"cinematography" poems
Magick 13
My rhymes periglacial slash through foes ****** leavin' corrupted maxillofacial stay laced with the coco
Til my nose blow out nothing but deadly keys makin' monopolies at ease see my desert ease
Could make the devil freeze with the beautiful ephipanies laid though my flow cinematography ain't no fictions here G
My pedigrees been deadly since the age of three
First sips of Hennessy pictured a glare of my enemies stories of me biblically
Born a David killin' Goliath's society defiant
Knock down the orders in the cornered borders
Of the Jesuit I'm the black Pope
Elope to the celestials gods that rope
My mind hanging on to the highs of the ****
Better yet the marijuana sneaky as an anaconda
Once I tighten cells begin biting
Fighting tryna stay alive like Bee Gees
Fiendin' for my lost dynasties kin to Nefertiti since I ****** on *******
As a baby I got a taste of the universe thoughts deeper than a hearse words hurts exciting flirts beating all perks through my vengeful works
My alias an archangel leave the game triangled Titan mentality dribble like Cousy so you might loose me?
Sick with the tracks axe minds like Moses to the red sea knockin' down Rome legacy
Back on top like the greatest plot dimensions traveler like Bishop
Capitalizin' land plots I be the Black Wieshaupt
Aug 27, 2018
Aug 27, 2018 at 9:03 AM UTC
“And then, you’d break his heart.’
‘I can’t ever think I could do that. I couldn’t break anyone’s heart.’
You look at me. The tempting colour of your eyes dilates into grey. A blank moment; a break in the cinematography.
At night, I can’t sleep because your smell lingers on me like cheap perfume.
What do I do, what do I do?
Jun 10, 2015
Jun 10, 2015 at 5:59 PM UTC
**** you.
**** you for being so far away
**** you for making me want you
I can say it certainly is not fair,
What is this, the ******* teacup ride?
I always hated the fair.
Fishing for plastic ducks and shooting impossible targets
Seems like a setup for failure to me.
**** you for making me take a look at myself in the mirror
And for making me ask questions
For making me lie
And for making me tell the truth.
Why can't things be easy?
Oh yeah, that's just not how it works around here.
**** you for making my imagination run wild.
For casting yourself in the movies my brain constantly films
And **** you for getting the cinematography just right.
I can't look away.
**** you because all I have is my imagination.
I can make you whomever I want you to be.
**** you for curling your hair and for having those lips
And for being comfortable with yourself around me
**** your small wrists and your quirky characteristics
Your eyeliner and your fingernails
**** your sparkling smile and your hips
And **** you for making me want you so bad.
**** me.
**** me for yearning.
**** me for learning
That it's not that simple,
That nothing is set in stone,
That people are confusing as hell.
**** me for taking the time to write this poem
**** how angry it's making me
And **** the fact that I'm writing it because of you.
Mar 28, 2014
Mar 28, 2014 at 4:33 PM UTC
We talk about the
past like it's a
movie we
watched together.
You liked the
cinematography.
I didn't care for the
cruelty of the
protagonist.
We disagree on the
theme, and every
scene holds different
aspects of
symbolism for us.
I'm not sure I want
there to be a sequel,
despite the good
acting.
Jun 8, 2025
Jun 8, 2025 at 11:00 AM UTC
Yeah it's one shot one ****
Plottin' against my enemies will soon to be killed
Bullets feedin' ya last meal
Dope rhymes sedatin' like pharmacy pills
Since hataz got no chill heads I'll drill now you leakin' out like oil spills
Or a radiator angelic caters none could create a
Flows nasty as mine poppin' a multiplicity of shells I'm one of a kind
Thoughts intertwined
****** into a demons intervention contenders in suspension from the soul lynching
Caught in the realms of heaven and hell & you can smell
The ashes burning fermentin'
time runnin' slower than molasses
My murders be classic enemies dramatic causin' static
Shoot more than Bird combined with Magic
Workin' my Johnson on the tracks tonsils sittin' as a hip hop consul underground magul
**** longer than Repunzels hair follicles
Cookin' up sigils into a *** of gold no rainbow snortin' sir nose
D'void of Funk rattlin' the earth from the bass in my trunk blazin' skunks
Abraxas I'm embracin' one of my goetias when facin' ain't no replacin'
Fools givin' chase
and to tastes of demonic faces
My flows replenish like **** laces
Blunts turn into ashes dump it out on the masses
Epidemic mase deaden your pace hazardous like toxic waste
Adversaries don't wanna face
Off like Nicolas to Travolta livin' in an ultra violent culture
Cleatin' into ya flesh I be the stalkin' Vulture mulchin' ya
'til ya
A dissembled particle blank photo in the article from curvin' emcees with my surgical
lyrical sickle stare into ya eyes as the blood trickles
Down ya body you easily brickled rhymes artificial
My soul sour as a pickle no tickles
Could move me or influence thee my legacy
Lay cinematography like A. Hitchcock in the 50s huh
Ya soon to be a death reel for thrills
Rememeber
All I need is one shot one **** forreal!!!!
Aug 27, 2018
Aug 27, 2018 at 4:57 PM UTC
you love him
you love his smooth hands and his rough cheek
you love your hands in his denim shirt
and the cinematography of you together
everything else is an afterthought
the knife in his eyes that is not always pointed at you
but when it is
you kiss the fist that rattles plates
the lips that wrap around clenched teeth
melt him
fail to understand his poison tipped arrows
that are aimed at the mother who threw bottles
if he could only pick one more fight it'd be with his father
you kiss him when he knocks his brother's teeth out
he leaves in the morning for coffee and comes back a day later
welcome him with open arms and abundant questions
he will be a tower of irritation and concrete
he will point fingers that will curl into fists
but they are not fists for you
they are for the devils that dance within him
and behind his wild eyes
and in his childhood home
you will not be fooled
he loves you
you know by every sweetheart and the lips on your forehead and the way he smells in between the sheets each night
he leaves
he comes back
purple flowers that bloom around his eyes are the bouquets he brings home for you
the front porch sags when he puts his hands in his pockets
his face buried in your chest
on nights when the lamp swings a little too low
and his body is wracked with sobbing and shoulders shaking
he mourns the gentle temper he never had
he mourns what he would be like without you
he mourns what you would be like without him
this is how he loves you
your hands in his hair easing soothing shh shh
you are the mother who left
you are better than every last ex-girlfriend
for reasons he will be happy to name
this is how you love him
you came because you are drawn to the shipwrecks
but you stayed in the water for him
ancient child
furious soul
you salt his wounds
and then you clean them
this is how you love him
Mar 25, 2014
Mar 25, 2014 at 12:46 AM UTC
The tundra drips Wild West like bad cinematography in theaters emptied out like popcorn bags
Desolation finds me staying warm
My blood may be the only boiling hope in this land
Trails of DNA on old bandages asking someone to look at my scars to prove my time here
My time is measured with broken wind dial microphones
Screaming for AED support bands
Artificial shock therapy reminding me there is still time
That this life is not leaking moments of divided glory
This moment right now...
Will never happen again
Feb 3, 2015
Feb 3, 2015 at 12:25 PM UTC
last time I saw you,
I sunk into film
until my eyes were deep enough
to see that off-white show flickering
in the distance.
over and over again,
the leading male’s heroine
with red lips and sharp shoulders
stuck the needle in the bend of her arm
until her windows were worth a quarter each
and her bubble gum
was infected.
yes,
your cinematography is gripping:
I can almost see what she doesn’t want you to know
I can almost see her mother’s first chance
to become her father’s last chance
at owning a pick-up truck
with blankets in the back
and two dimes and a nickel
worth of whatever you are now.
lady,
this placebo effect
has gone too far.
you are not the main attraction
to this drive-in,
your name should only be in lights
when you want it to be.
May 25, 2015
May 25, 2015 at 6:07 PM UTC
Dear girl who dreams of my manic pixie nightmare
You are the one I never expected to meet
I am the one you have met a million times before
You're the girl obsessed with film craving invasion on television screens, propagandist **** muse, docs and a **** cut
I'm the girl obsessed with ******** and using boundaries as skipping ropes or thread to turn my hair to tapestry
You're Bowie
I'm Hendrix
You like visuals, shapes and sound and pretty cinematography and things I can't understand, your mind is a transcript in calligraphy I can't decipher,
I like books that come in three and getting to the end and not knowing how to live anymore
You're brimming full of hope and dreams and set lighting
I'm disappointment and drowning shame in the bottom of tumblers, spilling the leftovers into quotable dialogue
You're too good for my obscenity to taint, you can't find what you're looking for in me
I'll be your undoing spiralling constantly in a figure 8
You are the manic pixie dream girl we've all been searching for
May 17, 2015
May 17, 2015 at 6:21 PM UTC
You see,
The thing
About love
Like
Daphne's and Simon's
And love
Like
Anthony's and Kate's
Is that
It is a love
So beautiful
So heart wrenching
But it is a love
That is only found
in the spectacles of
Great performers and
Electric artists
It is a love
That exists solely
In the world of
Cinematography and
In the pages of
A fine book
Only brought to life
By the our very own
Human nature
Our very own
Human desire
To want
To feel
To need and
To experience more
Just more...
-fir.m
Apr 2, 2022
Apr 2, 2022 at 2:16 PM UTC
Oblivious to arcane mishaps
That ****** the bones established by society
The echo of her tattoo sings of a great depression
Each time the memory surfaces,
A twisted grin is born
Perhaps this could be the preluding window to existential purgatory
Sep 7, 2012
Sep 7, 2012 at 10:55 PM UTC
the world is adorned with a million windows
the bleakest night has a thousand eyes
daylight shines into the globes darkest corners
truth will ultimately expose all lies
NASA’s satellites circle
Tropic of Cancer latitudes
cameras pinpoint the disease
metastasizing in the body of Homs
from stratospheric limits
sensitive lenses read the names
magic markers have scrawled
onto white sheets covering the dead
YouTube gets Oscar consideration
for grisly cinematography
a real-time visceral docudrama
of panting fascists gleefully tramping
through the desecrated streets
coolly administering a coup de gras
to a city on its knees, pleading release
from an **** of incessant bloodletting
twitter records desperate tweets
the batting wings of endangered flocks
furiously thumbing into the blogosphere
calls for UN intervention that falls on blind eyes
BBC reportage,
the global gold standard
for journalistic excellence
scoops the stories
of London based FSA partisans
awaiting repatriation to scatter
Bashar’s Kodachrome killers
Has the All Seeing Eye
who has graced us with sight
laughingly curse us with vision?
Does the
One Caring Eye of the Universe
bless us with perception
to haunt us with images?
Has
The One Thats Sees Everything
blinked closed the eye of compassion?
Has the horror of Homs
become too much even for
The Universal Eye of Love?
the opened eyes
of a dead child
reflects our
cold winter
of indifference
demoralizing
dehumanizing
a watching world
Music Selection
Grateful Dead Eyes of the World
Oakland
3/2/12
jbm
Mar 2, 2012
Mar 2, 2012 at 12:04 PM UTC
Callous sentences saunter into the quaintest of landmarks
Capturing the cinematography that is the mockery of felicity
At times I ponder on whether its veins quake with fear
In lieu of the eyes marring her with bullet holes
Whilst humming commemorative memories
That now lie lifeless just as the wealth of their youth
Aug 24, 2012
Aug 24, 2012 at 4:54 PM UTC
I used to be a vase
You used to have a young face
And he used to use me
And she used to see clearly.
Smashed
Squished
Newborn wrinkles cry.
Young
But old enough to know
To say no.
Fade out of life
Fade into death
The cinematography isn't right
Choppy transitions, patchy light,
Shade and sugar.
Yes, drug her.
I used to be a vase
Wrapped in paper, just in case.
May 13, 2013
May 13, 2013 at 4:23 PM UTC
*The cinematography, the imagery,
Visualizations, animation,
Those slow takes as the rain falls over the window
Behind which a girl rests her head
Looking out with dreamy eyes
Eyes, holding watery stories of a beautiful past
The door slams shut and
Out she comes
With winged feet and summer skin
Living in her head, she walks down by
Looks up above and smiles at the sky
She closes her eyes and the camera it shoots
How the sunshine falls on her eyelashes
Down, a perfect zoom in
Onto her lips hazed with tiny particles of light air
He blindfolds her eyes
Walks her gently all the way
The coldness increases and the noise reduces
More
He takes his hands off her eyes
And up she stares
with lips apart and stunned feet
At the gazillion stars chilled and silver
Against a black night
He smiles
covering her up from behind
with warm hands.
The rest of the night.*
Dec 23, 2014
Dec 23, 2014 at 6:58 AM UTC
And I really do mean men. And mostly white men.
I learned that at Columbia film school
In LA, at USC, all those male filmmakers were somewhat suspect
What they made, could not often be called "art" but even worse
they tended to extreme geekines
They wore ***** athletic shoes everywhere and spent long hours on sets
in t-shirts, wearing caps with the name of their film on them and not smelling particularly fresh
They were not particularly athletic in a city that sport "muscle beach."
But here, they were MEN. They could hold their own in any test of masculinity
as art is a serious undertaking, and requires great powers of the intellect
And here, where most life is spent indoors, the men dressed well,
in proper leather shoes that had names, and followed the fashion of the bohemian moment
which was not considered bad, maybe because you need clothes so much there
You are always freezing or sweltering and sweating. You freeze outside in winter
and you sweat when you come indoors. In the summer you boil outside in hot
and air conditioned New York, like you are in purgatory, and then freeze again in the air conditioning
To have that artistic authority, no woman can come close
It isn't a woman's world, at least in the early nineties in New York, it wasn't
Such a dissapointment for me since I thought I could somehow slip through by sheer cleverness
It's like a black person hoping to be identified as white. It can't be done.
There was a place for me, like no matter where I hid in a cinematography class
in the front, middle or back I always became the woman who is photographed
to demonstrate lighting
"You learn the most up here" said Beta Badka, in a thick Ukrainian accent as he set me on a stool
But that's not where I wanted to be
I longed to be taken seriously, telling stories about women, about girls
and having them be respected with that same cache
that came with stories of men
Nov 25, 2012
Nov 25, 2012 at 8:10 PM UTC
There’s something about the post-punk silence of nighttime that makes me doubt my soul. That makes me define things in terms of what they follow instead of what they are. Someday, I hope my life will be as interesting as a rock-and-roll portrayal of history. Something to be envied. Something to be admired for its brilliant art direction and cinematography, but panned for its lackluster script. In simpler terms, something boring but pretty. But I’ll only be in it for the costumes. And the one critic who will understand and say, “Her story is strange. At night she levitates above her bed. She’s over the age of sixteen, but she’s still not a witch yet. Kudos for not succumbing to clichés.”
Jul 29, 2012
Jul 29, 2012 at 7:31 PM UTC
If I can remember all of the things
We've said to each other
I would like to make those into a song
I would like to play it everyday
So I can hate you
If I can remember all of the things
We've done together
I would like to make those into a movie
I would like to watch it everyday
So I can hate you
But
You were a masterpiece
The best rhyme
The best melody
The best lyrics
The best harmony
I've ever heard
But
You were a masterpiece
The best actor
The best cinematography
You were the best art,
I've ever watched
Jul 15, 2016
Jul 15, 2016 at 4:59 AM UTC
Your poetry is like cinematography in my head.
How do you do it?
How do you point the formatting like a camera,
like you’re panning for gold,
and discovering something precious
so deep and real
just with the position of your italics?
I told you this,
and then you reciprocated,
saying,
I, on the other hand, use word choice
I listened and heard your intention
I choose and commit to one
like an undying promise
imbuing that choice with all the meaning I can.
You tell me you noticed,
and I suddenly had no words.
Jul 1, 2018
Jul 1, 2018 at 9:35 AM UTC
Rivers of life rush in as each moment enters my mind
slip down and plop - slowly flowing
Trickling as the past comes forward
And each bellowing cry leads my flowing eyes
To reach within
Each breathe does not run smooth
I fall back into my mind looking I see the
Cinematography lights capture your faces
And each passing laughter captures your spirit
As each passing moment enters my mind as a spinning glow
Every waking moment I'm holding onto what is left
Every pixelated second reached from your pocket
Lives, breathes, and encapsulates your eyes
Flickers as a breathe from the under currents
Stirring inspiration
Your grace - beautiful - posed - sparkle
Breaks every boundary I knew about you
I climb my mountains, and burn my bridges
Stonemasons carved my road, yet I stand looking at an empty well
I heard laughs and cries of joy, but my trees hid a waterfall
And all were jumping but me
I dipped my toes and now I see I could not dive
But do not be afraid to jump
The glowing mist will circulate in your body - casting a god like shadow
Greeting, gently, fervently - you are here
Do not be afraid
The wheat grass blows beneath me and you stand with me
Seeing what I see
The city lights melt in my arms - and you fade into flashes
Movements of passing gestures and
My love for you only grows, but I stay asleep
Your adagio string symphony fingerprints my fluttering breathe
And your whip in the wind stands still as I see you dancing to your heart
You can not see the regret - it shall not pass
Again, I see you in the wheat field
My hands reach for yours - the dandelion is lost in the wind
The rain falls - the music falls to a slow ending
I grab what I see
Hold it for as long as I can - it will never be to late
Never
To start once more
While holding what - I've become
Apr 17, 2016
Apr 17, 2016 at 10:52 PM UTC
how would I film us together?
without making it sappy, ridiculous
because you hate that,
I would make it honest.
I would film
you alone
me alone
a shot of you falling off the bars at track
and me almost catching you
then a shot of us laughing in the car
a shot of me taking your ball
a shot of slapping your ****
a shot of laughing again
a shot of us cuddling together and falling asleep on the couch
a shot of you mumbling into your pillow about our hearts
a shot of you showing me the song
a shot of me learning to play it for you
a shot of it going all wrong
a shot of us dancing together
a shot of me glancing towards you
a shot of us dancing with other people
a shot of your face forlorn
a shot of me breaking my expression
a shot of me dancing alone
a shot of you alone
a shot of me playing the song
someone trying to sing along
and me putting up the ukelele.
May 7, 2014
May 7, 2014 at 7:52 PM UTC
remember
your
mid-July
laughter
and the verdant
curves
of your
body that evolve
so eloquently
like monochromatic
cinematography
the sky is smitten
with your
orange
presence
and i
love you
Sep 23, 2017
Sep 23, 2017 at 2:02 AM UTC
*i write what i see, i encode images with sounds...
hence my simple life,
and the complications of speaking as noted
and the complicated life around me as unsaid.*
so fragile - poetry so ably juggling
paedophilia and an identity -
i could almost leave a snarl and a gimmicky
phlegm in it ~ ᛞᚨᚻᚨᚱᚷᚨ'ᚻ... ᚢᚾ!
the Arab wishes his were Rune.
i own a cat unafraid of a thunderstorm, that's enough
for a C.V. where i come from -
but where this writing comes from it's unlike
thus stated -
it's probably a thoroughly read lord of the rings
rather than an unread book readied for
cinematography - because that's were books end up,
in a pile of wished-up "page-turners" of charity shops
turned into blockbusters of Hollywood
for a timescale of kept blisters;
or nothing at all, and best kept admired like
cheesy pop songs you'd play at your wedding disco
to imagine yourself being undressed
and hence dancing on stilts via woman
and in stilettos via man.
Jun 29, 2016
Jun 29, 2016 at 9:40 PM UTC
Some people are beautifully abstract movies:
enlightened visions of an idea come to life through cryptic scripting and inspired cinematography.
Slow burns full of brilliant dialogue that leave you thinking about them long after you've seen their open endings.
The kind that only the intelligentsia could ever truly appreciate, with a poor audience score but universally loved by critics.
The kind of movie with a cult following that comes up in late night conversations amongst hipsters sharing their opinions on the pieces of art that have made the biggest, longest lasting impacts on them.
The kind that takes hours of scrutiny and analyzation just to feel like you've arrived at some vague sense of what it all means.
And then there are people like me,
who are less like grand artistic visions of profound cinematography,
and more like reality tv.
The kind of thing a working suburban mother tunes into after a double at the local diner/supermarket/pharmacy counter.
The kind of non-committal, light-hearted viewing that never comes close to demanding your full attention. Just a myriad of characters brought together with a loose premise and slightly coerced tension.
The kind of thing you could have a conversation over, and walk away from and come back to, and still know what's going on, because it's just all so obvious - it never requires much thought.
The kind of show where the actors have every viewer convinced that they're something that they're not.
May 6, 2021
May 6, 2021 at 1:04 AM UTC