"discs" poems
I.
And my hair became too much
It overtook the walls
made its way into the office on the sixth floor
and then hung
like a dripping willow’s branches
over the desks
By the time they thought to find me
I’d already been wrapped up in a cocoon of brown hair
indistinguishable from the walls
that was now
also covered in the thick strands of undulated hair
II.
everything and everyone became consumed.
III.
In hairy chrysalis, the scissors uselessly
hung on some poor frantic pair of hands
forced into pupa
IV.
It was on the third day that the streets surrounding the corporate buildings were once again
populated with people, that a young woman in heels swore she heard a
faint choral singing coming from the 5th or 6th floor of a dreary grey building.
V.
everything cocooned
everyone consumed
all in pupa
VI.
During metamorphosis, a caterpillar digests itself leaving only behind imaginal discs
that shape it’s adult body.
everything becomes consumed.
Jun 28, 2018
Jun 28, 2018 at 12:05 PM UTC
with an Apple Macintosh
you can't run Radio Shack programs
in its disc drive.
nor can a Commodore 64
drive read a file
you have created on an
IBM Personal Computer.
both Kaypro and Osborne computers use
the CP/M operating system
but can't read each other's
handwriting
for they format (write
on) discs in different
ways.
the Tandy 2000 runs MS-DOS but
can't use most programs produced for
the IBM Personal Computer
unless certain
bits and bytes are
altered
but the wind still blows over
Savannah
and in the Spring
the turkey buzzard struts and
flounces before his
hens.
9.8k
I never really wanted to have an agent
Just one day I met this lady and she starting arranging my gigs and stuff
She gave me this kelly green handkerchief and told me to wear it in my left back pocket at all times
I have followed her orders religiously and now own more laser discs than all my friends combined
Do you know where the Trinidadian bakery is?
I'm supposed to meet the paperboy there and give him this pencil case
May the black cats of January be afraid to cross your path
Feb 1, 2013
Feb 1, 2013 at 1:11 AM UTC
She is disinterested in small talk beyond the park benches.
She longs instead for late-night confessions,
for the quiet unraveling between sentences—
the hidden chapters you both never dared to read out loud
She has no fondness for candlelit dinners
or anniversaries dressed in silverware and manners
What she wants is the open road at dusk,
the wind like a dare,
no map, no compass—
just the delicious risk of getting lost together
She detests the pop songs blaring from car radios,
those perfect little lies that everyone sings along to
She belongs to the sound of something raw—
a forgotten folk song, an aching guitar,
a voice that cracks where it shouldn’t
Her room is lined with vinyls and dust and memory
And no—she doesn’t want drizzles or passing breezes
She wants the storm;
The hurricane that splits her open,
the tsunami that drags her under—
because only in the wreckage
does she remember what it means
to feel
Oct 6, 2016
Oct 6, 2016 at 7:24 AM UTC
poetry readings have to be some of the saddest
****** things ever,
the gathering of the clansmen and clanladies,
week after week, month after month, year
after year,
getting old together,
reading on to tiny gatherings,
still hoping their genius will be
discovered,
making tapes together, discs together,
sweating for applause
they read basically to and for
each other,
they can't find a New York publisher
or one
within miles,
but they read on and on
in the poetry holes of America,
never daunted,
never considering the possibility that
their talent might be
thin, almost invisible,
they read on and on
before their mothers, their sisters, their husbands,
their wives, their friends, the other poets
and the handful of idiots who have wandered
in
from nowhere.
I am ashamed for them,
I am ashamed that they have to bolster each other,
I am ashamed for their lisping egos,
their lack of guts.
if these are our creators,
please, please give me something else:
a drunken plumber at a bowling alley,
a prelim boy in a four rounder,
a **** guiding his horse through along the
rail,
a bartender on last call,
a waitress pouring me a coffee,
a drunk sleeping in a deserted doorway,
a dog munching a dry bone,
an elephant's **** in a circus tent,
a 6 p.m. freeway crush,
the mailman telling a ***** joke
anything
anything
but
these.
7.7k
Somewhere in the South Pacific
a human-shaped speck casts a bottle
from the shore of a tiny island
into the interminable sea.
The bottle contains a note
which bears:
a name
an approximate location
and a desperate plea.
The bottle drifts slowly away
flashing in and out of view
on the crests of passing swells.
It glides on mysterious currents
and a quiet modicum of hope.
Simultaneously,
Above a particular point in the Northern Hemisphere,
a ball of tin foil
labeled Voyager I
is crossing the threshold
into the world outside
the solar system.
On board are a pair of golden discs
engraved with:
images and voices of human beings
the relative location of the Sun to fourteen nearby pulsars
and a plea,
naively disguised to look like a proud declaration of identity
but what proud and accomplished
race of beings
would need to search for
companionship
among the stars?
The little metal ball floats away
blinking bits of data back to Earth
each grainier than
the last
tugged by the gravity of distant bodies
and a quiet modicum of
hope.
Jul 21, 2018
Jul 21, 2018 at 1:21 AM UTC
I want to look out the window
And see bright stars
Lights, and shattered visions.
I want to see
Colors and flying discs.
People thinking, dreaming,
On the edge of discovering
Always not knowing,
Always around the corner.
The timepiece etched in diamonds
Solid, imbued with living darkness
And sheltered worlds.
Pass the time along rivers
Motion, curling smoke and ladies dancing
I want to hear bells and raindrops.
Scattered droplets of rejuvenation
And solitary gongs calling into the depths,
I crave to see the night
For what it could be.
For what it really is behind
Closed doors, and open windows
Behind every mind the desire to know
Others and people
Moving flesh and deep breaths,
Sighing into one another
Haunted by control,
Thoughts of distaste for the lack of
Efficiency.
For I fear acceptance,
To accept a flaw,
A spiraling flood of color
A crack in the shield of dawn.
The weeds pushing up through
Concrete,
Trees, skyscrapers grasping at the atmosphere.
Shadows beyond the fences
And your eyes when I've asked too much.
I want to feel the night for what it is.
Not for what it could be.
Aug 15, 2013
Aug 15, 2013 at 2:13 AM UTC
Where I’m From
I am from wires,
from electricity and TV screens.
I am from the dust covering the console.
(Piled high, thick,
It made me sneeze)
I am from the Sega Genesis
the Nintendo
Who has long been forgotten
amongst the shiny new games.
I am from controllers and memory cards,
From Mario and Sonic.
I’m from the hard core gamers,
And the once-in-a-whiles,
From You win! And Game over!
I’m from Thou saveth the princess
With Donkey and Diddy
And 10 cheats I know by heart.
I’m from GameStop and Best Buy,
brand new plastic and overheating console.
From the controller thrown across the room
To the memories,
bonding brother and sister.
In my closet is a box,
filled with old games,
scratched up discs
that will never again work
I am from these games
created before I was born,
born from the tree of electronics.
Apr 20, 2010
Apr 20, 2010 at 4:33 PM UTC
Little discs used to make us happy
Like miniature frisbys flying into our mouths
Getting lost in the trees
The branches tangled and knotted
Unable to escape.
May 5, 2015
May 5, 2015 at 3:30 AM UTC
I just tasted a memory. BANG . slapped me on the tongue like a freight train out of a rip in space and time,
of garlic and peppercorn chicken with jasmine rice , a clear broth and fresh cucumbers, a wedge of lime and chrysanthemum tea.
oh .. my mouth , how could you spring this on me .. when i'm so far from the motherland...
then they come thick and fast -
thai iced tea , thai iced coco , thai iced coffee , thai lime soda ..
papaya salad with sticky rice , Mango and coconut sticky rice , Roti with condensed milk and banana , coconut ice cream in a white bread bun with coconut sticky rice and peanuts, fresh fruits of rambutan and mangosteen for 30 baht a kilo......oh.....oh...who could forget the fried flat noodles , or the fried pastry's called explosion ***** oh... oh my
heart..... my heart...... my stomach... calls out to you , oh glorious green curry with roti , morning congee with little pork ***** and soy sauce..... come to me my dumpling and noodles let me lick the chillies and sugar off my lips , may i taste once more
the conception of such marvelous treats , unfathomable to the western palate , little sweet corn and flour discs cooked on a special cooker over a real fire...dried squid sold on the back of a bicycle , fried garlic with sticky rice , a pink soup !
I just had a taste memory
****
May 17, 2014
May 17, 2014 at 12:22 PM UTC
Scribbled in a pre-sex haste
of hormones and awful
music taste,
your name on the back of a receipt
is no way to treat
a one night stand
that you met at the bar;
held hands with in the street;
and subsequently left when
the night became light and neat,
tidied up in a 10am alarm clock
call.
Could’ve waited until
we were both awake,
that way the alcohol would’ve warn off
and we could take this major issue
for what it was-
excitement;
and much anticipation; and placing into
action every lesson learnt from Nick Hornby books,
or pieces of information tucked
deep within our internet bookmark lists.
At least stay until after
Desert Island Discs
next time,
because then buses shall be running
on time, and you won’t have to risk
the public transport roulette table
that spins around this town,
this great noun in the Anglia east.
Now it's the news, and the news
is you've gone. For a moment
I slipped back into a sleepy cement,
making for rough fingers-
that last night made the ascent
up to warmer climates.
And now back to lonelier nights
and Nick Hornby books,
afternoon wake-up calls
from Mum, back home,
asking how to download
the latest Google Chrome.
Feb 14, 2013
Feb 14, 2013 at 6:00 AM UTC
Shy splinters licked her spine;
an uneven backbone kiss.
Some tissue for the weeping marrow
rest beneath the aching discs.
I've captured loose aspirations
before they could fly away,
and released them into Neverland
where they forever play.
The blue circles hung over;
they cracked and lost their touch.
The green stares find reason to attack
and **** the ones they love.
Nov 17, 2011
Nov 17, 2011 at 4:32 PM UTC
See you our server farm that hums
And serves HTTP?
It's spun its disks and done its sums
Ever since Berners-Lee.
See you our mainframe spewing out
The Towers of Hanoi?
It's moved recursive discs about
Since Babbage was a boy.
See you our ZX81
That prints the ABCs?
That very program used to run
With Lovelace at the keys.
Magnetic floppy disks and hard,
And tape with patience torn,
And eighty columns on a card,
And so was England born!
She is not any common thing,
Water or Wood or Air,
But Turing's Isle of Programming,
Where you and I will fare.
Dec 16, 2010
Dec 16, 2010 at 7:23 AM UTC
I'm just back frae The Kirk
Doon Canongate way,
Afore yi get tae Parliament,
That was brand new yesterday,
Way back tae the 1700's
A poet in his grave,
Fergusson the poetry man,
He couldnae be saved,
Banging his heid in a fa'
Tumbling doon a' the steps,
Hadnae sterted livin' yet,
His poetry had some depth,
Rab trained as a minister,
He abandoned fir poetry,
At the age of twenty two,
With no heart for the ministry,
He took a job as a copyist,
Tae earn a crust tae live,
Probably hated it,
So much poetry for tae give,
If he wis alive the today,
He'd be pertying in Ibiza,
DJing wi' the discs,
Rapping like a geeza,
He was only 24,
At Cape Club he'd dae a gig,
I'm sure he enjoyed himsel',
It's something that he did,
After the fa',
Darkly melancholic,
Depression followed,
He wisnea an alcoholic,
Straight to Edina's loony bin,
Then ca'd Darien House,
On Bristo Street used to stand,
Can't think what'd be worse,
He was born in 1750,
Died penniless in '74
Unmarked grave in Canongate,
Nae headstane was in store,
Many years later,
Head stane was selected,
Rabbie Burns inspired,
Was paid fir an' erected,
The date upon the stane was wrong,
Hopefully wis being changed,
By Robert Louis Stevenson,
But died before old age,
Grave is now restored,
Tae it's former glory,
Ironwork and stane cleaned,
But it's no the end o' story,
A statue wis erected,
On the street ootside the Kirk,
The way they positioned him,
He's on his way tae work,
You'll see the Parliament building,
If you wander doon the road,
Poems and poetry on the wa's
But none in Fergusson mode,
It seems he's been forgotten,
In this day and age,
Someone with his talent,
Wan o' Edina's greatest sage,
Let's hope we'll see his poetry,
On Scotland's parliament wa,
I dinae mean graffiti,
I mean poetry fir a'.
Jan 2, 2015
Jan 2, 2015 at 3:17 PM UTC
Goku wears orange, Vegeta wears blue.
You're not a Saiyan, but I still choose you.
Your presence is stronger than a kamehameha beam.
Like Gohan and Videl, we make a great team.
Our love is over 9000, it's true.
Even destructo discs couldn't separate us two.
Let Nimbus fly us through our journey of life.
I love you, my warrior. Sincerely, Your Wife.
Apr 22, 2016
Apr 22, 2016 at 3:44 PM UTC
Allegiance
Hot biscuit of cheesy pleasure
come hither
I shall greet you with parted lips,
lust apparent in every cell.
don't shy away-
for you are mine alone
to savor ,
this achingly empty basket
soon awaits my
lonely countenance.
***************************************************************
Laine G and I shared a common love of Red Lobster cheese biscuits , after a visit to the doctor , my friend was told her cholesterol was too high, and she would have to cut way back - I wrote this for her :
*******************************************************************************
Sworn Enemy
Cheese- riddled biscuit denial
discs from Hell
demand my unwavering allegiance
no more
for only in my dreams
are you innocent.
May 14, 2014
May 14, 2014 at 1:17 PM UTC
Turns a soft pirouette of finger end
Along the ridges of discs that make the spine
And I mark a period to end the sentence
Written upon soft skin
Smooth as a relaxed sigh that escapes parted lips
In a gentle exhale of seconds ticked off
One check (tick)
Two check ( tock)
I scribe to small of back where hollow forms
Letting tongue taste the salt of sweat glistening
Before a rise of hip curves to please eyes
Or palms that might erase dark windows staring back
At the blank gaze of face lost inside
The mirage of dreams
Three check (tick)
Four check ( clock tocked seconds rhyme)
With vowels moaned to the whisper of poems
Glyphed a slow summons of wrists gently turned
To show the veins that lie beneath as I bled softly
Along the nerves a simple thread of heartbeat
Rhythms show how a verse ends
A metaphor for the ribs caged
And stone to hold apart the looking glass world
Of Cheshire grins upon lips wet with wry spittle
Licked by tip of tongue
Breathes soft once upon times
To inhale the scent of amaryllis bloom
Gracing glass of its own with fair heads bloom
Petals of delicate hue opened vulnerable to bruise
Five check ( tick )
Six check ( toggle along mark of hands the tock)
I scribe soft to the end of line and pirouette fingers end
Marking a period again to end the simple words
Brushed upon a supple velum
And begin
Seven check (tick)
Second hands slow circles
Matching my own...
Jan 6, 2013
Jan 6, 2013 at 4:47 PM UTC
Where the church bell gapes
at its golden discs gain the airy steep.
Where the eagle deposits its
majestic soar, a mass of feather and
talon--Empyrean's doormat.
Where Icarus stroked wax wing
through the sepia ambiance of his
mind.
Where the hermit broke 'neath after
decade of reclusion.
Where star discloseth foci to
dime the dead of space.
Where striven peace's tangled root
whistles extolling.
Where an aerodynamic corpus
unsheathed horizon, parting palpebras....
surging the seen, unseen.
All's apparent aqua blue, transparent
***** outspread portent pregnant of
blessing.
O sky--every soul's once-over,
immaculate conceptions...ex nihilo.
Nov 7, 2013
Nov 7, 2013 at 11:26 PM UTC
The glint of a gold coin discarded and under a hedge.
The unmistakeable ***** and ****** of the shrapnel congregating at the bottom of my pocket.
I can find any combination of currency in a lovely jingle jangle of metallic discs.
The cashier slips me a note and some change on top which spills onto the counter.
A 10 pence piece tries an audacious spinning escape morphing into a ball.
The change rattles again as it all settles at the bottom of my pocket after dropping in the new recruits.
I slide the discoloured crinkled creased five pound note into my leather wallet nicely nestling next to a ten pound note.
I love the smell of ***** money!
May 22, 2015
May 22, 2015 at 3:14 AM UTC
1086
What Twigs We held by—
Oh the View
When Life’s swift River striven through
We pause before a further plunge
To take Momentum—
As the Fringe
Upon a former Garment shows
The Garment cast,
Our Props disclose
So scant, so eminently small
Of Might to help, so pitiful
To sink, if We had labored, fond
The diligence were not more blind
How scant, by everlasting Light
The Discs that satisfied Our Sight—
How dimmer than a Saturn’s Bar
The Things esteemed, for Things that are!
1.6k
~~~@~~~
i break
my chrysalid womb
into a realm
without
protection
my wings
are wet and stunted
cyan jewels lie dew'd
tourmaline
clusters upon the
veins
i'm only beginning
to learn the
nature of flight
i'm at my
most vulnerable
please
protect me
but don't assist me
in my struggle
to break
FREE
~~~@~~~
**it took me
disolving time to
emerge
from my own
beautiful
amorphous mess
while I drew
my imaginal discs
i dreamt
of flowers
and their
everlasting
bursting colors
the
celestial skies
and soft
empowering
spring
breeze**
~~~@~~~
as i push apart
my place of
safety and security
i find the life
pumping
into my
wingspan
the colors of the
world
entrance me
i am no longer
dreaming
as i drink in
my natural
but still
foreign
home
~~~@~~~
**riveting pain
with each
s p r e a d
of these
newly acquiesced
defenseless
delicate
appendiges
this
m e t a m o r p h a s i s
has just begun
my
j o u r n e y
to self discovery
paved with
wrestling and scuffling
everlasting
flight
and
wondering**
~~~@~~~
for it is in the
p a I n
we find
g r o w t h
and in the
s t r u g g l e
against
the
safe and secure
that we
at last
find
F R E E D O M
~~~@~~~
dajena m
soulsurvivor
(c) october 10, 2014
Oct 10, 2014
Oct 10, 2014 at 4:18 PM UTC
Spearmint altoids and espresso
doubleshot headphones
hardly used Palm(seems not 1 for organization)
Empty jewel cases strewn over
the pine expanse3 monitors burn, an insistent
cyclopean glare w/the accompanying mice
notebooks' aged paper curled
'round circuit board controller cards
and holographic stickers open
hard drive aluminum platter white
cordless phone 2.4 GHz
floppy discs USB
milk glass opalescent bag
industrial lasagna fork canted sideways
tomes beckon
Cybershock
Snowcrash palpitations
PANIC! k_trap trap type 0x000000E flickers
attempting to dump 32 years
physical memory
Failed!
User I/O = NULL
Feb 23, 2010
Feb 23, 2010 at 5:13 PM UTC
I'd like to live within you, the objective world working in tandem with the human imagination, the intersectionality is humor, sparking lust and color and ****** violent and **** salty and stimulating.
you're excessive bounty of lies, that which when worked into a fabric create an obscure fact, manipulate the memory and all the sudden the image is juxtaposed with the perception, then they lay on top of one another, creating a illusion so powerful that fact flies out the window, to claim evidence is foolish, for the scenarios flip within themselves as actors change disguises, as acrobats practice their summersaults, as discs spin in the video game set
to wish for a reality so vast, that an open field connecting the ocean to the city is but a comparison grounded by gravity, whereas your portals know no bounds, you give the people a voice and yet the voice is anonymous, therefore the individual becomes collective, therefore the money blends as the ideas blend as kisses blend at a masquerade, fueled by the promise of donation and champagne
Terror, hate, giving way to curiosity
Feb 22, 2017
Feb 22, 2017 at 8:46 PM UTC