"hacks" poems
Nonstop, all day.
You are aware a gamer's dark side,
not when they play,
but when they've died.
Can't stop, no way.
They do curse and yell,
not at what the other team say,
but when their own team fell.
I tank, you heal.
Noobs **** and everyone knows,
no need to make a big deal,
even if some player blows.
You **** stealed me!
How dare you take my guy!
He hacks I see!
How else could he fly!?
All I want to hear are 'dings!'
but not with this team.
These are the many things,
A gamer may scream.
Nov 16, 2013
Nov 16, 2013 at 5:14 AM UTC
Alarm clock kicks exhaustion into gut immediately as it sounds
University student jolts into day still dark
20 years later body still too daft to recognize shrill wake-up call as prey rather than predator
US kills Russians in Syria strikes
How to get ready in under ten minutes—life hacks you won’t believe: leave without locking the door, forget to brush your hair, and more
Five reasons breakfast is the most important meal of the day
Trump wants to replace food stamps for impoverished Americans
Snow in the forecast for the next three days
Why is vitamin D important for our bodies?
Sleep deprivation: a student epidemic
I’ve had panic attacks every day for the past three years—here’s how I’ve coped
Accused killer says victim hired him to do it on Craigslist
Want to know how to budget as a college student? Stop buying Starbucks
All she has to do to claim 560-million-dollar lotto is make her name public—she refuses
Signs that your friendship is coming to an end
Lions eat and **** suspected poacher
Tips on how to be successful after college
These are the victims of the Florida school shooting
Binge-drinking on college campuses and escapism: the dangers of drinking to forget
Declinism: is the world actually getting worse?
Mar 2, 2018
Mar 2, 2018 at 12:27 AM UTC
armed and dangerous, 20 oz. of hot hot coffee, tablet on lap,
sitting on the deck overlooking the bay, and once again,
unusual for me, I am touched by the sanctity of the serenity
pervading, assuaging, by waves just loud enough to sway to,
the off/on chatter of the early bird's convocation of the morning's
blessing, have survived another night to greet greatly the outlines
of loveliness in the all~of~surroundings, which hacks my brain,
for I am by forty years of habitation more accustomed to a rough and tumble city boy trader, screamer of:
buy/sell/straddle/strangle/crush/kill/mercilessness, no quarter,
no mindfulness in me naturally, until nature robs my tools of
denial, and I smell the sanctity of fresh sheets laid on bed, the
warmed blood, vein coursing, suggesting just listen, listen,
the hot shower water eradicating the prior day's sinfulness,
the highly valued sensations of sensational emptiness, and
words drifting from the surround movie theater of a vista beloved,
coming for to fill and fulfill this always~in~mourning soul by the
overhauling of a crisp, cleansing day break
I, familiar with notions of perpetuity, and at best, conceptual, though
my mind permits a drift to the thoughtfulness that this place, this moment, this performance art of spectacular breathing of another
dawning day, after thousands upon thousand of its predecessors,
and the possibility, not remote, but not promised, to anyone, just may
occur at least once more, and one must learn contentment from but
that idea, and sip the cooling dregs of coffee, the sounds of human
interference, car door slamming, the heaving breathing of morning joggers, the wind rising, the white caps snapping, precursors and
signs that natural perfection is never permanent, always in transition,
and a whispery smile crosses my cheeks, as a silly thought invades,
nature is so very human~like and yet, immortal…
composed between 6:30 and 8:30 am this day
Wed Aug 20 twenty twenty-five
Silver Beach
Aug 20, 2025
Aug 20, 2025 at 8:34 AM UTC
Seventeen years ago
America was shaken to the core.
Since not too long after that
We've been involved in a non-stop war.
Homeland security
Became an issue that since then
Hoped to assure Americans
That such attacks won't happen again.
During the past seventeen years
Many measures have been taken
To make us safe; however, it's time
For sleeping minds to reawaken.
Lacking foresight, our president
Has gone after the people who
Have worked to make us safe. The man
Doesn't seem to have a clue.
Discrediting investigators,
Removing them from key positions,
And pulling security clearances
Because of paranoid suspicions
Will only make us vulnerable
To future terrorist attacks.
Watch how his Republican friends
In Congress support him. Political hacks!
The president also hates
When investigators eye
American involvement with
The Russian mafia. We know why.
It's hard to watch as the president--
With almost each careless endeavor--
Stupidly goes out of his way
To make us more unsafe than ever.
-by Bob B (9-11-18)
Sep 11, 2018
Sep 11, 2018 at 12:26 PM UTC
Myths
They were not statues
and now you see what they see
looking back at you
Man
Her tongue, was so sharp
dissevers men from their ******
kisses them goodnight!
Our blind date went well
Next time leave my mask at home,
and her eyes attached.
Scratched, stained, double locked.
Basement corner, light bulb off.
Refrigerator.
Won't let him hurt you.
I promise, now go and hide,
Daddy is coming...
I don't remember,
I keep having these blackouts.
Sorry I hurt you.
Movie
Make-out Point, moonlight...
Turn their car radio on,
leave my hook behind.
50 ft. Woman,
dreams of a fifty foot world.
Curse my two left feet.
Empty, shiny man
His axe hacks you limb from limb
You hear a heartbeat
Wound too tight, tied down
Whisper lies, impale your skull
What is a real boy?
"Last person on earth,
dif'rent faces in mirror."
- Frankenstein's Monster
Miscellaneous
appeared as a zit
it grew, no concern for it
it spoke! holy ****
Lamprey fingertips
Coarse hair on infected tongue
Lotus seed ******
My beast sounds like love,
vanity to a monster,
hero to a ghost.
from Horrors Grotesque,
the existential monster
fears little carpals.
Aug 7, 2015
Aug 7, 2015 at 4:29 PM UTC
the skilled craftsman
he labors pen on page in nights silence
the names and faces of his students
vividly painted to him in small ways on each page
the girl with her flourish of drawings
in the margins of her work
a bird delicately drawn to appear to be dropping
the words onto the page
in amongst her arguments that shakespeare was a charlatan...
the young man from the morning bell
who dose not write as much as he carves and hacks
his words into the dull instrument of the page
crafting it in his way to resemble the angry face he wears within
this quiet man
teacher
he learns too
from the patchwork quilt of humanity
that passes year by year through his world
some shine brightly
others faded away into obscurity's cage
see him sitting in nights silence
pen in hand
a master craftsman at his labor of love
Aug 20, 2014
Aug 20, 2014 at 6:01 PM UTC
Sentimental emotions needs to be shared
Down at your little throne I glared
I danced I frowned I smiled Oh silly jester of the court..
You only see a face of a fool! oh deary, please allow me to retort.
I make the masses smile all the time my dear
Why can't you see this jester's love appear?
I juggle knives and flames for your amusement.
Oh truly I do shrug in fear and in torment.
/Hush little darling don't you frown
This little jester will be your clown
All he wants to do is to see you smile
All he wants to do is laugh for awhile
This psychopathic love that I have for you
Would only be the beginning of our story for two.
The jester smiles and the crowd goes nuts
Alas the princess is with me but the pain still cuts/
Let the jester make you the grandest ball of them all
Let your lover make you twirl round and round in this ball
Let the crowd know this love that I held in the end
A jester to a lover what a sweet sweet blend
HaHaHaHaHaHa says the jester gone mad
How could this fairy tale got so wrong and bad
The jester hacks and slashes oh he is excited
For my sweet deary all things should be dead.
I thank the world for what it gave my heart
Sadly a jester can only do much it rips him apart
He can only make people smile and more is too much.
Bodies everywhere my love pulseless, inside the jester he only laughed a bunch.
Oct 11, 2017
Oct 11, 2017 at 3:53 PM UTC
HP sycophants . . .
Why would someone prop up hacks?
. . . Idiots praising.
Oct 21, 2014
Oct 21, 2014 at 9:35 PM UTC
*sailing on the blue-sea
sailing unknown-beauty*..
1.
the seas laugh in raucous-hacks
as the waves cough up the corpses of my dreams
at my feet, they come in from the swell of tides
seeming no more than
spongy sea-weed with sun-skin points
bloated fish who didn't make it
swollen seals with child
and the blue-boy on the whale's back
confident-smiles draped upon his demeanour
like a well-worn cloak of old-comfort
soft and velvety secrets hide inside the folds
of his true-age and pure-soul
nobody would believe
how many trips he had to make
to get to this shore
how many deaths he had to live through
to understand the purpose
how many tears he saw shedding
of nature's total-patience
how many of so much..
2.
on the back of a whale
he traverses the width of seas
the span of lands
the points of stars
the truth of man
and he grieves the piteous-souls whose backs break
so hard
on the interminable-wheel of penitence
turning and grinding
grinding
grinding..
always bent upon that gauntlet-grind
if they but knew how futile the turn..
carrying loads of mercy and goodness
only to see it seep out wounds ere journey's end
3.
cruel deified-laughter exists not
at man's readiness to crucify hope
with such four-square certainty
that redemption lies in suffering..
oh no..
4.
faint sounds of laughter on a broad-coast
whose sands give way to shy-dossiers
of nature's confidence
in the evening sun
secrets that I neglected to see.. first time round
have I failed myself.. ?
(but not again)
when awareness taps one on the shoulder,
is it not utter-folly to turn one's back on resplendence
that all the leaves and seas are willing to share?
*true-beauty lies in covert-blossoms
and opened-eyes
and saying.. yes
when the sun-breeze
dawns*
S T - sunnyday, 24 Nov 2013
Nov 24, 2013
Nov 24, 2013 at 1:08 PM UTC
*HP sycophants
Why would someone prop up hacks
Idiots praising*
May 18, 2015
May 18, 2015 at 2:09 AM UTC
Pixelated bitmap e-mares
Digitized be mementos cached
Her 8 bit vocal vintage freeware
Transfers recurrent electric draughts
The bitrate of virtual seduction
Intrusively hacks my bones
Taste be my lips of data eruption
Elicited from her tone
Physique a stimulating software
Upon my Ethernet she crafts sparks
A gem society deemed quite rare
Though she possessed a vibrant bark
Her bandwith I yearned to fiddle
'Twas encrypted with die-hard lust
She moans in esoteric riddles
Keen I decode them whilst I ******
Pizazz eclipsing our veins
A billion megabytes colliding
Satiated we crash free of rein
Unforeseen servers uniting
© 2012 (All rights reserved)
This poem is featured in the poetry collection “Technicolor” as written by Glenn McCrary
The collection is currently available in paperback and hardcover editions for purchase on Lulu.com
.
Feb 25, 2012
Feb 25, 2012 at 4:09 PM UTC
I know a girl that piles on the necklaces
“Makes me look pretty,” she says
She’s all nervous, high-pitched laughter that jangles
as she fidgets with her armored collarbones
Rose red rashes bloom around ivory flesh,
She scratches at her skin inflamed
Ring ring ring around her pretty little neck
With those posey necklaces and gemstones
She smiles fondly at each reflection
of chains and rocks entangled
Wrung wrung wrung of beauty is she
Bitten so fiercely to her ivory bones
Her laughter hacks into little cough spurts,
and the metal winks dully as it strangles
Ring ring ring around her rosy little neck--
she piles on more necklaces.
Jan 16, 2018
Jan 16, 2018 at 1:31 AM UTC
Patches is a cat
a very pampered cat
She sleeps on silk cushiness and eats fillets of mouse
Charming everyone, she has the run of the house
She hacks up hairballs on the rug
once I saw her eat a slug
covered in fleas
she's quite hard to please
But she's our cat
Our very pampered cat
Apr 13, 2012
Apr 13, 2012 at 10:59 PM UTC
Often, the shallows are a good place to be,
Once out of there, no going back, not ever,
Once noticed, return is virtually impossible,
And all pedestals are shaky, no roots: none!
Ensure buoyancy, for one must sink or swim,
So much expected, so much demanded,
One may think shallows are unkind, a waste,
They are safe, though, friendly, pleasant,
Conducive company encouraging creation.
Once out of them, away from safe shores,
New challenges arise, new horizons, all new,
Making one desperate not to fail, not to sink,
One must swim, swim for your life; swim hard,
For it hurts to disappoint, it hurts so much.
Without the grassy bank and sandy bottom,
Creation is difficult, beware the sharks: teeth,
Scoot around the crocs, teeth snapping: biting,
Desiring your tender unsuspecting flesh!
See the glory-hogs wallowing, laughing at you,
Howling with derision; they know nothing,
Stupid hacks, every one of them, frolicking,
Performing in the deep, dark, dangerous-depths,
Unaware their blood will soon feed others,
The swirling waters running red: eventually.
Safer here with golden fish and humble toads,
Prometheus swims here as well as anywhere,
Savour the shallows, dance with creativity,
If you must leave, identity switch required,
Even then, watch sharks and crocs: teeth biting,
Often, the shallows are a good place to be.
©Paul Chafer 2014
May 22, 2014
May 22, 2014 at 8:19 AM UTC
Saturday Stings,
And all the lonely memories it brings,
Sundays Sufferings,
Slowly eating me up, expiered enduring,
Monday Moans,
Becoming motionless as silent stones,
Tuesday Tears,
Swept away by a sea of sobs,
Wednesday Worries,
Filling my mind overthought stories,
Thursday Thoughts,
Healing through our rewind past talks,
Friday Flashbacks,
Surviving on those life hacks,
_____________
Week after Week,
This continuously ongoing cycle,
I endlessly seek,
The day we once again meet.
~A.d | 12 Jan 2015
Mar 9, 2015
Mar 9, 2015 at 2:14 PM UTC
In this palace of madness reside creatures of fury,
of time, of earth, of light and dark.
A callous canvass upon which to paint such
murderous intent, spite and gleeful joy.
Malice hacks at the door.
Black blankets the beckoning mountain.
Maggots putrefy this palace of decay.
Trackless steps lead to the mountain,
worn away by thousands of pounding feet
over thousands of years.
All stepping into the casket of night.
All stepping into chasms of phantoms.
Enchantments abound this un-hallowed ground
memories, anxious to stay locked behind the door.
Madness clawing, devouring sanity step by step.
Turn back, for insanity inhabits this palace, and,
Here be dragons.
Jul 21, 2014
Jul 21, 2014 at 2:35 PM UTC
There's carollers outside my door
With the dreaded Christmas curse
They sing and sing and sing and sing
But, they only sing ONE verse
They ring the bell beforehand
All stand back and start to sing
I'm gonna do some rewire work
So my doorbell does not ring
They're from the church
They're from the school
They can not sing in tune
I can not wait for Boxing Day
I hope it gets here soon
They sing for cans of goodies
They open up their souls
I just wish they'd learn the whole **** song
Or they'd just all shut their holes
They come out every evening
They come out every day
I bet they've never heard a jingle bell
Or even ridden in a sleigh
Now, I like Christmas Choirs
It's not that I'm a Grinch
But, learn the words before you sing
It really is a cinch
It's a partridge in a pear tree
Not a bird stuck in a bush
These two cent hacks are able
To turn the nicest songs to moosh
Just knock and stand back silent
For three minutes, silent stay
Then I'll give you all ten dollars
So you will all just go away
Dec 15, 2013
Dec 15, 2013 at 7:22 PM UTC
Death-song
War garbles a tune, spits up
blood.
Bodies, empty pits
of eyes and entrails
break like a birch branch.
White waste flits down like snow.
An archetype, copied, laboured forever
melts into a meticulous concoction.
The apocalypse sets in with a daze, drawing
drunken curtains over the survivor soul.
The crow is a warrior,
with his black machine gun eyes.
Easy.
God coughs, the countryside,
elegiac to start
hacks with a demon.
The smoke pulls, harsh, and takes the tab.
It's all a waste of white ash.
Mar 25, 2013
Mar 25, 2013 at 11:08 AM UTC
Your aspect ratio’s wrong.
Stretching the truth
this long sows fertile ground
for artifacts, glitches,
quirks & bugs, worming
& squirming beneath pixel
shrugs. The worst kind
plump the frame to god-
awful proportions, bloating
bigger & bigger & bigger ‘til
vision’s engulfed.
Or the kind that squeeze
spaghetti confetti onto
our plates, drenched in
the Sauce of the Week
that “can’t be beat!”.
Your skewed parallax
attacks the facts at hand.
Recycle your *******
fax machine this second before
it grows smarter than
you. Yes, you—with the rolly
polly eyes & feint surprise—
quit pretending you’re dumb,
'cause you ain’t that numb
to the stings & pangs of change.
Your sloppy hacks produce
quantity @ the cost of quality
to benefit the greedy & satisfy
the needy, becoming seedy
to the logic of reason.
Correct your inputs to render
outputs worth tender & please
remember, it’s what’s within
the frame that’s important,
so get it right.
Sep 23, 2010
Sep 23, 2010 at 7:29 PM UTC
Faces lost in blank expression
Wait in stasis for their stop,
Shuttled from one potential
To the next like letters
In a mailman’s bag.
The sounds and smells of strangers,
The uncomfortable touches,
The squeezing in spaces,
The jerking rhythm of the ride,
The pram queens who sag
Against the railing
While their kids twist and turn
And scream at the lack of fun
In the faces of blank expression,
While couples tongues quietly wag.
Youthful monsters sit at the back
Playing tunes for the irritation
Of the old school music hacks,
While grandma dozes against the glass,
Shopping drawn up like a wall
To protect her from her past.
Father and daughter
Playing a game,
Sitting next to two lovers
Who are doing the same.
The tickling natter of friends,
The glare of phones,
The lying dog’s stare.
Life on the buses,
A slice of people
For the cost of a fare.
Mar 31, 2015
Mar 31, 2015 at 6:11 PM UTC
Life,
Feeling really dull,
Can't cut through it like a butter knife,
Every second I sink into this hole,
See all people but Im a low life,
Pain to strong as it takes a tole,
Cut so deep,
Can't get away from this pull,
To scared to get up and take a leap......
Falling into sorrow,
Might call it quits tomorrow,
there is a light that I follow,
insomnia like an owl,
**** up the pain like a towel,
Every turn in life is like a foul.....
Life,
Life,
Time to face facts,
Like a video game I need hacks,
Got all my boys backs,
But they all seem to slack,
Weight heavy like Shaq,
Life,
Life,
Seeing the upside,
Anger so tame,
No reason to hide,
Everyone in such shame,
Wishing they were on my side,
Sitting with all the fame,
At the top now and never really tried,
Wish you all could have came,
But all of you lied,
Now I know it was all a game.
Life
Aug 21, 2014
Aug 21, 2014 at 4:19 AM UTC
Crooked bones, coal, steel,
clanking and deafened with laboured breath,
that heaves up and hacks out as we crawl
and ache and sort and hunch and collect our
black diamonds, as we mine down,
down the rocks and the darkness until we can erupt into the sun
like worms haggard with dust and rot and breathe. Again.
As each vertebra recoils from being wound tight.
We are the pit.
The ancient shapes in the Davey lamp
chiselled from the coal itself.
And the song in our voice
is hammers and dynamite.
We will be here,
always,
under your feet.
Jan 21, 2013
Jan 21, 2013 at 9:15 AM UTC
i hear them again - persistent and near, the echo fills my ear (again and again and again) it's sharp, piercing, and booming within a single second - now begins the blaring whir of the banshee (she screams, wails on a mission of violent peace)
the ghosts fervently float away - the banshee gets nearer and nearer and nearer, her screams snatched by the buildings around her, kicked like a soccer ball, building to building (vertical hopscotch, the whirring wail of the banshee)
the banshee silenced, her wailing replaced with deafening flashes - the ghosts have gone, graciously escaping the fervent frequency of the banshees hi-fi to a sanctuary beneath the clamoring scape of black jacks and yellow hacks
emanating exhaustion and trepidation, the ghastly ghosts gather to regain their ecto - the banshees betrayed by their blasted blaring wail - the ghosts are gone.
May 30, 2013
May 30, 2013 at 2:30 AM UTC
Her fingertips loosed the glass
bottle, which had
of late
gathered rain like the
hands of paupers.
Glitter in a heartbeat.
to be collected by old battered shoes
or car tyres
and streetwise magpies.
it joins a city evensong
this oceanic roar of nothing
fusing chords of cars and smoke
and lonely dogs
with hacks
and throngs
of perambulating suits
and suitors
trampling athwart broads of concrete
As swifts in summer.
We swim in it
through open atriums
and barren rooms of
magnolia and magnolia and magnolia.
All the while if you look harder
you see through chinks a sepulchre
in each greying tower
ranging higher and higher still.
Machines and machinations
stacking life upon life to
build pyramids
to gaudy kings
in pinstripe or herringbone.
Flumes of fumes ***** like floods
Into and out of train stops
and bus stands.
Circling lungs like hungry crows.
Crows which haunt
Bombed out chapels made new
resuscitated with waxen ivy
and ivory lilies.
And the leaves of saintly oak trees
chatter in shrinking crevices of green
story telling
Of how people and things grow old.
And you can walk these streets
And dive too like cormorants into
The platitudes of city living.
Soaked to the skin in sound
to tell your story
like the shards
of a broken bottle.
Jun 2, 2015
Jun 2, 2015 at 6:10 PM UTC