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"cathode" poems
in the year 2462 those with nails protruding from their palms will talk in ancient tongues & sway the tribes of men to eternal love, & endless ammunition of the soul. spiritus. kin, galactic & the golden fire. throb the saga of man, into hip ****** illusions and combustive color schematas. we bury our dead in flower clippings or skull bits. [skateboarding rises as the highest form of intellectual sport] thrum and plum-bum the sewers of electric babylon. hive city reaching past gasp and wasteland, her lips ruinous. cement slabs and coils of fault with vast artistic possibilities. these skate-lords from their heaps, their clans, augmenting & rattling bone masks grinding themselves into meat-bit heroics & death. their teeth are yellowy awoken. this is all seen globally, via tele-cast-com-core-mind-warp-tech. or video. dreams impact reality impact dreams in such that the cathode cortex filter, invented circa 2222, evolves into a demi-god, a solar charged demon of unlimited knowledge. & it mutates the psychosphere  of our mainstream public mind with countless projected memories.         [streamed alternate realities] fills the belly and the brain, but all those unhooked are skating. sweet meat market. ghost harddrives. poor leftovers called children of the once-was-men & their poolside parties. they leap the rubble of centuries old plastic icons, their boards, their weapons, their seeds and spit. they hang chains from their necks & spew black flame from their sunshaded boot-click lickings. they drink from large bottlesof elixer distilled on old flowers & worship archaic cassettes. cults of cyborg women with gem-tipped-blade-additions carve wooden planks from groves of great oaks. great oaken powers. their creators chew gummies and bend time to uphold a proposed history of perfection. they master pong from their crystalline towers, & hire mathematicians to write conceptual skate-deck algorithms, solely for fun. non-profit.
0
Jul 18, 2014
Jul 18, 2014 at 5:49 AM UTC
CoopLee
future primitive
in the year 2462 those with nails protruding from their palms will talk in ancient tongues & sway the tribes of men to eternal love, & endless ammunition of the soul. spiritus. kin, galactic & the golden fire. throb the saga of man, into hip ****** illusions and combustive color schematas. we bury our dead in flower clippings or skull bits. [skateboarding rises as the highest form of intellectual sport] thrum and plum-bum the sewers of electric babylon. hive city reaching past gasp and wasteland, her lips ruinous. cement slabs and coils of fault with vast artistic possibilities. these skate-lords from their heaps, their clans, augmenting & rattling bone masks grinding themselves into meat-bit heroics & death. their teeth are yellowy awoken. this is all seen globally, via tele-cast-com-core-mind-warp-tech. or video. dreams impact reality impact dreams in such that the cathode cortex filter, invented circa 2222, evolves into a demi-god, a solar charged demon of unlimited knowledge. & it mutates the psychosphere  of our mainstream public mind with countless projected memories.         [streamed alternate realities] fills the belly and the brain, but all those unhooked are skating. sweet meat market. ghost harddrives. poor leftovers called children of the once-was-men & their poolside parties. they leap the rubble of centuries old plastic icons, their boards, their weapons, their seeds and spit. they hang chains from their necks & spew black flame from their sunshaded boot-click lickings. they drink from large bottlesof elixer distilled on old flowers & worship archaic cassettes. cults of cyborg women with gem-tipped-blade-additions carve wooden planks from groves of great oaks. great oaken powers. their creators chew gummies and bend time to uphold a proposed history of perfection. they master pong from their crystalline towers, & hire mathematicians to write conceptual skate-deck algorithms, solely for fun. non-profit.
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60
my body turns against my self in cathode shadow and a bone deep multiplication of cells
0
May 28, 2015
May 28, 2015 at 11:16 AM UTC
dazmb
Cathode shadow
my body turns against my self in cathode shadow and a bone deep multiplication of cells
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5
The anti-way is well portrayed on the cathode ray tube plugged into millions who let it pour into their tired brains, so for awhile, like two minutes, I turn it on to find out what the hell it thinks, and there are murders and happy salesman and bigfoot and pictures of Jamaica so I say, "Oh...that's what it's about..."
0
Feb 25, 2012
Feb 25, 2012 at 5:25 AM UTC
kongsaeng-chris-everson
Television
The anti-way is well portrayed on the cathode ray tube plugged into millions who let it pour into their tired brains, so for awhile, like two minutes, I turn it on to find out what the hell it thinks, and there are murders and happy salesman and bigfoot and pictures of Jamaica so I say, "Oh...that's what it's about..."
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18
there are only 5 seats and on each end are metal chapels. time slows down like a slug climbing a vertical wall, or say, a drunken man making his way towards the oblique recess. the ignominy of an exhausted carburetor is the orchestra for the night. lots of women go in and out, out and in, whichever is first, but the last is always just as bland as any other truth: we go, each foot splayed to cover measure, and in the flash of a scene, gone. I watch their skirts make gossamer tune, like some flotsam or a poised note being led straight to a trajectory disappearance: the idea of the image is to glide over them, over flesh, over this fetal smoke that I will soon toss right into the womb of nothing and fall flat as a key from a tone-deaf cathode, a spanked melodrama of television with dull cursive, or as lithe as justly, the right camber of blues ripping straight through my day-old denims, peering through the tease of a thigh’s penumbral shadow, the sound of the world being dragged into double-doors echoing a metonymy: *silence the interlocutor, her mouth full of birds. Dark birds.*
0
Feb 11, 2016
Feb 11, 2016 at 7:59 AM UTC
windsor-i-guadalupe-jr
Parking Lot Jam
there are only 5 seats and on each end are metal chapels. time slows down like a slug climbing a vertical wall, or say, a drunken man making his way towards the oblique recess. the ignominy of an exhausted carburetor is the orchestra for the night. lots of women go in and out, out and in, whichever is first, but the last is always just as bland as any other truth: we go, each foot splayed to cover measure, and in the flash of a scene, gone. I watch their skirts make gossamer tune, like some flotsam or a poised note being led straight to a trajectory disappearance: the idea of the image is to glide over them, over flesh, over this fetal smoke that I will soon toss right into the womb of nothing and fall flat as a key from a tone-deaf cathode, a spanked melodrama of television with dull cursive, or as lithe as justly, the right camber of blues ripping straight through my day-old denims, peering through the tease of a thigh’s penumbral shadow, the sound of the world being dragged into double-doors echoing a metonymy: *silence the interlocutor, her mouth full of birds. Dark birds.*
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26
cathode box frog. lung dead in a deep heap of old suns simply the rival of Hate's hate... a mute huzzah ! the treacherous velvet of a dead sleep masquerading as a chance in dyslexia......
0
Oct 27, 2012
Oct 27, 2012 at 12:23 PM UTC
third-eye-candy
television skin
cathode box frog. lung dead in a deep heap of old suns simply the rival of Hate's hate... a mute huzzah ! the treacherous velvet of a dead sleep masquerading as a chance in dyslexia......
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7
twinkle wrinkles, seen close up they are the tracks of wind driven tears on a sunburned face, at the edges of the eye, past the per if ery of what perfidy* made you think you saw. come see how come we saw too far and fell from grace to glory. That is the story. The good new on the old new built bottom up, like Gobekli-Tepi. --- horizons past the lusters after wisdom's arcane quarry --- we live, we learn, we die to know why and we do as soon as forever starts it never stopped, hence, forever is what we agree it is. This, now we remain in until we die, moments from now, then, now breathe or don't ultimately, whence comes the will to breathe? go on, answer. or ignor, innocence is no excuse, you know. these quest ions all have positive and negative points, anionics seek cationics, OHOH, what if cathode rays never got past the atmosphere, those are causing all the static-info-friction Bad vibe waves corrupting the qualcommsplitfreqs, left from millions of hours of I love Lucy and Dobie Gillis. Mr. Kruschev, build a wall. Show our boys their counterparts failing to escape, crucified on barbed wire west of the Brandenburg Gate, Bel's gate, arche de tri'umph, eh? Confusion won the war, but war won't work here. NULL ified it, we did, into the NULL with all its lies each time we catch one. As good as never was. *Poet's Policy of acknowledging previous ignorances, acts of ignoring resulting, effectively, in wasted years perfidy (n.) means since 1590s, from Middle French perfidie (16c.), from Latin perfidia  "faithlessness, falsehood, treachery," from perfidus"faithless," from phrase per fidem decipere  "to deceive through trustingness," from per "through" (from PIE root *per- (1) "forward," hence "through") + fidem (nominative fides) "faith" (from PIE root *bheidh- "to trust, confide, persuade"). [C]ombinations of wickedness would overwhelm the world by the advantage which licentious principles afford, did not those who have long practiced perfidy grow faithless to each other. [Samuel Johnson, "Life of Waller"] From <https://www.etymonline.com/word/perfidy#etymonline_v_12685>
0
Oct 23, 2018
Oct 23, 2018 at 5:03 PM UTC
kenpepiton
Smile Lines
twinkle wrinkles, seen close up they are the tracks of wind driven tears on a sunburned face, at the edges of the eye, past the per if ery of what perfidy* made you think you saw. come see how come we saw too far and fell from grace to glory. That is the story. The good new on the old new built bottom up, like Gobekli-Tepi. --- horizons past the lusters after wisdom's arcane quarry --- we live, we learn, we die to know why and we do as soon as forever starts it never stopped, hence, forever is what we agree it is. This, now we remain in until we die, moments from now, then, now breathe or don't ultimately, whence comes the will to breathe? go on, answer. or ignor, innocence is no excuse, you know. these quest ions all have positive and negative points, anionics seek cationics, OHOH, what if cathode rays never got past the atmosphere, those are causing all the static-info-friction Bad vibe waves corrupting the qualcommsplitfreqs, left from millions of hours of I love Lucy and Dobie Gillis. Mr. Kruschev, build a wall. Show our boys their counterparts failing to escape, crucified on barbed wire west of the Brandenburg Gate, Bel's gate, arche de tri'umph, eh? Confusion won the war, but war won't work here. NULL ified it, we did, into the NULL with all its lies each time we catch one. As good as never was. *Poet's Policy of acknowledging previous ignorances, acts of ignoring resulting, effectively, in wasted years perfidy (n.) means since 1590s, from Middle French perfidie (16c.), from Latin perfidia  "faithlessness, falsehood, treachery," from perfidus"faithless," from phrase per fidem decipere  "to deceive through trustingness," from per "through" (from PIE root *per- (1) "forward," hence "through") + fidem (nominative fides) "faith" (from PIE root *bheidh- "to trust, confide, persuade"). [C]ombinations of wickedness would overwhelm the world by the advantage which licentious principles afford, did not those who have long practiced perfidy grow faithless to each other. [Samuel Johnson, "Life of Waller"] From <https://www.etymonline.com/word/perfidy#etymonline_v_12685>
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47
WISH I HAD ALL SEEING CATHODE RAY GOD VISION, DISCERN DYING LOVE IN YOUR SMILING EYES, INDIFFERENCES GERMING, PITIES FORMING, WORMING UNCARES, WARMTHS  IN HEARTS COOLING, ELSE A SIGN, A ***** WITHER, EYES WRINKLE, AN OUT WARD SIGN YOU CHANGED, HATE SEEDED! THE SOUL DYING, SHOWED IN YOUR PRETTY FACE. ANY SYMPTOM, HORNS GROWING, SKIN CORNING, MUCH AS I TRY, OUT OF BOUND ARE INNARDS REAL, THE MIND FATHOM ALL, IS A TASK HERCULEAN! SO I TRY THE HEART, AND MISERABLY DO FAIL, IT DOES KNOW ONLY A THING, MY LOVE STRONG BUT INCAPABLE! LOVE HAS TAKEN FLIGHT, SO I DO TRY WORDS POETIC, ESSAYING SERMONS, SELF CUT ****** BARE. BUT THOU ART A SHELL, HARD TO BREAK, SOFTNESS INSIDE, UNKNOWN TO YOU, THUS IMPOSSIBLE FOR ME! FLOWER, IF YOU CAN, SO I CAN DRINK.ENABLE AND ENNOBLE US, COME IN TO EACH, FUSE AND BLOSSOM! ELSE MY ANGELS, MAKE THE OUTWARD CHANGE, BASED ON THE INSIDE, A SIGN TO UNDERSTAND AND FATHOM! OBSOLETE IS MIND, SEEMS HEART MORE SO.MAY SIGNS SPEAK AND SHOW ALL, THE IN ON THE OUT, PLAIN TRUTH! WORSE STILL, I MAY SEEM THE SAME TO YOU, THE WORLD, THIS I AM NOT, NOR ARE YOU. LETS BREAK IN!
0
Sep 1, 2012
Sep 1, 2012 at 8:03 AM UTC
max-chelur-the-hermits-corner
THE INNARDS OUTSIDE-SIGNS.
WISH I HAD ALL SEEING CATHODE RAY GOD VISION, DISCERN DYING LOVE IN YOUR SMILING EYES, INDIFFERENCES GERMING, PITIES FORMING, WORMING UNCARES, WARMTHS  IN HEARTS COOLING, ELSE A SIGN, A ***** WITHER, EYES WRINKLE, AN OUT WARD SIGN YOU CHANGED, HATE SEEDED! THE SOUL DYING, SHOWED IN YOUR PRETTY FACE. ANY SYMPTOM, HORNS GROWING, SKIN CORNING, MUCH AS I TRY, OUT OF BOUND ARE INNARDS REAL, THE MIND FATHOM ALL, IS A TASK HERCULEAN! SO I TRY THE HEART, AND MISERABLY DO FAIL, IT DOES KNOW ONLY A THING, MY LOVE STRONG BUT INCAPABLE! LOVE HAS TAKEN FLIGHT, SO I DO TRY WORDS POETIC, ESSAYING SERMONS, SELF CUT ****** BARE. BUT THOU ART A SHELL, HARD TO BREAK, SOFTNESS INSIDE, UNKNOWN TO YOU, THUS IMPOSSIBLE FOR ME! FLOWER, IF YOU CAN, SO I CAN DRINK.ENABLE AND ENNOBLE US, COME IN TO EACH, FUSE AND BLOSSOM! ELSE MY ANGELS, MAKE THE OUTWARD CHANGE, BASED ON THE INSIDE, A SIGN TO UNDERSTAND AND FATHOM! OBSOLETE IS MIND, SEEMS HEART MORE SO.MAY SIGNS SPEAK AND SHOW ALL, THE IN ON THE OUT, PLAIN TRUTH! WORSE STILL, I MAY SEEM THE SAME TO YOU, THE WORLD, THIS I AM NOT, NOR ARE YOU. LETS BREAK IN!
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12
deep ocean steel challenger deep steel abyssal like a bulkhead behind the temple like lapis lazuli fleeing something the closest thing to life that isn’t living i’ll put you up against my flesh and compare and contrast fleeting images of cold rainstorms and flashes of light flashy blade from far away, a signal candid steel lucid steel halcyon mute sensations in a cathode ray tube except in exactitude unmatched and louder than the loudest vocal cord vibration and silent too, not a breath escapes the hostage with steel against its trachea unsolicited speed home run thrown into the wall stud luxurious scentless tasteless and so rich and tasteful and sensual if I’m in love with you steel, I must be a necrophiliac or not
0
May 28, 2016
May 28, 2016 at 10:31 PM UTC
z-m-scholl
Steel Song
deep ocean steel challenger deep steel abyssal like a bulkhead behind the temple like lapis lazuli fleeing something the closest thing to life that isn’t living i’ll put you up against my flesh and compare and contrast fleeting images of cold rainstorms and flashes of light flashy blade from far away, a signal candid steel lucid steel halcyon mute sensations in a cathode ray tube except in exactitude unmatched and louder than the loudest vocal cord vibration and silent too, not a breath escapes the hostage with steel against its trachea unsolicited speed home run thrown into the wall stud luxurious scentless tasteless and so rich and tasteful and sensual if I’m in love with you steel, I must be a necrophiliac or not
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31
In here everything attempts to be infinite – that when utterances free themselves from mouth’s dungeon it may all be but locutionary. This is your leitmotif. To have your darkness breed flaxen hair, and in a split-second your eyes in their deep epistaxis of blackness follow me with the drone of such machine. This unmethodical severance; something drastic by necessity, but does not strike with the same accuracy of necessary haunts. Back when I was young, I had no picture of ravens. You, screaming all across the yard of your rawness, fracturing the morning. The trees with their shadows strode in stilts – the span of such winged vestige, I thought, on the sterile concrete was the virginal image of ravens. Even the rain is able in that awning fount. The sound of tranquil is the water pipe left pouring, draining itself of its entirety. Fire hydrants inflamed, grow jealous of such catharsis. The bus, running over a pile of garbage, is never off-tangent. I do not know if you have still the memory of this place – if you look back too near, wide-eyed, and surgery-precise, or if you are to trail back too far, the settings will only pulse with a life you used to know, and adjustments we are not inured to: if you are to take this dream of fish out of sleep’s water, it will fade into a cathode. It had in its forgetfulness, something still the moon is a raven in a knell of silence. If you are to come back here, everyone is stranger than they were when you left, and that what used to pass on as answers are now mauled into fustian of enigmas. The din of such demeanor, electric and tense – so swell you can feel it close in like some pain masquerading itself into a close encounter with the sheen of pristine moment; but pain is in media res and to look at you merely, a disappearance       or a terminal finish .
0
Feb 1, 2016
Feb 1, 2016 at 10:55 AM UTC
windsor-i-guadalupe-jr
In media res
In here everything attempts to be infinite – that when utterances free themselves from mouth’s dungeon it may all be but locutionary. This is your leitmotif. To have your darkness breed flaxen hair, and in a split-second your eyes in their deep epistaxis of blackness follow me with the drone of such machine. This unmethodical severance; something drastic by necessity, but does not strike with the same accuracy of necessary haunts. Back when I was young, I had no picture of ravens. You, screaming all across the yard of your rawness, fracturing the morning. The trees with their shadows strode in stilts – the span of such winged vestige, I thought, on the sterile concrete was the virginal image of ravens. Even the rain is able in that awning fount. The sound of tranquil is the water pipe left pouring, draining itself of its entirety. Fire hydrants inflamed, grow jealous of such catharsis. The bus, running over a pile of garbage, is never off-tangent. I do not know if you have still the memory of this place – if you look back too near, wide-eyed, and surgery-precise, or if you are to trail back too far, the settings will only pulse with a life you used to know, and adjustments we are not inured to: if you are to take this dream of fish out of sleep’s water, it will fade into a cathode. It had in its forgetfulness, something still the moon is a raven in a knell of silence. If you are to come back here, everyone is stranger than they were when you left, and that what used to pass on as answers are now mauled into fustian of enigmas. The din of such demeanor, electric and tense – so swell you can feel it close in like some pain masquerading itself into a close encounter with the sheen of pristine moment; but pain is in media res and to look at you merely, a disappearance       or a terminal finish .
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40
A ring, Soo many give one without thinking twice, A king, A queen, Is there no wrong nor any right? A bolter I hold at the end of the stick, Tired ripped, shot down as me. Burdened fish to thine sea, Oh creator? Didst thou maketh me one? I am thy own son, yes? Bypass all the rest, for I will find one brand new, A brand of secretive muse, a piracy smuggled in.. To cleanse me from sin's, external, and  internal put.. Eyes to see all miracolous, no more plankness of soot. Boreal freshness to tease this European glosser, For dare I wish , this I do mindful reader.. Immaculate soother, one to bare these holes in hands, To take this crown of thorns, as I. For no saint I am. I want no cathode, but the exact alike, Where thou giveth her thine life, and the return comes full payment, I want no show, I seek no entertainment, But as a priest in ordainment, I seek a high chemical capsules cannot plot you. A spirit see through, Transparent as thy ghost!!!!!! A special toast of winding hills, and pickled thoughts, Where nothings sold nor lost, but catheter to ways unknown!!! Excreta to flow from our kisses, as our lips grown close by stitches, and hands go glued by palms... A father and dame, a betwixting so tame, nothing worldly can  be so exclusive! I want one who shall exude me, To move me, To shake me in earthquake foundation's.... One of spiraled radiation.
0
May 12, 2015
May 12, 2015 at 9:04 AM UTC
brandon-nagley
armila to give one
A ring, Soo many give one without thinking twice, A king, A queen, Is there no wrong nor any right? A bolter I hold at the end of the stick, Tired ripped, shot down as me. Burdened fish to thine sea, Oh creator? Didst thou maketh me one? I am thy own son, yes? Bypass all the rest, for I will find one brand new, A brand of secretive muse, a piracy smuggled in.. To cleanse me from sin's, external, and  internal put.. Eyes to see all miracolous, no more plankness of soot. Boreal freshness to tease this European glosser, For dare I wish , this I do mindful reader.. Immaculate soother, one to bare these holes in hands, To take this crown of thorns, as I. For no saint I am. I want no cathode, but the exact alike, Where thou giveth her thine life, and the return comes full payment, I want no show, I seek no entertainment, But as a priest in ordainment, I seek a high chemical capsules cannot plot you. A spirit see through, Transparent as thy ghost!!!!!! A special toast of winding hills, and pickled thoughts, Where nothings sold nor lost, but catheter to ways unknown!!! Excreta to flow from our kisses, as our lips grown close by stitches, and hands go glued by palms... A father and dame, a betwixting so tame, nothing worldly can  be so exclusive! I want one who shall exude me, To move me, To shake me in earthquake foundation's.... One of spiraled radiation.
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34
clothed only in electrons insinuating beneath my skin hard-wired into random memories she radiates a cathode glow scanning, scanning through my screen-shot eyes her pulsating presence at such a frequency as to appear solid tinkling giggles broadcast over my headset watching my groping hand finding only illusion
0
Mar 11, 2015
Mar 11, 2015 at 2:45 AM UTC
joel-m-frye
cybersated
clothed only in electrons insinuating beneath my skin hard-wired into random memories she radiates a cathode glow scanning, scanning through my screen-shot eyes her pulsating presence at such a frequency as to appear solid tinkling giggles broadcast over my headset watching my groping hand finding only illusion
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13
The powerful man Pitchfork-armed, chasing the girl Tine-first, ready to strike She is today’s unfortunate rage object Hapless, wrongless victim Weaponless, shieldless casualty He is blind privilege righteous Incandescent from his latest, baseless, graceless gotcha! Forehead veins pulse sickly blue-green Gas giant magnitude pupils Each aperture an onyx void Irony in sympathetic nervous system arousal If he can wound her – really break her, he will quiet that feeling The one that creeps and gnaws Whisper screaming Especially at night Impossible conscience Poor Jiminy Cricket Eyes sticky with tears Best efforts in vain How do we retain compassion? Scaffold empathy? Bolster sanity? While absorbing the violence Of the man who flattens his beer cans    with a hydraulic pancake car crusher who cuts his delicate finger sandwiches    with a restored 1790s guillotine who sets his table    with longsword steak knives    and matching pitchforks    a set, for special occasions Vast energy required to remain soft When distant and diamond hard Is the path of no resistance All this energy Feels wasted Why can’t we collect it? Battery store it? Pitchfork narcissist anode Empath cathode Could power a city Energy crisis solved
0
Oct 4, 2024
Oct 4, 2024 at 9:29 PM UTC
jill_1
Newest renewable energy
The powerful man Pitchfork-armed, chasing the girl Tine-first, ready to strike She is today’s unfortunate rage object Hapless, wrongless victim Weaponless, shieldless casualty He is blind privilege righteous Incandescent from his latest, baseless, graceless gotcha! Forehead veins pulse sickly blue-green Gas giant magnitude pupils Each aperture an onyx void Irony in sympathetic nervous system arousal If he can wound her – really break her, he will quiet that feeling The one that creeps and gnaws Whisper screaming Especially at night Impossible conscience Poor Jiminy Cricket Eyes sticky with tears Best efforts in vain How do we retain compassion? Scaffold empathy? Bolster sanity? While absorbing the violence Of the man who flattens his beer cans    with a hydraulic pancake car crusher who cuts his delicate finger sandwiches    with a restored 1790s guillotine who sets his table    with longsword steak knives    and matching pitchforks    a set, for special occasions Vast energy required to remain soft When distant and diamond hard Is the path of no resistance All this energy Feels wasted Why can’t we collect it? Battery store it? Pitchfork narcissist anode Empath cathode Could power a city Energy crisis solved
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47
A jump start to a starved heart and we're all locked into the grid, we belong and though some long to be their destiny is a lonely place. I face those disapproving looks those look at him looks and at times think life ***** but then they put the implants in and switched on the juice. It's like being in a bowl with a hole drilled into my head I have to tread carefully and watch my Ps and Q's while they abuse me. If I attach the electrodes to the diodes and the cathode tube explodes they'll say I was trying to escape into the series and unlock the grid what they don't know is I did.
0
Apr 12, 2017
Apr 12, 2017 at 12:35 PM UTC
john-edward-smallshaw
Alligator clips
A jump start to a starved heart and we're all locked into the grid, we belong and though some long to be their destiny is a lonely place. I face those disapproving looks those look at him looks and at times think life ***** but then they put the implants in and switched on the juice. It's like being in a bowl with a hole drilled into my head I have to tread carefully and watch my Ps and Q's while they abuse me. If I attach the electrodes to the diodes and the cathode tube explodes they'll say I was trying to escape into the series and unlock the grid what they don't know is I did.
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18
sometimes i like to write in a hurried spontaneous fashion without punctuation or second thought which is fine as as one grows longer in the olden wolf tooth spontaneous acts becoming rather short and might limit themselves in the god **** supermarkets or something but these poems if indeed that is what then might be called last for quite a short time this illuminates certain aspects and darkens the other things sometimes i am amazed when they make any sense at all but to be always considering pontificating overthinking in every god **** excuse my french is worse then dying and as the people on the cathode ray say or the man in his office says just doing it oh lord so let the first things be first of course this may end in prison or hospital or the like but there are those and i salute and drink the finest red to their brave and adventures health warning..music break..
0
Sep 20, 2018
Sep 20, 2018 at 4:48 AM UTC
michael-john
sometimes i like to write
sometimes i like to write in a hurried spontaneous fashion without punctuation or second thought which is fine as as one grows longer in the olden wolf tooth spontaneous acts becoming rather short and might limit themselves in the god **** supermarkets or something but these poems if indeed that is what then might be called last for quite a short time this illuminates certain aspects and darkens the other things sometimes i am amazed when they make any sense at all but to be always considering pontificating overthinking in every god **** excuse my french is worse then dying and as the people on the cathode ray say or the man in his office says just doing it oh lord so let the first things be first of course this may end in prison or hospital or the like but there are those and i salute and drink the finest red to their brave and adventures health warning..music break..
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20
_I am the Empire in the last of its decline, That sees the tall, fair-haired Barbarians pass,--the while Composing indolent acrostics, in a style Of gold, with languid sunshine dancing in each line._ -Paul Verlaine, "Melancholy" I am the Empire, in decline. The elm tree is yellowing; the rain-arm is broadcasting from the cloud station. I am the once-loved voice, now a tired smear of memory; the ghost of a market thrill, a bed of smoke, a red register. I am the Barbarian, grown fat after the stuttering blonde pyres are stilled: finger-flickers of ash. I am the white noise nocturne after the rerun is over. I am the cathode ray, the scent in the glass. I am the Empire, in decline.
0
Sep 30, 2022
Sep 30, 2022 at 1:53 PM UTC
EvanS
"I am the Empire"
_I am the Empire in the last of its decline, That sees the tall, fair-haired Barbarians pass,--the while Composing indolent acrostics, in a style Of gold, with languid sunshine dancing in each line._ -Paul Verlaine, "Melancholy" I am the Empire, in decline. The elm tree is yellowing; the rain-arm is broadcasting from the cloud station. I am the once-loved voice, now a tired smear of memory; the ghost of a market thrill, a bed of smoke, a red register. I am the Barbarian, grown fat after the stuttering blonde pyres are stilled: finger-flickers of ash. I am the white noise nocturne after the rerun is over. I am the cathode ray, the scent in the glass. I am the Empire, in decline.
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20
He eschewed the Spotlight until he was 83, Then, like a craven child, he leaps, He totters into a cold cathode pool and is centre stage. The fledgling son of and upended bride; Stage fright perhaps, Trapped in a freeze frame of fear, Till now at 83, Clear just to be. Centre stage his rage is vaulted across an empty house, The words of a tired and tested former son of a bishops daughter, The lines of his life relished in anger and vile plots now twisted to ply his crowd with tales of blame. Yet, he who was Puck is now a king. Weak no more, vaulting from some horse, lancing the beast that has held him down, Standing for something more than his shabby past. He was 83, when with glee, he became his own life paradoy, The fool becomes a king.
0
Nov 6, 2019
Nov 6, 2019 at 3:32 PM UTC
Penned_in67
In the Spotlight
He eschewed the Spotlight until he was 83, Then, like a craven child, he leaps, He totters into a cold cathode pool and is centre stage. The fledgling son of and upended bride; Stage fright perhaps, Trapped in a freeze frame of fear, Till now at 83, Clear just to be. Centre stage his rage is vaulted across an empty house, The words of a tired and tested former son of a bishops daughter, The lines of his life relished in anger and vile plots now twisted to ply his crowd with tales of blame. Yet, he who was Puck is now a king. Weak no more, vaulting from some horse, lancing the beast that has held him down, Standing for something more than his shabby past. He was 83, when with glee, he became his own life paradoy, The fool becomes a king.
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15
oh LCD night! the incandescent yesterday is burning to the touch-- my cathode-ray tube dreams, once switched off, leave a film of electricty that leaves a shock on your finger whenever you touch the doorknob. the streetlights turn off when i step under them and only when i look to them they glow. i must have passed by this light a thousand times and not once did i stop and think of it as anything but a dim, yellowed, moth-ridden reminder of the departed souls of roadkill underneath. how many secrets are hidden beneath this concrete? how much bubbling rage does gravel conceal?
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Oct 10, 2019
Oct 10, 2019 at 2:17 PM UTC
effieebbtide
incandescent yesterday
oh LCD night! the incandescent yesterday is burning to the touch-- my cathode-ray tube dreams, once switched off, leave a film of electricty that leaves a shock on your finger whenever you touch the doorknob. the streetlights turn off when i step under them and only when i look to them they glow. i must have passed by this light a thousand times and not once did i stop and think of it as anything but a dim, yellowed, moth-ridden reminder of the departed souls of roadkill underneath. how many secrets are hidden beneath this concrete? how much bubbling rage does gravel conceal?
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14
Proud of This?(Terrestrial Entanglement) A toss; ruminating murmurs echoically stir me from my vision, eyes pulled to a close...at once they shutter open to attain the light that flashed between my waking sight and where I found myself just before. A turn; lavish sound corrupts my perception from an active interface; to cathode radiant coincidence. Coinciding incidents, to be most literal. In crude paraphrase "I'm not going to begin to act like I understand paradox'"...an ironic character movement that summated what i saw as a whole...a fish-eye take on the constitution of your shape, peering wildly; might I add mirroring my own resolve; as real as static screen splashed across the blank canvas. That which is the void within a blink..a twitching lens advance.."what are you looking for?" The chills...electromagnetic allowance...lasting the length of the slight a second-hand travels. "why were you looking there?" One man's hell is some woman's seemingly, audio-visual hallucinatory lectern. From wherefore all is one and none are spared. An exponential singularity, turning in and out and on itself until one is many. Too many to count; see where this is going or don't..."don't go!" or "is this where the sea opens up?" No. One man's hallucination is another man's seemingly orthodox dream, teeming with deja vu, but then again tomorrow is the only time you'll know the night before. Astral apprehension... Differentiate the physical form; a fraction of true manifestation; the spirits been warned. Fractally wandering this fatal wonderment. What was I thinking? Was i waking? Was I dreaming? "why were you looking for..."
0
Apr 22, 2017
Apr 22, 2017 at 3:16 PM UTC
jeremy-burmeister
Proud of This (Terrestrial Entanglement)
Proud of This?(Terrestrial Entanglement) A toss; ruminating murmurs echoically stir me from my vision, eyes pulled to a close...at once they shutter open to attain the light that flashed between my waking sight and where I found myself just before. A turn; lavish sound corrupts my perception from an active interface; to cathode radiant coincidence. Coinciding incidents, to be most literal. In crude paraphrase "I'm not going to begin to act like I understand paradox'"...an ironic character movement that summated what i saw as a whole...a fish-eye take on the constitution of your shape, peering wildly; might I add mirroring my own resolve; as real as static screen splashed across the blank canvas. That which is the void within a blink..a twitching lens advance.."what are you looking for?" The chills...electromagnetic allowance...lasting the length of the slight a second-hand travels. "why were you looking there?" One man's hell is some woman's seemingly, audio-visual hallucinatory lectern. From wherefore all is one and none are spared. An exponential singularity, turning in and out and on itself until one is many. Too many to count; see where this is going or don't..."don't go!" or "is this where the sea opens up?" No. One man's hallucination is another man's seemingly orthodox dream, teeming with deja vu, but then again tomorrow is the only time you'll know the night before. Astral apprehension... Differentiate the physical form; a fraction of true manifestation; the spirits been warned. Fractally wandering this fatal wonderment. What was I thinking? Was i waking? Was I dreaming? "why were you looking for..."
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4
I’m opening my chest Handing out ribs for everyone Each person a shard of time Each glass splinter from the cage that locketed my heart Can you imagine the carnival **** for my death Crystalline creation cremated for wax Candles made from me bleed Ossified dribbles of molten mass Dehydrate, to dust and snort my being I can take a nail to each joint Contort ligaments Hexagram my body parts to a plywood headstone Force a blood curse on this carcass **** my mouth with your tears Take photos of my death Spread it all over the time segments Shove it in every iris space Trapped in the black hole for eternity A moment it’s happened The light can’t be taken back It can bend and refract but is forced to bounce around forever. Photons of evil. A martyr of existance.
0
Jan 3, 2020
Jan 3, 2020 at 6:27 PM UTC
Lendonpartain
Cathode ray projection and objectification of human suffering
I’m opening my chest Handing out ribs for everyone Each person a shard of time Each glass splinter from the cage that locketed my heart Can you imagine the carnival **** for my death Crystalline creation cremated for wax Candles made from me bleed Ossified dribbles of molten mass Dehydrate, to dust and snort my being I can take a nail to each joint Contort ligaments Hexagram my body parts to a plywood headstone Force a blood curse on this carcass **** my mouth with your tears Take photos of my death Spread it all over the time segments Shove it in every iris space Trapped in the black hole for eternity A moment it’s happened The light can’t be taken back It can bend and refract but is forced to bounce around forever. Photons of evil. A martyr of existance.
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