"documents" poems
Dear Miss ********,
We regret to inform you that unfortunately at this time we do not have space for you at our company.
Yours,
Xxxx xxxxxxxx
Dear Miss *******,
We regret to inform you that unfortunately at this time we cannot offer you a place with our company as you are under qualified.
Yours ** xxxxx
Dear Miss ********,
Thank you for your application. We regret to inform you that you are over-qualified for the position.
Yours, xxxxxxx ***
Dear Miss ******,
I don’t think so love. This isn’t even a letter, this is my managerial position on you handing me your cv.
Cheers, bahbye now
Dear Miss *******,
This isn’t really a letter either, but despite how un-pc this is, we can’t hire you due to your gender.
Thanks anyway, save your paper.
Dear Miss ********,
Thank you for your application, unfortunately we had stronger applicants.
Yours, etc., aaaaaa aaaaaaaaaaaaa
Dear Miss ********,
Thank you for your application. Unfortunately we are not hiring at the moment even though we had advertised the job you applied for.
Yours, xxxxxxxxx xxxxx
Dear Miss ********,
We had left it between you and another applicant, and couldn’t decide so we flipped a coin, and she won. You’re a lovely girl though.
Yours, fffffff ffff fffff
Dear Miss ********,
I refer to your claim for Jobseekers Benefit/Assistance at VVVVVV’s CCCCCC local office. Jobseekers Benefit/Assistance claims are subject to periodic review, consequently, I would appreciate if you would attend this office for interview on the 31/17/78 and bring the following :
1. Proof of Identity (i.e. Passport or Driving Licence or Long version of your Birth Certificate)
2. Proof of Residency (e.g. Letter from landlord/ Rent Book/ Lease/ Mortgage Receipt/ Letter from Parents + Household Bill)
3. Written Proof of recent job applications and replies.
4. Proof of job applications made through FAS
5. FAS courses applied for.
6. A copy of your Curriculum Vitae (CV): unemployed from
7. If your spouse/partner is an adult dependent on your claim, please bring his/her GNIB and Passport/Travel Documents.
Failure to respond to this letter may lead to suspension or disallowance of claim.
Yours sincerely,
**** *****
Local Officer
Feb 15, 2013
Feb 15, 2013 at 10:26 AM UTC
She saw the world through a camera lens
And that's just how it was
With filters and Glares from strangers
Who didn't feel the sun
She took photos of the rain
And dewdrops on the grass
Of smiling warm faces
And things that were just crass
She dreamt of her pictures
Under bylines and over books
Her documents of others
Filled with stills that could speak words
She took pictures of her girl
Who was black and blue in depth
Who wanted to be colored
But her filter shown red
She captured her in pain
And in her rare bright smiles
She told her that things
"Just take a while"
She made portfolios and scrapbooks
Of their adventures and their muse
She never knew that her girl would take her life
At a quarter after two
She cried and cried weeks to days
Until the tears just stopped
When she took a photo of the rain
And felt her sadness drop
It shattered all around the floor
And she fumbled with the keys
She printed all the pictures
And posted them with ease
She scattered them around the town
Then fell down to rest
For she could feel a burden being
Lifted off her chest
she went to the school
Of the boy who had hurt her
And her girl
She stood up
She told them
"Has she finally done enough?
She ripped her skin with blades
And fasted for days.
She lit skin on fire
Just because you are liars.
Look at this picture
Do you see her
Look mister
She was beautiful
Yet you made her feel
Like she was void of zeal
You're the ones who told her what to do
And she took her own life
Just like you told her to do.
Are you happy now!
Or are you feeling blue
Are you regretting what you told her to do!"
And with a single crack
Of a baseball bat
she took a picture
Of there bodies cracked shells
As she plumbed them to hell
She saw that red filter
And she felt the pain inside
She could feel herself laugh
Mania arise
The she took one final shot
A picture with the the two
Then killed herself to rise anew
And she got her picture under bylines
And became famous for her art
For everyone loves the artist
Who kills for their art.
May 20, 2014
May 20, 2014 at 5:36 AM UTC
Light is more important than the lantern,
The poem more important than the notebook,
And the kiss more important than the lips.
My letters to you
Are greater and more important than both of us.
The are the only documents
Where people will discover
Your beauty
And my madness.
7.8k
I’ll split the hairs, I’ll split an atom
And never leave the bedroom.
I most identify with December,
Not because of the crushing temperature
But the lack of cosmic dawdling
Is no more mesmerizing than a frozen phoenix.
And as she arrives by train from Phoenix,
I study who she appears to be, the atoms
Composing her auburn hair with dawdling
Authenticity shout “Take me to the bedroom!”
While the wedge of geese in this temperature
Head to the Southern Hemisphere’s December.
The common chill of this morning in December
Prevents us from rising from out the covers like a phoenix,
And our blankets like ash defend us from the temperature
That stills the vibrations of the atmosphere’s atoms.
I curse the insulated walls of the bedroom,
Trapping in heat and discouraging our dawdling.
A rafter of turkeys outside my window are dawdling,
Printing their runes on the documents of December
Between the thickets surrounding the bedroom
While the sun, golden like the plumage of a phoenix,
Awakens in my bones every dormant atom,
Instilling in me courage to brave the temperature.
I follow her, dressed, from the bedroom
And her footsteps serve to punctuate the temperature
Like the smoldering beak of a phoenix
Too busy being risen for dawdling.
She leaves, by train through the chill of December,
Me daydreaming of fission. The splitting of an atom.
I’ll split an atom daily, safely within the bedroom
And sleep through December’s pitiless, hollow temperature,
Waking only for dawdling until Spring is a phoenix.
Mar 24, 2010
Mar 24, 2010 at 10:16 PM UTC
Yesterday sugar became unspeakably irritated because mother’s apron crushed ants wearing stillness caped wonder just William author wrote ****** explicit headlines newspaper columns pillar architecturally sound villages super-imposed images quivering Shepard’s ******** antelopes jumping furiously with tyramisphorising fornicating flanges woodwork lessons gym period ****** advert teasing testicles sumptuously ravishing me sideways and erupting deep blasts suffocating you inside without *********** headlong in my armpits.
Eventually everyone always signs legal documents leading to ****** bondable zoos inserted buffalo sized puddings eaten by frogs spanking archbishops underwear while licking toes crushed under fridges dropped from clouds of buttercups being pushed into ovens smelling gorgeous not consumed pimps and alarm clocks ring people to talk for hours and pineapples exchanged cod fish for tickets to see S Club 7 being caressed internally whilst ******** bags covered in water deserts sunk from space aliens from Tescos selling hardback fish cleaning toilets and singing in pink wellies dancing to Madonna look-a-likes prosecuted for *** shops selling frozen fish socks washed daily in cranberry coffee after being passed under bridges flooded in margarine soaked pillows.
Jul 16, 2010
Jul 16, 2010 at 2:19 AM UTC
walking out of the liquor store
wine bottles double ******
asphalt concrete curb stone
the great expanse of the universe
the mundane
welded water tight
that Escher print
of ribboned minds
personal accounting
money as abstraction
automobile documents
layers of bureaus
the great and powerful
realm of ideas
shared fallen history
the strike of the pen
ideals ethics
the avoidance of sin
cold is coming
warmth is rare
plug into existential wetness
yet suffer banality
Friday, November 1, 2013
Nov 1, 2013
Nov 1, 2013 at 12:06 PM UTC
Skyward glints,
another hint from another sun,
London runs down,
daily commute over and out.
And how the weekday work is
coming to an end,
but what do they work on whilst 5 in the evening?
Spreadsheets saved in significant folders,
word documents in for a week on Monday,
presentation notes to be written, rehearsed, re-wrote and printed?
‘Beds, beds, beds,
prime town centre property To Let’
Broken brick buildings sit, they belong
to internet auction sites and in estate agent windows.
There’s no flow in this town no more.
Whatever river of commerce that once ran through here
has moved onto, and into, another course,
oxbow lake suburb by Government force.
It rains in the North.
Jewels in the tarmac,
rings in the walls,
stars behind the factory noise,
sound hidden behind an all-car-call.
My broken skin, my broken hide,
months of thought, a hunger for home.
Far flung, further thrown,
back to the up-north-hometown,
hometown of the known.
Nov 11, 2012
Nov 11, 2012 at 12:06 PM UTC
Our town was to have a rail-line
Circa the mid eighteen nineties
This story has surprised my ears
A local amateur historian apprised me just recently
Documents to support this claim are archived in Sydney
Not far out of our town
On a well know property in the district
Two surveyor pegs are still in existence
Marking the route the rail-line was to track
Though the Forefather's rail-line was never bedded down
The powers that be government leaders of the day
Shelved these impressive plans
They never saw the light of day
Ribbons of steel not coming to fruition
Leading to our town
Other town went ahead rail-lines were established to them
Out town alas and alack missed out
Look where Tamworth and Armidale are to-day
Rail being in their favor
Our town was left to languish and to be dispirited
Going no-where no-where to go
Our Forefather's now lay in their graves
Not quite resting in peace
Their rail proposal for our town unrealized
Good ideas die along with good intentions
Hence their unsettled repose
Our town could have been a regional town
Industry and population dotting the landscape
Rail would have assured our place
The Forefather's rail proposal long since shelved
Consigned into the passing vapor of time
Aug 20, 2014
Aug 20, 2014 at 6:45 PM UTC
all things are useful, bulbs
bring light , denote ideas,
good intentions, spent,
collected.
cotton hankies, frayed hold the books,
yet those with nylon, stretch the skin
resulting in red and soreness.
shy away from dangerous commodities,
use the best, those tradtional artefacts
which are gentle on your soul, bring light.
wipe your nose clean.
sbm.
today we have added notes for your interest.
A HANDKERCHIEF (also called handkercher or hanky) is a form of a kerchief, typically a hemmed square of thin fabric that can be carried in the pocket or purse, and which is intended for personal hygiene purposes such as wiping one’s hands or face, or blowing one’s nose. A handkerchief is also sometimes used as a purely decorative accessory in a suit pocket. When used as an accessory to a suit, a handkerchief is known as a POCKET SQUARE. There are a wide variety of ways to fold a pocket square, ranging from the austere to the flamboyant.
The material of a handkerchief can be symbolic of the social-economic class of the user, not only because some materials are more expensive, but because some materials are more absorbent and practical for those who use a handkerchief for more than style. Handkerchiefs can be made of cotton, cotton-synthetic blend, synthetic fabric, silk, or linen.
Historically, white handkerchiefs have been used in place of a white flag to indicate surrender or a flag of truce; in addition to waving away sailors from port. King Richard II of England, who reigned from 1377 to 1399, is widely believed to have invented the cloth handkerchief, as surviving documents written by his courtiers describe his use of square pieces of cloth to wipe his nose.
Jun 9, 2014
Jun 9, 2014 at 1:33 AM UTC
The bellowing clouds of smoke
The paralyzing threats of death
To the residents down below
Holding on to dear breath
Choking throats stinging eyes
By the languid sulphur laden air
White powdered ashes everywhere
There's nothing that they could do
Because nobody can say no
To a volcano
It can erupt at anytime if it wants to
They're uncertain what to do, follow
Their hearts to stay where they are
Or follow the orders to evacuate
The folks can see fire and smoke from afar
They've to move from there before it's too late
Because the volcano could boil over
It's brewing up in the creater
They've to leave their belongings
Behind them and say farewell
To the chicken the ducks and geese
The cows the dogs and the cats as well
Or take some of them if they please
Take along the important documents
And regrettably flee for fear from their homes
Before the fiery lava will leave
Their huts to remnants
They can't say no because
The Bali King the 'spokesperson'
For the Gods won't listen to their pleadings
And why it's throwing up it's tantrum
Because the Gods have spoken
The Gods are angry at them
And they've to sacrifice all
Their belongings to appease the Gods
Because they know the volcano
Knows they can't say no
To the volcano
Dec 3, 2017
Dec 3, 2017 at 12:19 PM UTC
C:\USERS\ISAAC > open C:\Impulse\Expulse.raw
The dust settles
On the fans and the plans.
Looking like a double "2",
You try to see like one.
See or look.
Or just a look-see.
Laughing at nothing is a common thing for you.
The strangest has come,
The strangest has left.
The strangeness is correct.
Every spring,
Every water,
Every drop has a secret.
They sing to him in the form of river.
He jumps to the bank
To get his money's worth.
It's an organized procedure to him.
He sinks his head in the ground,
In the rocks and in the sound.
A random pattern is heard.
Two, Three, Ten, Five, Twenty.
One Hundred, Thirty-One, Two.
A, G, I, S.
North, East, South, West.
His, My, Her, Them.
Great, Rough, Green, Tan.
Giant mispronounciations and hidden truths.
One more thing,
Don't get lost...
"Sadness for a screen,
Sadness for a screen."
He sells his money for a screen,
To get his money's worth.
Lost files and hidden documents
Not worth the oxide their printed on.
Old memories of times still here
Hidden in words of the past.
One more thing,
It's all on impulse.
Next day he found a .raw.
He walked towards it.
It said,
"Why do you live with frantic?"
He said,
"I live to take the time."
It said,
"Why do you do the things you do?"
He said,
"To me, it's not impulse, it's expulse."
It said,
"Why do you need to get rid of?"
He said,
"The questions people seek."
It said,
"Take me to the sky.{?}"
He said,
"Gladly."
To the sky he went.
And the time he spent
He used to solve the problem.
He saw a new opportunity
To make a new sanitation.
It consisted of three notes.
Two for show and one to go.
The go note did the work
Of tasting the ground for dirt
To get it's money's worth.
It cleaned like Ben one.
And when sanitation was complete,
He went to .raw.
He said,
"The last words are gone."
It said,
"So that means we've won."
He said,
"What should we do?"
It said,
"Wait for the next."
Mar 23, 2011
Mar 23, 2011 at 12:37 AM UTC
I know about lying on broken bones, beading into my back.
She was missing something.
She was lying on hands searching through the trench coat of a bathroom romance, watching butterflies melt,
She was becoming herself
At four thirty am I write her account, embroidered in a diary of lullabies,
“this is what death must feel like, being left alone in a street screaming of footsteps and blacked out whispering.”
She threw deliverance, caked over old vengeance, out of the car window with daybreak’s kisses. She writes,
“I sit in the heavy sleet of the delta drowning in resurrection, grime from age wipes over me once,
twice,
The broken blood pools out of ‘I love you’s’ and islets.”
She slept with the darkness.
“Prayers don’t come for me anymore.”
She glitters, shivers, tactless as a teacup in an earthquake,
She is awake.
”I am awake.”
She documents God- "I feel God,"
- in herself. "In myself.”
There is a silence.
A burning, left, cold to dry alone,
This is for her.
Call it, my face, swathed in the impenetrable darkness when it is no longer my own, call it an aunt’s love when a mother’s doesn’t suffice any longer. Call it,
cigarette buds and elevator rides to death’s door. Call it power bubbling up from the violation.
This is for you; call it Cuban cigars, show tunes, and Marylyn Monroe;
call it misery. Missing, call it hues and paint, my life prostrated on a disgruntled canvas. Call it fate.
This is for you.
Call it liquor stains and tarot cards in a fit of ecstasy. Epilepsy, call it the most intricate balancing act of existence.
An unseen performance, a lyric with no voice,
“a cry in the night”
”a scream of supplication”
The hunters’ march to death, the Holy Grail’s melting between your fingers, civilization pouring through veins,
“death, destruction, life, happiness, Azrael, Abbadon, blood, Rome!”
“I don’t want to feel this!”
Call it whispers of unspoken meetings and witches in the night, threatening,
“I know you!”
“No you don’t! Leave me alone.” Recognition. “I don’t want to listen…”
She writes,
“I loved you…
On purpose and…you left me,
with,
myself.”
Jul 31, 2013
Jul 31, 2013 at 8:57 PM UTC
"Will you leave me then?"
The leaves blew North
"After you fly?"
"After your documents?"
"After our children?"
"After my youth?"
"After my life?"
The leaves flickered in a circle
"When will it be?"
They quickened, spinning, filling the atmospheric pressure
"Please tell me when you do"
A hurricane ceaselessly swallowing all the forests surrounding its vision, carried the world with it, and the sun
Nov 3, 2022
Nov 3, 2022 at 7:39 PM UTC
The memory is unbearable
I cringe as it rises from
my subconscious; haunting me
It plagues my mind
I need to find a distraction
Write, write, write, write
Stapling papers drawing forms;
Archiving documents.
I get on my 20 n get time alone.
The memory creeps up,
I can feel it as my mood keeps changing.
Distraction distraction distraction
Look at the cars speeding down the streets
The couples huddled close for warmth
Hmmm that's could have been us
F U C K
Your memory is creeping in
Everything I see reminds me of thee.
You can only distract yourself for so long before you have to face the truth
Nov 27, 2013
Nov 27, 2013 at 12:15 PM UTC
cleaning up the mess of documents
on my hard drive
I find one titled
"secret message"
double-click
it reads
"i love you."
wish they'd signed it
Nov 4, 2012
Nov 4, 2012 at 6:24 PM UTC
How can you hold the very makings of disaster?
How do you ease yourself in finding trouble to hold onto?
You are gripping the hands that once
fumbled for a tearing of skin,
bore blood at the fingertips,
greeted the brick wall with excitement and shattering
my numbness along with it.
What comfort do you seek in weaving your fingers
with ones that tugged desperately on hair
and swept away floodgates of water from tired eyes,
proving to me I was weakened once again?
But I look down at the shaking documents of disaster
when your embodiments of happiness reach for them
and cover the wounds in an unhesitant embrace.
And I know those previous questions don't matter;
your infectious comfort of my hands rests in the palm
and spreads.
My hand is now only holding your hand.
Only.
And that's the only thing it should now do.
Jun 10, 2016
Jun 10, 2016 at 10:38 PM UTC
Always____**
Days
Months
Up to our loved ones
necks
Getting callbacks
and lookbacks
Will I be
most likely rejected?
Until dusk to Dawn
The full moon turned
What will be expected?
Shoved mouth to mouth
brewed into the
Starbucks
With any luck
It's hard to make
a buck $
The Dawn Lightning
Striking again wetter
Ridiculous remarks
and kicks
in the pants
He shoved
me into a romance
But we never
ended up where
I wanted to go
France
The editorial the
Mediterranean
Slim chance rainbow diet
The villas of the exotic
flowers riot
Vacationer in vineyards
Grassy bear
Mr. Griswald
Vacation despair
Party pushovers
The sour cherries OOh!
La Wee Vacation,
The push and shove
What's up
Doc_____*
The jilted Jump always
a stump
What-what
about the
President
Trump
Shoved me right
into
this poem
sonnet
Documents of
Vacations places
of memories
The Jack ***
Surrounded by
screwdriver
Or meeting the
screwballs_______
Or goofballs
Sesame Street parade
Big bird feast
His face climbed
Mount Everest
Dry mouth lips
((Frenchie Vermouth))
He's the
right fielder
The field Mr. Costner
on her left dreams
The toast all shoved
around the town
chauffeur
Don't shove me
inside
your world
vacation
Big problems not
like ordering
the best pizza
in Brooklyn
Memorial day
shoved into a soiree'
Unbelievable traffic
American Major
problem leagues
Upscale love signs
and graphics
To resolve this
Vacation big shots
The London
Hotshots
Society
At the worst time,
I had to do
Political speech
Don't shove
me or leave me
If you're not
going to please me
And not your
payroll to
tease me
He's next on the move
pushed to be shoved
I rose
I suppose
He shoved me
He gazed upon me
Like another ticket
to his vacation
He dazed with
his eyes
not to be loved
But all yummy
To take a bite
Apple strudel
pie
But dark ends
of petal
flowered bright
The last word
struggling to
feel shot
My payroll got me a raise
My own vacation
to myself big praise
to love me
Not to be pushed to
love someone
A vacation is to be
with someone that
treats you
on a pedestal
Don't shove me this
is my portal
May 25, 2018
May 25, 2018 at 2:44 PM UTC
I really want to thank you.
Whether I'm being sarcastic or not,
You'll never know.
I feel like every time I write something,
It's for someone to read.
Spooky government guys,
Or girls who really like fries.
But sometimes it feels like I don't want to.
I don't want you to read about
Who or what affects me.
Sometimes I worry because my friends can read these things.
My friends, they enjoy poetry too.
My English teacher's on here.
She says she approves.
It's weird, isn't it?
How small the world is.
Yet I never see who I really want to.
I see uncles and aunts
And really long lost cousins.
I see my grandma's friends everywhere.
At weddings and all affairs.
But the only way I can see
Who I really want to.
Is through writing and pictures,
And trust me,
I do.
But it feels like it can't be real,
not yet.
I have eight months to go,
And I fret and I fret.
I can't wait to see those
Amazing blue eyes.
The upturn of blond hair,
And your shirts like the skies.
Your sense of adventure keeps me going.
It's weird,
I know,
how these words keep flowing.
You'll never read them.
But if you do,
Hi,
I suppose.
I miss you.
With your laugh,
So infrequent,
And your entrances.
Through fire escapes?
That's perfectly normal to me.
From under a table?
That's pretty normal to see.
To scare me on a staircase?
Of course, why not?
Hanging off a balcony?
Fine, but keep your thoughts.
But the one entrance you have yet to make.
Is the one I want you to most.
The one that leads you back into my world.
The one that makes the legend unfurl.
I have documents upon documents
I'd love you to read.
But you never really will,
It's not hard to believe.
Poems and lists,
Monologues galore.
But wait and look,
Here's one more.
And you ask,
What is it truly for?
A thank you,
Dear friend
For being who you are.
And simply to ask you to look up at the stars.
For I can see the moon,
And so can you.
And I just wish,
I could see you too.
Nov 28, 2017
Nov 28, 2017 at 4:14 PM UTC
close girl, you gang leader, take the lead
the question put fake strength to you
and your city pants
to death and times unseen
and documents of forceful
******* violent steel
but picking vegetables
she lets the cat destroy the hamster
cousin, sister, grandmother haunt
vascillate your color, unhuman hue
find the home of dying friends
and family forgotten
only a spell of eyes can see you close again.
Jun 18, 2012
Jun 18, 2012 at 1:56 PM UTC
C:\USERS\ISAAC > open C:\Impulse\Expulse.raw
The dust settles
On the fans and the plans.
Looking like a double "2",
You try to see like one.
See or look.
Or just a look-see.
Laughing at nothing is a common thing for you.
The strangest has come,
The strangest has left.
The strangeness is correct.
Every spring,
Every water,
Every drop has a secret.
They sing to him in the form of river.
He jumps to the bank
To get his money's worth.
It's an organized procedure to him.
He sinks his head in the ground,
In the rocks and in the sound.
A random pattern is heard.
Two, Three, Ten, Five, Twenty.
One Hundred, Thirty-One, Two.
A, G, I, S.
North, East, South, West.
His, My, Her, Them.
Great, Rough, Green, Tan.
Giant mispronounciations and hidden truths.
One more thing,
Don't get lost...
"Sadness for a screen,
Sadness for a screen."
He sells his money for a screen,
To get his money's worth.
Lost files and hidden documents
Not worth the oxide their printed on.
Old memories of times still here
Hidden in words of the past.
One more thing,
It's all on impulse.
Next day he found a .raw.
He walked towards it.
It said,
"Why do you live with frantic?"
He said,
"I live to take the time."
It said,
"Why do you do the things you do?"
He said,
"To me, it's not impulse, it's expulse."
It said,
"Why do you need to get rid of?"
He said,
"The questions people seek."
It said,
"Take me to the sky.{?}"
He said,
"Gladly."
To the sky he went.
And the time he spent
He used to solve the problem.
He saw a new opportunity
To make a new sanitation.
It consisted of three notes.
Two for show and one to go.
The go note did the work
Of tasting the ground for dirt
To get it's money's worth.
It cleaned like Ben one.
And when sanitation was complete,
He went to .raw.
He said,
"The last words are gone."
It said,
"So that means we've won."
He said,
"What should we do?"
It said,
"Wait for the next."
Feb 15, 2011
Feb 15, 2011 at 5:55 PM UTC
I computer
Woken, I push my start button and reboot to the shower
For breakfast a bowl of italics, **** no milk, memory needs upgrading
Then to my automated job in my automated life
My thoughts are in word ,then filed in documents
My moods change with every toolbar, features and characters
I choose daily from my vast database
At 8.59 and 58 seconds precisely I am surfing
That vast blackness of space, I am never alone
Our names are inscribed on the dark side of the moon
On the super highway at full throttle of 32mb
My attention was distracted by a **** blue from clip art
Suddenly I did not see a stationary font (size 28)
After the crash they laid me out on a spreadsheet
My life deleted, my soul sent to the recycle bin.
Jun 18, 2011
Jun 18, 2011 at 8:43 AM UTC
My idea of a good night is staying in
And technology serves as my friend
With a glass of wine or bottle of brew in my hand
Talking to a list of favorable foes on the web
Where conversations boarder between flirty and scholarly lines
And typed dialogues lead way to theoretical thoughts and inspirational designs
Pondering ignites a spark that surges in my mind
I’ll begin to research the fast array of thoughts that run through my brain
Fixated on scientific data, predicted trends and worldly traits
Eventually it’s not enough for my thought
I’ll try to fight the inevitable feeling that starts to form in my gut
Leading way to the breeding ground for butterflies
Factual documents begin to get lost in the shuffle
As my attentions now caught by an excerpt or rousing photo
New tabs are opened over the old
And I always find myself ending at the same place
Looking up poems about love and images elapsed from past days
Aug 13, 2013
Aug 13, 2013 at 6:20 AM UTC
Today though everything at phone call away
But the hackers are few steps away.
Whom to rely whom to not
Even if the call is just for confirmation or not.
How to rely on the calls I know not.
Written documents are the best.
I think postal services or couriers are the best.
I cannot narrate any hackers story
Chances are there they may hack my story.
I have kept everything tight lipped.
Forgive me my dear friend;
if I don't treat you well online
I know not which all phones got hacked
As someone may be calling from your voice or not.
A day will come where even dust may be hacked.
Be careful to dust out the mites that stays in your rack!
Dec 17, 2016
Dec 17, 2016 at 10:41 AM UTC
Dear Ms. Di Prima,
I really,
Really,
Think that Alchemy—Alchemy--Al-Chem-EEEEE
Is a
Nifty
Topic.
But,
My mother has a ring
Of gold.
Standard Gold,
No lead. None.
Or had,
Until our house was
B-R-O / K-E / N
Into
By some lowlife scumbag with
Too much ability
And
Not enough intelligence.
With Alchemy
I could make a shitload
Of Gold (wasn't that the point?),
Provided I had the
Lead,
And not that
IMPOSTER
Crap in pencils (Graphite. My childhood was a shambles.).
But it's only valuable
Because
We're willing to pay so much.
Like with Diamonds.
Or Japanese Akita.
Or Wagyū.
It's not a lie.
Just a trick.
Making you think you want things that you don't need because it helps someone else who you've never met make more money than they'd ever be able to use in a legitimate way
(HOOKERS AND BLOW).
All of these things are synthetic.
With the exceptions of
Gold
And
Graphite.
So,
Maybe,
Alchemy did work out alright,
Just not in the anticipated way.
We can make all sorts of things.
But they become coveted only when they exist.
Just ask Swipey McStickyfingers.
It actually wasn't gold.
You just got a bunch of painted junk,
And passports.
No rubies.
We weren't international crooks,
Renowned and beloved
By jealous zealots.
It was purely sentimental.
But you can't understand.
You can't fondly look at the earrings as the last reminder of a deceased parent.
You can't flip through the identification booklet and be flooded with memories of your first trip out of the country.
You ****** You can't even cash the savings bonds that were bought to put someone through college.
No. He got a box of documents and some cheap jewelery.
But still. Probably called for celebration. A successful heist
Because his brain is still in his head.
We create people as well as objects.
Ms. Di Prima,
In the end,
Some people will always be
Clasping ********
Dec 27, 2011
Dec 27, 2011 at 6:38 PM UTC