"cameraman" poems
STATE SHUT DOWN BY IDIOCY
"This is correspondent, uh, burp...
wait, winds r, yeah, okay go
back on live camera..."
pretend the wind
is
blowing you back
"This is the most major storm in recorded history of this network!"
"My God,
I could die in this sh..stuff."
"Five star hotel what the ****
"Okay, okay, live we are,
look here, pan closer, these leafs on this Raleigh plant here,
see how violently they are moving?"
LEAVES ARE FALLING!
"That is the fear one feels knowing that a category two,
at any moment, could become a category five."
"This Dave Mowers live from Hawaii,
checking in before I possibly die.
Mom I love you, Dad, well,
look how brave I am!"
"Is that an Asian girl?"
"What an a..cute *** that,
cut to...
to the violent leaves again you ****
"I'll fire you cameraman!"
*Four large oak trees have fallen.
HAWAII HAS ENORMOUS SURF!.
Four large oak trees have fallen.**
Aug 24, 2018
Aug 24, 2018 at 11:59 PM UTC
Please cooperate, sweetheart. You're
Laying on your back, posing for
A cameraman with a sweaty hand.
You're nervous, I understand.
But you don't need to worry, we'll take care of you.
Oh, I know I know-
You need your rent money, right?
My dear, you'll get it don't worry don't worry.
All he needs is just one
Good shot. Stay still for us please, it'll be over soon.
And then we're done! See, was that so bad?
Zero pain on your part, right?
I know, I know, I'll get you your money.
Now you wait right here.
Except just one thing- would you be willing to model for us again?
Sorry, sorry, I didn't mean to make you cry.
Sep 30, 2015
Sep 30, 2015 at 9:31 PM UTC
This is the Devil’s hour.
It’s when George Lutz hears the ghosts
And murders his family in Amityville Horror.
Shia Labeouf get’s high on acid at 3:15.
I decide to write a poem.
------------------------------------------------------------------------
For 4 hours
I’ve been trapped in the Internet.
From Facebook posts about feminism
To related searches on Google.
“Mexican **** Takes Huge American ****
A video of a man receiving oral from
An eighteen-year-old Hispanic girl.
After ******* on her face,
He spits in her mouth
And slaps her with a foam finger
That says, “America is #1”
The cameraman then says in Spanish,
“Still happy you’re doing ****
------------------------------------------------------------------------
As I watched this woman degrade herself
It became hauntingly aware
That I could have stopped watching at any time.
The men in the video were pigs
But then what does that make me?
A ****** A lonely man?
Not to say I gained pleasure from this.
I don’t get off on
Women being demoralized by
A ***** (the true icon of male dominance)
For the ****** entertainment of others
Man is not a wolf,
Man is a parasite.
(My self-included)
------------------------------------------------------------------------
My eyes are made of glass
My head like a bag of hammers
Insomnia got the best of me.
Sep 9, 2013
Sep 9, 2013 at 5:25 PM UTC
~~¤~~
I heard your cry Oh, Paris
From the hundred of bodies that fell on your ground
I heard the sobbing of your neighbors
I saw the tears of all the eyes watching you
You were trying to move on from the tragic Charlie Hebdo Attack
But here you are again-
Broken and bruised
And my heart is breaking
My tears are rolling down my face
As I utter a thousand why's
But...
I still hear the weeping from afar-
Palestine and Syria are still mourning for the death of their children,
India Heat Wave that killed more than two thousand,
The hundreds of migrants killed in sinking ship in the Mediterranean Sea,
The TransAsia Airways Flight 235 Crash in Taiwan,
The Germanwings Flight 9525 Crash into the French Alps,
The Earthquake in Nepal,
The Amtrak Train Derail in Philadelphia,
The Warehouse Explosion that killed a hundred in China,
The Reporter and Cameraman Killed live on TV,
The Refugee crisis,
The Hajj Pilgrimage Tragedy near Mecca
The series of calamities and tragedies in different parts of my dear Philippines-
The families of thousands of dead people are still in agony
These tragedies around the world
Gave those places the deepest cuts upon the bellies of the mothers
Wounds that connect to the hearts
And create scars that might be fresh until now
The world is in pain
And here are my tears again
I am praying for the world
Can we listen to those cries and open our hearts?
Let us pray for you, dear Paris
And for other places wich are still in misery
Let us pray for the world.
~~¤~~
Nov 15, 2015
Nov 15, 2015 at 6:18 AM UTC
I am a white, Jewish girl from Florida.
Hit me.
Hit me with your white girl jokes,
Your Jewish American Princess stereotypes.
I will giggle and squeal right along with you.
Because yeah,
I do order white chocolate mocha frappuchinos from Starbucks,
I Instagram pictures of my nails,
I take selfies, whiten my teeth, straighten my hair,
Shop at Forever21 and drink Naked Juice like it is my job.
Yeah, my daddy buys me things,
I don’t pay for my data plan,
There’s no way in hell I would drive a sedan,
I wear Nike shorts and avoid any nearby cameraman,
And let me tell you, I love jamming out to old school Britney Spears.
Hit me one more time, because none of that means I am any less intelligent,
Any less diligent,
Any less likely to face judgment
Than any other slice of diversity around me –
I am a white, Jewish girl
My nose is not its own cartoon,
I eat bagels (but I absolutely hate lox),
I’m not tan or even the least bit tinted,
And god knows I don’t wear Uggs.
Tell me I need to get married young,
Major in business,
Wear clothes that leave me airless,
Get some of that European gracefulness,
But don’t tell me I’m dumb.
Don’t tell me I’m not thoughtful.
I’m a white girl.
Take a glance at my resourcefulness,
Understand my goals of being ambitious,
Get rid of your own stereotype-inducing cockiness,
And notice me in all of my flawlessness.
Because I am a white girl,
And I am unique, strong, inventive,
Empowered, passionate, adventurous,
Indomitable, unbeatable.
I am an individual –
Not part of some whole that you put me in to stabilize your mold,
Not the example of a societally scatterbrained ***** meant to be your centerfold,
Not a previously worn-out piece of clothing thrown to the gutter unsold,
Rather a human being of my own rules and my own morals
A human being with ideas and intelligence and power,
A white, Jewish girl,
A person.
Nov 21, 2013
Nov 21, 2013 at 5:31 PM UTC
While the sun pours over the early nightmarket
An old woman sits, chewing
Betel seed adrenaline into
Wilting veins sprawled arachnid
Behind her knees
She, the center of all activity, is merely there
A few children lift cinder blocks
And their fathers solder wire
To help put up the gate
Before a white temple
She spits a thick *** of it into
Her *** a young woman nearby
Pulls starfruit from a stall
Starfruit, whose name should belong
To the most elegant fruit, what a
Pity it has such a wretched tang
By now, the old woman is bobbing around
Her murky mind, a betel juice
Aquarium she can barely perceive the precision
Of the cremation ceremony next door climaxing with
The scattering of jasmine leaves
To indicate mourning and forgiveness
For untimely suicide and when the
Cameraman approaches our old woman
She spreads a numb smile, revealing her
Black oily teeth
Tarred over in betel juice
Oct 30, 2010
Oct 30, 2010 at 4:26 AM UTC
"Who ****** Marsha Brady?" "I," said the Sparrow
"With my bow and arrow, I ****** Marsha Brady"
"Who saw him **** "I," said the Fly
"With my little eye, I saw him ****
"Who caught his *** "I," said the Fish
"With my little dish, I caught his ***
"Who'll make the movie?" "I", said the Beetle
"With my thread and needle, I'll make the movie"
"Who'll make his advert?" "I," said the Owl
"With my pick and shovel, I'll make his advert"
"Who'll be the screenwriter?" "I," said the Rook
"With my little book, I'll be the screenwriter"
"Who'll be the cameraman?" "I," said the Lark
"If it's not in the dark, I'll be the cameraman"
"Who'll carry the camera?" "I," said the Linnet
"I'll fetch it in a minute, I'll carry the camera"
"Who'll be chief editor?" "I," said the Dove
"I **** for my love, I'll be chief editor."
"Who'll carry the actors?" "I," said the Kite
"If it's not through the night, I'll carry the actors"
"Who'll bare it all? "We," said the Wren
"Both the **** and the hen, we'll bare it all."
"Who'll sing a song?" "I," said the Thrush
"As she ate on a mush, I'll sing a song"
"Who'll make him *** "I," said the bull
"Because I can pull, I'll make him ***
All the crew of the film, fell a-sighing and a-sobbing
When they witnessed the ******** yell, from poor Marsha Brady.
Oct 4, 2019
Oct 4, 2019 at 8:04 AM UTC
often always
I am the
lone
Cameraman
New Year,
I only see the fireworks
through
a screen
in the misty weather
I remember
catching shots
through the window
of the car
... and waiting
and often Dan and I
share shots
and cameras
and Lightroom programmes
...and Bueno Bars
Apr 21, 2013
Apr 21, 2013 at 1:36 AM UTC
Everywhere I go
They throw roses
And love letters
Bright flashing bulbs
The tabloid circus
I'm a hero
I can walk on water
They want me at their charity
They want me to date their daughter
Paparazzi press
Unison- applauders
I said nothing funny
But they want my autograph
All the potential wannabes
Who claim they know my soul
The stupid adoration
Accumulated lull
The hippie-mystic groupies
Who want to get me high
The young married wife
Who shares my zodiac sign
The cop who lets me go
When I want to get caught
The journalist and his
Unrelenting cameraman
The sickly-devoted, naive
Screaming fan
The occasional stalker
Assassin-like scare
The philosophical ******
The devil-may-care
Crowd always willing to
Get slaughtered by celebrity
Until the stardust melts
And I'm no one else but me
Personal interest groups
Who always love a clown-
Now take everything above
And turn it all around
Nov 25, 2011
Nov 25, 2011 at 11:37 PM UTC
I posted a picture on the internet today,
after handpicking the best of all.
While she is left with no choices,
so she walks on the roads that burn
carrying herself upon her feet that bleed.
I took my camera and checked up the lighting,
as I wanted the picture to look 'natural' and 'candid'.
A cameraman rushes to her to click a picture
as he is a magazine photographer searching for stories real.
I sweated and protested about the scorching heat
while I set up my camera.
She wipes the sweat off her father's forehead
on which the glabellar lines cease to exist,
while hers is carrying the roots and branches of it.
I held books in my hand to strike a pose
as my fingers laid in front,
whose nails I painted yellow for this summer.
She holds the handlebars of her bicycle she can no more hold or paddle,
her nails have painted themselves with the colour of mud.
I clicked too many pictures for me to count or recall.
Even after thousands, she remembered how many miles is home.
I captioned my picture
'No more lonely quarantine',
She hardly knows alphabets or words to even ask for help.
I swiped from filter to filter
selecting an 'aesthetic' one.
She drinks the pitch-black liquid,
they tell her is water,
without even demanding for 'cleaner' one.
I finally edited and made a perfect picture,
with my wide grin sealed with a gloss,
And the cameraman too asks for her to smile for once.
She with her deserted lips forms a curve that makes the cameraman frown.
He deletes the picture from his camera
as it would be disliked by all,
It got 1.9k likes,
The picture I posted on the internet today.
May 26, 2020
May 26, 2020 at 1:10 AM UTC
That’s what he does
He takes a match
Out of the box
It’s a fresh pack
And then it lights up
The candle must be near by
The candle is near by
The candle is yearning
To be alive and to stay alive
And so the boy
Gets a match
Lights up the candle
But , no one was there
Like a cameraman
He watches and observes
As the flame of the candle
Disintegrates
Ashes murk up the lighted area
Its easy to forget the flame
When it could have burned forever
And as long as the boy has a candle
A wick and a box of matches
This candle will burn
Apr 30, 2010
Apr 30, 2010 at 7:32 PM UTC
“Oh hell yea, they’re suffering! They’re believing that they can go home, but aren’t getting any closer to the Entropoid Valley which leads to Kubla Khan, by whom they were cremated and born. Instead, they’re here, whiling away their days for boys who are bringing the death of days.”
“Hold your thoughts, lad!” Yells the Cameraman of the Head.
“I’m here, I’m in your head ImhereImhereImThere. You’ve no right to chastise the boys who have not kissed the horror. They’ve seen it, yes. But they haven’t captured it, you see. I am the camera, in my ribs are the film reels, the oscilloscope in my uvula, the trigger rested in my right earlobe. I tell you, there is strength in their brutality, I can bring you the tribal taste.”
“Man, we was just talking about centrifugal farce.”
“Centripetal.”
“No, was it?”
“Wasn’t it?”
“Hey! I believe-“
“Can’t be”
“Shan’t be”
“Oh, whatever. Those bullets find their way to the ***** anyhow.”
“Anywho.”
“Hey, grab your Coca Cola, Clean. We’re ‘bout to miss the show. The cameraguy could record it if he wants.”
Oct 21, 2018
Oct 21, 2018 at 12:18 PM UTC
life’s such a film
independent b movie
badly written
poorly edited
dialogue all too real.
starring me as the main character and
I am the producer
director
script writer
cameraman
and I plug it
to every Fallon out there.
and … scene
after his struggles,
the main character filters out
not in a blaze of glory
but noose in hand
rat poison and
Johnnie Walker on his breath.
He didn’t want to end up like his mom
but look at him now.
Apr 5, 2014
Apr 5, 2014 at 6:31 AM UTC
The interviewer, who was white,
asked the indigenous man, who had dark brown skin,
What was most important in life to them.
'Them' - as if the man and his people were any different
than the interviewer and his.
This was after the man had shown them
(the interviewer and the cameraman)
his entire village - the homes,
where the women forage for food
and how the men hunt for meat.
The man knew what the interviewer was really asking.
Yet he also knew that the interviewer already knew
the answer to his own question - even if he had hidden it from himself,
even if he had no faith and trust
in his own culture’s answer to the question.
Still, the interviewer knew the answer for himself.
And the man knew also,
like everyone who is being filmed and interviewed,
that when someone asks you for your very essence,
it is never only a passing request.
They mean to do something with it at some point.
You see, the indigenous man doesn’t go around
interviewing white people.
He is living his life.
So, when the interviewer asked this question,
“What is most important in life to them?”
A shadow of remembrance passed across the man’s eyes.
And smiling, he replied, “Meat!”
The interviewer, looking perplexed, repeated, “Meat?”
and thought, 'Well, that’s a given.'
And in a tone that suggested
what he really wanted to say
was, 'Duh, what else is important here on Earth?'
The man replied, “Yes, with meat we become strong and healthy.
No one will go hungry.
Children will grow strong and run fast.
Women will be strong and there will be less sickness.
Women will give birth to healthy, strong babies.”
The interviewer’s face reflected blank ignorance
as he again repeated, “Meat?”
And with eyes that said, 'Now let it go.
You will not get from me
what your grandfather took from mine',
the man turned to his son and said,
“We will go hunt now.”
Jul 10, 2021
Jul 10, 2021 at 1:29 PM UTC
My plain earth body
My dull face
Sometimes I like to think
Of my life
As one long
Boring movie
Just a bunch of scenes
But In this movie
I wasn't acting
I was just the cameraman
The guy filming the scenes
Any my brain
Can be compared
To the video camera
Here's a shot of me eating
Now filming exercise
Then at work
Then hitting golf *****
I imagine some people
Looking of the footage
Of my life that I took
They see me chipping golf *****
WIth that akward shoulder
Nov 3, 2015
Nov 3, 2015 at 10:56 AM UTC
she’s young and fresh like lettuce leaves,
// warm and sweet like summers best peaches
she waits at the door for you, just so she can open it //
when we walk through she skips ahead, spinning in dizzying circles
she smiles and i lose track of time
// i feel the cameraman- she is the art i am watching unfold before me
when we all became, simultaneously,
i wonder if she was too close or too far to the blast //
maybe she’s not supposed to he here
when we all fell from grace there were some beyond us, waiting with widened eyes and dripping teeth for us to fail
she has no vendetta
she takes what is ready
young or old, healthy or sick
maybe she’s lost
/ maybe she’s found, right here /
Jun 16, 2019
Jun 16, 2019 at 12:30 PM UTC
Converts from convicts and convictions reversed,
rehearsing conversations and
checking out of the jail.
The convoy unaware of the danger back there carried on,
strike one.
Rest breaks and more takes, is the cameraman ******
reverse hold and conquer,
we will win to win will.
Strike two,
the best murderers do,
they usually get caught and
I thought it was Cluedo, but what
would I know?
'A handbag', she said,
I said,
'Oscar's long dead
and we broke down and cried.
Strike three and I'm out,
never thought that this failure
would send me back to
the jailer.
Prison ballet,
pirouette and
point the finger of blame,
rehearsing the conversation
not knowing my name.
Jan 12, 2016
Jan 12, 2016 at 4:22 AM UTC
You've forgotten why you lost contact with your closest friend but you haven’t forgotten the days you invited him over to play video games and instead conducted two-man airsoft skirmishes in the forest behind your house
nor have you forgotten the short films you created, in which you portrayed a murderous Bosnian chef who cooked toxic meals, and he played the fourth-wall-breaking cameraman who hurled plastic bananas at your head as you ran through your unscripted spiel.
You still can't forget the weekends you’d bike to his house to point and cackle at comedy television, nor the nighttime drives during which you two would talk about where you wished to be in ten years: he in a log cabin nestled in a Finnish forest, you somewhere in France.
The younger you believed you’d grow alongside him and build those dreams.
Now you hope you’ll one day find him sweeping through the Finnish glades and he’ll ask you to walk with him.
Jun 22, 2017
Jun 22, 2017 at 5:28 PM UTC
You pointed the
Camera
You could
Have picked
Him up
Not only did
You shoot
You had to look
A message
To be sent
To those
Who are
Not listening
So, you had
To shoot
Before
Picking him up
I hope…….
Jul 3, 2016
Jul 3, 2016 at 6:14 AM UTC
mom would start in on god so fiercely that we became preoccupied with doors. we got to saying and I’m taking the baby with me at the close of anything said with passion. by the time our speaking allowed for speaking parts, you’d think a cameraman had asked to use the bathroom. father had his moments. being thin is an adventure. this egg has given me an idea for a different kind of chicken.
agewise, I was closer to my parents than most of the kids I knew of.
Jul 2, 2015
Jul 2, 2015 at 9:54 AM UTC
his life
my life
is built upon time lapse
bordered by chip shops
and Kit Kats
topped off by the old chaps
who meet down the green.
I have seen the cynical
join with the maniacal
to plot diabolical acts,
time lapse.
And the pollsters who all
think like gangsters,
Gotti taking shots at the
politicians and cops
topped off by doughnuts,
cold cuts are the best though.
Now there were ruins and now there were mansions
all in the blink of the cameraman's eye
high rise and low cloud
don't think I am too proud to
take your advice.
It stutters on taped to feelings long gone
and the time lapse
and the Trilby's and flat caps
and the Kit Kats
and the chip shops and
it seldom stops anywhere
where I could make a
comment,
torment?
my punishment
reliving through creased folds
on clean linen bedsheets.
There are the gaps in the time lapse
when I seem not to exist
as if part of my life
has been missed out,
on purpose?
Apr 21, 2017
Apr 21, 2017 at 11:57 AM UTC
*I'm always envious of the way the sun finds its way to the big screen,
The way the characters' eyes would sparkle and their smiles would shine.
Yet this same sun, that has eternally fed our small planet with its kindness
Always fails to find its way to my smile, as if I don't deserve its generosity.
I'm always envious of the way the wind knows the shooting locations,
How it arrives on time, when the heroine needs a little volume to her hair.
Yet this same wind has always taken my breath away, in the literal sense,
It doesn't know that it should do exactly that to the person in front of me.
I'm always envious of the way the waves meet the shore in perfect transcendence,
In time for the opening scene, from the very first take by the cameraman.
Yet those are the same waves that engulf me with their salty scent,
And drown every sandcastle that I've ever fancied visiting.
And I'm always envious of how selectivity sends the moon
To where a fictional plot is taking place, to grace a fictional character from her fictional window.
Yet my midnight has seen no moon, just a blanket of nothingness,
And it spreads to my room where my mind dreams of living eternally on set.*
Aug 12, 2016
Aug 12, 2016 at 6:55 PM UTC
no ones twenty one anyhow. it's some dumb **** job of being a cameraman for your own story. some tried, god forsaken job of the unambitious. i'd rather die of nothing and leave my film for someone else to takeover. take over from where i last took off. this twenty one means nothing. dad told always hit me. dad was a drunk. he was always twenty one. i would think twenty one forever. until the old dog dies. tired of recording everything my twenties has to offer. i'd rather be the electrician of this one. let me **** someone else's shabby little story. this is my shabby little story. dad used to tell me. always hit. always be twenty one.
no ones twenty one anyhow
Nov 16, 2018
Nov 16, 2018 at 12:57 PM UTC