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Austin Barlow Apr 2015
Science is a wonderful thing, it is
Science is here, there, and surrounding all.
From the mines below to the rocketships above
Technology surrounds us, one and all
We have mixed substances to make concrete
And use concrete to create our buildings.  
Science is such a magnificent thing
And for a couple reasons you see.  
Today, lasers that can destroy aircrafts
‘Morrow even colonizing planets
But one thing is true and one thing is real,
Science is really our true compassion.  
As we search for extraterrestrials
As we look towards spatial expansion.
First sonnet written ever
Lewis Hyden Nov 2018
"Getting sick of married life?
Tired of your ageing wife?
Well, you can create her face anew
With plastic skin and pink tissue!"

"Yes, in only three short days,
She'll be worthy of your praise.
Just send a cheque to this address
And trust us, friend, we'll sort the rest!"

The bill-boards scream in the night
As wolves in the canopy.
Like lasers, they seethe and cut
Through the diamonds of your wet eyes,
Convincing you all too soon that
You are not already perfect.
A poem about impossible standards.
#4 in the Distant Dystopia anthology.

© Lewis Hyden, 2018
judy smith Jul 2016
The 9.6 million followers who tune in to watch Miranda Kerr having her hair done on Instagram — for this is how models spend most of their time — were treated to a rather more interesting sight last Thursday: a black and white photograph of a whacking great diamond ring.

Across it was the caption “Marry me!” and a twee animation of the tech mogul Evan Spiegel on bended knee. Underneath Kerr had typed “I said yes!!!” and an explosion of heart emojis.

A spokesman for Spiegel, founder of the Snapchat mobile app, who is 26 to Kerr’s 33 and worth $US 2.1 billion to her $US 42.5 million , revealed “they are very happy”.

At first, the marriage seems an unlikely combination: a man so bright he founded Snapchat while still at Stanford University, becoming one of the world’s youngest self-made billionaires by 22, and a Victoria’s Secret model who was previously married to the Pirates of the Caribbean star Orlando Bloom (she allegedly had a fling with pop brat Justin Bieber, leading Bloom to punch Beebs in a posh Ibiza restaurant).

Perhaps the union indicates that there is more to Kerr than we thought. More likely, it reveals something about Spiegel — and the way the social status of “geeks” has changed.

Since Steve Jobs made computers cool and Millennials started living online, nerds are king. Even coding is **** enough for the model Karlie Kloss, singer will.i.am and actor Ashton Kutcher to learn it. Silicon Valley has become the new Hollywood, as moguls and social media barons take over from film stars and sportsmen not just on rich lists, but as alpha men.

Being a co-founder of a company is this decade’s equivalent to being a rock star or a chef. And, if their attractiveness to models and actresses proves anything, then being a Twag — tech wife or girlfriend — is a “thing”. Sources tell me Twags are also known as “founder-hounders” because they like to date the creators of start-up companies.

Actress Talulah Riley was an early adopter. She started dating the PayPal founder Elon Musk in 2008. Riley, then fresh from starring in the St Trinian’s film, met Musk in London’s Whisky Mist nightclub after he had delivered a lecture at the Royal Aeronautical Society. I interviewed her shortly afterwards and she told me they had spent the evening talking about “quantum physics”. A month later they were engaged. Their on-again-off-again marriage lasted six years before she filed for divorce again in March. Currently Musk, worth an estimated $US 12.7 billion and focused on Tesla cars, is said to be “spending a lot of time” with Johnny Depp’s estranged wife, Amber Heard.

Model Lily Cole dated the Twitter founder Jack Dorsey in 2013. Later she had a son with Kwame Ferreira, founder of the digital innovation agency Kwamecorp. Actress Emma Watson is going out with William Knight, an “adventurer” who has an incredibly boringly sounding job as a senior manager at Medallia, a software company. Allison Williams, Marnie in the HBO television show Girls, is married to Ricky Van Veen, co-founder of College Humor website.

Could it be that these women are onto something? Dating a bro certainly has its appeal. They are innovative: how else would they invent apps that deliver cheese toasties or match singles based on their haircuts? They are risk-takers who must be charismatic enough to inspire investors and attract crowd-funding. They may not be gym-fit, but they are mathletes who can do your tax bill. They are animal lovers: every start-up is dog friendly. And they are fun: who would not want to date somebody with a ball pool in their office?

There is a saying about dating in Silicon Valley: the odds are good but the goods are odd. Nerds are notorious for peculiar chat-up lines and normcore clothes. Still, if geeks can be awkward, that is part of their charm. Keira Knightley, complaining that Silicon Valley was all men in hoodies and Crocs, described how one gave her his card, saying she should get in touch if she wanted to see a spaceship.

One Vogue writer recalled a Silicon Valley man messaging her via a dating app, in which he noted: “In 50 per cent of your photos you’re holding an iPhone. It may interest you to find out that I invented the iPhone. More accurately I was an engineer on the original iPhone . . .”

Most promisingly, some guys are astoundingly rich. It is suggested Kerr’s engagement ring is a 2.5-carat diamond worth around dollars 55,000. She has already moved into Spiegel’s dollars 12m LA pad. Between his money and her Victoria’s Secrets bridesmaids, no wonder sources claim they are planning an “extravagant wedding”.

It might rival even the Napster founder Sean Parker’s $US10m performance-art bash. He married songwriter Alexandra Lenas in a canopy among Big Sur’s redwoods decorated to look like an enchanted forest. Some 350 guests wore Tolkienesque costumes created by The Lord of the Rings costume designer Ngila Dickson. They sat on white fur rugs and were given bunnies to pet. Presumably rabbit babysitters were on hand when the disco started.

If such fantasies inspire you to become a Twag, the great news is you do not have to be a supermodel to be in with a chance. Such is the dearth of single women in Silicon Valley that one dating site, Dating Ring, crowdfunded a plane to fly single women to Palo Alto from New York.

Be warned, though: guys are single because they are married to the job.

No wonder most meet their partners at college or work — the Facebook chief executive Mark Zuckerberg met his wife, Priscilla Chan, at Harvard.

The Instagram co-founder Kevin Systrom met girlfriend Nicole Schuetz at Stanford. Melinda met Bill Gates when, in 1987, they sat next to each other at an Expo trade-fair dinner. “He was funnier than I expected him to be,” she said.

Kerr began dating Spiegel in 2014 after meeting him at a Louis Vuitton dinner in New York. You can bet he was networking. Shortly after Louis Vuitton showcased their cruise collection in a Snapchat story. Last season Snapchat went on to become the biggest new name at NY fashion week.

If you want to meet tech guys, you might catch them at Silicon Valley parties, which is how the Uber chief executive Travis Kalanick met his partner, Gabi Holzwarth, a violinist hired to play. Or they might be schmoozing clients downtown in a swanky Noe Valley club in San Francisco or a boring Union Square hotel in New York. In London you find them around Old Street, aka Silicon Roundabout, in bars, at hackathons, or start-up meet-ups. In the day they are coding at Google Campus or practising their pitching in a co-working space.

Some tech boys date the old-fashioned way: on Tinder. Airbnb founder Brian Chesky met his girlfriend of three years, Elissa Patel, through the app. When I interviewed Instagram co-founder Systrom he admitted that when he had been single he had signed up.

Dating agency Linx — presumably a play on operating system Linux — is dedicated to making Silicon Valley matches. Amy Andersen set it up in 2003 after moving to Palo Alto and being “flabbergasted” by the number of eligible men. She claims her clients are “extremely dynamic and successful individuals’’: tech founders, tech chief executives, financier founding partners of large institutions and “tons of entrepreneurs”.

Andersen says tech guys make “fabulous partners”. Romantic and chivalrous, they write love letters, plan dates, “even proposing on Snapchat!” If you want to marry a tech billionaire, she says, “you need to bring your A game.” Her clients look “for women who are equally, if not more, dynamic and interesting than he is!”

There are drawbacks to dating tech guys. Before Google buys your amore’s business, he will be living on *** Noodles waiting for the next round of funding — and workaholics are dull.

Kerr says Spiegel is “25, but he acts like he’s 50. He’s not out partying. He goes to work in Venice [Beach], he comes home. We don’t go out. We’d rather be at home and have dinner, go to bed early.” Which might suit Kerr, but is not my idea of a fun.

You had also better be prepared to share your life. When Priscilla Chan miscarried three times, Mark Zuckerberg wrote about it on Facebook, while Chesky used a romantic trip with his girlfriend to promote Airbnb - uploading a picture of her in bed, with a note saying “f* hotels”. Besides all of which is the notorious issue of Silicon Valley sexism.

It has a chief exec-bro culture that puts pick-up artist/comedian Dapper Laughs to shame. Ninety per cent of women working in the Valley say they have witnessed sexist behaviour, 60 per cent have experienced unwanted ****** advances at work, two thirds of them from their boss. Whitney Wolfe, a co-founder of Tinder, took Justin Mateen to court for ****** harassment. Her lawsuit against the company alleged that Mateen, her former partner, sent text messages calling her a “*****”.

Spiegel has tech bro form. He apologised after emails from his days at Stanford emerged: missives about stripper poles, getting black-out drunk, shooting lasers at “fat chicks”, and promising to “roll a blunt for whoever sees the most **** tonight (Sunday)”. After one fraternity Hawaiian luau party, he signed off emails “f*
bitchesgetleid”.

No wonder some women are not inspired to become Twags. Especially when you could be a tech billionaire yourself. Would you not rather be Sheryl Sandberg, chief operating officer of Facebook, than married to the boss?Read more at:http://www.marieaustralia.com/evening-dresses | www.marieaustralia.com/black-formal-dresses
An ocean splashed the sky;
clouds little boats for angels to
reel in stars upon will; their gills
glow for human eyes to scope-out
and connect the dots, one by one.

The moon a forest for the alien
gophers; burrowing amongst its
craters, feasting on passing comets,
and yet; we fail to see.

A rainbow, for the giants after their
grievances, sprout a smile on
mile-long faces, as the days got harder
to stay sunny.

Drear for the shadows, the little
rats of the night, hissing at morn
and hurting, shrinking as
golden lasers black-
All feedback is appreciated!
Reece Mar 2013
California highway buzzes and the searing sun shines on the beach towel as I stroke Walt Whitman's beard
Transcendent and alive, but dead, still dead as my brother and his brothers, the 19th Century posse
We know the world better than them but are less learned, as the schools are a failure
and the business is us, but not the same as the industrial business of yesteryear
We are here to consume, consume and as we're dying of consumption , we consume more.

Alcohol, cars, phones and laptops, tablets, tablets, pills and more pills, condoms, liquor, ***** and brews, women, men, more women, more men, razors, lasers, heaters, coolers, snacks, rucksacks, ex lax and nick-knacks. They sell us dreams and nightmares, movies and bomb scares, they sell us news by the hour and power as they exert their own power. They give us gifts and incentives, draw us in so they they can stick us with a pin or a bracelet, and we too can sell to our friends on group hangs or as we stand still listening to our favourite bands. Billboards scream for our attention, or the buses stop at the intersection, and we're supposed to open our little phone and buy whatever is advertised. Why? Y?

They call us the Y generation too, why? Perhaps we ask the question  too much, perhaps we haven't asked enough. Perhaps the X generation simply ponder why we are so consumed with the technology they feed us. Why? Why must they question us, when we are the next great generation, we do laugh at that too. The internet is the new religion, bow down before Google and drink from the pixelated chalice, my child. Any question one could need answering is answered by the internet. The Bible is irrelevant in our society, burn it and download a bible app on the latest smartphone, the Qur'an too, hell, try the Tanakh, the Smriti and the Pāli Canon, for we are enlightened ******* It. And we want more.

somenonamesarcasticasshole@yahoo.com
RE:PARTY TONIGHT!!!!!

Hey yo mane some warehouse downtown has this dubstep DJ from like ******* Iraq or some ****. *** down, gonna be hella ******* there
xo

What music do you like?
All of it
Films?
All of them
TV
I don't own one but I watched every episode of The Wire on Netflix
...
I am a pansexual being riding the ever changing dunes of the Sahara, like so many great poets before me.

Digital immigrants and immigrants of empathy too
How serious do you believe us to be?
I am not using sarcasm as a form of wit for I have no wit.
Stoicism and rejection of education, employment and training.
We surly are the neatest generation, how can we make a mess if we are not awake most days?
Save for the endless party that is life, as we throw used glow sticks at women we desire
and ***** over car windows before getting blown on the lawn

lol dat wuz cray last nite
xo

Die young poets we have no desire for your kind, pacify us with Kerouac and Ginsberg so that we may emulate intelligence and impair the senses, for we care not about the real world either
Our world is the only one that exists, yours will soon crumble
We have trained for the end with extensive views of zombie flicks in coffee houses

@SomeFacelessJerk Follow for follow

Hey OP, you are a ******.
Why yes, yes I am. Does that bother you.
No, OP. You see I too am a ******.

Do away with your hurtful words they have no meaning today
White man died and lost control of his precious dictionary
We are here to save language by replacing all vowels with X's and O's
We are here to consume and in turn consummate this marriage,
the marriage of ignorance and bliss.
I feel as if I lost control of this particular piece and in turn lost control of myself
The snow is falling and I decided to freeze myself to death
The snow as I learned is a fantastic insulator and so I only served to warm my spirits

Addendum
I am not a poet

Footnotes on The Addendum
All people are poets but only a few are talented enough to shine like [insert simile here] and cause the world to [insert hyperbole here].

Addendum to the Footnotes of the Addendum
xo

Additional Notes
Apathy is the overriding factor in our lives, or at least that's how it seems to me. The trust fund kiddies in their beach houses are bored because Mommy and Daddy have no attention to spare them. The kids without parents in the projects are bored too, bored of the death and poverty, they're bored of the trust fund kiddies playing gangster, buying ******* from Mad Jack the Black Mack on Smack on the corner of 3rd and 15th. I am bored by the words I write, you are bored by the words you read, and we are all bored of the capitalist agenda that serves only to perpetuate boredom amongst us and bleed our pockets so that we have no choice but **** each other for their amusement as they place obscene bets on which child will 'win'.

*******, I have More Notes
Take this work for the post-post-post modern-proto-futurist-pre-apocalypse ******* that is. I have attempted to put no substance into this piece, apart from grams upon grams of ******* I brought from some guy some place, some time ago. It doesn't really matter, and we all stopped caring.
Wednesday Apr 2014
Bed
We were the mystery
We were the shaking of heads
We were the whispers in the bathroom at 11 am

We were the smoke in the hallways

We were the leaves catching on air currents
like "I don't care how or why but I'm going somewhere"

We were balled up bills in the crook of
someone's sweaty Xanax palm

We were the lamps at night burning
We were the lasers on the ceiling
We were the lines of chemicals waiting on the counter

We were nothing good
nothing but mud and regrets on our feet

The teachers shook their heads
wondered to themselves how we ever got to sleep
Ben Meraki Dec 2017
We're the ones who walk these lands in darkness.
We don't want the sun to rise.
The shadows shield us from your madness
and hide the sorrow in our eyes.
-
As your fires burn around us
and you reduce the world to ash,
your mistruths and lies surround us,
and questions we don't dare to ask.

- -
So we dance in the lasers
hand in hand. We're the ravers.
Hoping love's gonna save us.
So we dance in the lasers.

We're the lost generation
with no borders or nations.
In synthetic elation,
we're the monster's creation.
- -

You know our world lay in ruins
yet still you choose to carry on
with disregard for what you're doing.
You won't stop 'til it's all gone.
-
Why should we clear up your disasters
when you can't even tell us how.
The time will come when we're the masters
so don't you dare to judge us now

- -
as we dance in the lasers
hand in hand. We're the ravers.
We will not be your saviours.
So we dance in the lasers.

We're the lost generation
with no borders or nations.
In synthetic elation,
we're the monster's creation.
- -

So we dance
and we dance
and we dance
hand in hand

and we dance
and we dance
and we dance
hand in hand.
Song lyrics for EDM track
Stone Fox Oct 2015
"The thought of  the future we will never have was pollinating foul fuzzy particles in the air, slowly following the wake of all those tasseled dreams I had held onto for all those years but had to let go."

The most intimate revelations can often expose plagiaristic suppressions that we've most likely tried to already forget. Suggesting to anyone on the outside looking in, that there is a rancid cowardice secreting from the pores of all those who would deny the most basic of fundamental decencies to their fellow man.

All the while, boasting a loud tolerance that would be found on the very last Autumn-the very last colorful arrangements of watering oranges and smothered reds our world was ever going to be privileged to witness again.
The thundering drumming of my own beating heart gave my freshly dead and bland reaction a neon personality, with a few extra *******, lingering, successful gestures that reflected a sparkly prism of tracers.

Tracers that were birthed from the most brilliant of lasers, as I was radiating something that was blindingly gorgeous, something that was heightened with more sensitivity as it shadowed over the complexity of every kiss that I had ever been given in my life..

Spinning a silk and gold web around me that was almost as intricate as an alarm sounding earth quake.

This flaccidly tight response came at a price, leaving nothing but whispers and the wrong kind of impressions at the sight of  it's unwanted face..

The time of dignity and grace felt decades away as your tiny little temperaments began to attempt to soothe me into a very still silence.

"Wooing" me and "seducing" me with such a strong touch of romantic readiness, I knew it would never be matched or found again causing me to feel a stroke of sadness at the single sentiment.  

This dramatic departure killed any interest that might have supported the abortive sorrows and short winded elation’s of men, but instead the idea of a possibly new tasseled dream, sparked me into a shimmering prism bouncing glittering, glimmering, glowing rays off my skin, as I put the shine in the sun.
The story behind this poem is to never put your hapiness in someone elses hands. People will come and go in and out of your life but you will always be stuck with your own reflection for company.
Owen Phillips Dec 2012
I provoke the rain of Hell
From Heaven high to earth below
There we'll float on gainful spells
We're ready for this world to go
And off to outer space, we're facing
Endless races to the furthest reaches of our teacher, the speaker, the logos of Cosmos
And beyond to distant Quasars,
No phasers, no lasers, weaponry
We're safe with hearts of purity
And naked with our souls we'll seek
The greatest cosmic mysteries

I've always sought and thought unreal
The spacecraft not of stone or steel but
Opened hearts and focused spirits
Woke by times both strange and fearful
Changing basic notions of
What we all say are mind and love

We're through with consumers, they've doomed us
We've moved on
The proof is the truth that all life will soon be gone
We've built and built, killed billions and still
We march toward gold archways which never were real

I can tell others feel it,
They're real and they heal me
Relations, creations, spontaneous meaning
It's all building up to a climactic moment
Of high expectation that we will all blow it
But we were born just so we'd know when the opening
Ceremonies go on for the New Age of Hope

It's outrageous to think of the hate which created this
Darkness and chaos,
(Our God has betrayed us!)
But that's why our savior said
Look the other way,
To meet hate with more hatred
Speeds up the decay

We love the villains, though they **** us by millions
Because they're truly a part of this cosmic cotillion
They can't see the dance while they're
Crashing and sinning
So they can't imagine they're actually IN IT
There's a part and they fit it,
Catalyst for the equipment
Of Salvation:
The nations of women and men
Beginning again
We'll cancel the debt and we'll all become friends
Born and raised in Georgia where the A stitched in to the fitted
We let the streets be the streets but some of yall gone snitch
I'd rather be broke with the team then get swallowed into greed
I always kept it hundred living by the family creed
I'm tatted on my arm a last of a dying breed.
One Life to Live while rhyming All Eyes on Me
All these busters wanna be a G
While I'm just trying to do the right thing like Spike Lee
L A P D has their lasers pointed at my back
brothers turning police I don't believe that giant Shaq
I'm going in I'm going in cause I'm trained like that
Pistols in their holsters with a rifle on my back
I'm not a Violent person but a heart is what I don't lack
I won't be gone long if you Hindu then I'm coming back
Last of a Dying Breed look the future in my eyes
last four hundred years some of us been struggling to survive
looking at the world today I see the people tranquilized
this generations music is the reason why they're hypnotized.
Better guard your girl because my voice will have her mesmerized
I'm the Phantom of the opera can't you tell by my disguise?
Smoking on some ***** maybe one day they'll decriminalize
Smoking on the best that will have you bleeding from your eyes
Medically prescribed by a Doctor in a tie
They victimize the victims and they glorify the killers
yet don't realize these symptoms
got these youngsters pulling triggers
Little girls becoming strippers
just so they can make some figures
guess they missed the bigger picture
My knowledge helps reconsider
I'm a country boy at heart
with the style of city slickers
I leave you looking ignorant
you think that I'm a ******
The last man to **** his own people name was
******.
I'm more mysterious then that
compare to Jack the Ripper.
WickedHope Dec 2014
There were flashing lights,
lasers, where we met.
There was loud music
and cheap drinks.

I found myself with the three of you,
only one of whom I'd met before.

That was the year I only wore plaid, mostly.
I was protesting make up at the time,
a leftover idea from my two year flowerchild period.
You were arrogant as ever,
self involved ****
with great taste in music.

I remember in all the conversations that followed
you'd compliment my impeccably perfect playlists.
I digress.

You stayed away from me that night,
let me hit on your friends.
But you got me that shirt.
I still wear it.

I had forgotten that night for over a year.
Even when I saw you next,
I didn't remember you.
I didn't remember you
and that has always bothered me.

I don't forget people.
I just don't.
Especially since it was both our first night out with that crowd.

You remembered me though.
And I'll never know why
I forgot and you remembered.

But now you forget me,
and I never shall forget you.
I promise you I'll never forget you.

And if you recall,
I don't break my promises to those I love.
Graff1980 Nov 2016
The lines don’t cross. They never cross. Like connecting the dots, he pulls one string to the next. This is the only way he knows how to make sense of a senseless world. It is geometric. He points at the points placed by the power of his imagination. Then he twirls them in every possible angle. “There is a deeper truth in this,” he swears.
For fifteen hours he has stared at the puzzle. Cursing, and circling, every corner he could conceive of, seeking ultimate truth. His blues eyes blink with the powerful pulse of unrelenting fatigue. Soon he will succumb to slumber. This obsession may wane for the night. Although, he fears that in the morning he will lose the patience to pursue this line of reasoning.
Loose leaf papers filled with colored equations lay scattered across the room. He mumbles, “Sleep would be good.”  Instead of going to bed he clears the clutter from the frigid floor. Pushing his papers to the side. Then watches as they lift off the ground and float gently to the left and right. Dust particulates dance in the air, swirling and glittering in the morning glow.
The white t-shirt he was wearing comes off then his tight blue jeans go as well. “This will allow the free flow of blood to pass unconstricted throughout my entire body” he thinks.
“The answer is somewhere here,” he stutters. Slowly he seats himself on the floor, shivering as his naked flesh settles on the cold concrete. His legs curl and cross each other. Closing his now reddening eyes, he begins to breathe slowly. In and out and back again repeating and repeating the same breathing patterns, he focuses. Letting his consciousness float inches away from sleep, uncertain on which side of slumber he is sitting on.
Smooth round stones of various colors and sizes fill and form a shore in his mind. Then a pool of glimmering water appears from nothing. No scent exists here.  Aluminum foil wrapped potatoes are scattered all around him coinciding with an itch forming on his left foreman, diverting his attention for a minute. The landscape begins to dissolve, and he struggles to regain control. Bit by bit he regains control breathing in and out and back again.
His skin vibrates, or twitches, he is uncertain. The rhythm remains consistent. Thin lines of blood cross his entire inner body. In and out and back again. The shape from his room reappears with a white glowing sphere circling it. In and out and back again.
Inside the sphere a speck forms then disappears then forms again. In and out and back again. He wonders were this is going. Where does all the meaning in the universe come from? In and out and back again.
Is flesh the meaning or is it spirit. In and out and back again. Is life death and death life. In and out and back again. Is time a true measure of my existence? In and out and back again. Dam, what does the shape mean?
A small hand pushes his shoulder jerking him to the left. The world shifts colors. They pool and rock phasing into a grey scale then return to their original color, then shift back and forth for a few minutes until they settle into the original color scale. “That was like adjusting the color in a tv,” he muses.
Suddenly, a thin white light explodes piercing his retina, causing him to shudder in pain. In and out and back again. Why? What? Why? How? In and out and back again. The pain of uncertainty gnaws at is being. Fear begins to tighten its grip but he is too deep to withdraw.
Every book he has ever read appears fluttering freakishly fast opening and closing like a strange mousetrap. In and out and back again. Every experience he has ever had replays and is reintegrated into his being as he struggle to return to true consciousness. In and out and back again.
For a second the breaths stop. He can hear the words “in and out and back again.” A finger of light pushes its way into his mind pulling out strings of lights. He forgets all that he is and was. The strings explode and spread like a million lasers. Each lasers latches on to a book and pulls every words into him. Then he becomes himself again. Another round of lasers explode from his brain. This time these strings of his being reach out. Each one exploring the world around him. Just as he begins to feels like there is nothing of his being left the lights fling back like an overstretched rubber band and smack his brain with even more information.
After what feels like hours of this exploding and reforming he opens his eyes. The shape no longer cloud his thoughts. He jots down a few notes. After a couple days of intense study he adds to and passes the notes on to a friend. The friend reads them then passes them to, and again and again. Someone adds something new reshaping the ideas, then passes them on as well.
Years later the ideas comes back to their beginning. The young man reads a new book. He smiles as he absorbs the new ideas that linger in the mix with his old ideas. He sits down to breathe in and out and back again assimilating and integrating these new things into his being. In and out and back again.
Signs point in different directions
Art>
<Science
History^
Oddities¿

Art:
Every memory of every sunrise
Every beautiful melody
Here.
And so many images of her.
Some sweet
Some candid
Some sad.
How can we revel in the joyful
Without knowing it's opposite?
Every delicate poem
Every lyric yelled
Every painting
Every sculpture
And in all of them,
Her.

Science:
Models of molecules
Diagrams of data
Sketches
(Where are the equations?)
Math is forbidden in this museum.
Lectures
Theories
All gathering dust.

History:
Names.
The greatest of men and women
Julius Caesar
Constantine
Marc Anthony
Cleopatra
Rosa Parks
Elinor Roosevelt
Patton
Churchill
Kennedy
MLK

Maps and charts
Famous cities of old
Sparta
Alexandria
The halls of Montezuma
Constantinople
Babylon

Oddities:
Phantom Kangaroos
Homemade Bazooka
"That made the news?"
And Bubblegum the Baluga

The Raven Empress
Flaming mattress
Sharks with lasers
Pandas with Tasers
What the heck just happened?
eileen mcgreevy Jan 2011
The flames were so high, Byron was fighting hard against them, to no avail."Megan"!,"Megan"!, screaming her name, he felt engulfed,  and light headed.A thousand thoughts raced through his head, panic, seering pain with every breath he took, call an ambulance, Megan,s screams cut through him like lasers, she was trapped, scared, how must she be feeling right now?
Wood crackled, metal creaked, echos, lights, sirens!
Byron jumped, bolt upright in bed,"O ****, ****",another nightmare, each one bringing his memory closer to what happened in their cottage they had built together.
Byron was working from Leeds, commuting to Killough, his favourite village in Ireland, well, it had to be, it's where he and Megan had met. He'd planned to run the architecture business from home.HA!, home, where was that?, he wasn't sure anymore.
As Byron strolled into the bathroom, turning on the shower he caught a glimpse of himself in the mirror.Almost forgetting the scars he had aquired from the fire, those visible reminders that his electrician was skimming from the funds, cutting corners, greedy little *******. The sight was gone from his right eye, and his face bore severe scarring right down to the collar bone. A small price to pay, at least he made it out alive.
He made a mental note to get back to Killough, this very night, to see Megans grave.He'd settle for anything, any reminder of Megan, she was slipping away from him, he couldn't have that, ever...another reason for moving to Killough.
part 11/20 from the novel"beautiful words" (c) eileen mcgreevy and chris smith 2011
I’m a functionally depressed person.
I’ve self-diagnosed myself as this
Because severe depression makes
Me feel like I should be lying
Around my house all day and
Although I’d rather wrap myself
In the blankets of my bed,
I push myself out into the day.
Dressed in an outfit that’s not
Sweatpants and a t-shirt, but
Instead, jeans and a sweater.
Long sleeves to cover the cuts
On my arm, or many bracelets
With no colors that match my
Outfit but they cover my
Self-inflicted wounds from
The night before.
I fake a smile at people
That I pass by during the day
And I hope that they can’t
See through my eyes and into
My head. I hope they can’t read
The suicidal thoughts swimming
Around, filling the lack of serotonin
That I’m missing from my brain.
Their eyes feel like lasers shooting
Into my brain like bullets that I dream
Of releasing from the chamber
To settle in my head.
I’m a functionally depressed person
Because I function in society
Without anyone knowing that
Inside, I’m already dead.
I've had a really bad day.
- K T P - Jul 2013
In seeps life’s deeply rich hypnotic alluring tune.
Throngs of pitch tickled with powerful eminent bass.
Crisp sounds displayed, tweaked, collaged, and delectably consumed.
Stretching our ear’s vast hungering palette to please.

Vibrations lead to the tingling mind’s inevitable response.
Guiding the body through its purity of sound.
Hums and hisses overshadowed by the DJ’s track.
Lasers lights dance over the vast sweating fans.

The floor is a rhythmic sea of flesh.
Dance steps balanced by the DJ’s meticulous craft.
Tears of joy creep upon the dancers faces.
As bodies succumb to the vibrant enchanting mix.

This truly is an ideal moment of bliss.
Having one’s mind captured by a DJ’s tryst.
The mind thrives forever from their musical kiss.
As fans dance the night, refusing to miss.
This poem is written under the universal song formula that after every 8 count, the song will change, and after the fourth 8 count, the song will drastically change. Try listening to any song on the radio, and they will all follow this rule.  8 words per line, 4 lines per stanzas, 4 stanza poem.  Just like a song.
Lindsey Hagen Feb 2012
Stripped, naked. Flesh, raw.
Eyes burn like lasers, though you are bare.
The light: “a” light illuminates your limbs.
Its gleam reflects each angle of your body.

A nod of the head and there intent is set.
The stroke of a brush, a flicker of lead.
An artist’s projection upon the canvas.
You are: living, breathing and true.

Each curve invites inquiry; of shadow or shade?
Minds race to undress you further,
they peel at your skin.
Attention averts, bound by the three dimensions of your being.

On a pedestal you stand. Flushed and raw.
Though scrutinized and scanned, they cease to see you.
Simple minded are they,
foolish and dull.

The light grows dim.
Squinting with strain, they cannot grasp you.
You laugh and grin

Warmth melts your play-dough skin,
as a light illuminates from within.
Daniel Sandoval Jan 2013
Thomas O’Keene, like most little boys,
imagined great things when he played with his toys.
In the big room that he shared with his brothers,
he would make a big tent with all the bed covers.
Inside his great castle, he played and he dreamed
of far away places and fabulous things.

He played giant robots, who came from the stars
with swords made of lasers and dinosaur cars.
He’d pretend to be the hero from his video games,
who ate yellow flowers and then shot out flames.
Thomas would tell tales of all that he saw
like the one-eyed stink monster with the big yellow claw;
a noisome creature to others unseen,
but was always around when Thomas ate beans.
Or how purple aliens had taken his juice,  
it was to fuel their invasion, of this he had proof.

“Thomas stop telling stories,” his mother would scold him.
Oh, how many times had she told him?
She sent him to bed,
and away slunk poor Tom hanging his head.
It was only ten past eight,
and he never got to stay up late.

Then Tom had an idea; he knew just what to do.
He’d show them that all of his stories were true.
He would build a machine so they could all see
the wonders thus far known only to he.

He found a box,
some stinky socks,
parts from a clock,
and a few small rocks.
Some peanut butter,
a toy boat rudder,
a number 2 ,
his brother's shoe,
and about two bottles of school glue.
A broken video game controller,
wheels from the baby stroller,
some batteries from the remote,
a rubber ducky swimming float.

He pulled and stretched,
pushed and vexed,
hammered and rammed,
and ******* and jammed.

Finally complete,
though not very neat,
he sat down for the start of his job
and slowly turned a big red ****.

But nothing happened. What could be wrong?
He didn't know why it wouldn't turn on.
The machine was no good, and this made Tom sick.
Frustrated, he gave it a great big kick.
The machine came to life. It sputtered and whined,
and up rose a wisp with a faint scent of pine.  
Then, came a rumble that shook the whole room
followed shortly by a great big kaboom!
Thomas covered his ears and shut his eyes tight,
and what he saw when they opened was quite a sight.

There crouched down in his room
was a giant robot from an alien moon!
Then right beside it, as big as a could be,
was his dinosaur car, the T-Rex X3.
But this was not all that came from the machine,
other strange things began to be seen.
He had done it, they were all here,
here in his room so perfectly clear.
“You stay right here,”
he said with a cheer.

Now he ran to get his mother, father and brothers
to show them that these were not make-believe others.
Then, he heard a loud crash that came from his room.
He stopped in the hall and then came the boom.
Thomas rushed back and found a giant hole in the wall
almost 10 feet wide and 8 feet tall!
His robot was gone and so were the others,
and then he heard a call from his mother.
“Thomas O'Keene! What was that noise?!”  
Thomas thought quickly. “Um, just playing with toys.”
“Get back in bed!” was his mothers reply
to what was not really a lie.

Thomas was scared and didn't know what to do.
How could he fix this, he was all out of glue.
Then he saw a blue crayon and snatched it up quick.
He hoped this would work, it must do the trick.
On the cardboard box side he scribbled "reset."
then drew a big circular button and pressed it.
Thomas held his breath and thought as he did,
Why, oh why had he not built a lid?
He waited there silent for a moment or two,
then opened his eyes and just saw his room.

No holes in the wall, no great robot man,
just bunk beds and toys and the lamp on it's stand.
He looked down before him and beheld his machine.
"Never again..." thought Thomas and went off too his dreams.
This is a long poem I wrote about my son. I hope to have it made into a children's book someday. The moral of the story is, imagination is a great thing and you should let it run wild but always remember to build a lid on your machine.
Marge Redelicia Jan 2014
Take me back to the days
When we were artists
With the clouds as the paint,
With the sky as the canvas;
Who sang their hearts out
In front of the electric fan
Which became the microphone and auto-tuner.
Take me back to the days
When we were adventurers
Who ran outside after morning showers to
Find the end of the rainbow
Hoping to meet a fellow
Who can grant our greatest wish
That tomorrow would be sunnier than today;
Who balanced between life and death
Every grocery shopping with our mothers
As we carefully tried to avoid the lines of the tiles which
We believed was made up of deadly red lasers.
Take me back to the days
When we were heroes:
Scientists who calculated the intensity of the rain
In the race of raindrops that
Roll down the car window
In the pouring traffic jam.
Ninjas who would wake up early to
Catch the floating dusts that swim in the sun's rays
When you open the curtains of the wide window.
Generals of an army who built
Mighty forts of cotton and feathers and
Found safety beneath warm pillows and sheets
On dark and windy nights.
Take me back to the days
When we were
Engineers,
Doctors,
Politicians,
Pilots,
Astronauts, and
Teachers
Take me back to the days
When we were
*Who we wanted to be.
Jaide Lynne Dec 2014
I hate to break it to you but heroes like Superman, and Batman, and Spiderman don’t actually exist.

But that doesn’t mean there aren’t heroes in this world, they just aren’t in capes and spandex. They can’t fly or shoot lasers from their eyes. They can’t lift a car with one finger and they aren’t affected by kyptonite. These heroes are people you pass every day, you may speak to them, and you may not. But they are there.

The 18 year old kid who takes care of his brother when his parents leave and decide not to come back he is a hero.

The 9 year old boy who saved his friend by pulling him out of an icy lake, is a hero

The mother that decides to leave her husband and take her kid with her when he starts hitting them, she is a hero.

Those who stand up for what they believe in, are heroes

The little girl who used the Heimlich maneuver (which she saw on a disney channel show by the way, see disney can teach us useful skills) to save the life of her 1st grade classmate who was choking on an apple, is a hero

Every friend that will drive to your house at 3 am because  you are home alone and you are scared of what you might do if you are alone much longer. Every friend that tells you that everything will be alright, and that you may be ******* up, but that doesn’t mean that you will always be that way, friends that remind you things can and will get better. Are all heroes.

The woman who caught a baby that fell out a window is a hero.

The firefighter who risked everything to save a little girl or little boy is a hero.

The men and women in blue are heroes... Or they are when they aren’t shooting innocent people...

Or the man who broke his neck and had to give up the career he had done his whole life, but then turned what could have been a devastating change into an opportunity to follow his dream and is now happier than ever because he realizes that life is too short and can end too quickly to be unhappy, and now he is one of the strongest, funniest, most joyful person I’ve ever met. He is a hero.

Or the woman who went back to school after her divorce and now is happy and able to not only support her self but also her family.

These people are real life true heroes, not some made up ******* with super powers. Because you don’t need to be able to fly or see through walls to be a hero.
ottaross Apr 2015
Where were you, you little *******?
Where were you hiding
As I turned out the lights last night?

Were you in the closet as I came into the bedroom?
Did you seep like a flood
Across the floor in the darkness
Rising up the leg of the bed
And into my ears like liquid toxic waste?

Were you under the pillow
And as my fingers slid under there
Between the crisp, smooth layers of white cotton?
Did you coil about my fingers
And up my arm
To spread over my scalp
All fuming-acid corrosive?

Were you in under the folds
Of the welcoming, white-striped comforter
As we turned in after a perfectly pleasant day?
Waiting, still, in the dark
As I pulled the blankets up taught?
And just below my chin
As the cold sheets around me warmed
To stop the just-into-bed shivers?

Did you crawl up then as I dozed
And twist around my throat
To tighten slowly until I awoke in your grip?

Where ever you were hiding,
You got the drop on me.
You turned the tiny dim lights
That peek into the room at night
Into piercing lasers.

You amplified the tiniest odours
Into dizzying, eye-watering stenches.

You traded the rising-sun's rays
As they finally pierced the curtains
After my hours of sleepless discomfort
For a blasts of neutron-bomb radiation.

Worst of all
You stole the cool, soothing side of the pillow
Every time I managed to find it
Giving me instead a sickly, warm bundle of gorse.

Where were you, you little *******?
Where were you hiding?
Jared Klein Jan 2014
EDM
just let that ******* bass drop.

and throw in those lights as well.
definitley some smoke.
lasers too.
maybe a few LED screens.
or ten.
or twenty.
or just one that fills the entire stage.
that's cool i guess.
paid a **** ton of money.
i want a ******* trip.

i want my ears to ring.
her *** to bounce.
fifty thousand fists to pump.
in perfect unison.
like it means something.
those girls with fake flowers adorning their heads.
all of the bright, like a feast for the night.
the glitter. the paint.
the airborne cake.
.
.
like it means something.

this scene will continue to grow
because nobody knows
what it set out to do in the first place.
big lights and pop hooks.
small pills and good looks.
now you're one of us.
no knowledge required.
the music plays
without you
on stage.
deafen me.
defeat me.
alive.
this is what it means to be.
Glenn McCrary Mar 2012
Bedroom barriers

Radiate

Vintage idolatry


Pining protoplasms

Levitate

Wizardry


Nimble fusion peaks

Passion howls

Velvet vanity



In unison we touch

Multilateral we twine

A fluorescent collage

Lasers




© 2012 (All rights reserved)
Tee May 2019
Hold hands and dance together.
Open your mouths and sing in unison.
Blink and allow your tears to hit the soil.
Watch the sunset resemble a softer shade of crimson.

Shape shift and make funny faces.
Wide spread and cover any spaces between.
Draw streaks and form inedible cotton candy.
Make the ever changing weather patterns your creed.

Partner with the drum player.
Hire the trumpets as well as the whistles.
Throw in a bit of lights, some lasers too.
Gather a silent choir of particles, should I call it bristle.

Welcome the darkening sky.
Make way for the approaching moon.
Take long naps or read each other books.
All the while waiting again for the return of noon.
Creativity is a warm blanket.
This is about clouds.
Martin Narrod Oct 2015
shapes of yr many most favorite possessions
people looming in the lintel browsing through the pockets
yr posthumous stare chisels down the bark

280 & Alpine
taking out the post
east alto, west alto
sandwiches and snickers bars

let there be pizza
where beds happily move
and there are no swing sets or cell phones
let there be pizza
eighteen year olds swinging from the rooftops to the pool

no music played to remember it by
yr handlers are too many now
lost in the green lasers and spotlights

there are only two hands to make this memory
the quiet dark does not take it, new mouths do not take it
old words tearing off the night
"Be calm"-
I was laying flat in a bed.
My palms-
Shaking and my face is red.

Listening to looped white noise.
I had ping pong ***** taped to my eyes.
Red dot lasers pointed in the center of each.
The method we used to help me lucid dream.
Francie Lynch Nov 2014
Before air became gas
And water waste;
Before light became lasers
And fireworks cannons;
Before cars got wings
And trucks got tracks;
Before rafts were raiding ships
And we breathed underwater;
Before sticks were arrows and spears
And we exalted ourselves;
Before Empires rose and fell
And rose and fell,
A femur crushed Cro magnon's skull.
It's a marvel
How any of us
Are here
At all.
It’s a hot summer afternoon, perfect in every way,
A time to enjoy and relax, loll about and play.

But the afternoon’s long shadow of darkness makes it clear,
That for a particular group of students, disaster is near.

And this unfortunate bunch march into a hot class that noon,
With filled stomachs and eyes full of blissful slumber,
But still, there is a sense of impending doom in the air, and soon
The class will have to face up to a nightmare they fear.

Then at half past one a man walks in,
He smiles and says,“ good afternoon, class, lets begin!!”

The sir then starts his physics lecture,
Much to the students agony and dismay,
And while they curse and snarl silently like a mangled cur,
They wish they had never lived to see this day.

And in no time the teacher sends out a barrage,
Of “physics”, from lasers to parallel rays, characteristics of a coherent light source,
Reflection, Wein’s displacement, sinusoidal wavefronts and an electron’s charge,
He shouts his voice out till he goes hoarse.

I too, as part of that class, try,
To make sense of the gibberish spoken,
But its hopeless, I give up with a sigh,
I doubt his explanation could be understood by the smartest of men…

And in the sweltering heat of the afternoon, with the lecture being a bore,
The students just can’t listen to him, but can certainly do a lot more…

And within minutes of the lecture the class is in its own world,
Where life by quantum physics is not obscured…

Boys start throwing paper pellets at one another,
While mocking the teacher behind his back,
Meanwhile the girls giggle and nudge each other,
Laughing at the jokes they crack.

And oblivious to all that is going on around him,
The teacher goes on to say why the LEDs glow dim.

And I am caught, in a whirl,
Of various activities all around me,
And while I pen down a poem, think about my favorite girl,
I am amazed at the sight I do see…

The class becomes more and more unruly, falling apart,
And at a certain point it is too much and hence,
The sir stops talking about the critical value, and does start,
To take the class’s attendence.

No sooner is the roll call done that the herd stampedes out,
With many a push, a yell and a shout.

The same phenomena will occur again next week,
Isn’t it an example of college life at it’s peak?...
If you're ever part of secret government testing
or your irradiated with cosmic power
or you fall into a vat of mysteriously glowing chemicals
you don't get superpowers
you're not bulletproof
your spidey senses won't tingle
you won't be nine feet tall and made of stone
you won't move things with your mind
or tear your shirt when you get mad
no blades to snikt from your knuckles
no eye lasers
no supersonic screams

you'll get sick
lose all your hair
cough up blood
liver will fail
yellow skin
sunken eyes
Eventually you won't wake up
and maybe your girlfriend will cry.
dj May 2012
Me in my mirror, mirror 
A ghoulish sight.

Awkward skulk 
'A clay face'
As my nose says 
'A dog snout'
As my eyes would say

Skin like a shelter
For bacterial catacombs
Rising up from under like undead

Screaming inside
I press my face into the right morph
Re-bend the crooked nose
Self-correct the bloated chin
I layer on more clay, then
Mold it again.
Re-mold some more.
Slice some off; 
what am I now?

"Pretty." an ideal voice says 

*******,
My eyes are tired from staring
"They aren't lasers"
I tell myself
"They can't surgically correct you"

And So 
goes another night.
Sighs.
brea Mar 2013
Dream/wake
dr
  e
   a
    m
wake
suddenly
there's no difference
stand in front of a mirror
stare at your reflection
until nothing
means a thing
repeat your name
are you real?
is this real or
are you
s
  l
   e
    e
     p
       ing
sleeping?
ocean waves of oblivion
crash wash away
coherency
hollow chocolate bunny
mechanical robot toy
"big brother is watching"
Big brother
evil eyes
of microscopes
and lasers
wrap barbed wire around your chest
douse your eyes in chilli sauce
in desperation
to feel something
or anything
failed
sadly
you are
awake.
neth jones Nov 2022
my eyes are heady    **** bloating
                                       from within the sun
       white embellishment lasers out  
                  lending provision
     setting life   to the organic cog and clock
provoking muted growth  to retch a bloom
              leading
                                     ­ spending
                                                       ­         seeding

my tread  destroys nothing
each step    frictionless  
patterning little hovering eddies
                              a fraction above ground
minimal is my disruption
enough    only to promote a deeper observation
    tender fanning     of the life that i am fawning over

how to feel this spritely at all times ?   t'would be a spell
                                                 a fondled thing

         it’s from our night of shared tether
our infection threw out an extra pleasurable souvenir
it carried its energy    into the ensuing day

i am launched affection
beckoned     into the true employment of my surroundings
carrying my socks and shoes in one hand
and my heart?  it is a possession of the senses
i am truly led
i am emitting

— The End —