"marts" poems - Hello Poetry

what is this mind that was given to me that is able to see things i print on screen with my digital zip drive of a brain that is stuck inside a laptop main frame, ******* server uploading and crashing sending pings and things to hackers who perform doss attacks and web cracks and serial cracks while eating cereal going over javascript material program landslide juno got bit by emails and other technical software jargin computer guy got the blue screen of death corruption on the web the spider metacrawling and setting it on angelfire i google the facebook twitter and hot wire my car on the trader the wall street journal and the white house, **** sites and white owls, getting arrested and being hired by the government, the money's spent, criminal punishment, in cells locked up no breakfast but lunch under the crack of a door inside ur naked *** on irc chat, the warez rat, pirates on bays and whispers from kittens, brown paper packages exploding a smidgeon, binary, metamorphosis, code program gold, warning anti virus and spywares, baghdad to china, spy on private, eyes on cameras, cell phones like trackers, global position mappers, predator drones, video games, nfl madden, mad men, and happy wal marts, hacking wal mart, with social engineers, traveling the silk road with a cloak ip address revoked

0

May 26, 2013

May 26, 2013 at 4:15 AM UTC

b-3

The Silk Engineer

what is this mind that was given to me that is able to see things i print on screen with my digital zip drive of a brain that is stuck inside a laptop main frame, ******* server uploading and crashing sending pings and things to hackers who perform doss attacks and web cracks and serial cracks while eating cereal going over javascript material program landslide juno got bit by emails and other technical software jargin computer guy got the blue screen of death corruption on the web the spider metacrawling and setting it on angelfire i google the facebook twitter and hot wire my car on the trader the wall street journal and the white house, **** sites and white owls, getting arrested and being hired by the government, the money's spent, criminal punishment, in cells locked up no breakfast but lunch under the crack of a door inside ur naked *** on irc chat, the warez rat, pirates on bays and whispers from kittens, brown paper packages exploding a smidgeon, binary, metamorphosis, code program gold, warning anti virus and spywares, baghdad to china, spy on private, eyes on cameras, cell phones like trackers, global position mappers, predator drones, video games, nfl madden, mad men, and happy wal marts, hacking wal mart, with social engineers, traveling the silk road with a cloak ip address revoked

1

my love brought me tranquility. my love bought me tranquility, in a Manhattan bodega. late at night in my city, everything is for sale where least expected in mini marts, local delis, greek coffee shops, spanish bodegas pizza parlors, hardware stores, all selling salves for late night salvation purveyors of differential equations of differing soulful sustenances, certain imports that will probably never be for sale in Walmart after midnight all, readily available, twenty four seven in my miracle Manhattan heaven My woman, mapper of the byways of my ****** landmarks worn broad~ways, his-toric foot trails of tears, lines of laughters, even a purported dimple I call a crevasse. a sole survivor of a mother's birthing skill marker, duly recorded by her upon my visage, in my miracle Manhattan She knows, as do some of youse guys, that my poetry is water born(e) and water soluble, but Peconic Bay always ain't right handy, so bring on a substitute teacher, a hot bath, helps me to enunciate my verbal visitations my love brought me tranquility. my love bought me tranquility in a Manhattan bodega. pour the aromatherapy, my love brought me for inspiration into and upon my liquid writing table, "Tranquility," a summer garden aroma It soothes my bad memories, the herbs salve accursed ancient wounds that will never ever fully heal or be forgiven my love brought me tranquility. my graces restored, this poem offered in grateful appreciation with unlimited adoration, something, maybe even the very one thing **that can't be bought, even, in my miracle Manhattan**

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Jan 30, 2014

Jan 30, 2014 at 12:44 AM UTC

nat-lipstadt

my love brought me tranquility

my love brought me tranquility. my love bought me tranquility, in a Manhattan bodega. late at night in my city, everything is for sale where least expected in mini marts, local delis, greek coffee shops, spanish bodegas pizza parlors, hardware stores, all selling salves for late night salvation purveyors of differential equations of differing soulful sustenances, certain imports that will probably never be for sale in Walmart after midnight all, readily available, twenty four seven in my miracle Manhattan heaven My woman, mapper of the byways of my ****** landmarks worn broad~ways, his-toric foot trails of tears, lines of laughters, even a purported dimple I call a crevasse. a sole survivor of a mother's birthing skill marker, duly recorded by her upon my visage, in my miracle Manhattan She knows, as do some of youse guys, that my poetry is water born(e) and water soluble, but Peconic Bay always ain't right handy, so bring on a substitute teacher, a hot bath, helps me to enunciate my verbal visitations my love brought me tranquility. my love bought me tranquility in a Manhattan bodega. pour the aromatherapy, my love brought me for inspiration into and upon my liquid writing table, "Tranquility," a summer garden aroma It soothes my bad memories, the herbs salve accursed ancient wounds that will never ever fully heal or be forgiven my love brought me tranquility. my graces restored, this poem offered in grateful appreciation with unlimited adoration, something, maybe even the very one thing **that can't be bought, even, in my miracle Manhattan**

75

ant infested arm chairs folding accordian hardwoods seas of soiled laundry littered about tomorrow i'll hand off my birthday in a bag to the neighbors, someone may as well make a cent or two off my quarter of a century on this earth the whole block talks **** about us in spanish, quiero decirles que entiendo, but instead, i smoke bowls on the porch and laugh at their corruption and convinction over a couple of twenty somethings who like to have a good time a little too much i imagine them lining the streets with pitch forks and torches, yelling to us, escuche perras, su tiempo ha venido, instead the neighborhood committee knocks on the door at four pm interrupting my six hours of vommiting, i stumble down the stairway bra-less, brazen, and baited, waiting for the moment to say, we'll be gone july first funny how families are cool with drug front pyramid marts, but birthday parties seem to have no place here

0

Jun 24, 2013

Jun 24, 2013 at 12:18 AM UTC

quinn

feliz cumpleanos

ant infested arm chairs folding accordian hardwoods seas of soiled laundry littered about tomorrow i'll hand off my birthday in a bag to the neighbors, someone may as well make a cent or two off my quarter of a century on this earth the whole block talks **** about us in spanish, quiero decirles que entiendo, but instead, i smoke bowls on the porch and laugh at their corruption and convinction over a couple of twenty somethings who like to have a good time a little too much i imagine them lining the streets with pitch forks and torches, yelling to us, escuche perras, su tiempo ha venido, instead the neighborhood committee knocks on the door at four pm interrupting my six hours of vommiting, i stumble down the stairway bra-less, brazen, and baited, waiting for the moment to say, we'll be gone july first funny how families are cool with drug front pyramid marts, but birthday parties seem to have no place here

25

It is here that broken memories find their home. Divorced from the nests they have made in our chests, sinking talons into hearts and clogging our veins like the junk from a million Wal-Marts. The air hangs like flypaper, catching every breath like a moment in time. Every foot falls on crust and grime and used needles. The colors are faint but still bursting with life, pastel shades of peeled paint. There's a girl with antelope antlers and a man with a lobster head, A lobster made completely of whole-wheat sliced bread. There's freaks of every size and shape abominations of every description but for a surrealist, these thoughts are our prescription.

0

Dec 15, 2014

Dec 15, 2014 at 2:06 AM UTC

spencer-dennison

Inside the Melting Clock

It is here that broken memories find their home. Divorced from the nests they have made in our chests, sinking talons into hearts and clogging our veins like the junk from a million Wal-Marts. The air hangs like flypaper, catching every breath like a moment in time. Every foot falls on crust and grime and used needles. The colors are faint but still bursting with life, pastel shades of peeled paint. There's a girl with antelope antlers and a man with a lobster head, A lobster made completely of whole-wheat sliced bread. There's freaks of every size and shape abominations of every description but for a surrealist, these thoughts are our prescription.

23

(Type in “Robert Frost”) Whose woods these are, I have no clue. I should be in Kalamazoo; I made a left instead of right And saw Costco and a J. Crew. My GPS must think it strange That my cell phone is out of range. I’m already late but I don’t care; Once again, my plans will change. I know that I’ve made a mistake. I’ve passed two Sears, a Steak-n-Shake, three Wal-Marts, and a Lowe’s or two, A small bread shop that smelled of cake. I drive and drive in my red Jeep. I pass a farm and start to weep. The only things I see are sheep. The only things I see are sheep.

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Nov 24, 2011

Nov 24, 2011 at 1:11 AM UTC

sarah-bishop

GPS

(Type in “Robert Frost”) Whose woods these are, I have no clue. I should be in Kalamazoo; I made a left instead of right And saw Costco and a J. Crew. My GPS must think it strange That my cell phone is out of range. I’m already late but I don’t care; Once again, my plans will change. I know that I’ve made a mistake. I’ve passed two Sears, a Steak-n-Shake, three Wal-Marts, and a Lowe’s or two, A small bread shop that smelled of cake. I drive and drive in my red Jeep. I pass a farm and start to weep. The only things I see are sheep. The only things I see are sheep.

17

Tårerne falder og maler gulvet sort ligesom den blanke kaffe jeg spejler mig i. Jeg ser din månehvide hud alt imens natkanonen sender toner blå, af melankoli gennem mine årer og bider sig fast på min krogede rygsøjle og jeg kan mærke mine lunger. Synet af dig skærer i mine blå øjne Jeg tænker tilbage på tiden med dådyrøjne og cashmerehjerter. Nu har vi kun reptilblikke og vinylindre. Omridset af dit ansigt har jeg glemt og jeg famler hjælpeløs i tågen for at nå dine krystalgrå hænder med farer for at blive spist af fortrængelsen. Åh. Jeg husker din pastelhud og dine øjne som lilla ferskner. Duften var som jorden selv. Du smagte af knuste drømme og hypotetiske realiteter. Jeg tænker på dig, så stille som en marts nat. Du er så smuk Især når du er stille. 'Men hvad ved jeg også om det?' Platonisk kærlighed. Jeg har allerede fortrudt min tanke og ønsket om at vende om, sætter sig som glasskår i mine øjne. Måske er du noget jeg har fundet på? Mine kinder bløder og stjernerne danser røde og blå. Lysår væk.

0

Jan 2, 2015

Jan 2, 2015 at 1:43 PM UTC

emilie-vedel-hagelskjr

Natkanon

Tårerne falder og maler gulvet sort ligesom den blanke kaffe jeg spejler mig i. Jeg ser din månehvide hud alt imens natkanonen sender toner blå, af melankoli gennem mine årer og bider sig fast på min krogede rygsøjle og jeg kan mærke mine lunger. Synet af dig skærer i mine blå øjne Jeg tænker tilbage på tiden med dådyrøjne og cashmerehjerter. Nu har vi kun reptilblikke og vinylindre. Omridset af dit ansigt har jeg glemt og jeg famler hjælpeløs i tågen for at nå dine krystalgrå hænder med farer for at blive spist af fortrængelsen. Åh. Jeg husker din pastelhud og dine øjne som lilla ferskner. Duften var som jorden selv. Du smagte af knuste drømme og hypotetiske realiteter. Jeg tænker på dig, så stille som en marts nat. Du er så smuk Især når du er stille. 'Men hvad ved jeg også om det?' Platonisk kærlighed. Jeg har allerede fortrudt min tanke og ønsket om at vende om, sætter sig som glasskår i mine øjne. Måske er du noget jeg har fundet på? Mine kinder bløder og stjernerne danser røde og blå. Lysår væk.

34

Dit navn smager af efterår, og dine læber udstråler sommer Din glød viser forår, mens dit hår er formet som vinter Dine øjenvipper mod min kind er august, og dine fingerspidser er februar Dine fregner er juni og dine øjne er klart oktober Dine blodårer er marts, men dit hjerte er maj Din hud er januar, og dit smil er juli og de lidt for tydelige kraveben er da helt sikkert april Linjerne i dine hænder er september, og de sorte rander om øjnene minder mig om november og nu forstår du vel, at jeg ikke kan svare på, hvilken af månederne der er min yndlings.

0

Sep 29, 2014

Sep 29, 2014 at 2:13 PM UTC

nanna-gregersen

Den måned jeg aldrig for

Dit navn smager af efterår, og dine læber udstråler sommer Din glød viser forår, mens dit hår er formet som vinter Dine øjenvipper mod min kind er august, og dine fingerspidser er februar Dine fregner er juni og dine øjne er klart oktober Dine blodårer er marts, men dit hjerte er maj Din hud er januar, og dit smil er juli og de lidt for tydelige kraveben er da helt sikkert april Linjerne i dine hænder er september, og de sorte rander om øjnene minder mig om november og nu forstår du vel, at jeg ikke kan svare på, hvilken af månederne der er min yndlings.

8

Jeg overværede din samtale med satan I skændtes, ikke sandt? Handlede det om det støv i skuffen? Du var stille som marts nat og ville aldrig fortælle hvor det kom fra Jeg vidste godt det kom fra mordet på englen For det rykkede i mine ribben da englen gik bort og mine knogler blev til mel Du rev mit tøj af samme nat Din hånd lagde sig over min mund Jeg ville skrige men nu var begge hænder over min mund syet fast med små sting

0

Nov 7, 2014

Nov 7, 2014 at 3:14 AM UTC

frederikke-hyldgaard

Engle

Jeg overværede din samtale med satan I skændtes, ikke sandt? Handlede det om det støv i skuffen? Du var stille som marts nat og ville aldrig fortælle hvor det kom fra Jeg vidste godt det kom fra mordet på englen For det rykkede i mine ribben da englen gik bort og mine knogler blev til mel Du rev mit tøj af samme nat Din hånd lagde sig over min mund Jeg ville skrige men nu var begge hænder over min mund syet fast med små sting

9

gode veninder der snakker løs om liv og død om kærlighed og fester om glæde og sorg på en kold marts aften hvor vi begge havde lyst til at drikke rødvin jeg ved at du er den eneste jeg kan regne med vinden blæser i dit sorte hår og dine store øjne betragter mig mens jeg snakker du lytter en rød flaske papvin og **** cigaretter senere ligger vi begge i vores senge og tænker og jeg ved at du tænker i samme baner som jeg om liv og død om kærlighed og fester om glæde og sorg og jeg ved at vi begge vil sove trygt for rødvinen har bedøvet os og røgen har fyldt vores sorte lunger op og vi har hinanden for gode veninder de snakker løs

0

Mar 16, 2015

Mar 16, 2015 at 5:06 PM UTC

ungdomspoet

mandag

gode veninder der snakker løs om liv og død om kærlighed og fester om glæde og sorg på en kold marts aften hvor vi begge havde lyst til at drikke rødvin jeg ved at du er den eneste jeg kan regne med vinden blæser i dit sorte hår og dine store øjne betragter mig mens jeg snakker du lytter en rød flaske papvin og **** cigaretter senere ligger vi begge i vores senge og tænker og jeg ved at du tænker i samme baner som jeg om liv og død om kærlighed og fester om glæde og sorg og jeg ved at vi begge vil sove trygt for rødvinen har bedøvet os og røgen har fyldt vores sorte lunger op og vi har hinanden for gode veninder de snakker løs

22

min næsetip er ikke længere kold vi takker og griner og jeg ryster, fyldt med følelser nu er det endelig forår, på kalenderen og ikke mindst i tankerne, i samtalen den glødende varme af lettelse, af akavethed, af tilgivelse og nye begyndelser mine mange vinterjakker fylder for meget til vores skab hænger over stolen dit glas er blevet erstattet og du står egenhændigt og grundlæggende stærkt det kræver mod og styrke at være sårbar følelserne, dokumenterede og udprintede og highlightede endelig endelig endelig boblende forår sjette marts. tiende marts glade dage, lune dage

0

Mar 10, 2016

Mar 10, 2016 at 12:48 PM UTC

en-anonym-skikkelse

lunt

min næsetip er ikke længere kold vi takker og griner og jeg ryster, fyldt med følelser nu er det endelig forår, på kalenderen og ikke mindst i tankerne, i samtalen den glødende varme af lettelse, af akavethed, af tilgivelse og nye begyndelser mine mange vinterjakker fylder for meget til vores skab hænger over stolen dit glas er blevet erstattet og du står egenhændigt og grundlæggende stærkt det kræver mod og styrke at være sårbar følelserne, dokumenterede og udprintede og highlightede endelig endelig endelig boblende forår sjette marts. tiende marts glade dage, lune dage

14

Of course the town's not the same anymore, they've painted the monuments gold and they tore down the church doors, kicked out the old ****** the hobo, the wino, the addicts, picked up the pimps and sent them to death row, shot down in flames every side show that decided to show, closed all the cinemas, the mini marts, the sisters of mercy and donated their hearts to a third world charity, the pawn shops, the **** shops, the born again brigades, the renegades were rounded up or hunted down, the old town is not the same anymore, They've by-passed the underpass with an overpass and no one sleeps under a by-pass unless they're under the influence of alcohol which is no defence in courts of law which were privatised to become the eyes of Lords and Ladies who see us as running dogs mad with rabies or scurvy and the town's all topsy-turvy, it's all a bit Enid Blyton which is right on the nose for those in the know and those not in the know don't know and care even less unless they're the hunted ones , the ones shunted off to a dumping ground, silenced by the sound of the sound of it all. I'll fall too, the town's not the same anymore, it's new and I don't like it, but I'm open to persuasion.

0

May 22, 2015

May 22, 2015 at 4:37 AM UTC

john-edward-smallshaw

Setting the pace

Of course the town's not the same anymore, they've painted the monuments gold and they tore down the church doors, kicked out the old ****** the hobo, the wino, the addicts, picked up the pimps and sent them to death row, shot down in flames every side show that decided to show, closed all the cinemas, the mini marts, the sisters of mercy and donated their hearts to a third world charity, the pawn shops, the **** shops, the born again brigades, the renegades were rounded up or hunted down, the old town is not the same anymore, They've by-passed the underpass with an overpass and no one sleeps under a by-pass unless they're under the influence of alcohol which is no defence in courts of law which were privatised to become the eyes of Lords and Ladies who see us as running dogs mad with rabies or scurvy and the town's all topsy-turvy, it's all a bit Enid Blyton which is right on the nose for those in the know and those not in the know don't know and care even less unless they're the hunted ones , the ones shunted off to a dumping ground, silenced by the sound of the sound of it all. I'll fall too, the town's not the same anymore, it's new and I don't like it, but I'm open to persuasion.

6

Your all conquering charms weaves its magic in hearts Your beauty oozes from dress showing grace of parts Sun and moon carry, follow your encompassing charts Your smart actions of love is celebrated in all the marts My love see you in all your graces, charm in real prime Your beauty is celebrated everywhere in place and time Your glowing cheeks and juicy lips instigate me to crime Your innocence is style which communicates pantomime Let me taste eternal divine wine from your juicy red lips Through your beauty my heart aspires very many trips I am so enthralled that your graces are on my finger tips As a romantic poet I owe you me, all my love manuscripts Col Muhammad Khalid Khan Copyright 2016 Golden Glow

0

Jun 30, 2016

Jun 30, 2016 at 3:34 AM UTC

col-muhammad-khalid-khan

Love Manuscripts

Your all conquering charms weaves its magic in hearts Your beauty oozes from dress showing grace of parts Sun and moon carry, follow your encompassing charts Your smart actions of love is celebrated in all the marts My love see you in all your graces, charm in real prime Your beauty is celebrated everywhere in place and time Your glowing cheeks and juicy lips instigate me to crime Your innocence is style which communicates pantomime Let me taste eternal divine wine from your juicy red lips Through your beauty my heart aspires very many trips I am so enthralled that your graces are on my finger tips As a romantic poet I owe you me, all my love manuscripts Col Muhammad Khalid Khan Copyright 2016 Golden Glow

14

People’s rhymes sold in auctions, please take caution Of the window washing smileys panhandling toxins Give no option, moshing many minerals Cocktail parties are more hardy maybe visceral Rock the mini marts when the boys tumble out To cull clerks hurtin’ in no cocktail lounge Shout outs as loud as the whole neighborhood Mounds of scatter chips blitz grub to scrounge Shout out to the clerk, sorry we’re super drunk How bout not being a dupe or **** you entertainment monks Who’d of thunk these the spunky thinkers of tomorrow

0

Jul 1, 2017

Jul 1, 2017 at 1:07 PM UTC

RavenQuill

Auctions

People’s rhymes sold in auctions, please take caution Of the window washing smileys panhandling toxins Give no option, moshing many minerals Cocktail parties are more hardy maybe visceral Rock the mini marts when the boys tumble out To cull clerks hurtin’ in no cocktail lounge Shout outs as loud as the whole neighborhood Mounds of scatter chips blitz grub to scrounge Shout out to the clerk, sorry we’re super drunk How bout not being a dupe or **** you entertainment monks Who’d of thunk these the spunky thinkers of tomorrow

11

The other day my cousin Mabel She said to me Mike I ain't never seen Nothing before like your poetry Cuz, you need to be famous We're going to take this on the road We're going to knock down some doors We're going to make some heads explode She said I know this feller He's going to do good by you He's one of them there agents of sorts He'll put you in the news Right then and there she called up Bubba Who believe me, didn't come cheap Wanting all the money up front If he was to represent me So I handed over all my doe And now that's where we are On a whirlwind of a tour Of America's Super Wal-Marts He even had me a bunch Of my poetry books printed out I think that they're in English But I still have my doubts That's okay cause most here Prefer not to read And Bubba had his kid draw in some pictures Which seems about all they need They ask if I'm famous I come back with a lie Ever hear of Jeff Foxworthy? Well I know that guy That's when the book sales took off Like history in the making I told Bubba to buy his son more crayons We're going to need more illustrations Yes this being a famous poet Seems to really suit me Tomorrow we're going to set up a stand Outside of Denny's We'll be hitting the breakfast crowd Right on up through lunch So move over fame your in my spot Just call it a hunch

0

Jun 15, 2014

Jun 15, 2014 at 5:24 PM UTC

mike-hauser

Book Tour ~AKA~ Fame Move Over You're In My Spot!

The other day my cousin Mabel She said to me Mike I ain't never seen Nothing before like your poetry Cuz, you need to be famous We're going to take this on the road We're going to knock down some doors We're going to make some heads explode She said I know this feller He's going to do good by you He's one of them there agents of sorts He'll put you in the news Right then and there she called up Bubba Who believe me, didn't come cheap Wanting all the money up front If he was to represent me So I handed over all my doe And now that's where we are On a whirlwind of a tour Of America's Super Wal-Marts He even had me a bunch Of my poetry books printed out I think that they're in English But I still have my doubts That's okay cause most here Prefer not to read And Bubba had his kid draw in some pictures Which seems about all they need They ask if I'm famous I come back with a lie Ever hear of Jeff Foxworthy? Well I know that guy That's when the book sales took off Like history in the making I told Bubba to buy his son more crayons We're going to need more illustrations Yes this being a famous poet Seems to really suit me Tomorrow we're going to set up a stand Outside of Denny's We'll be hitting the breakfast crowd Right on up through lunch So move over fame your in my spot Just call it a hunch

44