"mech" poems
How do I hate thee? Let me count the ways.
I hate thee to the co-ordinate y
My soul exists, and so begging to die
In revising chem, maths and more all days.
I hate thee more than the universe size
If Olber’s paradox was somehow true.
I hate thee freely, as men fight Mech 2.
I hate thee purely, as they waste their lives.
I hate thee with a passion put to use
Poetically procrastinating you.
I hate thee with hatred I cannot lose
With my lost UMS – hate thee with breath,
Pens, tears, of all my strife – and, if God choose,
I shall only be free when I’m with death.
Jun 1, 2014
Jun 1, 2014 at 5:41 PM UTC
each walks away from the last awful wreck
convinced that they at least were not at fault
in pain from foot right up to shaking neck
one had been certain but now what the heck
the blame is placed on *** or single malt
each walks away from the last awful wreck
a little more afraid daring to check
for signs of trauma not wanting to halt
in pain from foot right up to shaking neck
but silent refusing to note the beck
of anyone around in fear of assault
each walks away from the last awful wreck
stiffly uncertainly just like a mech
robotic being we would not exalt
in pain from foot right up to shaking neck
what's visible from up here on the deck
are shaken folk not worthy of their salt
each walks away from the last awful wreck
in pain from foot right up to shaking neck
May 8, 2012
May 8, 2012 at 12:13 PM UTC
it can be hard to assess necessity in a cesspit,
calculating and scouring different ways to find respite.
it can be hard to commit time against the heart.
finding access to hiatus just to breathe,
it's never been easy to be lazarus.
unsure of consequence, skirting bereavement,
reborn doesn't necessarily imply previous demise,
what's almost new cannot be considered unwhole,
nor can it be trusted as a reprise.
it's an artful venture to learn the cadence of presence,
not an effort or a movement, but something of a lucid sweven,
something nestled in the stitching of the seventh heaven.
autonomously authoring my perception,
desecularizing my intense intent and conception.
understand that the brain is a somatosensory mech pilot,
no shame, no rhythm, just an absently-go-lucky organism,
chasing imaginary crystalline butterflies into the background,
thriving in the quietness, malaprop to say forever semper-vivus.
i consume my need to separate ideas as fuel for philomathematics,
pioneering new tactics, new habits, through acts of active practice,
emphatically denouncing the topical, the maladroit, the labels,
let me sing my own mantra,
humming to the hymn of my own humble tantra.
Aug 22, 2019
Aug 22, 2019 at 6:12 AM UTC
I remember when i was a kid i had a power rangers mech toy
It would stand mighty at 2 ft. Tall and i absolutely worshipped it.
It was but a cheap plastic toy but to my young and impressionable eyes it was everything
Cheap joints were to me freedom,legs... The courage to move forward with my life
Its cheaply made speakers that was drenched in white noice. A voice
I remember it all and even as an adult i miss my toy
It was taken and thrown away without my consent or approval
Many nights passed were spent crying with no success in sight
Now here i am as an adult but just as lost and confused as i was as a child
If there is anything i want to tell you, it is that you are not a toy
But i am still as desperate as ever to recover what i have lost
Sobbing and crying alone like a child.
Feb 11, 2019
Feb 11, 2019 at 9:19 AM UTC