"mechanically" poems
Lest you find yourself amongst the bones,
Mask your face and quiet your soul.
Flock in lines of the mundane and meek,
Zip your lips, peacful keep.
This genocide of individuality is perverting our kind, incestually.
Perfect patterns, mechanically, processed, soundly.
The flawed are pushed aside,
The individuals are boxed up, shipped out, Pariahs.
So, don your masks, one and all!
Suit up, and watch your sheeple fall.
Jun 12, 2014
Jun 12, 2014 at 10:42 AM UTC
Both latter and former, contrary and congruent
Neither gas nor solid, the river moves fluid.
No end and no beginning, just water moving… swimming…
A formless former that is a powerful latter
Contradiction through symmetry and space within matter
Passively energetic as potential becomes kinetic
Transparently reflective and silently phonetic
Thermally dynamic and fluidly frantic
The waters maintain a static chaos through mathematical mechanics.
Mechanically architected and architecturally mechanic
Water seems the perfect medium for analysis of a dynamic.
Dynamic existence and persistent resistance
Statically chaotic seems the architect’s insistence.
Equilibriomatic, with addition subtractive
Empirical measures fail to analyze the passive.
What simply is, simply is… Invincible to mimicry or microcosmic reenactment.
Experimental methods seek to unify the synonymous
Attempting to prove the objective with a subjective hypothesis.
Learn from the water, let its metaphor be imminent….
For the divine externality lies not without, but within it.
Mar 5, 2015
Mar 5, 2015 at 3:53 PM UTC
You have stars in your hands
and you hold them like grenades.
The boats tattooed on your thighs
spread out like finger placements of the G major chord.
Synthetic drugs make chains
tying your first and second fingers
around the mechanically rolled paper,
canvasing your throat like too much sea water,
each breath as rough as the veins in your arms.
Close your eyes
there’s pollen in the air
spread out like imperfections on the skin of an apple.
Solar countries keep foreign coins
sewed into their cotton sails,
they put their money into the navy.
You have a comet in your circulatory system
leaving bright spots under your skin
a reminder to gather the sunshine back under your eyelashes.
Hand soap in ketchup packets
make bubble bath islands
and unhappy lips.
You’re as talkative as a poem and
as expensive as a poppy
with homemade constellations on your back,
staining your lumbar muscles with cherries.
I can’t wash off your fingerprints
with my favourite shampoo.
I’ll swim across the Georgia Strait,
dodge your dinghies and
make a home in handmade ships
where I’ll practice erasing scars from my arms
and washing the soap from my hair.
Aug 25, 2013
Aug 25, 2013 at 5:04 PM UTC
389
There’s been a Death, in the Opposite House,
As lately as Today—
I know it, by the numb look
Such Houses have—alway—
The Neighbors rustle in and out—
The Doctor—drives away—
A Window opens like a Pod—
Abrupt—mechanically—
Somebody flings a Mattress out—
The Children hurry by—
They wonder if it died—on that—
I used to—when a Boy—
The Minister—goes stiffly in—
As if the House were His—
And He owned all the Mourners—now—
And little Boys—besides—
And then the Milliner—and the Man
Of the Appalling Trade—
To take the measure of the House—
There’ll be that Dark Parade—
Of Tassels—and of Coaches—soon—
It’s easy as a Sign—
The Intuition of the News—
In just a Country Town—
4.2k
Confined to the skyscrapers
Elevated mechanically
To the secluded corners
Flights of stairs are daunting
The bustling crowd is distant
Parks and kids nonchalant
About the lonely resident
Prisoner between cozy walls
Blocked in the secluded world
Heart yearns to join the bustle
From the rooms of skyscrapers
Aug 9, 2014
Aug 9, 2014 at 1:27 AM UTC
He had a habit of forgetting
That the knife should be
At his left,
Unlike others.
Every morning, she would
mechanically
switch the fork with the knife.
When they finished lunch
she started clearing up
and noticed the knife to his right
again.
That night,
after their routine drew to a close,
They talked.
Slowly, at first.
A touchy subject walks in.
It's time.
Even as the air is knocked from her lungs,
She gets up and scrabbles on the floor.
Nails scratching the carpet.
Eyes scanning the horizon, now black.
Her brain decides to get up,
Her body disobeys.
Her body disobeys.
Isn't that what put her here in the first place?
So what if she is pretty?
So what if her eyes are sparkling emeralds?
Her belly renders her defenceless
from his onslaught.
Isn't it her fault
that it is empty?
Isn't she wrong to want
independence from him?
Mentally, physically, emotionally?
He owned her, didn't he?
He owned her, didn't he.
He explained to her the benefits
of obeying.
Her pretty face wouldn't have been
all those ungainly shades of black.
Her eyes wouldn't have been encircled by blue.
All she had to do was obey
and not tell anyone
but obey.
Her brain rebelled.
Her brain rebelled.
Her body, for once, obeyed.
She stumbled through the hallway
She knocked down her favourite frame-
Their daughter on a pony.
Kitchen, her sanctuary.
She broke her favourite China.
Hurled her utensils.
"I arranged them last week, you *****
And then she saw them.
The knives.
The knives.
They were inviting
Her hands were pale, waiting.
His heart corrupt, hating.
"Knives to your left, darling."
Feb 27, 2015
Feb 27, 2015 at 8:39 AM UTC
It just takes a heartbeat.
You are brought into this world
Shaking and crying
Confused and lost
Awake and aware
Unable to speak
Barely breathing
Eyes wide with innocence
Pure as sunlight
Screaming from the pain
And your mother
Collapsed in agony
Suddenly detached
From her first born
Relieved yet bitter
Nostalgic and anxious
Her precious child
With nothing more
Than a pulse,
A heartbeat,
And wide eyes
Revealing the universe
With every blink
And you grew up so fast
Too fast, she claims
As you watch the home movies together
Over popcorn
And cigarettes
And the pixels expose
How you waddled through the weeds
Speaking in tongues
And gibberish
And you fell down
But you never cried
You look over
And your mother is passed out
On the old tattered couch
Slowly, mechanically, you rise
And sneak out the front door
Delicately and deviously
Alone and brave
Unaware that the youth
Are far from invincible
Your pal Trevor meets you
A block down
Blasting that punk rock ****
Because your mother hates it
And secretly, so do you
And in a heartbeat
You're in his front seat
Screaming about the world
And how ******
It all is
Trev smiles sadistically
Passing you a ****
Of something sweet
To take all your troubles away
And suddenly
You're flying
Down the highway
With your arm out the window
A wing spread
Your heart bursts
You grow up so fast
And suddenly
You don't hate the world at all
But it's far too late
You look over
And Trevor is passed out
In his old, beat up Chevy
Gracefully, rapidly, you rise
And ascend up to the pearly gates
Tragically and disturbingly
Alone and afraid
Suddenly aware that the youth
Are far from invincible
And your mother gets the call
Four in the morning
Distraught and confused
Suddenly the words pieced together
And she lost her baby
To this cruel, ****** up place.
She screams.
And sobs.
You were taken from this world
Shaking and crying
Confused and lost
Awake and aware
Unable to speak
Barely breathing
Eyes wide with innocence
Pure as sunlight
Screaming from the pain
It just takes a heartbeat.
May 15, 2013
May 15, 2013 at 9:29 PM UTC
Mechanically he put out his best press
Straightened his yellowing pages
In spite of little pieces flaking off
Like dandruff
Ow !
His spine was not as strong
As in younger presses
He bathed and used aftershave
But still he had that musty air about him
He lay claim to nervous fame
As he fidgeted with the book markers
About to be given as gifts
For her , his blind date
She came in fresh in expectation
Her beauty made him full of dejection
Her cheerful voice proved
to be more than exhaultation
He fumbled for the first sentence
Of subjection , but
Managed only to say
"Please ! I'm just an open book to be read"
She eased over
And ran her fingers over his cover .
down his bindings ,
then inside his yellowing pages
She sighed ,
with pleasure ,
"Yes , this is my perfection "
May 2, 2015
May 2, 2015 at 6:41 PM UTC
To make wine,
Grapes are crushed then poured into fermentation tanks.
Once fermentation begins, the grape skins are pushed to the surface by carbon dioxide gases released in the fermentation process.
I am the only fruit who has the necessary acids to make natural, stable wine.
My tannins add a bitterness and astringency,
But I must be picked at the right time.
My acidity and sweetness must be zen in balance.
The right ones are sorted through, but not all of us make the cut.
Unable to be served as sweet wine, too bitter.
Some more sweet, not bitter enough.
Simply picked at the wrong time, their peak unwanted, forgotten.
After being sorted we are destemmed and crushed.
Our roots ripped from us, dignity stomped upon.
For years, it was done manually, by foot.
Now, preformed mechanically, systematically.
But hey!
"Mechanical pressing has brought tremendous sanitary gains as well as increased the longevity and quality of wine."
Grape abuse continues, white wine grapes are quickly crushed.
Why do you ask?
To keep unwanted "color" from leeching into the wine.
But red wine,
Red wine is left in contact with it's skin, forced to acquire more color, more flavor and additional tannins.
After being sorted and crushed, I naturally ferment with in six to twelve hours.
This continues until all my sugar,
Is converted to alcohol.
To produce dry, wine.
The final stage is aging.
I am bottled with a cork,
Put on a shelf.
And ironically,
await my optimal fruitfulness.
Dec 6, 2016
Dec 6, 2016 at 2:30 PM UTC
a pale malvolent hand
shines as brightly in the dark
a body moves quietly
slightly **** to stark
mechanically watching
waiting in the dark
and the games
still have yet to start
eyes of blue crystal
and far from expression
jewels shored in the owners head
without them they'd surely
be dead
should it be
non living human
not quite
but slightly an android
moves with a grace
that is someone paranoid
a voice cuts into the ears
like razor blades
not quite hot
but yet it blazes
nails long
but unpainted
fingers long
like broken sticks
one cuts off
still leaving six..
Jul 19, 2010
Jul 19, 2010 at 8:57 AM UTC
Thoughts escape through cracks and crevices of the swelling gray matter. Each breath forcefully exhaled through thinly parted lips pushes the unfinished coliseum constructed of heavy stones, weighted with unsure purpose, out into the previously unoccupied space before me. Each exhalation creates small beings composed of struggle that march mechanically into the arena. Ready to throw their lives on the line to fight for recognition. As these thoughts battle one another, one falls after the next. Once the battles between these thoughts has finished, and the coliseum is filled with dreams and ideas that will never find themselves fully recognized, only one stands victorious. Though battered and broken from the ****** battles it has fought, selflessness has conquered any that would seek to oppose it. It inhales the dire wounds caused to the others, and they stand before the crumpled mass that saved everything they fought so hard to achieve through personal sacrifice. Not knowing the events that occurred, they cannibalized selflessness to sate their primitive greed. Now a small portion of him exists within every ideal that escapes through pursed lips from the fields of grey matter where they were conceived. Through this process the idea of love was given life, and it will forever seek that selflessness that gave birth to it.
Oct 14, 2012
Oct 14, 2012 at 12:49 AM UTC
We bury them in flat graves
or convert them to ash
and wear them around our necks,
or place them in urns.
And what’s this about burial pods?
Your rotting corpse providing nutrients
to a tree that will one day be
cut down to make a casket
for the person that hung themselves
with their necklace of ash.
I recently read about
mechanically pressed ash
pressed so hard and
with so much pressure
that your loved one becomes
a diamond.
Albeit grey and dull,
and quite expensive.
Effectively if you die first
you can still be buried
with the one you love,
its almost like dying twice…
why do we no longer honor the dead?
Please don’t say an urn or a pod
or a flat marked grave honor the dead.
Google Highgate Cemetery.
Google The Monumental Cemetery of Staglieno
and you will understand the difference.
It is good to honor the dead.
A death so honored that
a hundred years later
They’re as beautiful as ever.
Go,
look and see how beautiful it is
to honor the dead.
Sep 26, 2015
Sep 26, 2015 at 1:25 PM UTC
Living in a world of grey
Though only black and white
Are the colors that I see
Whether day or night
I just really can't believe
That what You see is true
And how can you tell me
That i should feel like you
Seeing flowers trees and birds
And plays, and sad, sad movies
Does not invoke such thoughts you see
And you can't show them to me
My world is perfect, pristine and white
You nought but trespass here
What audacity you have
To say my world is weird
My heart is great and deep and wide
More empty than the night
I rather think you cluttered
Sure you have your feelings right?
Through depths of sorrow can I waltz
Like floating on the breeze
Your happines is much too loud
And unplesant for me
I still can't figure how you get
So angry and upset
Over things that others do
When still you've never met
Please instruct me, teach me
Oh great, wise, philosopher
Just how it is I need
Your feelings that occur
You say I'm broken, strange, messed up
You say you can help
I say if you are that good at it
Then you should help yourself
Your social customs, curticies
You do them without purpose
You cling so tightly hold them close
I gladly call them worthless
I'm not so cold and callused
As though it prolly seems
I'm really still working on
Which response you need
I may not cry when someone falls
Whether you or I
But I can promise I'll be the first
To help your tears to dry
Friend and family and acquaintance
All mean the same to me
I'll gladly help you when you need
With no return or fee
Eating breathing sometimes bleeding
Still less man than machine
Dont be so surprised when I
Respond mechanically
Living in a world of grey
Though only black and white
Are the colors that I see
There's only wrong or right
Aug 24, 2016
Aug 24, 2016 at 7:14 PM UTC
"I Am Machine"
Mechanically moving
Breathing
In and out motions
Separated by nothing
"I Never Sleep, I Keep My Eyes Wide Open"
Constantly in a day dream
Numb to all that surrounds me
Watching and waiting
But never doing
"I Am Machine"
I am nothing
But the parts that make me whole
Praying to find Oz
No heart, no courage, no soul
"A Part Of Me Wishes I Could Just Feel Something"
What is love?
What is hate?
I have no beginning
No ending, no fate...
"I Am Machine"
Mechanically going through the motions
Never feeling
Jealousy rages through me
For humans with their pain and suffering
"I Never Sleep Until I Fix What's Broken"
Tightening the bolts of my soul
Oiling the gears of my heart
Trying to find a way to feel whole
Praying I finish before I fall apart
***"I AM MACHINE
A PART OF ME WISHES I COULD JUST FEEL SOMETHING"***
Dec 25, 2014
Dec 25, 2014 at 6:32 PM UTC
He tunes his piano
She ties her pointés.
He sits on his stool
She takes center-stage.
He plays the opening note
The spotlight flashes on her.
He can only hear the crowd's loud cheers
She can only see eyes upon her regal body.
He glues his eyes to his sheets
She fixes her mind upon her movements.
His fingers move mechanically along the keys
Her limbs sway to the tune of precise timing.
He has played this score hundreds of times
She has rehearsed her steps to faultless perfection.
He lets his memory guide his fingers
She lets her limbs free to do their own work.
He steals a glance at her
She opens her ears to lilting melody.
Those sheets of notes cease to exist;
He's busy composing his heart's birdsong.
She is no longer a puppet in the audience's hands
Her soul leaps joyfully towards new-found release.
She is his music
and he's her dance.
Mar 14, 2014
Mar 14, 2014 at 8:00 AM UTC
you are
fire
drawing me
almost mechanically but almost
because i am bound by my own volition
almost rationally
and as i inch closer
your energy
radiates:
radiance i cry
oh my
your warmth
holds me
permeating my skin
seeping into these
iron arteries and
cold, cold guts
(you unravel my knots)
my eyes reflect you
because you are all i see:
all i want to see
i'm a submissive prisoner to your beauty
captivated willingly
i am yours
and even if never
ever
will you be mine
**** it
**** it all
yours i will still be
and no
this is pure delight to me,
i won't consider it a tragedy
your embers are worthy of stars
your hot fumes to me an aroma
and if the price of becoming close
and closer
to you is the
disintegration of my flesh
so be it
give me death
because
i only feel alive
when i am with you
so burn me please
Sep 18, 2015
Sep 18, 2015 at 1:09 PM UTC
Freckles make your back a map
Seabirds circle but they lack
Grasp of what youth endures
Vacating summer shores
Carrying their lives to sea.
Mechanically they return
For bright months they did not yearn-
Only their homecoming retells
Of warmth and hope in summer spells
Of ploughed soil, banked country roads
And feathers bent not under loads;
Put-to-side partners reconcile,
Their lives measured in sea miles
Time comfortably slipping away,
Together living easy days
Until they fly on.
Dec 22, 2012
Dec 22, 2012 at 12:47 PM UTC
Round and round and round I whirl
I exist to pirouette, to twirl.
A sea of jewels at my feet shimmer,
They twinkle, glisten, shine and glimmer.
A rich array of cherished treasure,
Of value far too great to measure.
I hear the music as I turn…
The only tune I’ll ever learn.
My pose is ever full of grace,
A smile is fixed upon my face.
My hair is twisted into a perfect pleat
My ballet points laced on my feet.
My pink tutu stands out starched and straight,
As I mechanically revolve, rotate.
My spinning trajectory gently slows
My jolting pivot draws to a close.
And I’ll stand stock still until rewound
To again start swirling round and round.
Apr 8, 2018
Apr 8, 2018 at 12:18 PM UTC
imagine velvet walls, pianist and violins, moonlight dancing with the chandelier
above; a grand affair.
everyone suited, of course. just alike, shaking hands,
“sir,”
“as you were.”
injection-forced smiles while shadows eclipse their heads, dimming the hanging
diamond lights as they speak in tongues.
laughter echos from cathedral ceilings, spirals down into deaf cellars and
oh, there will be cocktails that night and concoctions that night,
easy, put me to sleep and then wake me back up!
you’ll thank the waitress, politely, generously offering ten per cent gratuity, five
per cent pity ‘cause she isn’t all that pretty…
mirrors noticeably around every corner, catching glances each passing time.
adjust:
bow-tie (check)
cuff links (check)
slight quaff, unwrinkle, tuck-in your shirt. now,
back to businesss!
and dance akin to swaying scare-crow, in some flawless type of wind where steps
match up mechanically, symmetrically; photographer, and pose.
now your face is on the news
and it’s nothing new to you,
the sun could be your spotlight...
so it’s really too bad that the sun can't reach;
that those clouds suspended above you,
well you’re not sure how to rid them or even, really, how to want the warmth.
Nov 21, 2011
Nov 21, 2011 at 2:10 AM UTC
before I can write, I have to stop
and consider the new nail growth
that has pushed nail paint further up
as my tiny talons become more worthy of their name.
earlier, I pointed at the individual students
one by one; they hesitantly mustered words
to match my unclear expectations;
hoping to avoid my sarcastic cackle,
or the full blown eyes gleaming
like the deepest darkest black marbles
wedged in my eye sockets,
their words trailed off, along with their interest.
I don't try to find a broom that fits my grip.
mine has always been the right fit,
and I've had the ability to travel through time,
and somehow connect one vague memory to the next,
adding detail and sharpening what was dull and lifeless,
so the imagery is mechanically pointed and precise.
My face paint is strategic war paint,
but brown, never green.
At once I'm judged as foreigner,
of foreign origin; young (you're THAT old?)
they will never know that I fear my own image
and imaginings
worse than they fear what power my pen wields.
to bear the weight of an expanse of thoughts--
strenuous, burdensome, careful responsibility--
with relief only once words materialize on a page,
on a screen,
that they will never read.
for no witch was born witch;
she was made so once her dreams shriveled
and resembled the lifeless frogs in her hands.
Oct 1, 2014
Oct 1, 2014 at 12:42 PM UTC
Mechanically, he turned and stepped away.
Though there remained a symphony to say,
the audience was obviously tired.
The orchestra was weak and uninspired.
And so he wandered up the street, and down,
through all the dry vernacular of town.
A thousand trivialities he passed
until the sidewalk brought him home at last.
He summited the dim and creaking stair.
He sank into the thrift store easy chair,
closed his eyes, and waited for her face.
She smiled at him. Then darkness took her place.
Feb 19, 2010
Feb 19, 2010 at 8:33 AM UTC
The smell of the turf on a warm September night
The roar of the crowd as the team scores another touchdown
It doesn’t matter; we don’t even react
For our purpose here is something entirely different
The buzzer sounds to end the first half
We take the field, excited and numb from nerves
Our hearts are pounding, the drums are beating
Our feet move mechanically to the beat
Quarter notes and half notes practiced for many long hours
Finally the reward sending chills through our bodies
Our feet stop; our horns come down
We smile at a job well done
Most people don’t notice us
They are so wrapped up in their technology
If they would only take 5 minutes and escape
Into a world of beauty and passion
This is marching band
Sep 29, 2011
Sep 29, 2011 at 10:31 PM UTC
Both latter and former, contrary and congruent
Neither gas nor solid, the river moves fluid.
No end and no beginning, just water moving… swimming…
A formless former that is a powerful latter
Contradiction through symmetry and space within matter
Passively energetic as potential becomes kinetic
Transparently reflective and silently phonetic
Thermally dynamic and fluidly frantic
The waters maintain a static chaos through mathematical mechanics.
Mechanically architected and architecturally mechanic
Water seems the perfect medium for analysis of a dynamic.
Dynamic existence and persistent resistance
Statically chaotic seems the architect’s insistence.
Equilibriomatic, with addition subtractive
Empirical measures fail to analyze the passive.
What simply is, simply is… Invincible to mimicry or microcosmic reenactment.
Experimental methods seek to unify the synonymous
Attempting to prove the objective with a subjective hypothesis.
Learn from the water, let its metaphor be imminent….
For the divine externality lies not without, but within it.
Oct 17, 2015
Oct 17, 2015 at 3:19 PM UTC
Snake tounges rattled and hissed words of poison mechanically,
With green-eyed monsters lurking beneath their skin,
Circling the rumours of suspicion onto those of white blood,
Like a frightened rabbit in deaths doorway to car headlights fell.
The slithering tale encapsulating innocent yet friendly ears,
Smearing their venom amongst those of lowered fighters hands,
Trickling down the innocent white hart's hands,
As though regarding herself as this murderess.
Flight of fear, fighting the dark, losing, chocking, drowning,
Yet tales of talk were not in vain, but yet they failed once again,
Smearing that of lies over white walls, black onto red,
Trapping the rabbit in the snare, as though to **** it in the shell.
My friend, would you tell the old lie? To children so high,
To fall so low, by that of snakes and their hungry green-eyes.
Mar 20, 2010
Mar 20, 2010 at 7:33 AM UTC
Stress ticks over inside of me, as if mechanically part of me!
And these shacking hands be that of a chronometer!
How many times have i heard,
“It will all be ok!”
I think much kinder words have been spoken!
As if they hold no part of this drastic itinerary!
Then!
Mindfully i say!
COPE!
BREATHE
Smell take it all in!
Its not all decay!
There are roses too!
Listen
Oh, hear the beautifull song as the sparrow gayly chirps, his thanks to life!
Sight!
Open my eyes!
Drink in all its beauty!
Touch!
Feel the world with all my senses!
As air rushes over me!
Its all alive!
And I’m part of this great creation!
Im alive!
Oh
Thank you Jesus!
©️
Oct 25, 2018
Oct 25, 2018 at 12:51 AM UTC