"diodes" poems
kids only see txt
they don't have any feelings
only the screens
of their smartphones
they only talk via tweets
RTs & "comments"
low poly skinhead cyberpunks
living in HD premium worlds
it's only diodes
that iphone ain't got no soul -
not like it used to be
it used to be real
they don't have feelings
it's just txts on screens
they dnt have feelings
they dnt hv any feelng
Jun 19, 2013
Jun 19, 2013 at 2:24 PM UTC
You smile black-eyed as
the city belches blue neon
through its steel-glass canyons;
a cobalt factory of lumen, pulsing
through dendritic labyrinths
of sapphired circuitry.
Diodes of cerulean fire,
spreading with virulent sophistry
amid the glittering obsidian dark,
like pale horses of light that
leap from pane to inky pane,
like a Pentium’s ******
God’s own seething fireworks
watched in reverse
as they float in through my car window,
strobing blue against your freshly
washed hair.
Jul 13, 2012
Jul 13, 2012 at 8:51 AM UTC
It all disappears
replaced by a phantom,
the flickering light of a coal miners lantern casts its shadow along the black halls and it all disappears.
Bevan would spin in his grave knowing his lads could not save what remained of his dream,
and in the lean light of lamplight the nightwatch calls midnight,
and it all disappears.
We were born into a world that exploded with light emitting diodes,and nuclear power,turbines that whine in constant revolution,
a green world, a clean world, a world fit for tomorrow where the future is born from the ashes of sorrow and these tears we would borrow from the seeds that we sow ,
and it all disappears in the fears of the many,of those, who if they had any hope,have it no more,where the door is locked and the bolt is drawn against this brave new dawn,and sometimes it feels like I never was born ,
but created from eggshells and no one tells me that I'm wrong.
Cracked open my breath breaks away, and the inside exposed,peeled like the petals that rose on some bloom,the shrivelling doom, a vast mushrooming cloud,
and it makes me feel proud,
as it all disappears and we all fade away.
Nov 12, 2013
Nov 12, 2013 at 12:51 AM UTC
Burnt out on
a legion of increasingly mobile devices
for a legion of increasingly immobile people
Antisocial networks and a friends list
of listless friends
But what judgment is justified
while staring at square screens with
increasing intensity
and begrudging propensity?
An information ******
that can't get a fix
for all that's wrong in their world
Let's start to run a shutdown command
march away from the heat of indifferent ****
pull away from those fright emitting diodes
crowding a fiber opticked off planet
With nothing better to do
No plans that aren't metered in Gigabytes
We can topple their towers of babel
and towers of cable
And the night sky will shimmer with thousands of stars
we never knew were there
Jan 17, 2014
Jan 17, 2014 at 12:24 PM UTC
If I was a droid,
life wouldn't feel the same.
I'd see the world through holograms,
kiss cold-lips, feel just a bit of heat in my LED.
My joints would be motorized-gears, not sinew.
But would I even have the emotion to want to kiss,
any desire to engage in such physical contact?
There would be no need for any of that.
Everything would be just useless-information.
There would be no warmth from the sun
on my Teflon skin, no sex-organ to act
on my lack of inhibitions,
smell would mean nothing.
So I guess,
if I were a droid,
I'd be bored to death &
not living, just existing
in a body containing
diodes & transistors,
hard drives & resistors.
I'd be integrated, solid-state,
driving a data-bus to nowhere,
doomed to misery,
a pathetic, an unfeeling state,
without a real date.
Dec 28, 2013
Dec 28, 2013 at 2:30 PM UTC
what makes us beautiful? printed notes sanctioned by the government? three layers of plastic that attaches to the skin. electricity that runs in your spines, blue rays invading your lonely night. a night where jasmine’s weep because you’ve lost sight of their existence.what makes us beautiful? pixelated rays emitting diodes of dopamine. colours and colours of chrome attached to screens. what makes us beautiful, then? 360 degree surveillance across borders and borders of human civilisations. what makes us beautiful then? maybe a solitary ray of sun as it wraps around your face at dawn? but how would you know that, as you’re doused from the pixels of yesterday, making you numb enough to make sleep through the morning.
Aug 27, 2024
Aug 27, 2024 at 12:17 AM UTC
“***I read to find inspiration.
I write to restore candor to the mind.***”
N. Scott Momaday
<<<<<>>>>>>>>>
Find Inspiration:
a phrase that diodes light, a one-way current within,
making me a selectman, “of thee I sing, of thee I write,
of thee am I composed and fodder for thy dissection &
”my decomposition.”
a phrase that reads me more than I read it,
jumps onto my ontological eyeballs, a great leap
forward, and I suppose humdrum you could call it,
inserted inspiration
Restoring Candor:
thus begins expiation+ excoriation+ exhumation;
a longish road to candor restoration, where plausible
deniability is denied, Jedi verbal mind tricks are
just in movies, and candor is really “can-do(r)!”
but
no one dare say that
for fear of being laughed at,
a cancelled jingo-lingo-patriot.
Oct 24, 2021
Oct 24, 2021 at 10:47 AM UTC
When these evening faces float and
fold and their orbit is in reach of the
foam coughed on the beach,
the cyclical physics in the
diodes implode, each edifice
saunters into sleep behind them.
Tomorrow
the city erupts, full enough
for gutters to bleed, abrupt
strikes seen among
the chain links and
trash heaps.
Tonight,
they're witness to a
cruel mother's steel belly
rocking in crude oil labor,
and her youthful light who
leaps to spy how
its birthpains coax a
body into another -- to
share what do the
sea and sky. When
Gravity herself weaves
a celestial web above, and a
fledgling *******
bed below, it tucks them
softly, safely, neatly
into their human details
so deeply a cry is heard. It is the
ocean trapped in itself alone,
so envious in the brackish tomb.
Aug 17, 2015
Aug 17, 2015 at 12:24 AM UTC
This shattering light
showering through
the tips of our fingers
spraying out of diodes
off the backs of skulls
onto the backs of hands
with enough pressure
Oct 19, 2021
Oct 19, 2021 at 12:26 AM UTC
A jump start to a starved heart and
we're all locked into the grid,
we belong and though
some long to be
their destiny is a lonely place.
I face those disapproving looks
those look at him looks
and at times think
life *****
but then they put the implants in
and switched on the juice.
It's like being in a bowl with a hole drilled
into my head
I have to tread carefully and watch my
Ps and Q's while they abuse me.
If I attach the electrodes to the diodes and the cathode tube explodes
they'll say I was trying to escape into the series and unlock the grid
what they don't know is I did.
Apr 12, 2017
Apr 12, 2017 at 12:35 PM UTC
Abstract illustration,
for likened is neither
words or form.
Were just memories,
silhouettes
of then and before, afterimages..
Thinking were real, but were diodes
of light fixed re-watched...
observed a thousand times..
We never realise that we weren't here,
just a replayed moment...
Look behind you,
to late..
were not really here..
"Just a moment being rerun,
did you hear me when
I said that, yes that's me not you..
don't worry, just sleep. Shhhhh….
Everything will be fine in the morning...
May 27, 2020
May 27, 2020 at 6:27 PM UTC
while soaring the heavenly heights
many hours ago
every major metropolis appeared
about a million miles below
the rarefied atmosphere
ideal composition beckoned angels,
who bustled, hustled, and jostled elbow
(which bedlam, flimflam, and mayhem
intimated Hells Bells)
wing trying (heavens to Betsy) to flag attention,
and snag coveted soundcloud Netherland Award
cap ping bulging port folio,
which hubbub charged crackled, popped,
snapped amidst light emitting diodes
with a snazzy aura, charisma
harp pulling, piping, and chiefly
paying praise (CI years post haste)
to William Henry Perkin
whose credit able karma
(and unwitting) claim to fame didst glow
purple, which jumpstarted incandescent halo
couture culture club, via constant comet inflow
of Plasmodia vaguely resembling microscopic red Jello
illuminating swath of dusky
shutter flying sky sustaining
self contained feedback instagram loop know
wing lee broadcasting mauveine staccato low
to the groundswell of chemists dyeing, Googling,
and gratefully huzzahing insinuating
killing, kindling kissing
malaria goodbye, an outlook
(nee a once in a lifetime moe
mint - je nais sais quoi) win out loud
respectably sedulous honoree, a no
bill sine qua non bit player aniline
(to conclude this short poem) about his oh
penning accidental discovery kickstarting pro
noun est contribution to the fashion industry.
Mar 12, 2018
Mar 12, 2018 at 4:09 PM UTC
how much easier it might be
to type these words, not
write & swipe with the
sword-tip of a pen across
the canvas of a page
mashing buttons on a controller
swifting for a combo ****
conclusion to an aperture
of computer "consciousness"
rearranged in form of pixels
with every maneuver, shift,
& dodge across the canvas
of light emitting diodes on
your television set / computer
screen.
Macroeconomics, on the DL
(down-low), meticulously
controlled as an experiment
on nothing mellow,
nothing easy,
nothing soft.
Jan 23, 2018
Jan 23, 2018 at 2:49 PM UTC
the good old nights^
roam the recesses and the abscess of
our too small apartment in the the very
large, very long, very inescapable wee wee
hours of the dark session of the day, lifting
my tablet to inscribe/ reorder/ recorder her/
this one more in my personal history, with
rant, word elixir, a note to our plural selves,
thinking of English gardens drinking up my
water freshly flowing and flying to you, via
nighty nite storm clouds, or your rural falls
and white clouds cumulus do not return, and I too,
as my mind ***** and slugs but all attempts to
pierce the walled in somber slumber FAIL.
The creative comes besty beast like when I am driven from my dreams to wakealate (dream+speculate with eyes open)
dream of our realities and the tv (she never
remembers to program to shut down), drones
on about some product with XL in the name
that will make the unsleeping walkers feel
so much-better.
but not, not us, for we turn exploratory and
listen to the humming, beeping, tiny little diodes
of Joseph’s colored coat, all the mini stimuli,
the lights that mark the modern blacker hours
of rhythm, even those who can’t dance, can sleep,
‘cept for me, for I am a tune disturbed, needful of
minding, all these a rhythm busters ghosting me,
as a prelude to a poem vision now freshly etched
on my mind and now upon your flesh, an animation,
of reanimated images of ancient statues, ancient
advertisements for fertility, the dream continuum
of our lives, beyond our clearly demarcated time
line, the human, gene based need to outlive our
bodies in-the bodies of our progeny are a recurring
motif…female fecundity, statues, many cracked or
missing limbs, come to life and move around, wailing
with grief and anger and hope and desire
alas, alas, another ole good time night ramble,
amidst familiar places and new abscesses,
and I wonder, how am I writing this when both
hands cover my face, and yet I still envision?
Tuesday Apr 16
3:08am
(the year escapes me,
for notions of big times
are measured in multiples
of I can’t remember)
Apr 17, 2024
Apr 17, 2024 at 12:47 PM UTC
I be a lyrical icon like big pun or biggie beggin' for one
More chance none could dance with me once the mic touches my hand
Causing sweat through ya glands rocking the stands
I'm hotter than desert sands burning at four ends
North to East West to South hataz watch ya mouth
Or catch my desert ease make you stand at ease as death slowly devours ya like a disease
Please don't take our hits lightly my latin lady
Stay with a 380 in a nine duece Mercedes
Diesel cruisin' like Smokey makin' miracles
Through the oracle leeched my tentacles
To the rap game **** shame they thought they could hang
With the Don Prince to King Solomon
And my real sun is Solomon My word is bond
Test me in youll be floatin' up the pond
Body bloated and corrode soon to explode
I'm makin' expos connect on ya mind like diodes
Hallucinate your cells like bufotenine I'm bought to climb
To the top with no ladder while others in a stagger
Gotta stay facin' the front so I can watch for them back stabbers
Apr 23, 2018
Apr 23, 2018 at 8:07 PM UTC