"keyboards" poems
My dearest love,
If I were to explain the music in my ears,
It’d be an algorithm of lovely ardor,
Fervent beats and emotional rhythms,
Pursue a possibly tangible idea,
Shining lights and keyboards,
Coffee colored electric energy,
Pulsing in amber jelly motion,
A metaphorical knife is ****** into the solar plexus,
Stimulating the tear sacs,
Which then open and shed a bassline,
Which repeats in nonexistent space,
Maybe…
Just maybe…
It stretches into eternity.
Oct 15, 2014
Oct 15, 2014 at 6:59 PM UTC
Beyond your television
Lies vast hills,
along with many jumps and much thrill
Mario jumps
Zelda swings
As Kirby swallows
Donkey kong beats,
Star fox flies ever so high
While niko goes bowling
Roman started to cry
Meta knight stares ominously
As a goomba cautiously walks
A turtle shell turns blue
While the Mario kart racers get mad too....
We all know sleeping dogs don't lie
We joined a guild during an MMO war
Where we smashed every single one of our keyboards
Oct 28, 2015
Oct 28, 2015 at 11:06 AM UTC
This is my only and first ever poem
that I did scribe upon my phone.
A pal of mine does it, does it with ease.
She makes it look easy, just like a breeze.
But it's harder for me, with my thumbs of ham.
I prefer full-sized keyboards, as that's who I am.
Typing and retyping and then wrestling the spellchecker.
If I tried this while in my car, I would surely need a wrecker!
Squinting, so that I don't have to strain my eyes.
To say that I'm enjoying this, would be nothing less than lies.
Well there you have it, I'm finally done.
I'm gonna pass on this foolishness ... and let her have all the fun.
Feb 28, 2018
Feb 28, 2018 at 10:30 AM UTC
[PART ONE]
xeroxed, RT'd and plagiarized
so many times on so many blogs
tween blogs to republican blogs
to blogs in Russia and
blogs no one ever scrolls though...
original content is prey
but I have a warning for they:
overrated, over-shared
content aggregators beware
the lines you swap can
rot and ware
the World Wide Web
does not care.
[PART TWO]
original content
original contests
original continent
original controversy
original coordination between strangers
original calvary riding their connection into the battlefield of internet memes; creating nothing and sharing everything
[COMMENTARY]
original nothing, nowhere, nobody except facebook "Funny Vidoes!" & "Cool Quotes!". 'Like' pages whose sole originality lies within their own existence but nothing they share. They steal from the rest of the web and re-post what they find for out-of-the-loop troglodytes; often done so in inferior context and with no perspective. The 'refried beans' phenomenon, I call it. I find it fitting because 'refried beans' are a double misnomer. The name comes from 'frijoles refritos' - which means 'well-fried' not 'refried'. They are also never traditionally fried more than once. Yet the name sticks, it gets repeated, it gets re-shared and now that's what they are: refried beans. This phenomenon is why I believe art and all original content eventually become so over-shared and overrated that it's no longer interesting but irritating. These three parts of the poem "Original Content" are separated in abstract authorial presentation. The author has clearly expressed his dislike for the disjunct un-imagination of the internet and presents it as such.
[PART THREE]
original authors losing control of their audiences who believe they are the creators and the artist's art is somewhat shareable
original miscommunication between web 1.0 and web 2.0 reality
original alphabet they use to type on their keyboards
original grammar they learned in school
original money their gov't printed
original content they re-post
original refried beans
original content
orginal contet
ogrinal cotent
ognal ctt
oc
.
Mar 9, 2014
Mar 9, 2014 at 10:01 PM UTC
its cold here
my heavy eyes droop
the teacher drones on
I blow my nose, so that I can breathe
in, out, in sneeze out in, out, in, out, sneeze
I'm at the back of the room
isolated
java 2, the elite
sitting alone in a java 1 class, so I don't have to pay attention
Mrs. is teaching stuff I already learned
She hands me packets to work on, on my own
the trees look so green, I love the spring
may, almost, summer
summer coming soon, not soon enough
tap tap tap tap the keyboards click click click
ugh my nose is so congested
my eyes are so heavy
sleeeeeep I just need sleep
I have to packets I need to work on, but I can't focus.
can't focus, can't breathe
my hands are tired from typing
I'm too tired to focus on reading
so what to do, what to do.
I'm wasting time, but who actually cares
I'll get the work done, just not today
summer come sooner, I need some warmth
warmth, my bed is so warm
this classroom is cold
i'm cold
bed, bed, sleep warmth
how will I ever get through this day?
May 7, 2014
May 7, 2014 at 9:37 AM UTC
The falling stars in this ironic night
make majesties
out of those cubicle-ridden New Yorkers'
routine Tuesday night daydreams,
where they make macabre escape routes
out of every perfectly-placed window
piercing the concrete sentences
that escalate from Ground Zero.
Your law offices,
corporate ******* headquarters,
are all bursting at the seams
with these drones,
the falling stars of the human race,
all composed of 14 different shades
of grayscale;
could've been
should've been
could've been shootin' stars
that year they were promised
lives of upper middle class incomes
and Lexus dealerships
bought to dent their status
on the neighborhood,
but that sparkle's been emaciated
by the truth,
the underwhelming spectacle of realization
accentuated by the clicking
and the clacking of company keyboards,
each little click
gnawing more at their patience
than the next;
the faceless brush strokes
gawk through that window,
their plans less hypothetical
over the calendar years.
"I can hear it calling me
from miles away,"
says Copy #90045280,
"see, they
SPEAK
to me, man,
tell me to transcend
the hurdle of the windowsill
and make my rendezvous
with an asphalt avenue,
to join the other casualties
of this rut-infested nation
in a life with the real stars,
falling and shooting
and jettisoning alike,
throbbing lights through dark sky silk
and into the hearts of even the most
robotic of this catalog culture,
and I frightfully,
excitedly,
must listen."
Apr 29, 2010
Apr 29, 2010 at 10:53 AM UTC
Fiery light from a dying star
Cools against your mocha thigh.
Desire formed like fingers
Rustles your hair’s dark light.
Body to body and breath to breath,
We are here and nowhere else.
Unposted selves,
Love without likes,
Hands without keyboards,
Voices in air,
The absence of absence.
Aug 8, 2021
Aug 8, 2021 at 12:48 PM UTC
[PART ONE]
xeroxed, RT'd and plagiarized
so many times on so many blogs
tween blogs to republican blogs
to blogs in Russia and
blogs no one ever scrolls though...
original content is prey
but I have a warning for they:
overrated, over-shared
content aggregators beware
the lines you swap can
rot and ware
the World Wide Web
does not care.
[PART TWO]
original content
original contests
original continent
original controversy
original coordination between strangers
original calvary riding their connection into the battlefield of internet memes; creating nothing and sharing everything
[COMMENTARY]
original nothing, nowhere, nobody except facebook "Funny Vidoes!" & "Cool Quotes!". 'Like' pages whose sole originality lies within their own existence but nothing they share. They steal from the rest of the web and re-post what they find for out-of-the-loop troglodytes; often done so in inferior context and with no perspective. The 'refried beans' phenomenon, I call it. I find it fitting because 'refried beans' are a double misnomer. The name comes from 'frijoles refritos' - which means 'well-fried' not 'refried'. They are also never traditionally fried more than once. Yet the name sticks, it gets repeated, it gets re-shared and now that's what they are: refried beans. This phenomenon is why I believe art and all original content eventually become so over-shared and overrated that it's no longer interesting but irritating. These three parts of the poem "Original Content" are separated in abstract authorial presentation. The author has clearly expressed his dislike for the disjunct un-imagination of the internet and presents it as such.
[PART THREE]
original authors losing control of their audiences who believe they are the creators and the artist's art is somewhat shareable
original miscommunication between web 1.0 and web 2.0 reality
original alphabet they use to type on their keyboards
original grammar they learned in school
original money their gov't printed
original content they re-post
original refried beans
original content
orginal contet
ogrinal cotent
ognal ctt
oc
.
Apr 7, 2015
Apr 7, 2015 at 12:42 PM UTC
we both work in the postal service
but neither one of us
has ever sent a single love letter
maybe it's the drill of the job
maybe its the grind of the machines
or the clack of the keyboards
grind turns to a drone
and i look around to what we thought
were industrialized patents
were actually what we had once considered our friends
was that where they disappeared to?
instead of quitting the dead end
i had assumed too fearful to follow the leap
they hid away in mail bins and P.O. boxes
i thought i was alone
maybe i was
maybe they really did leave
their souls gone
with empty shells of bodies
remnants of what once was
yes
i am still alone
those who i knew have fled the building
in search of a more meaningful existence
winding in up in god knows where
anywhere but here
these gluttonous pantomimes only accept hopefuls
midlife crises who leap
at the opportunity for promotion
like increasing payroll would reduce their age
same as the twenty five year old liberal art grads who need a filler
to help pay rent while they work
on what will collectively become hundreds of thousands of volumes unpublished
here i stand
twenty eight years old
and strip off my badge
as it falls to the floor
i walk out the door
say hello to the next boarding train
(last stop your hometown)
and goodbye to the dead end road.
Feb 24, 2014
Feb 24, 2014 at 6:43 PM UTC
#
*You are absolutely beautiful--
Immersed within this magical-Unfolding
as music mates to words
Fingers, strumming now
Now finding their perfect placement
..On the keyboards
of her newfound freedom
A beautiful spirit now returning
to a once-little body, beaten
for being her beautiful spirit's home.
Now with headphones on ears
there is a restoration
of years and years and years,
locust-eaten
...Of those years, and years, and years.
. . .
Tell me about pure Joy, churches..
the nice cars in your parkinglot,
aint showing
The look on her face, while untethered
tells me everything
You can only dream of
ever knowing.
This is true Church--
This beautiful Sunday-mornin' glowing
This spirit-infused flesh
A perfection of music
momentarily, flowing.
From hidden cloud
her flesh-infused spirit
is my one chance
at pure Joy, knowing..
My love for her,
continually-growing..
In heart,
tarred-n-feathered..
In Art, all hers
I am become
Untethered.*
#
Oct 12, 2022
Oct 12, 2022 at 10:18 PM UTC
Over-born and too-
Bright for us treacle-bound.
We'll lay sections
Before us--
But I'm stuck-with-
Sasquatch oaks; --ginkgo golems
If only clouds could lift
The moon which frequents
Venus-speech at night.
Needless for dormant-- endings
We've been untwisting,
Thoughts trapped tightly
In rules-
And it's us again,
That can see or forget the darkness,
When keyboards and pens
Tame the light.
Jan 11, 2015
Jan 11, 2015 at 6:41 PM UTC
#
A fine mist filled the room
the moment she began singing
Covering my presence;
concealing all that is congenital
in me
*--and the years and years and years
of my family-laid, dysfunction..
Of the harm, inherent in me
Of the damage to her Beautiful-Everything
I can do..
(Things are not OK
when my war-torn D N A
comes into play.) .....
I open the door and walk into the room.
Small fingers slowly sliding off of keys
as her glowing face falls,
now turns ashen*
An instant, Ichabod-like undoing
turning Steam, into stone..
*And still I reach for her;
the thin fabric of her dress
the only barrier between us--
..keeping the oils of our skin
from blending together
(the angel closes her eyes..
as the Glory that was hers
is now hiding in the corner
of the room)
I am weeping now--
This beautiful Lovedream..
This one perfect chance
since the day I was born;
For my deeply-protected spirit
to intertwine with that
of another..
Over the keyboards I reach
as I press myself to her..*
there is a danger here..
*--as much for her
as there is for me.*
Through the tremble,
I am so incredibly
uncertain
*Yet still I gaze at her--
consumed, by Spirit-crave.....
(Small hands slowly
reach around me..
Those beautiful orbs, for eyes
staring, so intently--
..A cherub-like face
around me, peering..
--Those eyes now closing
As gifted fingers on keys
bring forth the most perfect
tune.)*
And suddenly
a whole world, treacherous
becomes immediately safe.
#
Jan 3, 2023
Jan 3, 2023 at 12:39 PM UTC
Call me naive.
Blinded by a honeymoon phase
and sickly sweet jest
Because I want to keep
this blindfold
pulled down over my eyes.
I don't want to know
what time it is—
day or night, stars and light —
but this comfort
wraps my body and glues me to my bed.
He likes me
He likes me, not
the me I always try and hide behind
but the me that's real.
And he's honey sweet
and golden feat,
how I managed to find him
I'll never know.
He tells me once
twice and again, actually,
that they couldn't have made
a better half for him in a lab
if they had tried.
I'd lift my blindfold to see
you and your gorgeous honey blue eyes
shining through the dark like a moon,
and what we bake together
might just be the most delicious cake maybe ever.
If my words were sugar
I could have told him then
and there, his lips on mine
tasted sweet.
Like everything he says to me.
But I'm bad at baking cakes with no sugar
and all the store had was keyboards and pens
so I wrote him this instead;
To my perfect other half,
Each joke you make resounds
laugh for laugh, I sculpt you a present
epitaph commemorating you... for you
with words, to say
I think...
I might love you?
May 15, 2019
May 15, 2019 at 2:58 PM UTC
SANDMAN
Can you see them?-lookin' for me to be them,
lookin' for my warmth to breath life to them,
the hollow men,yes men,fallow men,come follow men,
no heart no mind-mindsick and eyeblind,
sheep talkin' like wolves that I find,
most despicable-Dis-gusting unpredictable,
following the wind as it blows on their wick they're all
candles in the strong wind gutterin',
snipes from a distance yeah they're all utterin'
Great threats from great hollow chests,
that up close-don't stand inspection,
empty vessels-makin great noise,
hard men behind keyboards hands -poised,
with the poisoned pen ready to dip in the deep well,
of hatred they bring from deep hell's,
inside,a void,avoid if you can please employ-
aversion tactics needed,don't need it,
vampyres that need pyres,yellow they bleed it
Yellow right down to the backbone believe it...
CHORUS
*the hollow men,yes men,fallow men,come follow men,
Yes men Hollow men come follow men
Yes Men-Shallow men come follow men, the hollow men,
The hollow men,yes men,fallow men,come follow men,
Yes men Fallow men come follow men
Yes Men-Shallow men come follow then
while I tell you bout the Hollow men*
JAY
Yeah, **** right I can see them.
Trolls in holes. I'm willin' to bleed 'em.
Society's detritis,
..delighted by the slightest sign of weakness.
Bleakness of their lives underlined by the lies they employ..
.. in their contrived..
..cyber sphere.
Scavengin' on carrion.
Peckin' at the carcass. Behind the veil of anonymity.
Sit in darkness as they hammer out calamity.
No nobility or amity. Cyber-highway poison.
I got the remedy.
Hollow husks skulk and lust..
..for coat-tails to ride on. Soon turn to dust.
Rusting hulks their disgusting bulk decaying on the shore.
Soon to be forgotten.
The Yes Men, the Hollow Men, the fallow men.
The everything is borrowed men.
The no tomorrow men.
The follow slowly to the gallows men.
*The Hollow Men, Yes men, fallow men, come follow men.
Yes men, shallow men, come follow men.
Yes men, Hollow Men.
Never follow them. The Hollow Men.
The Hollow Men, Yes men, fallow men, come follow men.
Yes men, shallow men, deal in sorrow men.
Yes men. Don't ever follow them.
A fool strolls to the gallows man.*
Mar 27, 2016
Mar 27, 2016 at 2:15 PM UTC
Miles and borders
wedges
Wanderlust children
locked in the Sun's hula hoop
claim visions of sugarplum prairies
Downplayed mountains
speckle the globe
like tectonic acne
Topography's tease
The paper was so promising
Dimensions spawn
in the tatters of ambition
like fused particles of
colloquial bridges
Keyboards sprout vocal chords
and philosophies huddle under
shy amusement
humming to the hymn of a discovery
wrapped up in the chords
of enraptured choirs of fingertips
Jun 7, 2014
Jun 7, 2014 at 3:40 PM UTC
God dips his head beneath the murky surface of war and blood searching for his children.
His children. They cry out to Him, accuse Him, have forgotten Him, need Him.
They are lost in the muck and the filth and the smog of this nation that throws the first stone; and he weeps as He plucks His children up out of the blood and the dirt and sets them down into the tower of Babel where the people shout “There is no room!” and cry out to Him, accuse Him, have forgotten Him.
This nation that shoots first and asks questions later, the nation of “not my problem,” and moving on.
He touches their heads as they fall asleep, he speaks to them and grants them dreams, and they turn away on their beds of lost memories as they struggle not to hear, not to feel… not to feel even the breathing, the heartbeat, of their lover, their partner, their other half as they reach out in their tossing and turning of nightmares of a nation that does not rest.
The nation who binds their hands in the wires of computers and keyboards, the nation that eats the apple and – in the perceived absence of their Father – raise up false books, sing of false stars, rampage, adulterize and falsify amongst each other always looking for the one, the next one, the next one, is this your card, is this your card, is this your card?
But you’ve had your own card, your own self, in your back pocket, you’ve forgotten what it looks like and now you cannot find the match.
They way worn nation that rests, God bless the rest, by swallowing drug after drug after drink after drink, only to find that rest and that peace just in time to feel the **** of the wires on their bound hands drag them back up again.
So they swallow more drugs, and more drinks, and let their minds wander and wish for their family, but when they go home they think of their labor what’s next for they must prepare, they must keep moving ever forward, never looking back.
And so let the frustration grow.
And the family ever fall.
The family, the nation, that drowns beneath the flood of a weeping God who must break His promise, for His children are lost to Him beneath the feet of so many bearing the mark of Cain.
The feet that do not rest. The feet that keep on walking past the empty forests, the old man on the street, the blind woman crying, the sick starving child sitting next to them.
And these people, these poor people, they sit and they wait and they cry out “why,” they cry out “Help”
…For their Father cannot find them in the murky, ****** water that covers this broken nation.
Oct 31, 2015
Oct 31, 2015 at 2:03 PM UTC
We used to say " I love you";
Now we just think it.
The people we became
are an odd fit.
I will admit
I am no longer pleasant
to be around.
Constant scowls and frowns
amidst the silence.
The clicks of keyboards
divide us.
Define us.
Align us.
We used be to analogous
like Bubble gum Princess
and Finn.
Just like them we've become unakin.
Padme & Anakin.
My fear of loosing you has caused me to loose you.
Like an episode of That's So Raven;
attempts at the prevention
of the future
ripped open the sutures
in my heart once again.
Aug 9, 2013
Aug 9, 2013 at 5:27 AM UTC
H aven for those who’s words are never read
E ven though they pour their souls and very
L ives and spirit through their pens or
L et their fingers nurture beautiful tomorrows
O n the keyboards of their creativity.
P oetry is the blood that pumps
O ut wondrous magic from those fertile minds that
E nds up on a glowing screen or printed page, in hopes
T hat it can give birth to a long awaited
R ennaissance in the thinking of the world, and create a
Y earning for a better way to live and love.
ljm
Mar 4, 2017
Mar 4, 2017 at 4:24 PM UTC
The night sky spits crystalized drops of clarity.
I stand with eyes painted black
My lips painted red
And ponder my reality.
Unloaded amps, keyboards, guitars take up more space
Then my heart can create room for
Erratic beats and flailing feet explode my sense of peace
and I'm caught in the harsh whipping of the vibrating music
played too loud to hold any resonance
its only purpose to push the sweat to dancers skin.
This music which I normally love so much
Falls flat to ears accustomed to the screams of suffocating ideals
and I forget why I am here.
I forget why these arms love his with a tired affection
that withstands his sublimations and holds his faults in a place where everything he creates is perfect.
We are not perfect.
This rain falls in thin sheets
intermingling with tears that suddenly appear on my flushed cheeks
and I taste salt.
Throughout the infinities trapped in teenage years I find
Its taste a fading memory
a paling reminder to how submissive I have become
and before I can remember exactly where it's from
Its gone and I am left with arms full of his music gear
and a heart too full to hold with only two hands.
He calls back to see if I need help
and I say no
because what are you going to say when you are shattering and do not know why.
Feb 13, 2016
Feb 13, 2016 at 2:10 AM UTC
After cocktails at Luigi's Bar, and then The Golden Bowl,
I proposed we play a gig of jazz-inspired rock and roll.
We all thought we'd make the fans cry out for encores every night.
But our schemes were dreams that faded in the morning's ruthless light.
My blue guitar should captivate the people every night.
But the dream crumbled, the dream tumbled.
My dream faded out of sight.
Playing keyboards was Patricia. (Never 'Trisha', never 'Pat'.)
She'd a taste for gracious living in her small art deco flat.
She would practice chord progressions, sipping lapsang souchong tea.
Then she played away at weekends with her special friend, Marie.
She trained her dainty fingers to explore new grooves each night.
But the dream crumbled, the dream tumbled.
Her dream faded out of sight.
We had Ritchie on electric bass, with tap-and-pull technique.
Such a clever devil — Ritchie almost taught the bass to speak.
Ralph the drummer's backbeat cymbal crashes measured out the bars.
We agreed the speed — then found we could not play like superstars.
Would the crowd be wowed by passion from my lovely blue guitar?
No, the dream crumbled, as the band stumbled.
Our dream faded overnight.
The Blue Guitar Quartet
was as close as we could get
to our vision for the music of today.
But we bumbled and we fumbled,
our aspirations humbled.
So we slowly put our instruments away.
"The Blue Guitar Quartet
is down, but not out yet.
With practice you will crack it," said Marie.
"Let Patricia be your singer;
she's a musical humdinger,
and as soulful as a solo girl can be".
"She can improvise a blues
based on any riff you choose.
Let's have handshakes and embraces —
this quartet is going places!
Here's to jazz-rock, and The Blue Guitar Quartet!"
Dec 9, 2013
Dec 9, 2013 at 2:19 PM UTC
The world constantly stirs.
Organs pump
blood and oxygen
to and from homes
streets and buildings.
Cars run by on busy roads
Construction crews destroy foundation
The people in this coffee shop
Make noise,
Drink espresso,
And taptaptaptap
On keyboards
And ticktickticktick
On smarter synapses
Than those of brains.
Twitter,
Facebook,
Pinterest,
Instagram
Wake up our phones
Propelling the world forward.
Absorbed in the pixels
Of tiny screens
We live to visit
Our loved ones
Through electronic particles
Floating on air.
The outside air is damp
Clouds dark.
The wind shakes the trees
to their bones.
The foundation of life as is now
Is about to be destroyed,
But no one notices.
Social pandemonium
Silences their voices.
Mar 19, 2013
Mar 19, 2013 at 5:13 PM UTC
heres to another night spent writhing about in bed
like a serpent in the vast cosmic ocean bearing its fangs at each tiny source of light
a plethora of thoughts come to mind right when the head hits the soft stack of pillows
the trees and the leaves rustle as if sandpaper being scraped against a human face
and it leaves behind a deep unhealing **** that will last till the end of each sleepless night
be healed by the time the head leaves its nightly resting place to go out and take on the world
and the wait for the endless repetitive cycle to begin will begin once again
trudging through miles of globulous bile will again have the same lasting effect
as that of half eaten railway platforms and ground up browser tabs
elongated letters as they appear on the windowed capillaries of one's ignited violin
repossessed keyboards that belonged to aspiring writers who could never fill a page
with words that failed to even capture the imagination of the wittiest troll by the bridge
more words will flow through the sphincters present in half alive lighters
it seems this one needs to rhyme, so raise one to the brave baby fighters
streamlined thoughts finally arise as the mind clears up a little
here's another rhyme, this one might come off as a bit brittle
henceforth thoughts shall be placed with greater precision
there are ants residing in the laptop; sleeping with the laptop, a great decision
back into the depths of insanity shall we delve again
sleeping with a colony of ants equals terrible, piercing pain
Oct 24, 2013
Oct 24, 2013 at 6:27 PM UTC
My wall are covered with
Beautiful things
Dream catchers
Suns and planets
Loki and Zeus
The mark of Cain...
I love my
Statues of Buddha
Figures of Christ
Paintings of ships at sea
Guitars and amps
Keyboards and drums
More than I could ever need...
Outside my windows
Lives the Trees
Sweet sounds
Of birds and bees
My aesthetic impairment
Has set me free
...........
Sep 5, 2019
Sep 5, 2019 at 7:27 AM UTC
I'm just one of the thousands
Of monkeys, who sit
At their keyboards,
Typing away,
Typing away,
Typing away,
Foregoing food, water,
*** and even love
Typing away
Typing away
Not to create some masterpiece
Which will immortalize me
Typing away
Well, maybe that
But, it is my hope that in
This typing away
I could capture
The most elusive of prizes:
Truth
Feb 16, 2013
Feb 16, 2013 at 8:49 AM UTC