"filmed" poems
1. Had you a viral video,
you’d watch it
more than once.
2. Instagram hearts
make you smile,
even from strangers.
3. Which would
you rather:
***
or
Zuckerberg
friending you
on Facebook.
No, this isn’t a Cosmo quiz —
it’s a social experiment.
Because no one ACTUALLY
answers these questions honestly
without looking like
that ****** at the pool
trying to get as MANY
high fives as possible.
Yet, we all do it.
Alone or in public.
Day or night.
LED screen spice up our lives.
It was probably
best embodied
by that girl taking
selfie
after
selfie
after
selfie
after
selfie,
filmed for minutes
on the way to school,
the video soon posted,
by her dad
trying to teach her a lesson?
Or trying to get attention?
Either way, he might as
well have hashtagged it
#socialsuicide.
Like most humor
we laughed at her
because we are her.
We see a dripping
characterture
************ to
itself in public.
Wait, it,
sounds wrong
when you name it.
But there is
a name for it:
Digital ************
aka
Self-adoration
aka
Narcississism.
You won’t agree
that you do it too.
But I’ll bet
most of you
get excited
thinking about
notifications too.
Why is that?
You’d never admit it.
You can say
I smelt it, so I dealt it.
Call me a preacher,
a hater, or a hypocrit.
But I'd rather you call me a
digital masterbater too.
And then remember the last
time you opened Instagram
or Facebook
or Twitter
and took a selfie
or hashtagged something
or posted a status
that your still breathing.
How long has it been —
a minute, an hour, a day?
Now try making fun of her.
Aug 29, 2014
Aug 29, 2014 at 11:20 AM UTC
Manning up in Texas
Geldof overdose
needles at the bed stand
starlet comatose
California dreaming
killer meets demise
hurling in a taxi
puke fee on the rise
Fighting in the Gaza
Jordan's holy war
rebels on a mission
Jihad underscore
The North Korean riddle
pales in grand design
crisis on the border
planes fall from the sky
Cooking on a deadline
tempting tapenades
herbs are in the spotlight
wines that give a nod
Google maps the body
DOW at record highs
Uber comes to market
corn is on the rise
Apple on its earnings
Caterpillar dead
European sanctions
banks have **** the bed
Clippers threaten boycott
Longhorns follow purge
Lynch is out of training camp
James is on the verge
Leinart taking *** shots
coughing up a lung
lions take a licking
fans are throwing dung
Another day in Vegas
Primm from A-Z
rolling out an ankle
a flying SUV
Quiet tempting spaces
made better by design
multi color pea coat
silence fuels the mind
Stabbing in the subway
goat caught in a well
apes are selling tickets
(but leave behind a smell)
Puberty on trial
a man without a head
teachers feel alone
lets take them to the shed!
Jonah's tomb destroyed
wreckage in Mumbai
Sugar Daddy sites
Freedom 85
The immigrant debate
Russia's mounting toll
unions on a mission
heads are gonna roll
Beaches for the nudists
hotels on the cheap
the best generic brands
a list you have to keep!
Planning your estate
questions from the camp
a mansion up for sale
where once they filmed The Champ
Midwives threaten action
aboriginal act
truckers want concessions
that train has left the track
Sharks are found in Fundy
a prized but perilous catch
food we love to hate the most
an irrefutable batch
A family on the brink
I want my kids to fail!
politicians drains all hope
a ban on Israel
Follow out each headline
let the columns be your guide
all these things did happen
the day that Newhouse died
Aug 2, 2017
Aug 2, 2017 at 10:29 AM UTC
God knows how our neighbor managed to breed
His great sow:
Whatever his shrewd secret, he kept it hid
In the same way
He kept the sow--impounded from public stare,
Prize ribbon and pig show.
But one dusk our questions commended us to a tour
Through his lantern-lit
Maze of barns to the lintel of the sunk sty door
To gape at it:
This was no rose-and-larkspurred china suckling
With a penny slot
For thrift children, nor dolt pig ripe for heckling,
About to be
Glorified for prime flesh and golden crackling
In a parsley halo;
Nor even one of the common barnyard sows,
Mire-smirched, blowzy,
Maunching thistle and knotweed on her snout-
cruise--
Bloat tun of milk
On the move, hedged by a litter of feat-foot ninnies
Shrilling her hulk
To halt for a swig at the pink teats. No. This vast
Brobdingnag bulk
Of a sow lounged belly-bedded on that black
compost,
Fat-rutted eyes
Dream-filmed. What a vision of ancient hoghood
must
Thus wholly engross
The great grandam!--our marvel blazoned a knight,
Helmed, in cuirass,
Unhorsed and shredded in the grove of combat
By a grisly-bristled
Boar, fabulous enough to straddle that sow's heat.
But our farmer whistled,
Then, with a jocular fist thwacked the barrel nape,
And the green-copse-castled
Pig hove, letting legend like dried mud drop,
Slowly, grunt
On grunt, up in the flickering light to shape
A monument
Prodigious in gluttonies as that hog whose want
Made lean Lent
Of kitchen slops and, stomaching no constraint,
Proceeded to swill
The seven troughed seas and every earthquaking
continent.
6.5k
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FIREWORKS SHOW FROM LAKE BURLEY GRIFFIN, ON AAA YOUTUBE TV
ENJOY YASELF, BOBBYE
Jan 29, 2015
Jan 29, 2015 at 12:15 AM UTC
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Aug 27, 2018
Aug 27, 2018 at 1:58 PM UTC
Dear manipulative boyfriend,
I'm sorry that I never stood up for myself,
or commented on your sexist remarks,
or the daily jokes about mental health
or suicide.
I see now that that was my mistake,
I just never wanted to be "that feminazi ***** you always talked about.
Dear manipulative boyfriend,
I'm sorry that my depression made me suicidal,
because I know that that was such an inconvenience for you.
And that my anxiety was so bad that I had panic attacks at the thought of you loving someone else.
I see now that that was my mistake,
because I shouldn't have had feelings too.
How stupid of me.
Dear manipulative boyfriend,
I'm sorry that I didn't understand why you wouldn't come near me,
why you could only love me on your own terms,
or why you would go for days without looking at me.
I see now that that was my mistake,
because I shouldn't have though that I deserved love.
Dear manipulative boyfriend,
I'm sorry that you talked to my best friend behind my back,
when you wouldn't even look me in the eye.
All the times that you flirted with her,
and she flirted back.
I see now that that was my mistake,
because I should have known that I wasn't good enough for you.
Dear manipulative boyfriend,
I'm sorry that you broke up with me over text,
because you were "too much of a coward" to do it in person,
while you filmed the whole thing while your friend watched,
and laughed as my heart broke.
I see now that that was my mistake,
because I shouldn't have expected anything kinder.
Dear manipulative ex-boyfriend,
I'm sorry that my mental health was "just for attention",
and that I started to get better without you.
Or that I could actually laugh,
and smile,
and not hate myself for it.
I see now that that was my mistake,
I didn't deserve happiness.
Dear manipulative ex-boyfriend,
I'm sorry that you had to take away the last shred of hope I had,
that dumping me and destroying my reputation was so hard on you,
that when I tried to tell our friends why I couldn't be around you,
you made them drive me to tears,
and drive me away.
I see now that that was my mistake,
I should have known that you would infect them too.
It's like you were poisonous.
Dear manipulative ex-boyfriend,
I'm sorry that you turned my friends against me,
that you became violent and aggressive,
that you took out your anger about me on our shocked and confused friends,
that you thought you could treat everyone else just like you treated me.
I see now that that was my mistake,
because I should have done something to stop you before it was too late...
Dear his next girlfriend,
I'm sorry that I didn't try hard enough to show him that what he was doing was wrong,
you are strong enough to stand up to him.
I forgive you for going behind my back,
I knew it was coming from the start.
Remember that you are not alone,
and that you never really did made any mistakes,
because it wasn't your fault you were dating someone so toxic.
I love you,
and I will be here for you
when he breaks you.
Apr 29, 2018
Apr 29, 2018 at 12:59 PM UTC
The oceanic wind did not rescind but instead it found its form.
Gathering in strength and gaining much in length at the centre of the storm.
Building attitude it would not exclude from the frigate sailing true.
But with its destination now a defication the seas discarded with the crew.
Land-Ho, it came, did this hurricane bringing with it such a wave.
Like none had ever seen was this water screen that was bound to misbehave.
Throwing all aside like an unruly bride who was aiming to get her way.
And what lay ahead was a heap of dead as the big one came to play.
On its way inward it had done no good to the vessells on the sea.
Throwing craft around and causing men to drown it wasn't going to let them be.
Breaching many shores like unruly ****** the waves would spread there grisly pox.
From the nearest beach to the out of reach destination of inland docks.
Catastrophe - spelt with a capital C was the headlines in the news.
Every seaside place had a weary face that was filmed by camera crews.
People died that day many swept away as the nearest towns did flood.
Even tracks were failing with the trains derailing while water washed away the blood.
Many homes were wrecked as they did disconect and the oceans did divorce.
With those like you and me as they watched TV as the waters swam there course.
Many got up high and watched their fellows die on this day that would not be.
Forgotten very soon as before high noon we were dismantled by the sea.
It's all over now and we will somehow continue with our lives.
We'll bury our dead and we'll count the heads of our lost husbands and wives.
They'll be laid to rest and we'll then invest in the massive clear away.
But when that wind gets up it'll hit us in the gut but all we can do is pray.
The world cannot be tamed and does not feel ashamed when it strikes from out of the blue.
However we prepare nature doesn't care and will do what it must do.
We think we're in control but we're just on parole from what nature has to throw.
And we'll hope that day never comes our way but we can never really know.
Oct 24, 2014
Oct 24, 2014 at 7:51 PM UTC
Okay The Vibe To Write...
Is Now A Part of My Life...
It’s Just A BEAUTIFUL Thing... !!!
When I Start To Think...
And Start Writing Lyrics...
That QUICKLY Sink...
Into Papers Where Ink...
... Display Wordplay...
That Comes From My Brain...
It’s A Vibe That Invites...
..... REALITY Lines.....
RATHER Than THOSE...
Where Lines of WHITE...
Create Mental DOPES...
Who Embrace That Coc’... !!!
Or Yes... *******
That They’re QUICK To CLAIM...
Helps To Keep Them STRAIGHT... ?!?
The Vibe When I Write...
INFLAMES MY BRAIN... !!!
With Things To Say...
About The World Today...
From GREATS Like USAIN... !!!
To Things LESS HUMANE...
That Are NOT So Great... !!!
You Know What I’m Saying... ?
Or..... DO YOU..... ?!?
Cos’ The Vibe When I Write...
Is... NOT For Fools... !!!
Who DON’T Use Their Brain Tool...
So..... Is That YOU... ?!?
One Who’s Confused...
When It Comes To What’s TRUE...
Cos’ The Vibe When I Write...
REJECTS Those In DENIAL...
It’s A Style That Profiles...
A Great Deal MORE...
Than... Peoples’ Green Miles... !!!
It Relates To Flicks...
That EXPOSE How We Live...
But Also Deals...
In Things MORE REAL... !!!
Than Things That Are Filmed...
On... 8 Millimetre Reels... !!!
Because Words I Write...
Do Not Promote Lies... !!!
Or... FALLACIES...
The Vibe When I Write...
Is..... REALITY........
So ISN'T Written To Deceive...
Or Make People... ANGRY... !!!
... It Is What It IS....
So... If The Cap Fits...
You’d Better Deal With It... !!!
You See The Vibe When I Write...
ISN'T MOULDED To PLEASE...
Because THAT ISN’T Poetry To Me... !!!
It’s About Being REAL...
And Relating What You See...
In Ways That Display...
TRUTH And HONESTY... !!!
And Reflections On Life...
All It’s Lows And HIGHS... !!!!
And Those Last Lines...
Are The Things That DEFINE...
Why... Whether Day Or Night...
I Continually Find That My Mind’s Eye...
QUICKLY Provides A Mind Like Mine...
With...
... “ The Vibe To Write “...
Sep 18, 2020
Sep 18, 2020 at 11:44 PM UTC
I dream of rigged lacrosse matches
won in 4th quarter
overtime
of chess games won with en passant
(what exactly is that?)
of horses falling at the first hurdle.
I dream of Martian landscapes
through sand-dunes of heartache
because as a child, at McDonalds
I was never allowed a milk shake,
while in my waking hours I have
absolved a multitude of sins for
lapsed nuns, ringmasters and troubadours.
I have filmed riots,
marathons and abortions.
I have seen things
pickled in jars
holding open heavy doors.
I have tried,
like an idiot
to commit all this to
memory.
Dec 31, 2012
Dec 31, 2012 at 2:15 PM UTC
Where we live it is no desert for the rains still fall.
Where we live the cacti stand tall,
proud and green Men and Women
defending rocky slopes of heaven.
Where we live the bat flies with the nighthawks,
dog fights at twilight against hordes of insects.
The lizard and snake fear a Greater Roadrunner
who laughs at passing cars, for it shall outlive
The Petrol Race centuries forward.
The Sunrise seems like The Mountains'
live birth to a bright blazed star.
The Sunset bombs a horizon
filmed with faraway layers of dust.
The milk cloud of stars and cosmic debris.
The Moon rising, a pale beacon beyond The Mesquite.
Jun 21, 2011
Jun 21, 2011 at 4:04 PM UTC
Oh Baby, you've done.
Captured my essence
and made me think
that
I
exist.
For a
slit-wrist second
in "time".
Until them sparks
make fire.
& take you up in his flames.
A bad dream.
Filmed right between my
starry-eyes.
Soul Photography,
uhhhh
Flashbacks of missin' you.
Until then,
I will be all black
& nothing more.
Than a wannabe-writer in the
mourning.
And a secret-screamer at night.
Jun 20, 2012
Jun 20, 2012 at 1:30 PM UTC
*In his breakthrough work of channeled literature, I Am the Word, author and medium Paul Selig recorded an extraordinary program for personal and planetary evolution as humankind awakens to its own divine nature. I Am the Word is an energetic transmission that works directly on its readers to bring them into alignment with the frequency of the Word, which Paul's guides call the energy of "God in Action."
Paul was born in New York City and received his Master's Degree from Yale. He had a spiritual experience in 1987 that left him clairvoyant. As a way to gain a context for what he was beginning to experience, he studied a form of energy healing, working at Marianne Williamson's Manhattan Center for Living and in private practice. In the process, he began to "hear" for his clients, and much of Paul's work now is as a clairaudient, clairvoyant, channel, and empath.
Paul has led channeled energy groups for many years. In 2009 he was invited to channel at the Esalen Institute's Superpowers symposium, where he was filmed for the upcoming documentary film Authors of the Impossible. He is the subject of the feature-length documentary film Paul & the Word which will be released late summer, 2011. His workshops in 2011 include Edgar Cayce's A.R.E. in New York City, the Jungian Center in Vermont and the Esalen Institute in Big Sur, Calfornia. Also a noted playwright and educator, Paul serves on the faculty of NYU and directs the MFA in Creative Writing Program at Goddard College. He lives in New York City, where he maintains a private practice as an intuitive and conducts weekly, channeled energy groups.*
Personal and planetary evolution- Live channeling with Paul Selig
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=CAgh2pXDDls&feature;=youtu.be
Waking Universe With Guest Paul Selig
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Z7BI0Lgb9Kk&feature;=youtu.be
Dec 26, 2012
Dec 26, 2012 at 8:19 PM UTC
I tried to tint my hair red to light this night
But it is dull and stringing out amidst my plant-stained fingers
I tried to dissolve away the lines upon my skin to glow with luminosity
But they are wedged deep and have left gouges of pin-pricks behind
I tried to exhume the dead and the dry from my face to better breathe
But instead it filmed over stinging and suffocates
I tried to forget you in order to be free of this
But I am not cleaned of you so easily.
Apr 6, 2014
Apr 6, 2014 at 9:49 AM UTC
When the Present has latched its postern behind my tremulous stay,
And the May month ***** its glad green leaves like wings,
Delicate-filmed as new-spun silk, will the neighbours say,
“He was a man who used to notice such things”?
If it be in the dusk when, like an eyelid’s soundless blink,
The dewfall-hawk comes crossing the shades to alight
Upon the wind-warped upland thorn, a gazer may think,
“To him this must have been a familiar sight.”
If I pass during some nocturnal blackness, mothy and warm,
When the hedgehog travels furtively over the lawn,
One may say, “He strove that such innocent creatures should
come to no harm,
But he could do little for them; and now he is gone.”
If, when hearing that I have been stilled at last, they stand at
the door,
Watching the full-starred heavens that winter sees,
Will this thought rise on those who will meet my face no more,
“He was one who had an eye for such mysteries”?
And will any say when my bell of quittance is heard in the gloom,
And a crossing breeze cuts a pause in its outrollings,
Till they rise again, as they were a new bell’s boom,
“He hears it not now, but used to notice such things?”
2.4k
Am I a vicious reader,
or do I simply love to look
studious, a scholar amidst animals
out of tune to written words?
Do I wish to taste of the stuff of stars
to know their substance
or to show to others
I have their colors on my tongue?
I fear I sit among volumes,
filmed in dirt just like their authors,
calling for them to read me their works
only to tell others I’ve spoken with a ghost.
Were I alone among these stacks,
desolate from life for good,
would I become a scholar,
or eat the books for food?
Nov 5, 2012
Nov 5, 2012 at 1:42 PM UTC
Journeyman Pictures
Will take you on a journey
The DVB journalists
Jailed and tortured
They showed the military
Shooting at protesters
They hid on the balcony and filmed
They got footage
Of the Japanese journalist
Who was shot by the military
Another journalist
Helped make
An award winning
Documentary
About the devistating
Cyclone that hit Cambodia
In 2009
He was captured and jailed
For years
He had promised to write
The girl he met
From his documentary
But could not because
He was jailed
He made his own guitar
While he was
Wrongfully jailed
He is a good man
He just wanted to show
What the people were going through
Now he has been released
An executive from DVB media
Came to talk
With the Burmese officials
In 2009
About having their own
Official office
Some of the journalists
Have spoken out
About how they
Were tortured
Things are improving
Although it is a process
I hope DVB succeeds
And is not pestered
Or persecuted by the government
Any longer
This poem is dedicated
To the journalists
Who went through
Great hardships
To show the injustices
Of their government
Who wanted to document
What the people
Went through
After the cyclone
Oct 15, 2015
Oct 15, 2015 at 4:09 PM UTC
I thought we were a poem meant to be written
I thought we were a song meant to be sang
I thought we were movie meant to be filmed
I thought we were a book meant to be published
You broke my heart but I have memories, they keep me warm inside. But those same memories tear me apart. My tears are hard to hide. You told me you love me but yet you pushed me aside, like an old bike that's been rusted outside. My heart is broken you left me alone. I feel my lungs are giving up, I feel I am too. The most dangerous drug I ever had, has blue eyes and a heartbeat.
Jun 13, 2017
Jun 13, 2017 at 10:55 PM UTC
A Comet passed too near the sun,
and was filmed disintegrating..
Perhaps its G.P.S. was off
or just recalculating.
The solar skimming comet
surely melted in the heat.
Old King Sol, our yellow dwarf
Enjoyed his slurpee treat.
Astronomers were quite tight lipped
When asked to speak upon it
All I got from one stargazer
Was a terse” No Comet!”
Dec 28, 2011
Dec 28, 2011 at 8:02 PM UTC
When once the twilight locks no longer
Locked in the long worm of my finger
Nor ****** the sea that sped about my fist,
The mouth of time ****** like a sponge,
The milky acid on each hinge,
And swallowed dry the waters of the breast.
When the galactic sea was ******
And all the dry seabed unlocked,
I sent my creature scouting on the globe,
That globe itself of hair and bone
That, sewn to me by nerve and brain,
Had stringed my flask of matter to his rib.
My fuses are timed to charge his heart,
He blew like powder to the light
And held a little sabbath with the sun,
But when the stars, assuming shape,
Drew in his eyes the straws of sleep
He drowned his father's magics in a dream.
All issue armoured, of the grave,
The redhaired cancer still alive,
The cataracted eyes that filmed their cloth;
Some dead undid their bushy jaws,
And bags of blood let out their flies;
He had by heart the Christ-cross-row of death.
Sleep navigates the tides of time;
The dry Sargasso of the tomb
Gives up its dead to such a working sea;
And sleep rolls mute above the beds
Where fishes' food is fed the shades
Who periscope through flowers to the sky.
When once the twilight screws were turned,
And mother milk was stiff as sand,
I sent my own ambassador to light;
By trick or chance he fell asleep
And conjured up a carcass shape
To rob me of my fluids in his heart.
Awake, my sleeper, to the sun,
A worker in the morning town,
And leave the poppied pickthank where he lies;
The fences of the light are down,
All but the briskest riders thrown
And worlds hang on the trees.
2k
My fist crushed his angry eye
A desperate mother begged for my sixteen year old assistance
Her egg whites rolled back into her vomiting head
The personalized presents I picked out still unused
Clotting never came, I passed out dripping blood on the toilet
She screams for help at night, though now it’s less often
The ****** wore off and she found herself in an empty lot, **** recent
You cried when your knees failed you on each stair, each day
The irises never grew this year, dead roots
It was a freak accident, no way we could have seen it coming
He was mangy and homeless, but man was he resilient
They took paid swings at each other’s hairless faces, we filmed it
The bottle left my fingertips, I heard her yell in pain
Money is easily removed from unprotected leather
I probably said some things god wouldn’t forgive on a good day
She tasted smoke on my lips, boy was she ******
I wonder if people can hear the evil **** that lives in my brain
Like ugly sea serpents mulling about in an aquarium getting restless
Little kids with sticky hands pressed against the glass
Thankful for land legs and transparent barriers
No one would swim with the sharks by choice
Except an equally wicked leviathan
I imagine they will roam in circles
Until I die
Mar 28, 2011
Mar 28, 2011 at 3:19 PM UTC
I want to hear you lie to me.
I want to see the sweet syrup of deceit
fall slow and seductive from your quivering lips.
I want to pile these little white lies up on pancakes;
like powdered sugar for a freshly flipped soul.
I want to see your eyes hold firm in deception
chiseling the cold ice of your gaze into cubes
for chilling the sweet drink of my victory.
I love the instant look of
guilt and anticipation;
the bitten bottom lip;
the chest puffed out,
with a breathe of indignation,
for my knowing;
the tear filmed eyes;
the legs rubbing together nervously;
hands run back golden ribbons of hair over perfect ears,
and scratch at angel shoulders
where those wings we lost should still be.
Your adorable when you lie.
Lie.
Lie me a river.
Jan 10, 2013
Jan 10, 2013 at 3:11 AM UTC
In my house there is a cupboard
Full of VHS tapes
One of them is a recording of a news broadcast
On it I stand
Hospital gowned and smiling
Clowns are there on the terrace where it was filmed
Painting our faces
They all smile
I smile
The other kids smile
None of us over 4 feet
But balding
Black eyed and missing toothed
A clown takes my hand and begins to paint
It is cold
The paint
And the Terrace
I tell her how I want to run away with her
She smiles
Maybe
On camera
You can see my back through the open gown
The bones make me look like a brontosaurus
I turn to the camera
Remembering I was told never to smile with the paint on
or it will crack
The circles under my eyes are gone
My lips are red
My cheeks are tan
I look normal
Off camera
mommies and daddies are crying
Off camera
the clowns are crying
On camera
There is a terrace full of dying children
In a hospital
And we all looked normal
May 10, 2011
May 10, 2011 at 11:25 AM UTC
In a swiveling chair, the black and white images of light to the west, are reflections of mind in a humming machine. Turning a head, there is a closed window, showing an energetically inspired pen the nearing sunset.
Moon swept itching dark
Twilight, sunrises curtain
pink lids - open eyes
With a blink of instaneous awakeness and sleep, the neck turns fast, to look for inspiration.
Dusk - apart painted
eight queued paired mare and foal
foliage lined dark black
Without my sister's presence, the filmed horse's birth is only an image, lost. Indeed, it's the shadows of sunlight that have lit up the southerly tree with darkness!
May 23, 2010
May 23, 2010 at 3:16 PM UTC