"contraption" poems
People hate being rejected
When you ask someone out in a date and they say no
Or when you go in for an interview
And look your best
You want the job so badly
And they say they'll call
But never do
You hate it
Or when you get rejected from ***
Yes ***
Guys get rejected
And it *****
But when a girl gets rejected
It's like a contraption of pain and mixed emotions going through you
You stumble
And cry and think
Did I do something wrong?
Am I not good looking enough for you?
Are you bored of me?
I don't turn you on anymore?
What's wrong with me?
Even if I'm fully naked and on top of you
You say no
Geeze isn't that what you always wanted?
Me naked
Showing off my skin
My body to you
Instead of wearing a shirt or bra
You told me before that you rather have me naked
And on you
Now that I finally did that
Nothing happens?
You lightly push me off and say I'm to tired?
Geeze all that work for nothing ?
I built up my confidence just to do that you know?
It *****
Rejection *****
And I'm here laying in bed right next to you... Naked
Some guy would be happy to lay next to a girl naked
They would caress my body and ****** me
They would have the best time of there life
But all I want is you
Just you
Making sweet love to me
What does a girl have to do to get some satisfaction around here ??
Honestly...
Feb 10, 2015
Feb 10, 2015 at 5:48 AM UTC
Even though a lion is trained to keep it's mouth shut, it doesn't mean it can't learn around it.
Stardust has seen and tried to stop me clean of these things that could be.
That blackhole won't solve anything,
Neither will exploding or imploding myself to wits ends.
So let me brief you just this once so listen good and listen well.
Like the lion, find your pack.
No matter how much the storms rain down hell, find a way to dispel.
Write these records, create a contraption to annoy the rains away.
But if there's nothing you can do, and trust me I know cause it's something we've all been through, go to shelter and let the damage be done.
Tomorrow we begin a new, and work around it with your crew, they may know what to do.
It's an experience we all handle.
It's a long life battle.
But at least we're not alone.
Jul 16, 2018
Jul 16, 2018 at 6:35 PM UTC
I was once confined in colossal walls
Each corner and path lead to the unknown
Thought of escaping by flying above this cage
On a contraption Daedalus called his own
I saw the end of the labyrinth
The sweet smell of liberation filled the air
I saw another thing-- much brighter, more captivating
To ignore the beauty of Sol, I wouldn't even dare
I knew reaching the sun was pure insanity
I knew I wasn't supposed to go near it
But what was stopping me?
What could get in the way between you and me?
All my efforts flying up were completely wasted
It didn't even take a while to realize
How the wings made of wax quickly melted
Down I go in utter surprise
I used to think that only animals are kept inside cages
Now I know why hearts are confined in them, too
To keep us from listening to the temptations of its sinful desires
Before we realize it all too soon
May 3, 2015
May 3, 2015 at 1:33 PM UTC
Like falling to the earth, your wings aflame
but realizing that it isn't fear you're feeling
Like trying to keep yourself in perfect balance
but tempted, sorely tempted, to let go
Like telling yourself not to fly too close to the sun
but loving the way the burn cleanses
Like telling yourself not to fly too close to the waves
but tasting freedom in salty sea air
Like the moment when you realize you will fall
but accepting the inevitable with a smile
Like the spiraling decent toward your fate
but it feels like a roller coaster
Like the squeak and complaint of gears
this contraption wasn't made for this
Like a father's cry of complete horror
but weren't we aiming for escape?
Like the fear and attempt of saving your life
but don't martyrs die for freedom?
Like the scream of pure delight ripped from your smile
A trail of feathers all that remains of your inhibition
Apr 21, 2014
Apr 21, 2014 at 8:52 AM UTC
The Picture Window
The vista view never changes but daily.
The naked eye, registers the same distances,
resting objects unmoved, modest alterations
by wind and water are noted, but for intent,
for purpose, the watercolor one would paint
be invariably unvarying as a Swiss Alp.
The subtle nuanced worldview, where the sky
stretches from ceiling to a foot above ground, as
I lay prone neath the coverlet, vista always subtly differing,
from its prior reincarnation, self-reflection demands to know.
Alive & Awake? Yes.
Breathing steady? Yes.
Toes? Still can wiggly to & fro.
My soul?
Presumably ok, as I write, because I write, the
picture window into to my insight, though oft blurry,
yet intact, making discernible the changes in light,
temperature and heart rate, as the body/soul contraption modulates, just as the gradient of daylight shifts lighter and higher, with a rising sun bringing more clarity to our interactive encounters with our environments..
The picture window internalized, much the same,as
the vista, subtle modest changes, colorations variegated,
are registered. Today is mostly cloudy overcast, and shall remain so for the foreseeable future, which be about two days hence. Not unsurprisingly, methinks, the future tends to be cloudy.
Beyond that peripheral, no one can say, our macular envisioning only gets weaker,time is a tough taskmaster
and uncertainty is it’s own principle.
But I can say, forecast from well under the comforter,
that more than less, where less is more, this picture window,
ex and in, shall remain, unchanged for the remainder of my years that fortune shall provide, and will & would grant me awakenings to the ex-sight and in-sight of a sculpted landscape, of negative entropy, where disorder minimal.
My musings end here, unless you still wish, come the morrow,
what the marrow the day reveals, what the window will spill,
new and exciting, subtly unchanged, and always different.
Caution: The injection of caffeine may dramatically alter
the windows perspective, as the exogenous always trumps the
endogenous.
5:50 AM
P.S. Making coffee clarifies: If the vista in +/- unchanging,
then, all my personal, own horizons are immortal as well.
Jun 4, 2023
Jun 4, 2023 at 6:34 AM UTC
my open window
looking out with anticipation
cloudy day
waiting for rain drops
precious sounds of life
trickledown into a thunderstorm
crackle of light
reaching from the clouds to the ground
cloud condensation nuclei
magic droplets start to fall
clouds pass
anticipated blue sky
sun raining rays
creatures buzzing
bird wings flapping
luck of the universe
bringing loveliness into my vision
kismet of my ideas
when reaching for the unknown
ladybug lands on me
providing the luck
elytra open like a mechanical contraption in my dreams
protecting precious veined wings
off you go with exquisite elegance
graceful motion
ballerinas
mimicking
your moves
grand jeté
Dec 3, 2018
Dec 3, 2018 at 2:17 PM UTC
The light dapples in
Throwing odd shadows
On the plastic surrounding me.
Like a strange sunset put there
To taunt my eyes
Each droplet of water
Is another arrow
Shooting new spikes of pain
Through my body
Hundreds
Thousands
Millions of drops
Per second
Splash onto my skin.
1,000
2,000
I could have avoided the pain
I could have stopped this
Not going to the beach
Not going on that walk
But oh, I would not take it back.
Not one second.
Every
Happy
Minute was another
Happy
Memory
To add to my collection
And even
As I lay here
Rivulets of water
Washing down my red skin
I am making another.
You tease me
Like some cruel trickster
Happiness
Dripping down my back
Turned to cruel
Twisted
Pain
Running up my spine like a knife.
Oh, blissful pain
Would that I could feel
You to your full relevance
Instead, you trip over me
Leaving pain in your wake.
Like a torture machine.
This feels so bad
But so good.
Once the water is freed
From the contraption shooting it
Like a pistol in my heart
Onto my skin
It rebels against its maker
And trickles delightfully across me, sending delightful shivers
Into me
Only to betray me again.
Oh, sweet treasure
Would that your painful side were invisible
So
I
Could sleep
Once
Again.
Jun 23, 2015
Jun 23, 2015 at 11:19 PM UTC
At one time transfixed in front of the t.v. watching
Programs strewn trash the river mouth spewing
Shows and shows as waves on the sand breaking
Talk gibberish talks water under a bridge rushing
Unintelligible words rain on a roof pitter pattering
Now we're glued to a contraption called internet
Blasting air ways information ideas faster than jet
Good bad evil intertwining jungles without outlet
Connecting to connect to lives or lives haven't met
Inexhaustible possibilities daily sunrise to sunset
Better be a wanderer by nature gladly enveloping
Explore new world or a quiet place contemplating
What makes us what we are therefore we're doing
Cyber corrupts old fashioned family ties reflecting
May inflict affection attentively attending nothing
Mar 25, 2018
Mar 25, 2018 at 8:34 PM UTC
standing on the love-lock bridge in paris
i felt the hope secured in each metal contraption
thousands upon thousands
every link of fence occupied
sharpie and custom prints
revealing the names of lovers,
dates
some present, some new
a timeline of love
efforts to have
some minute, impossible
control over fate
thinking lifeless objects
and cast away keys
will keep people together
May 12, 2013
May 12, 2013 at 8:43 PM UTC
I don't care to see your struggle
as your endearment
puts me in a eternal ******* full of regret
where I continually desire the contraption
until you set me free
No longer will I be a slave to your affections
Your whispers clinging to my ears like paper clips
and your kisses, feeling like cheap post-its that falls like snowflakes
Keep such an endearment to yourself
So you can finally have a taste of your own self-worth
Aug 27, 2014
Aug 27, 2014 at 8:10 AM UTC
We clocked in
(Punched in the older guys said)
And sat in a circle of orange plastic chairs
Hubbed by a thin morose
Befuddlement of a team lead
“An hour, just what is an hour?” he asked to begin the weekly meeting
I wanted to say, “A unit of temporal measurement that comprises -- or is that composes? -- sixty minutes,”
But held back
Knowing the obviousness of the query had to be a set-up
The befuddlement sighed in frustration
An understudy to my English III instructor
(the one who gave me an F- on the Emily Dickinson test)
Then said, “Okay, just what can be done in an hour?”
Then the youngest kid who always kept quiet
But who had enough scars -- had to toss in a lurid touch didn’t I --
To imply that he might have more experience than the oldest said,
“Nothing.”
“Nothing?”
“Nothing.”
“Okay, then just what is that contraption on the other side of the bay?”
“An assembly line.”
“And what does it do?”
“It makes a 30centaurpower indivertible that runs on Gila monster spit.”
He nodded.
He considered.
“Okay, then, let’s punch out and come back tomorrow. Maybe then we’ll really have something to do.”
(And - oh yeah -- putting on my hat as a frustrated teleplay writer:
Those scars showed that he could handle himself.)
Sep 23, 2012
Sep 23, 2012 at 6:34 PM UTC
the markerboard on the fridge read:
sleep tonight.
the only thing i promised myself i'd do.
the day went something like this:
i woke up thirty minutes late,
i made do with only washing my hair,
ate an apple, yogurt, drank a cup,
****** myself to clear my head,
ignored the neighbor as i stepped out the door.
went to a dead-end, data-entry job,
where the girls aren't pretty, nobody is funny,
because everybody is a CPA and i'm not pleasant because i
don't give a good ******* about the
world of finance.
the highlight of the workday (as it is everyday),
was the break room chatter during lunch.
the earth-shattering conversations
revolved around:
*how good the nutrisystem desserts taste,
how there was low voter-turnout in the midterm,
and how that one girl is a lesbian*.
i got off work,
ate a sandwich, a banana,
put on sweatpants and a thrift store t-shirt.
i wrapped some fitness contraption around
my belly, whose sole purpose is to make
my abdomen sweat profusely.
no pretty girls at the fitness center.
i got back to my apartment.
wrote some phony poetry full
of half-baked sentiment
for no worthwhile reason.
i smoked.
i watched a foreign film, but couldn't find my glasses.
meaning: *i have no ******* clue what the plot was about*.
i went to the gas station.
made small talk with the long haired indian man.
i bought two smirnoff 40s.
something about smirnoff gives me really cohesive dreams.
my roommate tried to give me a lecture.
i told him christ was a myth.
a simple summation of earlier religious figures.
slammed the door,
lit some incense called *****
i fell asleep, woke up an hour later in a fright.
turned on the fan,
lit some more *****
closed my eyes,
and dreamt a complex novel,
containing:
*me missing church,
my mom calling me,
getting lost in canada,
finding my way back to
my hometown only to find
two dudes with heavy machine guns
killing everyone in the cozy, local shops,
then somehow i got a line in a movie
directed by none other than keanu reeves*.
at least i finally got some sleep.
Jul 28, 2010
Jul 28, 2010 at 6:21 PM UTC
The day had been set,
And we were all ready--
The crunchy snow was waiting too—
The frigid sky watched us overhead.
Anticipation was building
like steam in the pit of my stomach
We leapt out of the truck
And sunk right into the snow.
After a few kids slid down
The rollercoastering hill,
I went down screaming,
Blurred colors rushed into my eyes.
My tube detached from my ****
Snow went everywhere:
In my face, down my back
My cheeks were frozen in place.
I arrived at the bottom,
Quicker than I expected,
And waited in the powder
For a snowmobile boy
The contraption roared and sped
I dropped the tube,
And held on for my life,
Then dropped myself too.
We tried again,
With the tube around my middle,
The tube a giant donut
I was the creamy center.
I made up to the top,
Triumphantly soaked from my outside in,
Cheers resounded and bounced
In the valley and off the frozen lake.
Feb 27, 2012
Feb 27, 2012 at 11:51 PM UTC
I
Fanciful and then the first notice of
suspended mouth corners,
fleeing gravity with invisible strings,
sloppily synchronize in giggles.
II
A glance at the shore horizon,
widening into chasm,
Erebus leaking
ominously—
oh but the raft
is far too small!
oh and flimsy!
surely the shadows
will ravage
the branches
and pull this
neurotically
euphoric contraption
below.
III
glazed malfunction
blurred and hazed
for lack of clarity
billowing surges
mold as magnets inandout
and in andoutandinandout again
fades in before
melting again to
disjointed gestures
in a multicolored backdrop
IV
Skeletal architectures
return from a hysterical
awareness of ****** intricacy—
And discussion is,
of course,
forever precluded
for fear of relapse
and embarrassment.
Mar 22, 2011
Mar 22, 2011 at 1:55 PM UTC
It's yet another virginal autumn
sliding through the
core of my esophagus,
the most bitter medication,
and the healthiest
to some "He" I've never met.
Let us all take a gander
at the undersexed ice queen,
turning his moans
into a frostbitten cackle
heard far past his grave
crafted with the polarizing
limestone of unintentional cynicism.
He sits at the bumper
of your public transportation system,
perfectly positioned in the middle,
so he can play God,
he jokes!
But it's because he loves people watching.
People watching
is not
people knowing;
people watching
is not
people loving.
Judgmental
is a barrier
same as those
elementary PSAs
about saying no to
strangers, also known as
creepy men with toupees
in decades-old station wagons;
these filthy humans,
all know that man,
all are his children,
all his faithful followers,
his filthy, faithful followers,
no sensual thoughts
will creep into my untouched oats
this grimy morning!
I will never
have dreams
in warm Equator-creeping nights
of making friction with their flesh,
even the boy,
the beautiful boy
standing savagely
on this public bus,
making the waves
pumping through this contraption
that makes up my frame
no longer stagnant,
rabid with the saliva
begging to drop
to commemorate
my loss for words
and my panting
need
for action.
His body is eternally dripping
with the juice of a hard man's labor
luminous vibrance through the skin,
the power of the Latin sun
in the drops of salt running
all the way
down his body
and I feel myself
recording his existence,
no name needed,
just his face
and body
in this rhythmic Orlando morning.
Apr 29, 2010
Apr 29, 2010 at 10:52 AM UTC
You failed to take your Drone Control Command Kit
as you hurried off at dawn for work this early morn.
Unmindful, I mistook it for a fancy Xbox game contraption,
so commenced a match of Shock and Awe to while away the time
and with the joystick, hot and pulsing, quickly opened fire
at some evil bad-guy villains lurking down below
(nearby, a bus with random kids
confused, in fear and hiding).
Left quite a bit of childish crimson carnage flowing
on congested streets inside a city storming
somewhere…
thank goodness, very far away from here.
Please forgive me, for I think it was
your very last remaining
smart-precision missile…
yes, that pretty one you’d kept so long,
and meant to use some day to sanctify
a humble wedding-day reception…
but as you know I've always had a hang
for children's senseless macho playthings.
Sep 30, 2018
Sep 30, 2018 at 9:20 AM UTC
The amount of pain in the brain of a man insane.
He tries to do what he should but it proves to be no good.
The pressures of human interaction give him an awkward set of roles
in this social contraption.
Is he a loser, is he a genius, is he a loner, a stoner, a ***** a badass?
Everyone tries to fit him in a class.
No one feels secure in this skewed world without their false code of unspoken word.
The man insane feels he is the only one who has no reason to run from the thoughts
that create unease in others,
people that think outside the box get killed by the others.
He knows this and still lives on knowing hes ridiculed by the status hes drawn.
writers block is a ***** when it comes from a woman.
and the man that hes become wants to do her no wrong
but every move he makes has the effect of a nuclear bomb.
he doesnt know how to do right
so he writes it in a song
and all along she shows him how much he means to her.
every time it comes out its news to be heard
because while shes breaking his heart and his will
hes thinking of her.
While he tries and tries but the problems wont subside,
he becomes the man insane with nothing to hide
but no one to tell that inside he died
Oct 5, 2013
Oct 5, 2013 at 9:48 PM UTC
I'm sixteen
I still can't exactly swing on a swing without being scared
I suppose it's a metaphor for life
To have fear of such a childish contraption
I'm afraid of the motion
I'm scared of falling off
But I'm not scared of falling into you
I will do it over and over and over again
I will collide
I don't fear it
I don't fear you and I
I was swinging yesterday
My stomach felt awful
I told myself to stare at something
To get lost in the thought of you
Concentrate on what I was doing
It was nice to drown in something for once
To not hate the feel of not being able to breathe when I thought of something
Maybe because it was not something dark, it was you
I drowned in your magnificence
I probably looked like an idiot sitting in a swing, smiling like a giant goofball
But I didn't really care in that moment
Because even though you were not there in person
I held you in my heart
My mind
My smile
Nostalgic settled upon my bare shoulders
Like the last rays of sunshine
A profound hush smothered my neighborhood
I never had a swing set when I was a kid
But ironically now that I'm sixteen there is a swing set
In my backyard a couple years too late
Another life metaphor
Sometimes the best language is the unspoken kind
But I'm here screaming out with every word
That I love your everything in the loudest voice I can
The miles between us might muffle my voice
I just hope you can feel my heart beating as loud as a locomotive train
Jul 1, 2014
Jul 1, 2014 at 8:03 PM UTC
read me literal, dear reader
please - for I never transcend
beyond the obvious
I am in the physical, embodied and whole
and so cannot go into things figurative
or metaphorical,
satirical, persona-cast, parodic or symbolic
*Irony, I've always known, is some contraption
wrought by an ironsmith*
and so to me, dear reader
"He's got the whole world in his hands"
is a ridiculous proposition, makes no sense;
and Isaac Newton was obviously
suffering from concussion
from the literal apple
that hit him hard on his head
when he extemporised:
*"If I have seen further it is
by standing on the shoulders of giants."*
Bah! Humbug! - a scientist and you believe in giants!
Come on Newton - you're nuts! Stick to apples!
read me literal, dear reader -
so when I say my wife is an angel
I mean she's dead and she floats around me
making ****** sure I don't get hitched again
till I too become an angel, or fiend,
however it may come to pass;
and the guy who tells me: "Nice day, isn't it"
when it's raining cats and dogs
is obviously some crazy *******
Oct 13, 2014
Oct 13, 2014 at 5:01 AM UTC
the world is a dryer.
if there is a washing machine section within our universe, I am unaware of it.
I don't work that rotation. I work the dry shift.
tumble low heat, fluff, repeat.
repeat.
in almost every dryer known to mankind, some contraption serves as the lint trap. collect all of the lint and excess laundry fluff as it goes through the dry cycle.
in this world, in this universe; if the human race consists of the articles of clothing in the dryer, I am the lint trap.
it sounds almost cutesy when phrased like that. dryer lint is fluffy and soft and the combination of all the different fibers of the various clothing.
I'm the trap, though. the filter.
I must absorb and filter the excess fiber from every article of clothing. if the entire human race is in this dry cycle; I absorb and filter their raveling ends.
it's ******* exhausting.
here's a better analogy. have you ever had your stomach pumped?
they handle this differently now, but when the doctors, nurses, and staff working in the ER would get a patient who swallowed an entire bottle of ****** with a ***** chaser; or a new mother's young son swallowing her bottle of sertaline, they would get to work. one hand activated charcoal, the other hand with a large suction tube.
activated charcoal is what neutralizes the bottle of ****** or the bottle of Zoloft. the charcoal can absorb **** near anything. it pulls out stains and poisons, neutralizing and absorbing.
this is where the tube comes in. the charcoal is harmless on its own, but the ER staff is in a hurry to console (get rid of) the screaming mother; to move the seventeen year old girl with the ****** ***** chaser to the psychiatric unit, and continue their night.
insert the long tube to suction the charcoal out of the stomachs of the two children. this is often haphazardly shoved down the back of the throat, down the esophagus, reaching the stomach. flip the switch, undo what peristalsis cannot. it's not pleasant. gagging, rough, foul, I've been told.
the body is working in reverse order. vomiting may be easier. the suction tube is fighting the natural flow of the body. the esophagus is attempting to push everything down down down, and the tube is fighting back.
I am the activated charcoal found in every ER across the globe. I absorb the poisons that human beings put into their bodies.
I can pass someone on the street, and my activated charcoal soul absorbs the negativity, the poison, the hatred, the emotional chaos from that individual.
I often wonder if the person feels lighter, noting the absence of the venom that once crippled them. I never ask. I just keep my gaze down and ignore the tempest ensnared within my activated charcoal lint trap.
there are others like me. activated charcoal hearts, lint trap souls.
Jul 15, 2017
Jul 15, 2017 at 3:28 PM UTC
she lived on the only street
in Rattenberg, the smallest village
in all Austria. because it was all
she knew
and all she loved.
in the summer, she lived in the
kitchen
away from the flies and
the itching glow of the sun
sketching designs of glass crystal
and playing records
her father played from his armchair
when she was young.
the blinds closed, the shadows
of pedestrians drew sloping
templates of bodies large and thin
she guessed their faces and painted
girls with small noses and round chins
and made the men look like him.
her sister, from the neighbour town
called in the winter months, when
Rat Mountain devoured the sun and left
Rattenberg in day-night. she invited her
on walks, said it was not good
for her complexion to live in shadow
unmoved, she
preferred instead to pace the only street
in the welcome midday greyness
and smile quietly
at the pale faces she passed
when plans rumbled of a
contraption of mirrors to steal
the day's shine from her sister's town
she prayed to the moon
he would let them leave her alone
in the shadow of Rat Mountain
a child of the night
the girl who preferred the dark to the light
the lady-moth determined to stay in flight.
Mar 10, 2012
Mar 10, 2012 at 6:45 PM UTC
It may be fun
It may be nice
I'm trying to be nice.
Pull me in
You grab my hands
Look back and see my teeth glint unwillingly
Why don't you see
Why can't you feel it somehow
I know you are not numb.
The grass pinches our feet
You say you know they *****
But can't you hear me?
Glassy fingers
That belong to you
I want to kiss them
Pulling me towards
A big roller coaster
Look at me, boy, look at me.
**What?
I said look at me.
We're going to the ride now, tell me later.**
You are strapped.
I am strapped to the coaster's seat too.
The contraption starts to whirl…
**You know I'm scared
I need
To hold your hand.
What are you saying?
I can't hear you!**
Ah, that's right.
You don't hear me.
And I wish I could hold your hand
But you aren't next to me no one is
She is next to you
And
I am not.
You don't hear.
I hear you tilt your head to look at her
I hear your heartbeat go faster
Nice, I am trying to be
To both of you
I hear your fingers land on hers
But her name is also Nice
Like in Italy
I've always tried to be her
And this is not fun
I wish I could pull off the straps
I am trying
I can pull them off.
Get away, from you
Because I love you it will be better this way
The contraption is still on
I am hanging on the edge of the roller coaster
And you have to hear me.
You have to hear me
You have to hear me
You have to hear--
May 7, 2014
May 7, 2014 at 2:21 PM UTC
Metal contraption, I dutifully climb into you each day as the sun rises
and drive your clunky frame through the hills of a crowded campus
to face the questions and stares of the kindhearted and heartless.
I prefer you in short increments and, on weekdays only please
but I’m strapped into your metal ways at almost all times
and jostle along with each bump and crack in the sidewalk.
I hold tight to your rubber arms as we travel down the steep hills
and plow you through old man winters blinding white ways
for long stretches, in between short, fitful summers
I’m not pretending that I never curse you, because I do,
for sticking in gravel, grass and grout, breaking down
every Monday, or your front wheel falling off again
and yet you carry me faithfully to and from school and home
where I jump to the floor and embrace freedom and movement
until I climb again from bed and into mobility and its adventurous ways.
Aug 10, 2010
Aug 10, 2010 at 4:40 PM UTC