"clips" poems
1995 saw the start of Generation Z,
the ‘iKids’ with a knack for this new-fangled technology,
Millennial 2.0,
caught in the limbo of the World Wide Web development and Rose Gold iPhones.
They say we’re adaptable,
but apparently we can’t make our own decisions about anything.
They say that we don’t care about anything
except for our tiny little screens,
but they forget who put them in our hands,
and they forget who they run to for help
when they forget how to troubleshoot.
They forget what kind of technology we need to keep sustaining life in the Information Age,
Caught in a crossfire because
Yeah, we’re 90s kids—but the 90s never really actually ended until 2006,
the only difference between two decades being
how much neon versus how much chrome,
and just how expensive accidentally opening the internet app on your mom’s blackberry phone was.
We’re nostalgic for all the things we can’t quite remember,
and half these high schoolers weren’t actually born until 2000 or 2001.
Most of us aren’t old enough to even remember 9/11, nothing outside of the news clips that our teachers show us in history class every single September.
I was born in the same year as the Columbine shootings.
The United States has not been at peace for a year of my life.
We are always fighting— fighting for everything.
Human equality,
posing arguments about micro aggressions and refugees, seeing the inhumanity in the past that we’re living.
None of us are older than 21,
under such hard scrutiny while Baby Boomers Wave 2 still run our country.
We inherited the Millenial’s exhaustion,
the generation before us spending our childhood fighting for all the things that we have never really believed in.
Fairytales.
Generation Z.
The ‘iKids’ who are going to one day be making leaps and bounds with technology,
the generation to nurse this dying planet back to health,
Millennials 2.0 who know how to learn from our forerunners’ mistakes,
who know how to adapt from Sidekicks to iPhone 6S Plus in less than a decade.
We’re the kids who have realized that fun is found in safe spaces rather than invading each other’s personal spaces.
They say we’re too sensitive,
but at the same time they claim that we’re desensitized.
And I thought we were the generation that couldn't make decisions.
Apr 11, 2016
Apr 11, 2016 at 9:21 PM UTC
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Feb 3, 2016
Feb 3, 2016 at 3:47 PM UTC
study, cram, call, make plans...
power point, presentation, speech, rewrite...
theory, materialism and idealism and the difference,
Marx, Freud to psychoanalyze...
on to polynomials, linear equations, I make a scientific notation...
take a break. (eat)
ham sweet and thick
with lots of pineapple and some cherries
potato bread and cheese
PowerAde to rehydrate
little vodca with o.j. and cigarette
after lunch, breathe .
and it’s back to study lab to mentally beat meat.
paper due, final today, did I remember to triple check
and get rid of paper clips, include a cover sheet...
ready to evaluate... I think.
ready to second guess, miss dates and time, "you're late"
again...
95, 98, 3.5 GPA? pre-test, for final, make sure your research is done,
site, source, quote, student rate and double space
power nap, smoke again,
is the day over yet?..
Nov 26, 2012
Nov 26, 2012 at 3:52 PM UTC
I draw a picture A simple fixture. Of two vertical bodies at vertical ends, do you see the picture. A verbal description of a beautiful beginning with each other they never felt richer, he had won her heart so I named him victor. Her heart in his hand a solid pitcher he caught it one hand.How could you not understand. One heart one hand her boy her man. He grew inside her she became his home she held her own against all kinds of foe he relished in her midst he thought love was a myth a mixture a blend of two perfect chemicals now do you see where it all began one kiss sealed her lips. The ending to many scripts and clips was the beginning to their bliss. All this because with a song she stole his heart he knew from the start she had won the part. Number one on his charts. You couldn't take her part. You couldn't keep them apart. She was the apple of his heart :)
Jun 21, 2014
Jun 21, 2014 at 11:29 PM UTC
The Christmas rush has started, and the countdown has begun
Advent doors are opened, but look what you have done
You've ridiculed the Bounty bar, and your spoiling all the fun
Why buy a Celebration, if your not happy after one ?
What's behind the cardboard doors, what did you all expect
A gold ring perhaps, or the keys for a corvette?
Why bother with an advent, when you have no respect
There's no need for chocolate genocide, or coconut neglect
You shouldn't be so outraged, with your Christmas Celebrations
I don't understand the malice, or the advent hesitations
If you don't want a bounty, buy heroes or sensations
It's hardly a matter for Interpol, or the united nations
Celebrations are your choice, there's no cause for your regret
The outcome is quite obvious, why are you so upset
Are the pictures not a clue, to what your gonna get ?
No rarity of Bounty hunters, so don't mess with Boba Fett
Are Maltesers that much lighter, in a Galaxy far away
Maybe you will find Mars, in between the Milky Way
A Twix or Galaxy Caramel, they we're for a different day
But you've dissed your celebrations, and no longer want to play
Some YouTube clips have surfaced, and I have read the blogs
I think it's just pathetic, seeing chocolate thrown down bogs
Your creating your own misery, as well as yule time logs
You won't be very happy, when your toilet blocks and clogs
On day two you still complained, and you wanted to resist
Is that because the chocolate, was not on your Christmas list
Would you be pleased with mistletoe, if you never did get kissed
Christmas spirit has been lost, with your Snickers in a twist
Some people are just morons, that's the message that they've sent
Their expectations are to high, and cruel jokes are never meant
Why is Bounty not as good, to start of an event
A Snickers in your calendar, doesn't mean a ruined advent
Dec 13, 2018
Dec 13, 2018 at 1:58 PM UTC
Two young brothers are left at home,
All by their lonesome selves,
The older one notices a new toy,
Sitting high up on a shelf.
He climbs up and brings on down,
What he believes is a toy gun,
He thinks about the games they’ll play,
Boy this sure will be fun.
He aims the ‘toy’ at his little brother,
And shoots him in the head,
But that gun was not a toy at all,
And soon the three-year-old is dead.
When a child dies,
All the stuffed animals cry,
Alone on a shelf,
They sit by themselves,
In a cold lonely room,
Like a final tomb.
Johnny’s tired of being bullied at school,
But every dog has its day,
Though all his classmates seem so mean,
Johnny will make sure they all pay.
The next day at school will be different,
From a knapsack he pulls out a gun,
Suddenly he starts shooting his classmates,
Shoots them in the back as they run.
Soon most of the class has been shot,
And their young bodies are lying there dead,
With one bullet left in the chamber,
Johnny puts the gun to his own head.
When a child dies,
All the angels cry,
The tears flowing down,
On the sad little town,
It’s a cold, cold rain,
But it won’t numb the pain.
For Jose this is the biggest day in his life,
It’s his gang initiation in the ‘hood,
He must seek out a rival gang member,
With a couple of shots he’ll be good.
Jose packs his piece and extra clips,
And his driver takes him to the spot,
He takes aim at his helpless victim,
And another is dead with just one shot.
But that one bullet it ricocheted,
You hear a young mother scream and cry,
As she realizes her young son is hit,
On a cold dark street he is left to die.
When a child dies,
The whole world cries,
All lives matter, big and small,
I ask you people, heed the call,
Please stop the hate, before it’s too late,
For the future of us all.
10-27-15.
Oct 28, 2015
Oct 28, 2015 at 1:34 AM UTC
He was driving down ******* Boulevard He had killers in the car
He drove with a blank stare as the killers put their clips in their pistols
His soul was the color red stained with blood from all the murders he had ordered and committed
The car came to a stop He pointed at a white house
Written by Keith Edward Baucum
Jun 9, 2016
Jun 9, 2016 at 6:52 AM UTC
Mirror, mirror, on the wall, tell me what suits,
Soft natural highlights, or strong punk roots?
Auburn red or beach blonde hair,
Brunette with greens, or short blunt rare?
Mermaid midnight old balayage blues,
Grey ombré curled with lilac hues?
Lemon yellow paint or neon spice,
Purple color that matches my hazel eyes!
Tousled, textured, twirled and twined,
We could take it to the front, or let it all behind.
Black hair with beautiful mahogany dye,
Fringes looking pretty every day passing by.
Straight hair with an asymmetrical bob,
Lips painted red, formal and hot.
Tie buns and bows with colorful clips,
Grow pink hair long, till they reach my hips.
Fish tail braid like a Boho chic,
All pastel shades spread, across the width.
Blonde and bright, they are in my sight,
Soon to be a celebrity, wearing them uptight.
Burgundy wine perm, crazy long,
Every hair color has a song.
There are chances that they may look all wrong,
But hey! I'm not scared to just play along!
Oct 19, 2014
Oct 19, 2014 at 9:39 AM UTC
not everyone who holds a pen is a writer.
not everyone who rides a horse is a jockey.
not everyone who clips their toenails is a podiatrist.
not everyone who smokes knows the feeling.
not everyone who chokes is a sadist.
not everyone who lies is an actor.
not everyone who wears a moustache is a communist.
not everyone who smiles is the sunlight.
not everyone who tries is a failure.
not everyone who shouts knows the silence.
not everyone who cries knows depression.
not everyone who laughs gets the joke.
not everyone who speaks is a teacher.
not everyone who hears truly listens.
not everyone who died really lived.
Dec 25, 2011
Dec 25, 2011 at 9:41 PM UTC
Churches and cathedrals filled with paralegal misfits,
its just sick how beautiful nations can come to this.
Bowing down on knees just to see a better view,
quoting a bunch of words or two,
you lie sins still comes in multiples.
I know because I've seen many clips being load,
and triggers pulled to explode flesh just to expose the soul.
You wash your faces with holy water,
then when service is over your back on corners bringing wars such as black on black slaughter.
Selling dopamine to fends hellacious scenes seems to be clear to see hell-raiser dreams I seem to intervene,
contradictions to competitions, imperfect visions,
natural destruction I can't believe,
a deep pit I can't perceive.
Arab stores selling crack, Coors and ****** ******
Nobody scores in this world of imperfections.
A twisted method and deal we keep our lips sealed,
and peace is killed all because of the choices of freewill.
Oct 3, 2013
Oct 3, 2013 at 8:34 AM UTC
atop
that golden haystack
mounted on an unwieldy bullock cart
you wished we had......
a regret of a million lifetimes!
every time
your plucky smile flashes
in the sacred space between brows,
i see a wish fulfilling acacia tree
nymphalid butterflies flutter in my gut
and rapid clips of lifetimes past
neatly edited,
projected as movie trailers
your deathlike silence
has quietly become my universe,
as i pen in moon-like solitude
memoirs of an unrequited love
© 2019
Aug 3, 2019
Aug 3, 2019 at 11:14 AM UTC
As
I dip a piece of broken bread
into grape juice
in a cheap styrofoam cup
My mind races
to
clips from movies,
scripture read so many times
Your body
hanging from
a bloodied cross
The King of Kings,
Pierced
by nail, thorn and spear
A phrase whispers through
my mind,
"This
changes everything"
Pierced
for our sins
Crushed
for our iniquities
The Lord of Lords,
Son of God,
battered, bruised and hanging
from a bloodied tree
Beaten and torn,
"This is My body"
Poured out,
"This is my blood"
Broken for me broken
for you
This,
this changes everything
And I dip a piece of broken bread
into grape juice
in a cheap styrofoam cup
May 7, 2014
May 7, 2014 at 12:44 AM UTC
Poverty
This ailment clips my bare soul
My malady hides my ample sight
Penury loads my cognition. Watery hole
Shift not far my destination, yet too blight
It is corral, harvesting my living carcass
I don't egender chaff in the shining sun
this coop is an enclosure of my idleness
Like a jailbird my to be is limited and shun
*One day. My wandring ship will wheel
My fervor will ease and I'll scope my haven
My wounds and lesions will then heal
I will grab my revenue as in Heaven
May 22, 2015
May 22, 2015 at 6:19 AM UTC
For, a four legged companion,
A solitary
Gravel smoked voice clips instructions,
Harsh sharp whistles echo cross the valley floor,
Emitted by crag worn features.
Piercing eyes, sun bleached.
Skin hewn by dry stone walls.
Hands created by granite.
Coarse tousled hair guards against howling winds.
The hardworking man at peace with his surrounds.
© Nick Strong 2014
Jan 25, 2014
Jan 25, 2014 at 3:06 PM UTC
*to further my point, as an eager reader in
a catholic school, reading about
the gnostic heretics, wondering
with my theology tutor upon the question
asked: don't you think the gnostic heretics
influenced mohammad on the sly?
i mean, they too believed a phantom walked
among men, and a phantom was crucified?*
my confirmation didn't take place
in a cathedral, as was due course for all of
us in being schooled, by a bishop
in brentwood cathedral,
i opted out... my confirmation came
in a russian orthodox cathedral,
in st. petersburg, when i watched
people standing for a scrap of iconoclasm,
with the priest mumbling
toward a golden altar, as typical in
the tradition, buttocks towards the people
or as in the western tradition
reciting in latin, before the nationalists
came and spoke the gospel in each
designated tongue so people understood,
a bit like having your back turned
against the people - speaking in latin -
and when i sat i the church
to listen to the choir singing,
some lesser ecclesiastical prompted me
to stand up, and pay respect to the golden
altar... he told me to stand up!
what cheek... what barbarism... only
in russia... i had to stop being bewildered
by the beauty of song and listen to
a priest knock-down-ginger on a palette of
gold... THEN i was confirmed...
donkey's ******** to this **** i'm leaving!
mind the fact that i've seen the greatest
degradation of mysticism take place...
the tetragrammaton was being defiled all along...
in catholic bureaucracy it has been there all along,
the idiots reminded me of it...
you're born: first name, baptismal name, surname...
you're educated: confirmation name...
that takes four spaces of consideration...
so by catholic definition of sharpening pencils,
folding pieces of paper, filing the folded pieces
of paper, bending paper-clips i'm god...
but only in writing... first name, baptismal name,
confirmation name, surname...
a bit like a clone... a clone indeed in writing...
same d.n.a., same bone mandibles of the jaw...
but experience-wise... un-original to the ****
not even a clone... not able to experience major
historical figures... a soul in a twin body by itself...
a twin without twinning, segregated by ulterior
if not auxiliary motives... clone on paper...
clone by experience? i don't think so... impossible...
too many inter-actants along the way
can't possibly replicate thinking in a clone...
different mr. john smith... NEXT!
Feb 4, 2016
Feb 4, 2016 at 2:18 AM UTC
I wonder where I'll be when you come for me
Will you steal me away in the dead of the night
Or will you send me a message before you arrive
Will there ever be a right time
Or would I embrace you like I've been waiting for this moment my whole life
Will I get a chance to say goodbye
Would it be rushed with loud cries
Or would I leave with a life fulfilled
In the arms of my love
And a smile on my face
I wonder if it would be painful
Sudden in the breeze on the concrete outside
The distant sound of sirens lulling me away
Or patiently savouring me slowly from the inside
One ***** at a time
A pinch of clips on my fingers, my heart beeping me out
Would it be panicked and rushed
Would I try to escape and run
Desperate to evade your advances
Then hopelessly succumb
Would I remember God
Would I call for him in that moment
Would I ask Him to save me
Or let you take me
So He can keep me safely in his gardens
I'd like to think I won't be afraid
I've always known it would happen
Yet I can feel fear choking me at just the thought
But if that's of the process or the destination
I guess I'll have to wait
Until it's my time to go
Jun 17, 2017
Jun 17, 2017 at 8:12 AM UTC
if you ever buy me a coffee mug
know that it will become my favorite,
and that i will use it faithfully every day.
but understand, if you ever decide to leave,
i will tell you through gritted teeth
that i never liked it anyway.
i will tell you out of spite that i shattered it,
but that coffee mug will remain in tact,
and collect dust in a corner until you come back.
if you never do, i won't ever use that mug again,
instead i'll fill it with paper clips & pens
and try not to remember that you gave it to me.
- m.f.
Oct 27, 2013
Oct 27, 2013 at 9:37 PM UTC
*When you are gone,
Its not your smile that I'll miss the most.
Nor is it your laughter.
I will not miss your rythmic voice
Nor will I miss your amazing speeches.
When you are gone,
I'll have all those video clippings
And all those unnecessary voice recordings to be my aid in your absence.
But hundreds and hundreds of clips
Filled to the brim with your laughter and voice, will never be able to take your place.
And that's because they'll all be a repetition.
They'll show me what my eyes have already seen.
Priceless moments...
They'll never be able to create them,
Like you did all the time
With your amazing mind.
However hard I am on myself.
The truth will always be that I'll miss you.
I'll definitely miss your heart which was your aid until this last day.
But what I'll miss the most, is your mind and your everlasting soul.
I'll miss them beyond words.*
Jun 2, 2014
Jun 2, 2014 at 11:52 AM UTC
there is another big world I keep
in the small space of my room;
my dreams tucked by board pins,
some letters stashed by paper clips,
notes of joy, laughter, little sadness
inside the yellow-turned diary pages,
some secret souvenirs of good time
kept neatly hidden in my wardrobe,
few oblivious scribbles on window pane,
old leaf, dry roses, ink, wall art, gadgets,
glad that I have taken care of them
always, like cherished treasures of mine.
the bright and the dark equally welcome,
wind and whispers settle swiftly in moonlight,
by my bedside, where many stories sit,
which I read or heard many many times.
whistles from some star ruffle my hair,
remind me of the times of love and talks,
I look out of the window, into the open,
where vivid memories glitter in the sky.
Sep 21, 2012
Sep 21, 2012 at 7:31 AM UTC
Hello
My name is Bill
I am a Snowflake
I speak against racism
I am a Snowflake
I care about injustice
I am a Snowflake
I KNOW guns don't **** people
People **** people
I also KNOW if someone has an assault rifle with HIGH CAPACITY CLIPS, they can **** a lot more people in very little time
**** right, I'm a Snowflake
I know donald trump is a travesty
That's right...
I am a Snowflake
I fear Lady Liberty has fallen down
A Snowflake I am
I believe in equal rights for ALL
Snowflake
I care for the child who arrived here with his parents at a young age, went to school here, only speaks English, only knows the United States as home
Call me Snowflake
It tears at my heart to know that a family can travel 100's of miles for a better life, only to have the children taken away from the parents, TAKEN AWAY AND PLACED IN CAMPS
YA, I'm a friggin Snowflake
I use to be a Hippie
Now I'm a Snowflake
Hoping for a BLIZZARD
Aug 6, 2019
Aug 6, 2019 at 8:55 AM UTC
A rip in the door, a tip in the drawr,
Philosophy or trigonometry,
Epic failure,
Filled with pens & paper clips,
Minds to the matter,
Key opening frogs,
Toads totaling mirrors,
Mane of Moroccan Curls,
Sashaying across broad shoulders,
And smooth hips,
Laying on clouds,
Because you can't afford to breath,
On the ground,
Tree topped eye lined,
Eye lids,
Shut.
May 3, 2015
May 3, 2015 at 4:17 PM UTC
Thanks to ayurvedic treatment my hair has grown long,
as I'm so successful, the products can't be wrong,
when I make love, my hair is as long as the bed,
just as wide - my suitors are attentive and easily led.
They said that they could imagine my hair spread
out on a pillow which vanshed below my good head,
we don't need a blanket - we just cover our skin,
musn't forget to remove my clips before we begin.
It has actually become an aid for great pleasure,
maybe even more lustrous, the next time I measure,
I can twine and bind just about anything nearby,
there was so much magic - I didn't even have to try.
When I finally cut which may be my partner's decision,
someone else can go to bed with a beautiful extension!
Apr 6, 2016
Apr 6, 2016 at 12:39 PM UTC
on the last night
of the june breeze
that i spent tucked
between your hips
and my home
i heard
almost as faint
as a wing flutter
your tongue unfurled
the sounds of your streets
against my ear.
pavement hard but
sweet as a plum liquor
spelled out avenues that
have become rose pastures.
hoods that have
grown thick in themselves
with petals stained
of red rich violence
cross brown bones
but those bullets
bear no color.
taxi swift
yet city street thick
buzzing the sounds
of a place with half
the people
yet twice the traffic.
the kind of
tuesday twelve fifteen traffic
that i never understood
but you made action
where you lost sense.
dropped clips into the alleys
where the cops
wouldn't go
and pierced a limb
or two on the way.
cheeks filled with
with sticky bliss
bashed the demure
of downtown
cause the magnificent mile
ain't got ish
to the brick backbones
of them cook county temples
tourist tend to
trip past.
on my last night
here with you
i want to do
nothing more than wash
the windy city out of me
before state lines
baptize my view
of your anatomy.
pipe my gums
with this Crest
and brush your
taste out of me.
see big cities
have stained my tongue before.
new york is still in there
and i ain't even been there
in years.
i've caught tears
streamlining down
the crest of my cheek
at the taste
of chips of bay ridge
in my teeth.
so why don't
you just get lost?
the lingering lisp of your
shoreline sure does
last a tad
past welcomed.
matter of fact,
a tad past passed
two ticks before
your beach sands
sank my hips.
your lips have learned
too well
the outline of
my spine poured
against your banks boy.
so no thanks boy.
i don't want your tee shirt.
i don't need your silhouette
sketched in my memory
let alone my key chain.
and you keep saying
i'll be back
but i'll believe that
when i'm 30,000 ft up
straddling your boarder
by boeing.
Sep 6, 2012
Sep 6, 2012 at 10:39 PM UTC
For the days when your ego slaps itself as if it’s playing hambone,
remember: there’s a name for the smell of rain on pavement.
And every photograph is like Stockholm Syndrome,
where subjects fall in love with their captors.
You are no victim. That’s why I still don’t know whether you’re photogenic.
All I ask is that you keep photographing my self-portraits,
so that I may love you through the way I view myself.
Because my ego is more like that potato clock from the science fair:
surprisingly electric, yet full of holes. My skin is pierced with nails,
but I am no Christ. It’s just my job to keep time.
That’s why first place goes to the skateboarding rat.
The judges don’t like me because I don’t believe in gimmicks.
But when you look at me--alligator clips and all--
your eyes become blue ribbons, letting me know
that I have won and you intend to claim your prize.
“Let’s take a photo,” I say.
You say no, that taking pictures will make us like everyone else.
I ask why it matters if we know we’re not.
You look down at the newspaper. In my mind, I say your name.
And when you look up from the politics section,
I snap a photo for good measure.
This plan seems completely doable until I realize
I’ve never called you by your name.
You call me by mine, and attach it to sayings like
“No one will ever bring half a smile to my face like you do”
or “Hi” or “How are you?” or “I love you.”
Is this because there’s only me or because
there’ve been others besides me?
If I were to succeed in capturing you,
I imagine you’d have red eyes in the photo.
Red ribbons to let me know I’ll never top second place,
that there are other girls you’ve been inside of,
but you are my only. No contest.
And yet you ask if I’ve awarded any other blue ribbons.
You don’t believe me when I say, “No.”
I know you asked as a way to boost your ego,
but for the days when your ego slaps itself as if it’s playing hambone,
remember: there’s a name for the smell of rain on pavement,
and that your wish to feel special should never be at my expense.
Aug 5, 2012
Aug 5, 2012 at 2:06 PM UTC
Grass turns rest round
love set world self need.
Vomitorium forget word
hand thought waste powdered
leaves minds present
wills leak simply
say wan turn time neon
Dreams moments' control
Idea, ascent;
graze cliches
Adversity based lump myth solid
disguised cancer cages.
Repetition, test, twist, strip, sew.
Entered shortly.
Promptly moral,
border seeing stirred tale wanton.
Spake grace,
“Eat, scar message
loses heed, seemingly!”
Serpent gravity,
tame killed bearing.
Engine resound telekinetic
499 merry-go-round repeatered,
answer's 'cos empathy's idealogical.
We've sapphire muppets
when'll sighn heat-ray -
Truithfilled.
Beltsched.
Amyth.
Ord's sighns,
discotheques placticity teaste;
firstless plasticity.
Algorithms gruesome
argue opaque feeding.
Cheated clips lame distraction,
beings tease statement,
cogs cote photosynthesis.
Evasion necessarily replenish
ebbs divided.
Tamed, ensues coils ajar
freed shed attention.
Mountain lined sail, future redeemed.
Talk.
Seen heart grind, operate wings.
Tail door using shared stop,
kept heard miss.
Music start:
sky winds lust shall gave bit kiss.
Feel like know just way,
live left fall
sees mind truth.
Wrong room.
Disdain.
Eye life face writhing coat,
drinks rhythms
fat appeared blade.
Died state half answers
broke wheels simplicity.
Bliss.
Solution deeply faced, fades perfection,
rises failed.
Necessary lines selling,
read,
asked.
Catalyst train turned lead memory,
lights feeling book grave.
Algae sent burns bear,
dove follow led.
Field filled
astray comfort.
Jan 22, 2013
Jan 22, 2013 at 11:33 AM UTC