"combos" poems
Smash, slash, and if you're a noob you spam. Video Games the most interactive experience ever, it brings out the best and worst out of all of us. Combos and controls to study, instead of trying to study for an upcoming test. Some people say video games turns your brain into mush, but studies show that video games actually help people in the real world. Oh how I love video games they let me experience things outside can't, and even though movie versions of games aren't that good, I never usually get disappointed with sequels. Video games create more than fun times, they have also helped create my identity. So thank you video games for making me who I am.
Jun 5, 2015
Jun 5, 2015 at 4:04 PM UTC
The Mendacity of Beauty, Marvels of the Mundane
<1/1/2023 10:38 PM>
commissioned by Pradip^
<>
A special carnet permits the day,
though day itself unremarkable,
permissioning of a thousand,
even, tens of ten thousand
grasping new love poems
all mundane, all marvelous
an aborning of odes re the
vastness of sea, sandy sky,
multifarious penumbras of hewn hues,
vibrantly diverse, still, requiring the
expanse and pretense of “new”
adjectives and metaphoric
in combos recalculating
precisely, it’s the enormity,
of the difficulty of verbal capture
upon tablet of these natural treasures,
once, more, yet again, but in somehow in a new-never
quite-before conceptional~postulation-realization
I sojourn amidst both man made and natural beauty,
provoking, invoking, a steady stream of potable knowledgeables, performing as a hand-written-thank-you-note for the grace, the imagination of their mishmash existences addressed only to
“whom it may truly concern…”
I’m eager to confess that the poetry inherent in the
mundane, requiring not-so-easy mining, a sales taxing
innovation to capture the subtlety of less visible flecks of gold, that present a rarer challenge to the poet’s senses where glory abides in pyrite pebbles strewn and trod upon by most indifferently,
*ah, write of the marvel of the mundane,
**** dare you!*
<>
^Pradip: “writing of the mundane is mandatory for me…”
Aug 12 2022
Jul 1, 2023
Jul 1, 2023 at 11:10 AM UTC
when you love,
you’re a country,
pierced by daily border
exchanged crossings,
to your closest neighbor
and though,
one rerun~returns home by night,
to your prior defining borderlines,
somehow
the externals of the container has
had its internality's modified
for the lines that prior defined
have altered
by passing the
point of prior,
now by thousands of
tiny holes breaching the
thickened protective lining,
by love punches ‘n kisses of
pinprick punctures
the resistance,
pulverized
<>
you are changed,
new language combos spoken,
embrace another with a
bilingual tonguing,
a real treat
to entreat each other and
that hyphen,
that little tiny
linear
~
punctuation mark is
reflecting your creativity of a
Singular Duality
it is mark that
speaks to a new
U~no individuality,
blended and connected
somehow a duo of
someone’s pulverized lines
forms a single stronger
chord
first a puncture
then a patching
finally
an adhesion pleasuring
and a new working word:
composite
the opposite
of
opposite*
Nov 14, 2024
Nov 14, 2024 at 7:26 AM UTC
~~~
Happy Hanukkah Brother Nat!
~~~
*this poem is not for young lovers,
seasoned soldiers of the heartfelt only need apply,
give me my merry mercy-naries to save me
from criminal holiday insouciance,
shoot me with the rounds of caring,
that come so fast
and last as long as I can
nod and wink...*
~~~
used to drink inspiration
from Manhattan sidewalk rain riveted cracks,
turn half overheard street conversation snatches
into half decent poems by Nat(chez),
professors turning phrases, upbringing a brain ratcheting,
choreographers, dancing in body and spirit and word,
in summation, a thief of opportunity...
these days, the pattern prevailing,
the El Niño de Natalino,
is drawing up works
from the wealth of messages and comments,
my troubadours, my y'all youse guys, share,
so as I compose,
not knowing where this goes,
I'm just simple knowing,
that a heartfelt reach out,
addressed as
Happy Hanukkah Brother Nat!
deserves the recognition of its sweet intent,
in a lyric all its own,
like a traditional festival
Hanukkah jelly donut (true1)
t'is the seasonal affectation of salutations
all commencing with happy,
never struck me as anything deeper
than surficial superficial,
but this time its textual emendation -
the inclusion of genuine brotherly love,
loops, Humpty Dumpty cracks and swoops,
and here I am fastening word combos,
when the clickty clack of the clock
says uh-uh, poem in the making,
natural verbal child birthing, sleep hours docked,
and here I am,
begetting instead of shushing
a day-older brain to get-thee-to-a-hideaway...
*this poem is not for young lovers,
seasoned soldiers of the heartfelt only need apply,
give me my mercy-naries to save me
from criminal holiday insouciance,
shoot me with the rounds of caring,
that come so fast
and last as long as I can
nod and wink...*
sooner than later it will be the Fourth,
and in my eyes a day-deserving of a fireworks spectacular,
though the month matters not,
the sentiments of brotherhood and live love,
independent and freely given,
deserves enhanced ignition recognition
and herein supplied...
you had me at the greeting so fleeting,
then ask my advice,
is there to be had a greater compliment,
so my mien and demeanor are now modified
an oath sworn, till the infamous 31st,
every passerby and child
will be bequeathed a shockingly rowdy,
Happy and Merry,
sincerity coated
and tinged with you know what...
~~~
Dec. 3, 2015
nyc
11:12 pm
Dec 3, 2015
Dec 3, 2015 at 11:27 PM UTC
Basically I'm broken, shattered, pulled apart and torn to pieces, shards of sharp shimmering glass amass into a clump of crunching sounds. Crush. crack. Crunch and crumble.
My whole innards begin to tumble, whirr around like clothes in a dryer. Pockets not checked, so their contents are set. Set to begin a cycle of being flung from side to side, swishing around, drowning in a swirl of cleanliness which should of course, ease the pain and wash away those steeped in stains and cleanse a spirit that's been pulled apart. Like a cotton thread. Slowly being pulled away from a wooley jumper as its caught.
Okay, it's caught on a zipper. from an old pair of jeans. Whose paths have crossed many times in outfit combos but now tumbling around together they no longer meld, together. They clash like; tartan and polka dots and conflict each others path to rightful cleanliness.
Basically I'm broken, shattered, pulled apart and torn to pieces, shards of sharp shimmering glass amass into a clump of crunching sounds. Crush. crack. Crunch and crumble
Alas, the thread is now long and wearing thin. It has lost its shape and would have to begin again. Once aired out to dry its a mound of mess, a cotton bundle looking all distressed. It tried its hardest to fight the emotion, the tug, of its strings to maintain its strength; but bowed down to defeat when knowing full well that it was beat. How could it now go on in life when it's torn. Torn to pieces and now ceases to exist in a form that would generally state: It! Exists!
Exists as a life form and a living part, how can things continue to breathe without a beating heart.
Thump thump, beat beat, thud thud. It starts. Thump thump, beat beat, thud thud. My heart.
Trying to mend the cracks with this battered ***** Mangled with regret and forlorn with spite, how can this reassess itself until it is right.
Thump thump, beat beat, thud thud. It starts. Thump thump, beat beat, thud thud. My heart.
It takes time to mend a broken ticker. Time passes by and memories become bitter, tainted with a brush that's tarred, marred with the longing for those moments to still occur. Not for your mind to now blur.
Blur those memories you once held so dear, remembered with a chuckle or a wry little smile. How can you comprehend these again for a while?!
You can't.
You shouldn't.
You couldn't.
So don't.
Thump thump. Beat beat, thud thud. It starts. Thump thump, beat beat. Thud thud. My heart.
broken, shattered, pulled apart and torn to pieces, shards of sharp shimmering glass amass into a clump of crunching sounds.
Crush.
crack.
Crunch.
Reassemble
Mar 17, 2015
Mar 17, 2015 at 11:34 AM UTC
Hey Yalie, Diurnal Rituals Yield the Best Poetry
A Yalie jogs before dawn, her senses being exercised,
semi-aware there’s layered poetry out there and it must
be retrieved, for the eyes observe the diurnal arousing of the day,
and this too, must be recorded, part of the ordered duties of living, as the skin cells shed sweat droplets and
words of living, parcels of breathing, a diary of notations,
to educate the brain in ways and things that
professors cannot teach…
every sense operative, interactive, sound off neurotic synapses,
are acrackling, as you lay out the day ahead, calendar and
assignment checks, but the senses don’t care
about that
trivial minutiae of living
nope
the words are now coming fast and you hope your best that
you will retain, retrain the memory to savor save, those
combos of images encapsulated in new word combinations,
that are yours alone, unique, proving to no one but
yourself, that education, science et. al. is a seeded embryo &
you the valedictorian of birth commencement ceremony
so put them trainers on,
and by dawning daylight you are awondering,
now becoming a pondering, and the
question never spoke aloud but oft posed,
is this, this is,
this is why I exist,
and
my identity?
***I am an institution in my own right,
in my own write.***
Saturday Nov 4
8:01am
nyc
Nov 4, 2023
Nov 4, 2023 at 8:12 AM UTC
To: Patty m. and Steve,
cc: Q
Re: what’s a mediocre man to do,
(freshly mind washed by the
requisite hours of deep sleep,
that washed away the webs
and dreads of yesterday’s
factoids, lactoids, and brain plaques(
so he can perchance, begin again,
(with fresh slate, white chalk screeching
on a freshly sponged whiteboard
~
*(or blackboard when he rues the
upcoming with dreaded calendar
notifications notarized notations of
dead lines)*
You see Stevie,
this piety poetry piercing of the soul,
(is a daily face washing, soul scrubbing
of two spies (MadMe vs Metwo) both madder ‘n hell that life has ass-signed him a nother bothersome empty day with the curse
of justifying his existence)
oh yeah baby,
it’s a contest, a contest within,
(and i am appointed and disappointed to be
the Sec’y of the Interior who has the key to
the broom closet, and is/in charge of his
own corners cleanup, and besides a broom,
he ain't got no tools but stale words and he’s gotta figure out nice smelling new combos to
justifying his occupying his
siloed-sole-soully space place)
in the uni(as in sole, one)verse
universe verse, get it?
445am Monday Monday
Feb 24, 2025
Feb 24, 2025 at 4:50 AM UTC
He tried to dig wells inside of me
With one of those spoon-fork-knife
All-inclusive combos.
Silly little things, and made of plastic too!
As if my walls were made of that pudding stuff.
Waste of injury! Foolish boy!
I should be outraged at the insult,
I should cry at his naiveté,
Spit on his back’s bending,
Curse his sweat’s rewarding the work.
But I cradle him close, let him dig softly, grip softly
Lest he break his tools
Lest he break this rhythm
I cradle him close and let concrete lap sweetly at his sweat.
And when we are this close, my fingers always dig sweetly into his back.
Jun 7, 2013
Jun 7, 2013 at 7:06 PM UTC
Live your Life as you wish -->
Don't blame me!
Blame the *****
She's the One that yeah's and neigh's,
Selects the combos, gamete-style;
Foresees the potentiality
Of a Universe before the making.
Her Will --> I'll execute!
Protect to incubate the great,
While looking after the lost -->
Those unlucky to be born normal;
Those strugglers battling idiocy
At all levels of authority.
I'll float freely betwixt strata -
Popping in and out of existence
As necessary; as needs dictate;
As She dictates (- the subtle cow).
I'll plod along, head in the sand,
Trying to figure out the sound;
Stringing along and strung out,
Helping myself and lending a hand.
And when I meet Her...if I do...
I'll tell Her you send Your Regards.
Mar 5, 2014
Mar 5, 2014 at 3:09 PM UTC
I am inspired.
In the court room; waiting,
Feeling Well Groomed.
I am in a state of psychological superiority. Everybody look at me.
separation from all avenues,
Or at least the current case.
I match the formal dress criteria almost well enough to blend in
with the wolves.
No.
I am the wolf,
They are the pigs.
There are drawings all over my three piece suit.
I am the Zen master in the waiting room.
I play fruit ninja. My slices are precise and direct. I go for combos, and
I let my posture decide its own careless angle.
I remain a casual-clay reduction of societal judgement. Am I it innately? Am I somehow powerful?
One girl is so nervous that her knees buckle in front of the blonde judge, who looks as if she used to be beautiful.
When she makes her plea, her voice trembles. If she were in front of a firing squad, I think,
Not even that could make her seem more fragile.
When I step up I smile.
I don't think I was supposed to smile.
Littering charge, minimum fine: $20
She charged me $70
I left feeling totally enlightened.
And just a little ****** off.
Sep 30, 2015
Sep 30, 2015 at 7:00 AM UTC
One week I last one week without smoking **** so I could get a new job. However when it was presented to me instead of turning down the **** I reached for it like a baby does it's bottle. I was a depressed, jaded, ****** off at the world overnight fast food employee. While I hated my job it had it's own set of perks since I was on the overnight shift I was able to smoke a stress filled cigarette inside of the store as well as come up with insane combos of food for free. As much as I enjoyed those perks I had grown bored of the overnight life it had become easy to me and I was desperate for something new and to have nights off. I had applied at a nearby grocery store upon hearing the fact my job wanted to cut my hours drastically for switching to days. The grocery store did a mouth swab before hiring you hence the reason for me to stop smoking. Yet in that moment the **** within grasp it didn't seem to matter I had ways of cleaning out my system. The deed done I was dropped off at home, My body was on the ground but my head was dreaming and floating happily in the clouds.
Feb 4, 2016
Feb 4, 2016 at 6:29 PM UTC
I lie the way I play with hair
In silence, round and round
twisting this and that
following the same path
again and
again
Like the red of candy canes
unseen and seen
round and round
breath reeking of
red
I lie the way I tell stories
added up setting and characters
details and happenings
plot twists that end in
cliffhangers
I lie the way I put on clothing
layer by layer
switching colors and combos
until finally I end up
clothed
I lie the way I draw breath
in and out
in gasps and sighs
and stops
smiles, frowns
constant
Feb 26, 2014
Feb 26, 2014 at 8:49 AM UTC
I knew there was
Trouble to be had
When they called me
Up to the executive
Floor and sat me down
At a mahogany table
Long enough to seat 12
Across from the
Stoic HR lady
We sat alone
Save the head of
My division
Who wore a thin
Line of a mouth and
A loud red vest and
Matching bowtie
He rested his bony elbows
On the table and said
"Too many mistakes
Have been made
We've decided to
Terminate your
Employment"
This came as somewhat
Of a shock to me
I didn't like my job
Few people do
They wouldn't pay
You if it was fun
But still
I showed up
On time
Greeted the customers
Counted the money
Locked the vault
Did what was expected of me
And did my best to
Exceed that
I guess those were all
Mistakes
"Ok"
I said
And the HR lady
Jammed a hammy
Opened hand into my
Face and I shook it
Numbly
I followed the flaming
Red vest down to the
Lobby where my
Staff watched me
Clean out my desk
Everyone had a
Strange sourness to
Their faces like they
Had smelled a **** that
Hinted at some deeper
Health issue
I turned my keys
And combos over
Told my staff to have
A nice weekend and
Walked out the front door
When I got home I
Stood in the hallway
Not sure of what to do
Next
My dad asked from
His office
"What are you doing
Home? "
"They fired me"
"Huh. Well, no worries
Everyone gets fired at
Some point"
I walked up to
My room and put
The box of
Coffee mugs
Hot Sauce
A Death Valley
Postcard from
My mom that I
Had taped on
My desk
Down on my
Bed
After two miserable
Years of my life
The only thing I had
Gotten from that place
Were a few coffee mugs
And a constant weight on
My chest
I sat down on the end of
My bed and felt that weight
Melt like warm butter
Off my chest
Down my legs
And disappear through
The cracks of my
Hardwood floor
Dec 16, 2016
Dec 16, 2016 at 2:41 PM UTC
Check out my mind,
Beaming in the sunshine,
One time, one time,
Yo check the diamond bezel,
Kin to the devil's,
But at the same level,
Of God how odd,
Is that imagine black,
With no evil behind that,
Or brothers on corners with gats,
Yeah I'm sitting notorious,
Analyze the glorious,
And hoes that ignored us,
Made now, see the money serves us,
No need for payment plans,
When you got unlimited bands,
I stand at ease,
When mother nature takes a breeze,
Onto my skin,
Let me shell from within,
Heal within, the darkness casted in,
Yo I'm still grinning,
Everyday winning even though
We living, past the sinning,
Still got scars from Cain,
Now I'm onto Mary Jane's, yeah she
Still doing her thang,
The *** is fat, take a nice hit to her back,
Eases my mind,
Focus in on a grind,
See the angels walking the shadows,
I break barriers and plateaus,
Just to show,
The realness I flip, word to Fats Domino,
Laying keys on the piano,
So feel the tempo,
Fast to slow, ghetto rocks for you soul,
Mad man cycles,
Scripts like Aristotle, Glocks punching
Like Listons combos,
Expose foes,
Leave em in wet clothes, ya know
How it goes,
We aim for seven figures, don't think of me as a *****
I'm feeling bigger,
Bigger than the rest, say it with my chest,
Carved out a lions heart,
Now we one, Mufusa son, watch for the wilder beast, capeech,
Word to B I G, propped on ya TV, ya can't avoid me, I'm up early,
As bacon and eggs,
I'll leave ya blood empty, drippin, like
That milk from Craig,
Watch what I seys, I speak wisdom and no need for a fez,
I got mathematics supreme, ****** fiend, purple dot third eye beams,
Though the streets is mean,
I'll still smile, before the murder's intervene,
Watch for the inner scope,
Not speaking Mister Levine,
Dec 8, 2022
Dec 8, 2022 at 12:59 PM UTC
Here we are, a new match
Going head to head
New opponent
Same arena
Fists long gone
The bruises stay
Knocked down in the second round
Sucker punched
Testing combos
Left hooked
In the chest
Oxygen deprived
Land another hit
Create the only stars I see
Men, they fall
Make contact
With the mat, maybe
Wrap my hands
And this story
Let's see how long I last
Nov 10, 2017
Nov 10, 2017 at 11:24 PM UTC