"machined" poems
I see her, sleek and black;
Proud machined perfection.
I imagine her power, throttling back,
Gears engaged for swift attack,
Ignoring society’s rejection.
Dark curves tempting, unsuspecting youth,
Lusting eagerly; her cold, dangerous, truth.
Mar 5, 2014
Mar 5, 2014 at 4:00 PM UTC
Even plastic collects dust
Bright fibres of pink become dull magentas
From the countless years and endless days of Still life Sharp lines and smooth contours of artistically machined plastic toys become fuzzy as hazy dust
Piles
Heaps
And overflows
From one
Single
Fact
Inactivity?
Unappreciated worth?
Discontent?
Laziness?
No
None of these
The dust collects
Piles
Heaps
Even overflows
From USELESSNESS
The things that the dust is attracted to
That the dust clings to
Are the things that in comparison to the things that are imparitive to our existance and our health
Are useless
Are plastic
Nov 23, 2014
Nov 23, 2014 at 5:34 PM UTC
It started as a puncture,
but the seam slowly ripped;
a thimble can't protect
from a poison needle tip.
She tried to mend it
by making more holes;
the tear only grew
and grew out of control.
At the spinning wheel
her life would quickly dwindle;
frantic attempts to hem
were depleting the spindle.
What started as a puncture
of seductive sedation
fueled the abuse
of machined perforation.
"Don't mourn a living corpse"
were the last words she said
as she drew the needle
that held the last thread.
Jan 21, 2017
Jan 21, 2017 at 10:56 PM UTC
Our bare, brief escape begins at the dance.
Steaming, smoking animals moving chance
that this ***** dancehall can yield loving.
Drug crazed pickers rev up their machined
Six string-ed orchestral Gibson guitars;
Yow! All the hipsters are making the scene
just now arrived in their late models cars.
Adults aping adolescents boldy down
drinks, belch bad beer and sweetly perspire
while you seething, hot and so sensuous
put my hand to your breast showing your fire.
Baby let's dance! Let's have our fun!!
Our brief escape has just begun.
Apr 25, 2015
Apr 25, 2015 at 2:19 PM UTC
is this craft
that chose you,
not defined by millimeters,
precision absolute,
curvatures, so eye pleasing
they demonstrate
no tolerance
for tolerance
of the
ordinary
the skill of words,
too, cut so fine,
find the
extraordinary within,
refine, refine, refine,
shave away the trite,
the reused, discard,
instant recognition,
unusable
cut new cuts,
thy spirit tolling,
thy soul trolling
anew
is thy
toolings earth sourced
from and of the
ever better,
ever closer,
always newer
make thy own designs,
faithfully execute
the new born original,
by elevating,
with the tools
in you, provide us,
by illuminating
no thing machined,
can ever be as fine
as the originality
that requires
soft spoken definition
in new ways,
heart and hand
guild crafted
when God designed the Connecticut
autumnal leaves,
overriding the summers's single green, good
but not miraculous, insufficient,
when contrasted with the
shades of red, yellow,
purple, black, orange, pink,
magenta, blue and brown
of newly fallen
words and worlds
in the season of change
write me a tool
so elegant, so complex,
so refined and yet so simple,
that its point will force no choice,
but engrave gasps of pleasure upon
my faltering eyes,
my slowing heart,
my exhausted limbs,
and make me
live again
through your
finest creativity
heat heat heat
burn to look beyond
Nov 23, 2014
Nov 23, 2014 at 9:38 AM UTC
Seven years I lived my life, fading from reality. Crossing into machinery. Robotics with which I am so unfamiliar. Machined, greased, lubricated parts. Built with a purpose. A meaningless purpose. Destined for failure.
A broken down machine I stand. Sit. Lay. Run. Work. Play. Slide. Cursed and wretched as the demons which haunt the dreams of the fallen. I rise above. Skyrocketing through reason. Through the seventh layer of Heaven and Hell. On a false sense of cloud nine I currently float…awaiting the plummet.
Its falling away from me. I sail through a shattered sea of broken glass. I closed my eyes and the tears could not flow. Blocked by my eyelids, restricting emotion. After all of this, I am amazed. The wall could be broken. Forgotten faded memories of which I have no say.
Of past. Of present. Of gifts. Of futures. Of lists. Lists of black. Hit lists in my head. I live in my head. I am not what I wish. I am what I’m not. I am what I dream. A scream. A cry. Laying here, blank as the page on which I cannot create a scene. A scene behind my eyes, yet I cannot attain it on paper. These words flow meaninglessly, but not slow.
Daedalus, Icarus, Thrice. Three times I roam. Randomized plains of thought, laid out on a digital page. Keys, not a pen. Ones and Zeros, not ink. Screens, not pages. Neat, not sloppy…yet my words do not understand one another… nor do I….
If we make the mainland, this song would not be made. Epic beauty, formed through misfortune and tragedy. Oh son…I beg you…keep a steady wing. For you are the only one who means anything to me. My wings are made of melting, shredding, fading elements. The sun, heating, lighting, someday dying. I understand that nothing is as it may seem. Nor is any seam as true as the seamstress believed. The Gods did not take the only thing which meant anything to you, father of legend. Your son is not dead…only afire. Acquired by the forces you believed to be merciful.
Feb 8, 2012
Feb 8, 2012 at 9:22 PM UTC
I never mastered the grind.
That won every girls affection.
I guess it's really quite difficult.
When you become your own deflection.
Once I was that nineteen year old.
Drunk and disorderly.
Grinding on your back.
You got bored of me.
Sure its fun - for both it seems.
Sometimes it's a horrid match.
A silly game with an undefined winner.
Sometimes it's all you need to land your catch.
But as you grow you see things clearly.
The smoke machined air thins and the lights begin to brighten.
You see the complexity of your dilemma.
You've assumed you'd get it all - what a great big error.
You want the beauty you've desired night long.
But you've gone about it all wrong.
You want the companion most never find.
But will she see it or remain blind.
It seems one is possible.
Where do I go to be one whole person?
Aug 8, 2015
Aug 8, 2015 at 1:16 PM UTC
often I feel like a girl
sometimes beautiful, always insecure
listening, talking, crying
forced to write this kind of thing
often I feel like a boy
for if I was smart, you call me nerd
for if I can throw your books in the dump, you call me cool
trying so hard to be strong, to be accepted
often I feel like a girl
pretty in pink, you’d say you’d ‘tap that’
but then
have you really been inside a real girl
often I feel like a boy
whose voice you've never heard
only the shrieks when you lock me on the locker room
I never ******* asked, to enter in this asylum
often I feel like a bird
trapped in this four walls
obligated, machined, regulated
to which they say the best four years of our lives
Jan 2, 2014
Jan 2, 2014 at 5:48 AM UTC
*Inspiration pretty much finds you
even when you walk outside
to await the newspaper.*
A summer poem for a winter's day.
___
morning slow sleep walking,
reviewing my
evening sleep attire,
am I appropriately dressed,
to publicly receive
the somber weekend
Wall Street Journal?
which is hopefully waiting for
my rational embrace
where
the driveway meets the road.
as I walk, I note the:
seamed stitching
on my shirt,
a series of
crisscrossed stitches,
pattern of acute angles
stitched in Thailand,
or perhaps Bangladesh,
and when machined,
did the seamstress dream that
with a single blink,
dream metamorphosis
stitches become
crisscrossed out entries
in the diary,
that I don't keep,
the notations naked and rendered,
I don't want you
to know about,
so scratched into oblivion
but in a orderly fashion
before spilling them freely
to any misfortunate innocent Joe,
nice enough to ask me,
how ya doing...
impatiently waiting on a country road
for recycled newsprint
impressed into the service of the
Canadian Pulp Navy
a paper mache arrival overdue
via a technology of delivery
some what quaint, a photo dated
impish young boy
upon bicycle,
with angel wings
who when he passes,
winks at me, seeing my impatience,
(his cheek delighting my cheeks!)
and with robust throw, salutes,
Mission Accomplished.
as I wait
the muses attack,
a formation of
no-see-ums insects bite
ruminations brain-inserted
war correspondents now embedded,
a fifth column
to betray me
and I wonder about:
newspaper printed words
stale seconds before
they are writ,
which makes think
about time,
about making plans,
to do lists,
about how fast my coffee cools,
about how slow my skin colors,
About the first time I put words
about doubt & certainty
on paper
summoning up the courage
to look foolish and
how great it felt,
at the time.
**I fresh slap realize
these "poems"
are my diary,**
so for the record,
let it be duly recorded,
the paperboy delivers to me
the New York Times,
in error,
a cosmic sign
that this is where this
deuce minute walk
into the mind of a gnat,
should randomly end,
and be
crisscrossed into
oblivion.
summer 2012
Jan 21, 2014
Jan 21, 2014 at 12:16 PM UTC
Weaving itself, the dream-spider:
I see an aged man
(Wearing his evening time-machined body,)
Walking,
Traipsing upon the jogging track
At a pace which nature observes.
His frame battered,
Pummeled by age's indignation—
Of youth's battle lost.
His mowed grass-like hair showcasing
a white hue patented by age's theme of perseverance.
Beholden to years which he beheld.
His suspenders holding matter elegantly
Despite the invisible mass adhered to his layers
Excreted by years matured;
Increasing his gravity
Making him denser, heavier;
Decreeing excess energy.
Yet he obliges with his compromised gait
in reiterating verbs of motion.
Taking twice as much time to complete a revolution,
Taking twice as much
As his yesteryears.
In a witness's capacity, I relay:
Everything is a disciple of change,
But your energy...
Your energy remains as the constant
to the proportionality of age and will.
Mar 22, 2019
Mar 22, 2019 at 5:33 AM UTC
Imagine
a chimpish, greasy teenage boy sprawled out diagonally
on a boring
sea-foam living room couch,
And he’s just staring
at an old television set, trimmed with brown veneer.
The glossy bubble’s pixels don’t move, but their colors change
like a Chameleon, mixing in the infinite palette, creating the illusion of the program.
And the flat, piercing bad speakers,
from their machined gills are humming, whispering eternal frequencies
But he is staring,
just staring,
with blank eyes.
May 7, 2013
May 7, 2013 at 5:19 PM UTC
Yeah, come over for dinner
It had been such a long time
Since I had seen other people
I have been a creature of solitude
These past months and I had
Wrestled in my mind with
Death and the fire
I was restless I guess
Not nervous
As I knock on the door
Your wife answers
She's hardly past twenty
Her hair is red and blue eyes
I could die there on the doorstep
But I enter and tell jokes
It is easy to make her laugh
I think She had
a glass of wine
before I arrived
You and I talk about
Nothing in particular
You play music and
I sit on the carpet smoking
a ciggarette
as your wife
picks up
my glass
and fills it to the brim
it has been a long time
since
Her shirt
came up the slightest bit
then suddenly the room
is smaller
and you pass me the pipe
Your wife sits across from me
I can't help but watch her breathe
The inhale is exquisite
Machined so perfectly
Nov 24, 2012
Nov 24, 2012 at 4:12 PM UTC
I need a gun.
It is my first waking thought.
But it is very dark here.
I bang my naked knee on something hard.
The armoury is this way. I think?
My palms touch, rub, smooth bare metal.
And then a switch.
Light blinds me more than the darkness before.
I am bleeding.
My skin is raw.
The armoury door is locked.
And the lock is oiled with anothers blood,
and flakes of a different kind of skin.
Inside it's warm.
Machined weapons hold no animosity.
My choice is slick, almost pretty but I need a glove to hold her in check.
In pastures green, I have been led.
I have lain me down by still waters.
There was no rod and no staff to comfort me.
But I have a gun now.
And a glove to hold her in check.
My raw and naked skin will pass you by.
My blood shall make rainbows in your peaceful waters.
Apr 26, 2012
Apr 26, 2012 at 6:08 PM UTC
Times Gal
Give it back she demanded
He took the small barrel
Off the table of her 22 pistol
Saturday Night Killer being cleaned
Or it wouldn't fire as *****
This gal was bad ***
All the effing way
She cut the metal tips
Off the 9mm slugs
Making them dum dum bullets
Took your face off
A mess like a 22 slug
Tho laughed at lethal
Like the small gal
He put the barrel back
It was well machined
She smiled and assembled the gun
Time to work later
Aug 31, 2023
Aug 31, 2023 at 11:37 PM UTC
like lonely grass reduced to PGA lengths
hemmed in by white paving
like wild flowers in raised sleeper beds
out of reach of more fertile fields
like black-birds nesting in machined-tooled boxes
out of sight of the forest
like polar bears in a child-infested zoo
missing their glacial quiet
like a killer whale peering through glass
at knitting grandmothers
like a 58 year old man tethered to the white light of his next zoom call
while the sun breaks through a crack in his bedroom blinds
- we were made for more than this
Aug 13, 2021
Aug 13, 2021 at 4:41 PM UTC
We never really did ask for you,
Souped up cars and ****** up avenues.
Shivers down your spine, over fined for the damage done.
Pay up. The greater good needs your wallet son.
******** parkour, running in the streets off,
The roundabout where a couple broke each others lease on,
Life. There ain't no harder calmer man who's fighting.
The parents he believed in, smoked out the lighting.
How could there ever live a guy who's fighting for the personal right to call himself his family that's split across the world.
Divided, the house cannot stand.
Invited to the worldwide plan to forget, integrate and live inside a computer world.
Nevermore to care, the raven leaves the planet earth to find a people who can feel for something other than themselves.
Singing little nightingale, posted in a video warns users, but his language of the heart doesn't sell.
Candid, Sanded and machined to a polish.
Words spread like a bacteria.
Myriad.
Your dearly sad.
I couldn't help but notice the monster I created. Monster see, Monster do. Promise you a monster too.
Snowy hills and lonely peaks, to 7 every day of the week.
It's cold to you. It's hard to you.
**** a little animal too relieve yourself.
Believe yourself, it should evolve to defend itself.
Softer hearts grow distant.
My parents wonder where I am?
I'm well enough, without a friend.
Better to observe than pretend. To be anything but what I am.
Confused about where I am.
You couldn't see beyond the brush.
Merry-go-around-the-bush-with-him-you-found-on-Tinder.
Forget that we ever said I love you.
Mar 1, 2019
Mar 1, 2019 at 6:33 AM UTC
From the cloisters
the moonlight created shadows
across the garth,
a monk pulled
the cloister bell
for supper,
Dio è vicino
e lontano
the Italian monk
said to me
in the workshop
repairing a chair,
Dom Charles took an apple
from the tree
and twisted it just so
it came away
in his hand
and he rubbed it
against his black habit
to a shine and said
that's how it is done,
Dom George machined
the habit seam
as I watched
his tonsured head
shone in
the overhead lamp,
le opere che si fanno
possono essere l'unico
sermone alcune persone
si sente oggi
Francesco d'Assisi said
so I read,
I take my place
in the refectory
stand there
waiting for grace
to begin
studying the wooden floor
and how the overhead lights
shone there,
hoc autem qui parce
seminat parce
et metet et qui
seminat in benedictionibus
et metet
Paul of Tarsus said
Dom Joe told me,
who sows little
reaps little
whoever sows much
shall reap much
I mused,
orange bricks
browny black
in moonlight,
bell tolled
against evening sky,
I walked the cloister
wondering why.
Jan 4, 2017
Jan 4, 2017 at 3:55 AM UTC
caught between screens
like a rock and a hard place
laced with beams of green,
the command line screams into
dark color schemes that maintain
a clean theme of extreme
control
in a world lacking
whoami
to say sudo i'm
just the pseudo-king of
all the pings
i see'em sing ICMP but
the ether stream contains
more than pings,
no it flings about
all the things modernity
can't think without
like some machined spring
spewing strings
made up of
every dream we need
fresh from the
version-controlled source
the click clack of
mechanical keys on
a thick black
switch-backed board
in tic tac mint condition
is the sound of
strict syntax enforced,
if there's a problem
you fix that,
else the big bad bugs
will kick back with
sick bags of tricks
that make you
wish that there was better
logging for life's mistakes
Sep 19, 2020
Sep 19, 2020 at 11:51 PM UTC
the machined being
control or be so
manufacture hope
the machined being
plastic or be so
molded misanthropes
the machined being
alone or at home
the phone doesn't know
the machined being
control or be so
fight or let go
finish or fold
at the cold feet of time
father might have met his match
Dec 23, 2019
Dec 23, 2019 at 5:11 PM UTC