
Aug 29, 2018
Aug 29, 2018 at 6:01 PM UTC
he watches as his life set ablaze
with morphine and fireworks
29 candles and a red tent
that was an accident
he spoke with bated breath but now
with vigor and bravery
freedom and fear
and it's not your fault
he walked as his legs protested
with medicine and cigarettes
a camcorder and a cane
they maybe one of the lucky ones
he swam with a set intention
saltwater burning
putting up a fight
he's never felt so alive
for once he'll finish something
it was a happy one
and there's no tragedy in that
Nov 29, 2014
Nov 29, 2014 at 12:14 PM UTC
that bankroll of notes changing
train pistons into traffic cones
and brief loves into marriages
with the motherly continues, but
ended up, just being, a roll of toilet paper
that could buy you **** for ink
or ink for a bestseller that ended up a door stump for a housed breeze.
but she loved it, she took the story of pristine eden
and her the satan like a camcorder with selfies
readied into recycling a pretty face
that everyone wanted to fudge into snorkel in a sea of gag white;
so i took to the monk ape for inspiration for levitation
and i rooted into a child being the: bullied anorexic lexicon,
the all rounded a*
tenner for a teenager housebound into being schooled
for a grey of officiated scrubbing of papers into
business.
i loved it, i had my midlife crisis without a harley
and i faked myself as a dodo fearing man’s fear of death
more than the unexpected extinction of my fellow species,
which i took to be fearless.
so once i experienced caesar’s love of spontaneity and death,
the last two things i feared were homelessness
and a prolonged state of dying utilising morphine
from april till june,
that’s why i never changed surgery,
never wanted to check the cholesterol or blood pressure
acting like a virus i asked to attack my heart
with marginalised debriefings - if i prayed
for the herz blitzkrieg right i also got a heartbeat prior.
Oct 1, 2015
Oct 1, 2015 at 8:59 PM UTC
to live
in order to never
have a "moment"
of entitlement encapsulated
with photographs
where the narcissism
is multiplied
for the camcorder of
recognising eventual
histories of inevitableness,
stressed, in a single man's fame;
i swear we should stop
using the words 'celebrity culture'
and call it for what it's worth:
an imploded zoology.
Mar 22, 2016
Mar 22, 2016 at 6:58 PM UTC
The shot glass speaks arrows
arrows to tear a man down
at the worst of all times
he viewed life
not through the camcorder imagery of most
but through specific harsh globes of flesh
the eyeballs which couldn't betray him
even when life seemed to come
in violent fragmented flashes
reminding him of all that was false,
they had said it was a weekend
dedicated to a
"ruin your life sort of drunk"
he couldn't tell them
of a life already in shambles
nor of the tribulations
of developing a craft
which seems in its death throes
work seemed silly
the very idea of a boss
or a station
ultimately sickening
but still he trudged on
knowing that he was chasing
much bigger fish,
much bigger fish indeed
Apr 27, 2013
Apr 27, 2013 at 12:38 AM UTC
The feeling of emptiness in a neighborhood I used to visit, and seeing your house, where we used to lay, and an empty backyard.
I felt myself fall in and out of love all overagain.
I still feel very small and I meant it when i said the memories meant everything to me.
And I go into the woods and the silence drowns out everything
the tree branches take over the skies creating the negative spaces I wish I could fit into.
the world sits still. But my heart is racing.
everything is dark and the little lights flicker
images projected on the sides of houses
and the memories blend together.
apologizes written on sidewalks and short films on a camcorder.
I want this feeling to be transformed into something
It is a feeling I can't explain
a feeling i almost can't feel
hands tighten on the steering wheel
and I'm suddenly in the city
where everything is fast and I am still.
nothing here belongs to you.
and I don't remember anything
the noise engulfs everything.
shadows of the people, and the streetlights
and their bodies close together.
I feel far from everything,
And I wonder if you meant it when you said
nobody would ever love me.
I wrote our names in a bathroom stall in Portland
so somewhere we could seem permanent
and I tell myself you're just a girl I used to know-
but I don't know if I ever knew you at all.
I look for you in everyone.
I can't find you.
I still feel very small.
Mar 6, 2017
Mar 6, 2017 at 9:04 AM UTC
Some lexicon you got there, kid, some funny picks you choose from the lot you were taught, some things you spit that I look for and just aren’t there
Why do you need poetry and bloviation to tell your story? What aviation, fight or flight does that give you, burrowing your meaning in storms of complexity
Does it do you no work to simplify
See a problem, rectify it
Why do you look at a shoelace and untie it
Unlace the strands of humanities patterns like the peel of an orange
The earth is one big orange
And we flatten it like a piece of paper
Superheros were given capes so that in flat spaces, they fly
Why do you try to weigh yourself down with salty slabs of thoughts you cry?
What is it about the look in that eye the cooks you so hot you break like clay in kiln your eyes see a film in everything
It’s all a deep surround sound movie
And to you, it’s so rewarding to blink in your real-time recording
Camcorder on board with the lines you drew dragging your sneakers in the dirt
It’s random like that but it’s raw and dries like glue- clear, but smells like something manmade and stuck together
And there’s noise around you, however, whatever overstimulation annoys you, you are not alone
People will notice you and say,
Who’s this?
Aug 24, 2018
Aug 24, 2018 at 11:06 AM UTC
You fall apart,
pick up the pieces
make a new picture
and fall apart.
You
fall apart
pick up the pieces,
break open wide like
your inside's on the outside,
but
you haven't died
so you start to
fall apart again.
I call it the falling apart and not dying game,
I play it on my internal camcorder
rewind,
they call it a psychological disorder in order to satisfy the clinical mind.
They don't realise that I don't always find all the pieces that fell but
I don't tell them that.
Nov 7, 2014
Nov 7, 2014 at 7:08 AM UTC