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Steven Fried Sep 2013
Pills are like IPods
They come in all different
Shapes
Sizes

and Colors

but in the hands of the youth
Pills & IPods serve the same purpose
Pacification and
an Escape from reality
Lucky Queue Oct 2012
Blip. Blip. Blip
In the black of my room a red light pulses langorously on my phone
Steady green and blue lights and a rapid orange define the router across the room
Red digital numbers stand in the place of the clock
At precisely 6:00 am my alarm goes off(a deranged rooster entrapped in my phone)
A flick of a finger dismisses the crowing and the day has begun
After dressing and any other trivial task, I  am headed downstairs
A chik of the toaster
One beepbeepbeep of the microwave
More digital numbers, this time green, indicate that my bus comes shortly and I dash off
The headlights of the bus announce its presence half a block before it halts and the doors jerkily slide open
I text Graham from five feet away, because I don't yet know enough sign language
On the bus the driver may make an announcement, various lights and a few wires around her seat
School starts with a bell and the mindless herd shuffles in
The hallways bustle with the noise of teenagers chatting noisily, ipods playing, cells buzzing, beeping, texting
Homeroom and every period after is marked by a bell before and after until the last bell, freeing us from our institution of education
Now everyone is really alive and the clammer of sounds is three times as loud as the morning.
On the bus all but the most obnoxious are silent, closed off in their little world of a cellphone, ipod, or mp3
The kids file on and off the bus, only waking from their technology induced zombification to rapidly vocalize with their friends
Once I get home microwave humms as food is reheated or quickly cooked
The rice cooker is prepped and light flips on when plugged into the wall
Coffee maker may be set, and if my dad is home, his workspace is humming and light-pulsing as well
Brother and sisters argue over which tv show to watch or first computer turn while I'm wrapped up in my world of texting homework and poetry
Mom arrives from school and dinner is made
Stove humming loud and food stirfryed
Dinner no blips beeps or pulses matter, just the clinking of silverware and conversation
Afterwards, faucet runs dishes clattering while I wash
Imersion resumes and videos, games, and homework take over until bed
Teeth are brushed, pajamas donned, and members of this family mess around in bedroom before slowly transitioning to bed, and then sleep
So ends another day for me in the 21st century
Ryan Unger Jun 2015
“Life was easier when I was young.” Was what my grandma used to say,
“We didn’t have all the problems that people have today.
All of this technology, it helps clutter our mind,
Without it we’d be much less stressed I think that you would find.”

I never used to understand how she could think that’s true,
It’s obvious computers have made life easier for me and you!
Just look around at all the incredible things available to man,
The most powerful technology that can fit in the palm of your hand!

We have Email, and iPods, and TV you can record!
We have every kind of website to peruse if you’re bored!
We have Netflix, and GPS, and don’t forget Smartphones,
And we can do all our shopping with a mouse click in our homes!

Things have gotten so convenient that it’s so hard for me to know,
How somebody could think life was easier many years ago.
But as I grow older, I now slowly begin to see,
The difficulties that were also invented along with technology.

We now have cybercrime, which poses a very real threat,
Credit card information gets stolen and you can be crippled with debt.
And all your personal information sits vulnerable on your home computer,
Hackers can easily break in and take it like a cybernetic looter.

There are too many channels on TV you feel like your mind could drown,
And people in the ‘50’s never had their DVR break down.

People had only one phone at home; no cellphones at all;
Nowadays, I hate that anyone at any time can give my cellphone a call.
We have an entire of world of problems that we never had before,
And with the pace that society is moving they’re impossible to ignore.

As I get older, all this convenience slowly seems less grand,
And when I think of what my grandma said, I finally understand.
Thomas Newlove Jul 2015
Today at the train station

A stranger came up to me

And asked for directions.

I had the sudden urge to give him the wrong ones

Or take him behind the stairwell and

Gut him

And let his family watch as stomach and liver

Flobber out over slipping intestines, or simply

Grab him and throw him onto the train tracks

As the half five train approaches.

It would give people a reason to

Remove their sunglasses,

And possibly even their iPods,

Headphones dangling uncomfortably

As they fumble to save a pointless

(As well as futile) situation.

Maybe they would film it with their phones.

Maybe I'd be famous.

Instead I just sigh and give him the right directions,

Tell him the correct train to travel on,

And slowly smile as he waddles off

And doesn't believe me.
ghost queen Mar 2019
The train slowed as it pulled into la Gare de l’Est, the cars bumping and wheels grinding as it came to a stop. It was late. I’d have to move fast to catch the last metro home. I didn’t have the energy, I was tired, cold and hungry, which made me grumpy.

I slung my satchel around my chest, grabbed my carry-on, and made my way to the exit. As I neared the door, I could feel the cold January air flooding into the car. I tightened my coat around me as I stepped down the stairs onto the quay, carry-on in my right hand.

Looking for the nearest exit, I turned left without looking and ran full on into woman. Our bodies collided, time slowed, as we compressed into each other. Her hair flowed into my face like an ocean wave. I could smell her hair, her scent, her femininity. She squealed in surprised, her voice full of youth and nubility.  

The world rushed back into real time and I saw her. My eyes opened wide in awe and disbelief that a woman could be so beautiful. I remember her eyes, supernaturally blue, sapphire blue, as if they glowed from a power within; her skin, white, milky, alabaster, as if she were a statue come to life; her hair, black, glossy, like the feathers of a witch’s raven.

Our eyes locked. Her angry gaze cut through me. I felt exposed and in danger. I looked down and apologized. “Excusez-moi mademoiselle,” I said, putting my right hand to my heart and bowing slightly as if addressing a queen.

I looked back up. Our eyes meet. She had assessed me in the blink of her eyes. She regained her composure, her body relaxed, she touched my arm, and said, “excusez-moi, I was not looking where I was going,” which I sensed was untrue.

I stepped aside. She passed, turned her head, looked me dead in the eyes, gave me a slight smile, and disappeared into the stream of the exiting crowd.

I was perplexed and confused. I’d never had that sort of exchange with a woman before. I didn’t know what to make of it. Was it good, bad, or somewhere in between?

The crowd had thinned. I started walking toward the metro station, looking for #4 Port d’ Orleans, increasing my pace before I missed the last metro home. I followed the signs, and descended the stairs to the quay. There were a few people and groups, up and down the quay, quietly waiting. I leaned on a large concrete pillar, too tired to pay attention to my surroundings, waiting for the train, smelling the air filled with exhaust from electric motors. I could hear the hum of the approaching train. In an instant it was in front of me, slowing down, coming to a stop, the doors hissing open.

I waited a bit, for the groups to board the train. Tired and on auto-pilot, I leaned down, picked up my carry-on, boarded, and sat down on a folding seat by the door, putting my carry-on between my legs.

The train slowly accelerated, humming, rocking, back and forth melodically. I looked up out of curiosity to see who else was on the last train, and I saw her, sitting on the first bench catty-corner, facing towards me. Surprised and caught off guard, that I would ever see her again, I  immediately looked down, not wanting to be caught staring, looking at her from the corner of my eyes.

I couldn’t get over how beautiful she was. Preternaturally beautiful, as if she wasn’t one of us, somehow not human. She was reading a Kindle, iPods in her ears. Her dress was Parisienne, black on black, the only color, the blue in her eyes, and the blood red of her lips.

She oozed sensuality, sophistication, and confidence. How could that be for a woman so young, a woman in her early 20s?

She read quiescently, only her thumb moving, ever so slightly, as she page forward through her Kindle. Her eyes never looked up, not even to see who new entered the car, when stopped at new stations.

I would look up, occasionally, to glimpse at her. She was fascinating to me, not only because of her beauty, but from her vibe. I couldn’t explain it, couldn’t figure it out. Why was I so drawn to her, like a moth to flame?

The train pulled into to Ile-de-la-Cite, rapidly slowing down, passengers counter balancing so as not to fall over. The doors hissed open. In the corner of my eyes, I saw her stand up and start walking up the aisle towards the doors, towards me. I raised my head slowly, our eyes met, locked, time stopped. She smiled, subtly, but enough for me to see. Her eyes, gentle, tender, inviting. I smiled, a slight smile back, my eyes saying everything she wanted to hear.

She turned and exited the train. I stared at her, my mouth open in amazement. The klaxon sounded, the door started closing. Panic surged up within me, as I feared I would never see her again. I bolted up from my seat, headed towards the door, abandoning all behind me. The doors slammed shut with thud, I pulled down on the handle, they were locked.

The train started to move, I looked at her. She was looking back. Our eyes locked, as the trained sped off into the darkness of the night.
People plugged in everywhere
To ipods, games and phones
Like non-existent robots
The world is full of drones
We're now made up of circuit boards
We've lost all of our bones
Be different, and unplug yourself
Grow a pair of stones

Your life is electronic
on a tablet or a chip
You run your life remotely
you give people email lip
you wouldn't dare go jogging
you might fall and break a hip
Be different, and unplug yourself
And give technology the slip

A record made of vinyl
now it's just some bits and bytes
It's a relic in an antique store
Along with other sights
Like cameras using flashbulbs
when taking shots at night
Be different and unplug yourself
Show digital your might

It doesn't matter where you go
A text, you have to send
If you're going to the shopping mall
Or just walking 'round the bend
You've more holsters on your belt loop
Than gunfighters would depend
To hold onto their weapons
Before they met their end

Turn off the boxes, read a book
Do something that's old school
Don't follow all the others
Acting like a dumb pack mule
Don't rely on electronics
Just use it as a tool
Unplug yourself from everything
Be a leader not a fool

People plugged in everywhere
To ipods, games and phones
Like non-existent robots
The world is full of drones
We're now made up of circuit boards
We've lost all of our bones
Be different, and unplug yourself
Grow a pair of stones
Interestingly enough, a city filed with intoxicating dress, yes, I like the chucks and baggy pants, no I do not wear it myself, but I appreciate the look, with the Giants hat, let me write you a vignette, techies tools talking bout tacky office gossip and girls they will never ****, bahaha and iPods ipods iPods fueling a sweet melody for the ride in boxcar boxcar. Yas yad yas

People going to and from work , quieter, contemplative, examining their tax returns, the hat pulled down straight

people, ticking, tocking, the images of content, staring up with amusement, the people talk of beer, of business, in seriousness, the pamphlets, the trends, counters, crawlers, beggars, in solitude, all of them

have


lovers, insecurities, mal adaptations, taking the drug that says that the life is alright, and thats alright

the little town looks so real to them, they, use the crosswalk, they, stop at the red stop sign, they, don't make eye contact, because their purpose is

to purpose, their purpose is their power lunch, a power lunch, of a sandwich, what of a sanwhich?  and what does that have to do with the urban life?  

the power meal, designed with purpose, for purpose, in chairs that are made for rain, in intersections made for walking, in red lights made for stopping

and aliens must be amused, by the order, the roots must be...facinating
Hollywood sell-outs, bands change
it's only now a new ******* age.
Disney new ballet is ***** to
money, and ideals we knew
vanish with subtlty

Michael Bay puts
the spode into explosion
while the media ****
francises and more.

Horror remakes are they
such a good idea? Suddenly
Jason and Freddy no longer
bring fear. Robert Englund walks
with a stick, but Hollywood
this shtick no good.

Entertainment industry
thrive on naiveity while
we sink deeper into
simplicity. Education
stagnating as a whole
with cries of purity
and morals galore.

Blood and gore we crave
we want, so Roth and Saw
sold us hard, but questions
now number on the minds
as people question our
sanity.

Marvel the gods and
Heroes have forgotten the
way, they're now
in Disney sway.

People are dancing to
the new sensation,
it's lacks a plot,
it vilifies most and
fills with hesitation.
It's High School Musical.

'I want Edward Cullen'
girls now cry, 'He's like
so hot and sweet' Twilight
is the new blue.

The Boy wizard now grown
up he's out of Hogwarts with
friends in tow, pursuing new
careers and other goals.

Sony and Microsoft strive for the
crown while Nintendo say jump
we all ask 'How high?'

Guitar hero, play like a
star, with a couple of buttons
and combinations, you master
AC to the DC with Stones and more.

People yell Fail at Vista,
though eagerly await
Windows 7. Meanwhile
Apple as a company
considered arrogant,
with branches in every
market, ranging with
ipods and iphones, well
you know what they say,
an eye for eye leaves the
whole world blind.

Instant messages and cyber
chat, issue this proclaimation,
that letters are dead and no
longer cool. Conform and
drop archaic methods.

Facebook, Myspace, Bebo
and more, we push for
perfection with a social
site. While people Digg
and Stumble whatever
more.

DIAF we yell to haters,
flaming and trolling
youtube and sites.

Everything viral it's now said
the mistakes you make
could be shown a day later
on any video site.

Generation X move out
and baby boomers time
is up, we're the MTV Generation,
utter jerks, brought up by net,
we learn l33t by age 10 but
english, come again? LOL
and ****, we laugh and laugh
but really we sigh.

Canwehazsanity?
a cute kitty asks
Okay, let's see how this goes I wrote this round about in 2007 and a friend recommended I post it on here, this apparently was his favourite poem. I am unsure, but will give this a bash.
Jerry Joseph Dec 2012
Who on Earth were these people
From the past, who made sense
Of a world without iPods, iPads or plumbing?
What’s up with those towering minds of yesteryear?
From where did they come and how come?
Goethe standing so tall
Voltaire you tower!
And bend over Beethoven,
I can’t reach your low five.
What grant of Gods favor gave them sight?
Awesome mighty minds of the past.
Descartes, I think so you are,
So smart that I think I am not.
Galileo you saw heaven before I had eyes.
Einstein, Da Vinci, Archimedes
You and your kind will all live forever,
Men will stand upon your shoulders
And then die.
I love to read the writing of the great minds. It makes me feel so small, so inconsequential. I try to understand, I read more books that explain what I've read. Then it dawns on me. I am inconsequential. I'm OK with that. Thanks to the human genius of the past there's really never been a better time to live....
Universal Thrum Jan 2014
The walls close in slowly, as the light begins to fade

No more youthful smiles, the days only masked with grey

And yet the world keeps turning

People rushing on by

Filling their days with worry, 
a tear drop wets my eye.

Can you feel the hunger burning,
 your stomach turns to rot

As all are born must stop breathing, eventually an afterthought.
Can you see the light upon the hill for which we all aspire?

Tis the goal of justice, held in the arms of another.

Who is it that holds the key to swing open heaven’s gate
?
Can we obtain succor, to save us from this state?
Socrates says it is the philosopher king;

But even kings are mortal captains

And their love of knowledge
 cannot stop them from unjust folly

How does one find the answer to what is the moral law of God?

Does it uplift the personality, or curse it free from thought?

Better yet, what is your **** worth?

Would you lay down your life a martyr

to bury your brother beneath the dirt?
Left in a world so full of imperfection, we take refuge in the days advances

Television, computers, ipods, and Wiis, lose your self in trivial things.

This distraction gives those in power all that they can want,

For if good men cannot engage and stop the warring

There is nothing to halt man’s wayward plot.
Sin is separation; there is no us and them.

That is your ego and your thought deploring

A mind bereft of ken.

Open up your Eye young child, become the all-seeing Zen

Only then Justice will not matter,

For Justice will be in all of us again.
Emma Liang Aug 2010
Take my hand, friend
just for a sec-
let's leave this ****** land of
SATs, PSATs, APs,
and college admission essays and guidance counselors
and homework and pop quizzes and exams and whatever else-

                                          behind.

Let's be two again.

Let's make Pringle-chip-duck faces
and grin with orange peel smiles-
I'll paint my nails yellow and we'll read Dr. Seuss with British accents
in the dimming light of the old
falling-down fort of pillows and blankets (that's almost too small for us)

Let's pretend
              Let's pretend
                            Let's pretend

That we've never seen the glowing screen of
televisions, computers, IPods,
that we haven't spent weeks wearing down our thumbs on text messages.
              Let's forget fights over boys that weren't even all that hot.

Let's sit in my yard and eat raw cookie dough behind my momma's back
And make too-sweet fresh lemonade, and blow dandelions
(into other neighbor's yards, of course)
Spray garden hoses at each other
and laugh and scream and giggle and make mud-pies.
Let's make twenty different secret handshakes,
Eat wild raspberries and hide sticky fingers
And pinky promise- again and again- BFFs forever.

Let's lose ourselves in the bliss of childhood
just one more time- please.

                            Just in case Peter Pan decides to visit.
Comments and suggestions and criticisms all appreciated; thanks for reading! (:
Yates Nov 2013
There is too much noise
People shouting, car horns blaring, music blasting your ears, like it's the only thing that can save you from yourself.
if it could just get a little louder.
the voices in my head that won't shut up, telling me that I'm not good enough.

It's too loud.

We cling to our smartphones, our ipods and laptops
like they're the only things that can keep us alive,
but we forget the reasons we can live.

We drive past forests, oceans and rivers, never stopping to listen.
we don't know there's anything to listen to.

Waterfalls, wind in the trees whispering like the ghosts of years passed
birds singing, calling out to us to stop and listen,
pay attention to the world around us.

We can't hear the songs the birds are singing , the secrets the trees are whispering and we'll never hear the wolves in the night
It get's drowned out
*There is too much noise
Bryar Trent Feb 2011
Walking, always walking,
Puzzled youth being funneled like cattle,
Seek shelter from the sun,
Jeer and poke at each other,
All from the safety of their cell phones.

Constantly seeking that one undesired retention
Of jukebox explosion catapults.
Thrusting us deeper into the mind/brain paradox
What is this?
What are these strange mutterings in the dark?

Babysitting wasp nests by electro shock railroads,
Disgust in the face of the many.
Where is this golden eclipse we’re all waiting for?
How can I not see the spiders on my windowsill?
Are these anguished, infantile youth truly desired?

Aggravated Neanderthal men
Try to impress pulsating goddesses of Light,
All to no prevail.
Sickening feeling in the gut,
Why aren’t you here?
Well I suppose,
Things have changed.

The Empress of the tunnel
Seeks out the empire halls
Of the tunnel-bound angst,
Musicians in the hall strumming
There thoughtless musings,
While the the debutantes watch and listen.
The intensity is unbearable to them,
They must seek shelter in their ipods.

Milk, must have it.
Watching them creep through the cafe,
May they one day find what they’re seeking.
Where are they?
Sitting here by myself,
Look at them jeering at each other
In their own jargons.
Have they seeked out the pleasure of life?



Dream-like meditations,
Well-rounded views of life,
Happiness within.
Dumbly smile at each other,
Seeking closeness,
Mind/body consciousness
copyright 2010 Bryar Trent
A de Carvalho May 2012
I open the blinds and see the world - in return, what
does the world see? It sees me, and all my splendid, split
personalities, living these amazing times, of amazing
pleasures, in which we tweet tweets, and post posts re
ego-trips and copyrighted links, videos and things; and,
as stray dogs, we ramble randomly, and all the time,  
living in our infinite worlds, of infinite lanes, till infinity;
yet we suffer so much pain.

Our Shih Tzus take us on extended walks, firmly leashed
to our Koss plugs, as we drone cool tunes on multihued
iPods, iPhones buzzing ringtones of tittering babies,
stolid kings and hyperactive frogs, which would all make
my eighty-six year old dad want to gag; we fly
ultralight megaplanes at the sonic sound of speed,
through virtual and real space, connecting dots at low-
cost prices, while we belt-up, gear-up, gulp Gaga and
gorge heat-inducted meals of deer, horse and over-
promoted crap; and then, wow surprisingly, we are all
so unsatisfied.

We consciously all move-in together, and **** on end,
like statistical sheep, pre-married, unloving, and broken
up, and justify it all, to ourselves, with our fully
stretched spandex morality, over low-carb brunches
@Starbucks, two 14” screens of separation; we paint
pornographic images of virgins, all called Mary, in the
name of art, and, white-clad, **** babes and alter-boys,
and penetrate each other, first with our fingers, deeply,
then superficially, without even wondering, for a
zeptosecond, why we can’t stand one another any
longer.

We crank-up dependencies, like high street mainliners,
shamming and slaughtering for neurotoxic fixes of
smileys and Crystal on billion-dollar Kogo yachts, while
we all just pedal on, dispassionately, down and over
interior canals, to the core of our hocked, abbrev lives,
chronically connected and severely distracted, in
aromatic polymer bubbles, heedlessly cruising through
comic-strip farms of mock vegetables, surely to nowhere
and towards no one; and quite frankly, the world laughs
at all this, and sobs, and so do I.
People take turns inserting coins
attempting to grab plushy hearts and plastic capsules
the claws never were good at holding on for long
always went limp, dropping the trinkets, just before the finish line
only time it grabbed hold of something long enough
to flash all the lights and sing
was for children
who pointed a tiny hand
at something shiny they saw inside
parents step up to fail again and again
at winning it for them.
when the kids have a turn.
on the first try, they lasso this heart
resting firmly on the bottom
hidden beneath all the old ipods and heavy rubber toys.
would glow in the lights
when they lit all up and sang for them.
revered for their expertise and skill,
they reach in to claim their reward.
not even knowing what it really was.
but for some reason
grabbing it.
bringing it everywhere.
when the kids get older.
it was kept on their bed.
when they had their own children
handed down to toy chests
when they grew old, their children left the hearts
in hospital rooms...

they didn't think of it much.
seemed natural to lug it around.
everyone was so proud, that the machine chose them.
the prize was so soft, and familiar.

the machine, though.
could tell every day that it was missing.
held tightly onto the coins they left.
kept filling itself with junk and giving it to strangers
hoping one day they'd come back to play again.

a man comes by once in awhile to relieve him of his coin
then fills him full of new prizes to divvy out.
but the claw machine lodges some coins
far in the back, where his short arms can't reach
so he can remember
Sacrelicious May 2012
December 24th: Slow down,
breathe, and relax.
Save your problems
for tomorrow
and calm your racing heart
Today.
December 25th: We pave the walkways
into the hearts of others
with ipods and gaming systems.
It's sad.
December 26th: The anxiety is over.
December 27th: Everything and everyone is beautiful.
Bamboo Bean Sep 2013
what are you addicted to?
What you on?
Oxycoton?
Percoset?
Methadone?
Vicodin?
****?

Xanax
Diesel
Dope?

Krocodil?

or...
Just jack and ****

they tell me *** is dangerous...
I have nothing today
and so much things to say

Did your best friend get shot 72 times on
Thursday?

On the woodpile
or
In the passenger seat?
Wife take everything
And leave you
After 30 years?

You homeless now?
Or just broke-in.
Did Your wife die:
An intentional dose of an incidentally fatal
Dope?

Did you husband-
An engineer for Ford Motor company
Get burned alive?
black
Was it you
who
found the ashes?

Did they throw you in prison
For your depression?

You have addictions
And a little help
But no music-
Ipods
are not allowed here
and
You are grasping at existence but
existance
don't seem to know you
no-more

Your still breathing
Though
You haven't failed at existence itself
yet

Impulsive
destructive
What chemicals are they feeding you
In your cages?

T.T. has 17
medications but
she almost got killed last night
Because she's allergic
to aspirin.

Are they treating you with
Risperdal?
Or
Lamictal like me?
Is it helping-
or making it ten times worse?
making
any difference at all?

It's called practice and we are
the test-tube

Jon's heart has been in defib 8-times
twice due to accidental overdoses
by doctors

We can have too-many
anything.

I don't believe in accidents
though
no more.
seen-too many
felt-too much

You self-admitted and
at least your still breathing
this place is full of madness but here at 1-east
we're still dreaming.

pax 2013
written two weeks ago in OLAP psych hospital, I'm okay, though, just hypomainiacical! Literally, a functioning Maniac! How cool!
Stare away into a vacuum. There's always something entertaining happening in that
vacuum and it needs your undivided attention.
2. Master a blank expression especially when staring into the vacuum or directly at
anyone.
3. Never laugh or smile in social gatherings or ever.
4. Be a miser with your words, use one-word responses and add a few grunts and
guttural sounds to your vocabulary.
5. Believe every male is a ******.
6. Never show emotions, especially obvious ones like happiness, surprise, or sadness.
These may serve as conversation starters and you don't want that.
7. Don't necessarily avoid all eye contact. If the person is obviously determined to
make contact with your pupils, give it to them. Stare them down and continue to
stare. If they say something, don't respond just keep staring.
8. Crushing on someone? Don't even bother. They don't want you.
9. Fine, you can't help your crush, these eyes you must definitely avoid.
10. Use up all your tech gadgets, phones, iPods, even a **** calculator can help,
after all the measly remains of your bank account isn't going to check itself.
Anything with words u can pretend to read is also helpful, even your last grocery
receipt that you just randomly found in your purse.
11. "I don't know" is a very good answer for almost every question you're asked.
To make it seem less harsh (if you even care) you can substitute for "not sure"
12. Always pretend to listen, nods and grunts are helpful for this.
13. The less you move your body or your face the better, they're all watching you,
judging you, trying to study you remember that.
14. Paranoia is your friend.
15. Refuse all food or drinks. Do not let them see you eat.
So I think I am just writing for the sake of writing tonight, and with that being said let me just say this.

As this ship pitches slowly but surely and we make our steam for the prospect ahead, I am overcome with an anxiousness and desire to leave the ocean and begin my work. I had a dream of going to Haiti the other night. It was a disturbing site to see. Crumbled buildings covering broken bodies, covered in the tears and blood, casting fear of the unknown into those that were unfortunate enough to be left behind. An already broken, already poverty stricken country now sent further into depths of disparity. Children sit on cracked side walks eating mud cakes lacking all nutritional value, only to fill their empty bellies with dirt and mud. Mothers are still in search of their children and loved ones.
I see the pain in their eyes, yet I know that at this moment only my prayers go out to them. I desire to go, to bring peace, hope, and if not any of the above, maybe just rest to their restless wandering.

I need your help. I need you to desire a change. Not just in Haiti where the need is obvious, but in the Dominican, in Turkey, in Cambodia, in Mozambique. I need you to see that they need you. If you yourself are unwilling, or unable to go; if you yourself are not willing or not able to get on that plane, that boat, that horse, that bus, or whatever it takes, and go be with them physically, emotionally, and spiritually, then I need you to support this cause. We are a blessed nation, a blessed people and we take so much for granted. We have a choice of not just what we will eat, but where "want" to eat. We have the choice to buy our Ipods, our movies, our magazines, our make-ups, and our clothes. These people don't. They don't know what they will eat. They don't even know that they will eat. Their clothes are torn and in shambles. They might not even have a single pair of shoes to protect their feet, yet I know that some of us have more shoes than we know what to do with.
I need you to recognize that there are people in countries like china that will work 18 hours a day in order to make your clothing, your shoes, your toys, and at the end of that day not even be able to afford what they have just made for you with their tired hands.
Do you recognize the cost of our lifestyle?
Will you help me bring something back to those hands? Will you help bring a small light into their world? Will you choose to love someone you have never met? Will you choose to care?
Because I do. I choose to walk with love for people in this world. I choose to care about the people that I have never met, and I am ready to go and give back to the world that has given so much to me. I want to be part of the revolution in this world, and I will do it in the name of the Lord Jesus. I will walk by faith, with hope in my heart and a promise on my lips. I will feed those that I can, clothe the naked, and care for the sick. I need you to want to as well. And if you do, then you can help this race against time. Support me on this mission. I need your prayers, I need your gifts, I need you.
Will you choose to help this world?
Support me on the World Race at

WilliamDiefenbach.TheWorldRace.org

~William Diefenbach
Contact me @ WeDiefenbach@gmail.com
Golden Ratio Jun 2010
My head swells,
with the words of wisdom,
implanted into my Cerebral Cortex.

Security Level:
Administrator.

The signal:
Never interrupted.

My hair;

my face;

my clothes.

My principal behaviour,
controlled.

My…

Volition;

Desire;

selection…

foretold,

by the scriptures of the box,
and the writings on the wall.

Ipods;

ipads;

mobile phones.

I need a new three piece suite,

so I’ve been told.

My head continues to swell,
to a monumental size,
and I feel my feet lift from the earth,

gently,

so gently…

lifting me to the skies.

As I float with acquiescence  surrender,
over the roof tops of consumption,
I gaze at all the shadows;
their cadaverous minds.

Poor souls.

I continue on my journey;

my pilgrimage of enlightenment;

my odyssey of comprehension;

my voyage of realization.


Many miles pass,
and my head declines in size.
I start to lose altitude;
and I debark...

safe,
but with cleansed mind.

The view is humbling,
and as I look down,
I behold a flower.

I sit beside it.

I admire it.

A true example,

of Design.
DJ Goodwin Jun 2012
Air congeals
with a baby's cry.

Spray paint proclaims
that you don’t
****
with HCB,
*****.

Darting eyes of venom
warn against complacency
as iPods beat
hard-house hits
and lyrical dreams
of somewhere else.

Masses lurch forward,
brakes screech with agony,
waiting for oblivion
or 5:17pm express
as city succumbs to night.
copyright 2012, David J. Goodwin
Jun 16, 2012
Mitchell May 2012
The knife sharpens itself
By a naked hand
Gripped by the thoughts of home
And happenings
Of Matthew's killings

Since in the own self
Accountings are remembered
Politely thinking that
Everything you've seen so far
Is a game

There is nothing
That is not your own
And Oh My God
There is once a place
That you know now
There is something you are up against
Yet you don't know what it is

Marching roves
Of men with the geeks and their money
Sweat trickles from the
Leather books of their
Leather shredded souls of the ******
And here the stone piles lay
The guts of a revolution
Paid off with nothing
But the blood of the brain washed equipped

So
The swearing of news
Of lands split apart by differences
Arms themselves with theories
Ways of living
Separation of man to man

And business
Is as loud
And as quick
As the shot
From a gun barrel

We are lead by
Monsters
So in turn
We are only minions
Of Monsters

Preceding in a
Discovery
Of an old enemy that
Swears that blood
Would never be
Thicker then their hate

The blasts
Begin
As the age of man
Is dressed
In fresh spilt
Sin

And there is the check of the
Young solider at his stone hedge fund
We wheeze for the riches
Of the looks of the great scholars
And lepers of the lost celebrities
Going through all
Of the way things are and the way
Things will be and the present step
We all seem to be obsessed with taking

Walk to the gates of the pearly gates
Sounds of bullets and scream to be heard
Our name, our humaneness, dampens
As we flatten on the torn apart dusty stone
Caught with one eye on the ground, their
Ears bent to hear any kind of sound

Excuses let not alone in warmth an hot bullet
Where former life lived now shows but death
We men, hot in our hurry to correct one another
Excuses everything where we should excuse nothing
And in blood He bathes in bullet casings
A former shell of the man after heathen he hath killed

Though pressed on silken angels wings where
We seek refuge for forgiveness after pleasure
Released' are we when the light is shone upon us
Each word to be released is to be sent to heaven
Our brothers, nodding to the likeliness of our worth
Sees their eyes within the pupils of us, our own brothers

Thunder where the proud is not equal
We marked nothing that could not be fought
Good or bad was not the answer we sought
For we only sought justice in the eyes of good men
We know not how to do too little or too much
We only turn our eyes to the home of our good selves

To the hawk the family runs away from its own mother
She tidies as bullets **** by in their boys imagination
To spread your wisdom is to also spread your disease
Seek the seed of of your turmoil, see you spread your knowledge
To the youth you produced you wished could be free of your curse
The night touches the lips of the innocent as the moon eclipses
Temporal breaths form on the authorities that swear their allegiance

Where time cries we see the shallow man weep their **** of time
The hallways echo with their cries of selfish uselessness
Preciousness shows light on His eye whose end is inevitable
The clapping senate, in their circle, their suits, their wives with sherry
Make no conversation to the people for their wounds are too deep
The people - with their lack of voices - show their mouths with no sound
As the greying suits like the bones within the earth clap to their own accomplishments
The laughs, those haunting laughs, are heard faintly over the lapping of forgotten blood

What must we say of custom but that it is boring
We make the throne to it as we see the revolutionaries toss stones at it
They who hold their essence, their truth to it
Sacrifice their children - later in vain - for the cause of it
Dear custom, you are the one who holds the red hot chain of control
Not the Devil or God or Tyrant or Executioner or Law Men
Ney! We must see that custom is the crutch of all Men
Unwilling to step foot on grounds which they know nothing of
Here - on these mysterious grounds - lays a life better than the last
Here lays a life not afraid of time or change of the ill effects of history
Here stands Ahab and his ship sailing for the mighty ****

In place our God's shed only their light on the one's that resemble themselves
Picked out to present the gift they have been sharing for eternity
The lights shine bright on the eye's of the one's of the camera
Lo' the mud is still ***** lined with a sickness that tries not to be forgotten
We wheeze for we are human yet the God's provide no cure
We die only to be tossed back into their pool of games
They who plays by the rules is imprisoned in a losing game
Rules, a shackle and chain, all presented by the creator of the frame

Prepare for the soft spoken telling of the charging of the army
Our men, sword to sword, relishes their hate in the blade
How deep can a man hate when they **** every innocent soul around them?
We pass through sheds of shifting christian childish light that cries
Time pleases of the Shakespearian wears that hold a truth who shouts "Not now, not now!"
Soothing ourselves with the honored number of the royalty that swears
To be mixed with the minnows of the common man to be a unholy injustice
Man turns to God and man turns man into the dirt with which they march on

And in the breath of a love of mankind
An innocence whose mess could bring you tears
And a thankfulness that only bears the strength to show Her fear
We are made of the same blood, the same muscle, the same skin
Yet we fight to the death just to see who will turn up on top and win
Can the hill of our ego's ever be conquered?
Where is our peaceful hill that many wish to live and wander?
Bloodshed is apart of mankind
But there is another side
One that is washed in the ***** pebbles of a forgotten city
And the waves of a mysterious endless ocean
There we will find our answer but I'm going back to
A place I've never been before
Where the piano player plays whatever He wishes
And the midnight wind grants me
A couple of moonlit kisses

Oh the politics of theatre
No, my mistake!
The theatre of politics!
We ask to say this when the cue lands
And the mass of man claps or
Boo's, swearing that with either
There is nothing to lose
We are the mob of the Roman empire
With ipads, ipods, the internet and smart phones
Technology tells us who we think we are
Yet
We are still the stinking rats in the stands
Gnawing on the priced bronze haunches of pig
Chewing dirt with flesh and flesh with dirt
Imaginations as wide as the forehand can stretch
Thinking that a glass based GPS system sets us apart
(They did it with paper and parchment)
Spiraling towards a repetitious existence

I wish not to be human
Yet
I am cursed
To be so

To be apart of
What I will be
Forever

Forces me

To favor the good
Within myself

Within
All of us
Nora Agha May 2012
Wide eyed
frightened
mommy holds your hand.
Not in public, mom!
Not in public!

Wide eyed
overwhelmed
tears battle to the surface.
Not in public, tears!
Not in public!

Wide eyed
excited
home for the next four years.
Are you ready?
Am I ready?

Mom’s gonna cry
Daddy’s yelling instructions.
You can’t read the map.
How will you manage?
How will I manage?

Students walk by
skinny jeans and sneakers
iPods on blast.
They’re so cool.
They’re so intimidating.

In and out of libraries
piles of books in their arms
they’re smiling
they’re laughing
you feel like crying.
I feel like crying.

You want to be here
it’s all you’ve ever planned for
Will you ever fit in?
Don’t cry
I won’t if you don’t

Mom and dad follow you.
You want them to leave
so you can be alone.
You don’t want them to go.
You don’t really want them to go.

Your little brother
looks up at you
looks up to you
give him a hug.
You need a hug.

Walk past me
I’m in skinny jeans and sneakers
iPod on blast
I’m so intimidating
You’re so intimidating.

Mommy holds your hand
daddy’s yelling instructions
your little brother looks up at you
Will you ever fit in?
I’m so intimidating.
Don’t cry
I won’t if you don’t.
Precious Nov 2013
A walk down the hall, all I feel is change.
Out of all the years, this one won't be the same.
New principal, more freshmen, a new set of rules.
My teachers wonder why it's like I'm never in school.

In 9th grade we had freedom, freedom of speech.
I said what I meant; I always mean what I speak.
If I felt like "forget the world," that came out of my mouth.
In 12th grade, they took all of that freedom out.

If you dropped the "F-bomb", ISS.
They put you in a white room where you can't pass a test.
Then they wonder why grades are so low.
There's no hope in the future, students seem slow.

Don't question authority, that's disrespect.
Here's a little Ritalin to keep your kids in check.
I can't let my teachers know they don't teach me a thing.
They think we'll all be flipping burgers and frying onion rings.

"Why put in any effort if they don't listen?
They have iPods and cell phones, they don’t pay attention!"
Excuse me Ms., some of us do truly want to be taught.
Why are you dismissing all the rights that, with lives, we fought?

See, you're sealing all our fates with your apathy.
Then you look at us and in the distance you see anarchy.
Oh well, another day filled with ringing bells.
Learning more stuff I can't say to my teachers.
This is Hell.
Mateuš Conrad Oct 2016
so i have this book my Steφan, and here the
unpredictability: Steven?            even elevens?
                       Stephen
Steven          Stephan? no matter, the joke
comes with the diacritics         in the surname...
      they wrote /ˈʊmlaʊt/
when the diacritical marks weren't investigated:
  is that Körner as in ariθmetic
     Koorner?
       or is the poncy
    Kœrner - which is
softer and therefore almost Kerner?
the book? fundamental questions
of philosophy
-
hence the dialectical applicability
of diacritics: archeology in vivo:
oh no glass chandeliers darling:
            butchery rather than anatomy:
chop
        chop
                chop
                 ­         (oh looky looky, Jacob's ladder).
y = id est.
                  w? haven't figured it out,
looks like trigonometry to me,
all that sine and cosine jazz.
         you know that mystery of lawlessness?
English, plain and simple,
the English language: good that we had the Scandinavians
and the Dutch learn it better than the natives,
mind you, also the Belgians,
they speak a foreign tongue better than
the ****** natives:
the natives? they speak some urban slang
profanity: diabolical verse;
                                        putrid ****:
sulphuring smoke, astounding.
              reverse dead Latin / living -
was that comma necessary?
  or should i have written astounding sulphuring
smoke?
             or Sartre: existence (quantity)
     precedes essence (quality) -
         qua qua either way, a mode of being,
   duck here, duck there.
          oh me, right? *******, maddened,
i was hanging in the trenches and had a drink:
now i'm really mad, bursting like a tense
   soap bubble: (a bit of nostalgia to cool the nerves)
i come from a generation that listened to
mortiis - and we actually bought the silverware
(c.d.) rather than the liquorice (vinyl),
               and we were the ones that translated hardware
into software (mp3) -
         but as a thoughtful suggestion:
scratched c.ds,
                   right, you have a c.d. and you try
to encode it into mp3... right...
    why is it that scratched compact disks can completely
**** up an iPod? i.e. why can't iPods encode
scratched compact disks?

            cheaper mp3 players can do it,
no problem, you have a scratched c.d.
and translate it into mp3: boom, the whole iPod
shuts down... try a cheaper mp3 player
and the whole thing still works...
          well, it's just a curiosity...
the bigger ones comes from:
i'm probably one of the last dinosaurs to have
actually bought a ******* magazine
from a newsagent,
     the glamour model type,
nothing **** included,
               and feel the agonising shame of
predicating a ******* session -
                  bony **** of the hand -
            looking for soft pouch kangaroos and all,
but how many people these days buy this ****?
       in Belgium i bought one and the woman
was so not condescending that i thought i was buying
penny sweets...
                      there's this culture of ****** shaming
in England that surprasses me in engaging
in relationships, i don't know what these slags
are on, but it's certainly not tango in stilettos
on cobblestones.
                    of course i'm mad,
i tried to rebel against Christianity and got
****** into practising it, i actually forgave my
enemy, a jealous **** who almost killed me,
       and as Nietzsche said: a Christian is a
sick domesticated animal -
              i could have been still rooted to the longship
roofs while roofing, or metrosexual lumberjack
     in an office, concerning paper rather than
blocks of wood.
     but good to know that all of Europe is known
as the bloc, rather than the eastern fringes,
god i love English arrogance, which = ignorance,
now wave bye bye to the Galactic Empire:
******* engraved Latin without barbaric diacritical
marks and had a shot at world *******...
  **** me! even the Greeks are applying refinement,
no wonder the digital sprechen dragged
English into the dark ages if not the caveman
        chant Darwinism! chant Darwinism! hoot, hoot hoot!
rarely do i desecrate books,
                 but i had to write on something,
i have a copy, of Kant's critique,
and in it my macabre Dionysian zenith fury
statement:
                       power is never a cul de sac,
                         for a king to don a crown,
                         a peasant must pocket a penny,
                         if a peasant doesn't pocket
                         a penny, a king doesn't don
                         a crown
      (note, colon and italics
translate as bold inscript, double emphasis) -
this isn't cryptic, it's ****** obvious,
       it goes way back in suggesting
we're either smart or naive -
           or playing the adult version of hide & seek
                                    doubt & negation interplay,
so when Charlie Chuckles the Third comes to
power i'll be thinking of Charles the First:
as i told one homeless woman i sat down with
for a cigarette under a bridge and told her
of the Henry VIII likening in terms of the
decapitated wives...
                                    she got up and ran screaming
down the street. true story.
                 only in America a humming sensation
and a deliberate ploy to create a monarchy...
              call it what you like:
you appease the illiteracy of people with only
one book, and have people speak about it
without pontiff or priestly attire: you're bound
to breed a viral infection desiring a king.
         is this the second Elisabeth-ian age? might be,
well, it's nearing an end, anyway...
                        still, English is a lawless language
that transcends all tact of French flawlessness -
                  those nasal harking buggers know all too
well the covert aesthetic they write
      and the counter they speak -
                  leave the exactness of spoken and written
to the Poles, and spaghetti chemistry to the German
excess of compounds hydrocarbon etc.,
                    di-proxy-blah-blah in hyphen-centric
Essex.
            well, because if we can't have proper discussions
about our beliefs, we might are well apply
diacritical investigation into diacritical markings,
  or how long you hold your breath between
.                ,                     ;              -              
                  because that's what i'm suggesting:
invariably this suggestion is pulverising -
                             or how that famous category
of universals (metric)
                          is usurped by particulars (imperial) -
within the bracketed suggestion: units,
                   Francophile centimetre
      Darth Vader inch....
                                                Charles de Gaulle kilometre
                              a Heathrow mile.
if this was a chemistry experiment, which it is,
               i'd suddenly realise it's over,
                                                      and it is
because i feel a sudden rush of radiant cooling down
     from what charged this outburst in the first place.
When I was little.
When I was little.
WHEN I was little.
When did that "I am" become a "When I".
I've lived my whole life,
I've never stopped,
I went straight from one to two,
two to three,
three to four,
no pause,
no breaks,
straight on through to the tender age of 19.
I went from
barbie dolls to polly pockets,
bratz dolls to bicycles,
ipods to computers,
computers to cars,
cars to cigarettes,
cigarettes to alcohol.
When did it happen?
When did the little girl become,
a teenager,
a teenager struggling with herself,
with her life,
trying to decide how she wants to spend the rest of it.
I want to go back to first grade,
sitting up in my bunk bed crying because I couldn't read yet,
to classroom parties,
recess,
staying up late the night before 5th grade practicing my long division because I was afraid of my new teacher.
I don't stay up late worrying about my long division anymore.
I stay up late worrying about the state our world is in.
Scared to death that I'm going to give in to society.
I can't bear the thought that the little girl I see in all of my old pictures,
with all the hope in her eyes,
grows into a tired adult,
faking a smile because she forgot how not to.
Going through the same routine.
If I could go back to a younger me,
I would give her ear plugs.
So she wouldn't be able to hear the boy in her class tell everyone Santa Clause isn't real.
So she could block out the insults thrown her way because being 90 pounds in 4th grade was WAY to fat.
So she could muffle out the reality,
and live in her own world for awhile.
I'm living this life not entirely proud of who I am,
or the choices I make,
but I want to make sure of one thing.
If I ever run into my younger self one day in another reality,
I want to make sure I've made her proud.
Because being a kid is hard,
but so is being an adult.
Life is difficult,
and the truth is harsh.
Because when one turns into two,
two turns into 19,
19 turns into 45,
45 turns into 70,
and 70 turns into a headstone.
And at that point,
we've got to hope we did it right.
ajit peter Mar 2014
Remember the times when you heard a rupee could go far
now it goes as far as the gasoline u fill the car
those were the days when kids thought the stork bought babies home
now they know even test tubes make them come
those were days when love letters were sealed with the kiss
now the phone gets the kiss and the lips miss
those were the days friends had fun and talked sitting on a wall
now all they talk is a short note on a facebook wall
those were the days we wait for a song with a radio
now the ipods shuffle the songs
those were the days we paid for one and watched all the channels
now we pay for that we dont watch and watch the free channel
times change and change those days
yet those were the days
those where the days
I can't even believe this life I'm iPods
Poemsand stupid phone
Holy freaking hell
And heav'n
Not abbreviated any more
Thank you honey
My teacher
Poems titled pebblebamBamtripsheavinesslightnessforcecjoicepowerjoysolitarycou­pleflowknowledgeworLdandorword love
Together
Or no
No matter
Yet
Stay tuned apparently
:D
Shiv? Really? Yes likening and awakening and warming
This is weird I'm not likely to forget this feeling either you're imprinted on me
Why couldn't I see? I simply did not know and I'm so sorry I know what it would take now I think
Mateuš Conrad Mar 2017
like... flappy flappy pigeon imitate penguin go shoeshine your ***? like that? i don't even know whether pigeons find penguins to be more pathetic, or whether penguins find pigeons more pathetic... so one has the sky, the other the ocean... it's hardly an argument for either to be staged with a mediator; let alone a matador.

pokraka... (singular),
pokraki* (plural)...
             don't know, i'm not exactly
baby-faced pristine...
         but i don't even know where
that word comes from,
perhaps the riddle of the crow and
the writing desk... why is it that
the crow is writing desk?
          the crow stoops on earth hunched?
almost hunchback?
       maybe that?
     don't know, these fellas are doing
my slating (roof) and i'm autistic imitating
cat tactics of hidig, because i like the drunk
that i am to be hidden, and only seen
in between walls that can hear...
   or apparently but not really so...
    metaphysical question...
why is it that when you encode scratched compact
discs into mp3 form on an iPod
the product breaks? too much l.s.d.?
                 i swear to god, but you trasnslaste
a compact disk into software (it is hardware,
however you think about it; with no alternatives)
         it can **** up the hardware...
                 you have a scratched c.d.,
you translate it into a software package to your
computer, then your translate the "malware",
o.k. a scratched c.d. is literally malware,
                 on the topic of iPods...
                you can **** up your iPod if you include
scratched c.d. material... like itchy-itchy vinyl guys
doing hip-hop...
        but i have this sansa mp3 player,
and i have scratched c.d. on it, and it keeps working...
but the iPod i once owned? broken...
or should i say "broken"?
     no, literally broken...
          i picture prefect a cat's face and then
disappear when the builders arrive...
most of the time i'm a person that doesn't require
the chance exposure of my own face...
    here's to looking at brick walls, and clouds,
and drainage depots on the pave...
      to be writing poetry will eventually drive
your sorry *** into the ground and tell you:
why couldn't you become a crane-driver?
          as a fraction of a billion exemplum similis?
i don't know;
               why did you get plastic surgery?
i know... similis exemplar... that's a variant on the whole
topic.
                 why marvin gaye and the creedence clearwater
revival cover?
           i apparently don't know any latin,
and i find that stating this fact: i'm no big fan of
some grammar school rubric of "correct": toward
the status of ontologically proof riddled,
   correct.
                      *****'s here, coca is here,
sunshine (ugh) is here...
                            what else could you want?
only the etymological disinterest of the word pokraka,
derivative? krók (crow)...
         given the prefix po- (after) -
            well... imitating crow, or after the crow...
                           unto the priest... after all: crows are
symbolic of the priestly-caste in europe...
      also the opposite of onomatopoeic strain toward exactnes:
kra kra... what the crow breathes...
hardly a kraken, but almost... thus po- + -krók:
     i.e. after the crow... inherently so.
Mateuš Conrad Jul 2018
photo-sensitivity of touch devices
(notably a samsung tablet)
translated via a differential
                             content encoding...

i.e. expose a touch-screen to
excessive heat,
   via, such as this godforsaken
intake of sunlight in
england...

   and all the verbal / commentary
videos?
          start jittering,
                           breaking-up...
not exactly punk:
  as in - scratched transmission,
but cyber-             "funk"...

music videos?
     clear transmission,
       no "vinyl scratching" interludes,
no instance of a rough
coughing edit...

mind you...
   did you know that if you encode
a scratched CD into mp4 format,
and load it into an iPod
the iPod translates a hardware
fault?
        yeah... the ****** thing
breaks down!
            starts getting the "jitters"...
as if an auto-censor stuttering...

do the same with an mp3 device...
no problem...
    
   it's that sort of observation akin
to playing the Sims,
  and using the VR puppet to
play the computer...
           while you're playing the computer:

that's how i got out of the game...
wormhole weirdness...

but a scratched CD translated into
a mp4 device will break -
   mind-boggling!

           just like apple computers are
immune to trojan viruses (etc.) -
    iPods didn't seem to have the same
immunity when you followed protocol
of copyright,
i.e. buy a CD, and translating it into
the mp4 format...

    reiteration:
         a scratched CD encoded into mp4
will break the device...

in mp3 you can actually hear
the scratch-jump across a music track...
but the device continues
to function...

same with touch-sensitive devices...
expose it to too much sunlight
and all pure-verbum (talking)
videos begin to unfold
                                  as is DJ sensitive -
scratched, jittering...

            but a music video?
plays out without a single "paradoxical"
indentation.

oh hell, apple ios great...
   but no one really gave an example how
faulty hardware (scratched CD) translates
into a faulty device (a "stuttering" iPod)...
which is basically a generic
standard computer virus -
         default software a priori:
         an "original sin":
      the "no man's land" of thesis and
antithesis -
                   the parenthesis -
   perhaps even the supreme (sic) example...

but it's "out there": this mp4 format
of translating hardware...
                      the software inherently
copies one fault (scratched CD)
                        into another (****** up iPod).

to be honest, i was only going to write
the following, entitled (ode to my ex):

       every *******
i've ever met
          was 100 times
more responsible
about
    getting pregnant;
i've imagined
prisons with less
shackles
   and far better
                    excuses
to: "settle down" with a man;

i'm no more a monkey
than she is a mantis.
LDuler Apr 2013
Goodbye New York City
Goodbye carefree easy days.
The airplane chews the gray sky
The kids whisper, taptap on little computers
Or ipods and touch screens.
Nothing here is Love
Nothing here is glorious,
long and true
But there is peace
And there is no cursing, threatening or grievances
(they have been forgotten)
I am comfortable,
There is music
So all is well
Until we land on cold hard earth
Breathing Ice Nov 2010
you say you care but
what if you
                                                         Don't.

Notice how
people who use the shuffle
option on their iPods 
keep on pressing
                                                          'Next'.

Your coffee always has way 
too much sugar in it and you
think too much
and somehow you scare  
                                                            Me
Magdalyn Oct 2013
Sitting on the oddly sweet-smelling seat
anxiously ******* my oily bangs
song lyrics playing in and out of my mind.
Out the window I see soft brown grasses
and signs for auto shops
and leaves blowing around.
Around me is the hum of younger kids talking about ipods and soccer games
humming half-songs by overrated boy bands and forgotten summer camps.
Drawing is no use, even if you find a pencil it will surely break
wobbling off the page as cracks and portholes pass underfoot.
And I never have any books to read.
So I observe inside and out of the bus,
The only one to see a lonesome deer by the side of the road
or stolen looks by kindergartners.
As graffiti and weeds zoom by outside the smeared glass
we creak and grumble to a stop.
I dig around for the non-existent bus card
and get off my imagination vessel, the school bus.
Jonny Angel May 2015
It was a time of innovation,
a period of fresh discovery
for us infantrymen.
Close quarter combat
was never fought like that,
M4's, NVG's and IPods,
with lot's of grenades.
Technological
advancements
so explosive,
beyond any
of our wildest dreams.
And yet,
and yet,
the deliveries
were still the same,
hand-to-hand,
we fought,
pulling pins,
listening
to the sound
of automatic bullets
whizzing overhead
& Ozzie,
some Metallica,
all season long.
Some things never change,
like war and death.

— The End —