"microphones" poems
It been a while now I'm back,
playing the beat on a track,
Lyrically I attack,
I'm an M C,
So naturally,
That's how I react,
You might not get my psych,
goin ape shyte crazy,
chasin these monkeys of my back,
I guess opposites still attract.
Rapidly rapping raps,
spitting facts,
I'm what these other cats lack,
cut from another cloth,
Can't cut'em no slack,
This rifts, rat,
I'm way better than that
I master my craft
Like captain kirk taking a bath
higher than an aircraft
Plotting my path
like a hovercraft
Fully prepared for the crash.
These other guys, think they fly,
I just laugh. They get puff up,
While I pass by, getting
Roughed up, crossing my path
Iooking like ironman with this mic in my hand,
Feels like I'm hold a staff.
Like a titan, I clash.
I am the better man,
check my clasp,
I got a better plan,
Better lyrical grasp,
I'm so smooth,
These other rappers, rap sound like ***
I land minds, no gymnastic class
my geographic quadgraphics better than a veteran
with a can of V8 in his hand
Still crazy from the war,
tasted the blood of a warrior,
Now I'm thirsty for more.
I'm dropping bombs like the army core in 94
With more confidence than Al b sure on tour
Finding common sense scattered all over the floor
Picking up feed back on channel 4
Turning the microphones up,
Then slam it to the floor,
Cause I don't want to rap anymore,
Back and forth I go,
It's all a part of the flow,
I'm just putting on a show,
rhythm book, pinned up,
It's a wrap, flow after flow,
Pulling up, getting my spins up,
The treble and bass doing chin ups,
While I'm spitting rhythms galore,
Sep 22, 2014
Sep 22, 2014 at 8:09 AM UTC
Hey there Christina,
What's it like to roam the city
When there's boys and girls who look at you, thinking;
'Isn't she so pretty?'
Well yes you are..
You're the prettiest soul in the world by far, but why are you so far?
Hey there Christina
What's it like being on stage?
I'm at home tonight writing this for you,
But i know you'll be just great
Give it all you've got..
Sing as if the microphones are off :')
Like i'm there to watch
But oh, what happened to us?
Cause oh how i've been missing you so much
And oh my love was never enough
But it's stronger now than it ever was
And Christina i can promise you
That by the time you read this through
I would have tried to live my life and get somewhere without you,
But i'd rather go back to square one with youu..
.. Hey there Christina,
I hope you always find a reason to smile,
Even if that smile is no longer because of me, I'm glad I meant something to you for a while,
And i'm still writing to you,
Every single day.
Jul 5, 2014
Jul 5, 2014 at 3:56 PM UTC
For each word that never made it past my teeth
-harsh critics-
I am sorry
I told you I loved you last night in bed
and all you heard was my breathing
-waves on your shore-
I am sorry
For each step I should have taken that was frozen in my legs
-stone pillars-
I am sorry
I ran to the edge of the earth for you
where I heard the lilies were blooming
-empty vase-
I am sorry
For each song that suffocated in my hollows
-white noise-
I am sorry
I scored you a serenade for clarinet and bassoon
and your shutters heard nothing
-white noise-
I am sorry
For each quiver of my hands that has held me
chained to the anvils of fear
For the confidence I lack and the love I have not given
-myself-
I am sorry
For times I held truth by the throat underwater
and prayed you wouldn't notice the splashing
For those days I went sleep walking
-through prayers-
I am sorry
For the stability I cradle while sitting on dreams
singing songs we all know the words to
the song we've each written verses to
12 bars on each wall of this blue cage that we sing through
For the times we don't fight
For the times that we mean to
For the injustices that steal the peace from our silent nights
For the riotless streets
For thriving inequalities
For microphones and stages still wet with my ego
For the silence I keep
-when the world is listening-
I am sorry
Shake me
from these paralytic dreams
from the cloud of ideas and fantasy
-what is art but a landing?-
Shake me
make me rise up and face the music
climb out of myself and breathe
-what is prayer but respiration?-
Shake me
until my apologies are gone
and your house is full of flowers
and your ears are full of songs
and your heart is filled with this love of mine
your quivering hands shook free
Shake me
until I see beauty in truth
and truth in what we are made to be
Jan 26, 2014
Jan 26, 2014 at 2:48 AM UTC
how my balloon became addicted to helium is a cautionary in a coal mine
choking on fumes, next to the garden hose, all snakes and power-lines
entangled in the turbulence of absolute calm , a rarefied catastrophe
an asterix, just to the right
of the meaningless word
you would say
to me.
how my balloon became addicted to helium is a lost tomb.
teensy- weensy bones are polished
very close to microphones.
i would have to be the nothingness,
just for the night
[ followed by the longest day with you. ]
jimmy the lock
and fish out the quills;
we'll write a new desolation in cuneiform and iron will -
throw out your kinsmen
if they be discontinuous...
to shave a few hours off
time wasted
delirious.
Oct 17, 2012
Oct 17, 2012 at 2:06 PM UTC
Goodbye.
Yesterday, tomorrow
the life before was.
I’ve met you before
*as we sat down
i watched worlds align
in your movements
and stars become
black holes
in jealousy
you are beautiful
you are beauty*
we drank the night
to day;
dizzy, star-struck,
watching time stop
in our swaying movements
*too bad
she couldn’t hold her liquor
our drunken timelines
intersected
in stumbled
introspect
skipping steps
i enjoyed
our spinning thoughts
and tongues sharing
aged language
alongside new bottles
until i was forced
to watch her phase
in and out
of herself*
that moon *****
must’ve had more
than she could handle,
because the next day
there was a new face
on her course,
wasting happy hours
shouting sad times
to morose microphones,
*if you fail
to sing
your anger will
leave you to scream
and shout
similarities
stunningly simple*
masking taxation of
tie-ins’ infusion inbreeding,
demonization of sharing similarities
left time socially awkward
and unacceptably indulgent
of the mindless self
*tonight i will
join myself in song
it will be a hymn
rhythm saved by him
we’ll circle ‘til its begin*
we’ve refin
Nov 23, 2012
Nov 23, 2012 at 4:54 PM UTC
The tundra drips Wild West like bad cinematography in theaters emptied out like popcorn bags
Desolation finds me staying warm
My blood may be the only boiling hope in this land
Trails of DNA on old bandages asking someone to look at my scars to prove my time here
My time is measured with broken wind dial microphones
Screaming for AED support bands
Artificial shock therapy reminding me there is still time
That this life is not leaking moments of divided glory
This moment right now...
Will never happen again
Feb 3, 2015
Feb 3, 2015 at 12:25 PM UTC
You can be destitute, dressed in rags
But you're a tycoon with pencil and pad
Your office a park bench under the sun
Your income the poem or song yet unsung
Your boardroom the corner of some shopping mall
Where multitudes gather
When you, the writer calls
No microphones needed
Nor fancy backdrops
The words of poetry ring forth
Crowds now do stop
Amazed that a man
Unkempt, dressed in rags
Can bring peace to the masses
And new heart to the sad
All this with no money, just pencil and pad
This poetic tycoon
Shone in a world so sombre and sad
Jan 18, 2015
Jan 18, 2015 at 6:06 AM UTC
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Aug 28, 2013
Aug 28, 2013 at 4:02 AM UTC
I was pulling up in the car park at the Immigration Removal Centre
When I realised that I'd completely f 'ed up
Having remembered:
- portable recording studio
- condensor microphones x 2 (one of them doesn't work, dunno which one, they look the same)
- dynamic microphone (sometimes works)
- XLR cables x 2 (in a tangled mess)
- Jack cables x 2 (joining the party)
- headphones
- headphone splitter (a remedy for people who are always on their phone?!)
- big-to-little adapters
- kettle lead (so named because it dates back from when the kettle was king)
- guitar
- and two folders of important bits of paper (well, at least some of it might be important)
I suddenly realised that I'd forgotten the only genuinely essential thing.
My passport.
You can't get in without your passport.
That's the rule and the rules don't bend.
Security is paramount.
I find my colleague, Lucky, sitting in his car.
Lucky: "Kev, you aren't gonna believe this but..."
He didn't need to say anymore.
I knew that he had done the same thing.
Lucky and I were in the same *** of s***.
But for some reason they made an exception.
We were lucky.
It must had rubbed off.
(true story)
Dec 29, 2011
Dec 29, 2011 at 1:53 PM UTC
There's a Sofa in my kitchen
and a Bread-bin in the lounge-
the missus won't stop *******
and the kids are on the scrounge.
the atmosphere is thick with queer
Simon Cowells on the telly,
Tom Jones's bones are
th' microphones n
his bowels are
Ooozzing smelly.
through atrophied
arseholes who choose
between iconicity
n the domesticity blues.
There's a Sofa in my kitchen
and a Bread-bin in the lounge
the missus won't stop *******
and the kids - are on the scrounge.
May 7, 2012
May 7, 2012 at 2:41 AM UTC
we worried for Your s.a.n.i.t.y.
when Michael Bublé and Metallica
wore matching sailor suits. we warned You.
failed interventions toed the line
between crafted clichés and comprehensible,
misguided attempts to paste bits and pieces
of the Pyramids back together.
You know they were stolen, right?
the pharaohs were ****** — drunk on
the melodies of doorbells and
bits and pieces of clichés crafted at a Metallica concert.
brave the mosh pit.
You may catch a glimpse of
sarcophagi gleaming in torchlight.
don't lift the lid, for the love of
g.o.d.!
those sailor suits have been preserved for centuries.
"Do Not Disturb."
the doorbell
won't work now,
not now that Michael Bublé's bubble burst.
can You blame us for screaming into
microphones? maybe the bits and pieces of clichés You swept
into neat little piles after footfalls die down
torch-lit corridors will
shake the Pyramids.
at the very least, ring a doorbell.
"d.o. n.o.t. d.i.s.t.u.r.b."
Jun 24, 2012
Jun 24, 2012 at 6:34 PM UTC
What thoughts I have of you tonight, hidden friend, for I skipped through the grey with a head full of brightness that managed to seep on through.
In one of my short wanders, I passed by dreaming of a future with you filling up the void.
What rules to break, what numerous revelations to be sought after,
the safety net has a tear the size of a watermelon.
I saw you, my little trapeze ******* doing a balancing act fit for the judges. Who are you trying to impress, who else would you dance for?
Are you the wolf at my door?
I wandered between those strings, pressed back from fear of spiders.
We couldn’t there’s too much guilt, a dead swan on the lake,
Never is there room for another prodigal’s son.
Where are we going with all this, is there a light you're following that I don’t see? You’re being called elsewhere, I understand,
but if i never see you again let me feel the lack.
Meanwhile we will tame the tigers with whips and chairs, we will shout into microphones from across the room. Crowds before us, all hungry for a show, to see the performance of our lives. Ah Pandora, you may leave your box closed for now as I fear this ballerina has caught a bad case of stage fright, along with the tigers.
Nov 27, 2014
Nov 27, 2014 at 3:16 AM UTC
Cell phone shield in hand,
the mirror-me peers
into a shoddy, cracked up
dream reflector-slash-protector
as I make amends with
my agitated mitochondria and
attempt to drill miniscule holes into
paper dolls without ripping them.
So screams the wall hanging!
Banshees dance, falling
into cyclical romances as
cream colored microphones peek
out around one-way windows wondering
whether or not the smiles will hold.
Eyes still,
eyes wrinkles crinkling,
spit spray sprinkling.
Connect to the dreamers.
Push your plug into
my cracking wall sockets,
pull me apart at the seams.
So cries the doorstopper!
Knees bleed from
street corner séances
and eyes green grass
that's afraid to ask
where its clover went
but heavens, it's bent for hell.
Pray tell me, burping chickadee,
when did your teeth glass over
with a film of cerulean and
your bones start sailing
through tepid reminders that
you may end this life a failure,
swallowing Uncle Ben's rice packet trash
at the dark black bottom of the Pacific?
So sighs the statue!
Broken walkie talkies
feed red back to nothing
and knick knack hoarders note
the familiar festering of deadly bacteria
in the lungs and on the
tippy top of the tongue.
Space cadets rocket
through concrete jungles containing
apartment after
apartment after
apartment filled with
mannequins filled with
sand filled with
unevenly severed hands.
So speaks the ornament!
So declares the dashboard decal!
Sensual scholarly seekers
seem so totally hip
and read feminist poetry
to dispel the myths
and spit on the irony.
I won't dare to flatter you
with the focused attention of stone
or allow the personable picture frame
to make the secrets of
the microscopic universe known.
So suggests the ship siren!
So recites the repository!
Empty yourself into me,
adopt a new philosophy,
abandon in within two weeks
so I can see and you can seep,
your fluttering robin heart to keep
and glaciers to arrive upon
a salty brown eternal sleep.
Deliver me to the melting shopping mall!
The centennial fire alarm goes off
at the tip of the cliff,
at the end of the hall.
Aug 24, 2014
Aug 24, 2014 at 3:28 PM UTC
I've always admired the people
who can stand behind a microphone
and reach an audience of people
these rock stars
these ego killers
preachers
teachers
they don't beat around the burning bush
and stroll down the mountain with their own ten commandments
while we waste so much life
trying to build the perfect identity
fake it till you make it
but these people -
they wear themselves like a name tag
they don't wake up hungover
in a pair of **** stained jeans
Oct 30, 2013
Oct 30, 2013 at 1:17 PM UTC
life is just a monotony if you fill it with a single thing
take one down and everything falls apart
i remember that afternoon when it couldn't be continued
i remember my knees get weak
i remember falling to the ground
someone should've told me to fight less
should've told me to stop loving short nights away from home
stop admiring citylights from the second floor
maybe i shouldn't have woken up so early
shouldn't have taken early morning showers
i should have stopped myself from living someone else's past
and living someone else's hopes
never try to impress a dummy
even the ones that say they'll bleed for you
i will try to forget how i sound after climbing those stairs
how they picked their microphones and screamed their adoration
this is time to start anew
maybe this time there won't be citylights
but please tell those short trips i'm coming back again
and tell them this:
today i don't have other dreams to die for
Jan 27, 2015
Jan 27, 2015 at 9:27 AM UTC
You’ve moved a step forward
And life won’t be the same.
But after the round of applause
Your daydream is abruptly ended.
Now, take your turn
To walk the stage
After the microphones echoes
Projecting your name.
(3/21/14 @xirlleelang)
May 28, 2014
May 28, 2014 at 12:41 AM UTC
I read a line of scribbled spit nickels
Down the front of your shirt
You pressed a sheet of purple glue
Upon your eyelids
So when you wake up
The sky glows merry
And the trees blow cherry blossom
Daggers in your mouth
The bees **** in your ears
The silence swims in centuries
Your pores are hidden caves
Through which the red sea tide escapes from
Down the river
It flows like spilling
A bucket of butter soaked
Fingers frying on telephone cables
Let’s be so close that we are hideous
I don’t blink enough
to miss the way your eyes looked like half squeezed limes
blond knuckled
teenagers loving their thighs
under the rusty playground slides
I tripped on broken windowpanes
To laugh until my lungs broke through
My temple of loose ***** xylophones
Crickets co-wrote my backyard requiem
My ears were sauce packets
Filled with broken glass microphones
Fast food pottery
Yogurt stains swing dance when I close my eyes
The chalk tastes like baby blankets
Horseradish carpenters bleed bitter pellet gun lubricants
I hung fifteen different shades of mustard yellow
So that I couldn’t hear your sandpaper cackle
Only your cousin’s frigid toaster
Can understand me
Aug 30, 2010
Aug 30, 2010 at 12:23 PM UTC
So familiar the sparks of inspiration about to bloom
Horripilation and several empty soup cans tip me off
My time has come to be prolific,
under the wise tutelage of my angelic spektor
Accompanied by the wailing hormones of pre-pubescent boys trying to sing into microphones
Teacher please, spare a verb? Where the ivy used to crawl up fragile arms sanguine for all intents and purposes
Dear teacher, nothing electronic works in my room anymore
Dear teacher, your students are all ******
Dear teacher, I retain your lessons as lacerations upside my skull
Sweet teacher, reposing just across the hall and sideways a spell
In a coffin of criticisms and carbon monoxide fumes
The love of a generation, a single blue rose, and a jar full of tea 30 years old.
Apr 27, 2013
Apr 27, 2013 at 7:34 PM UTC
1.
You can never go home,
not to the home you left.
When you leave, you get bigger.
Not necessarily in girth, but in consciousness.
When you come back, everything,
even the walls of your parent's house,
seem to have shrunk.
2.
Look.....
Here comes the parade.
With its paper mache floats
and twirling batons.
Cub scouts and boy scouts,
all in a neat blue and drab green row,
followed by a high school marching band
playing "Stars and Stripes Forever".
From bygone wars, limbless surviving soldiers flinch with every cymbal crash.
3.
I watched billows of cottonwood clouds
swirl down a summer hometown avenue,
they met on the street corner for a song........
"Alley Oop", or "I Like Bread And Butter"
These ghostlike voices will live there forever,
innocent, asleep, numb, waiting.
Soon, the postman will bring your future.
Soon, you will be just a number on a lotery ball.
Soon, you will have to dissect luck or fate.
4.
I took my 87 year old Father to gather his tools
from his long time place of work.
The instruments of his livelihood.
He did not need them anymore, he had retired.
Some tools he had used since World War II,
some he made for a specific job.... never to use again.
All neatly placed in toolboxes built in the 30s and 40s,
yet not a trace of rust.
These were the tools of a tradesman,
a (Tool and Die Man).
He once told me, “Son, if I can’t fix it because I don’t have the right tool, I will make the tool”.
I thought him to be Superman.
But there I was, loading up my Father’s history,
to take home, to be sold to the highest bidder.
I myself have made my living playing music for audiences.
I also have tools.
Guitars, amplifiers, harmonicas, microphones.
There will come a day, in the not too distant future,
when I will have to “retire” the instruments of my livelihood.
Though I will not be as stoic as my World War II Father,
I will go kicking and screaming to the pawn shop,
remembering every song that fed me,
and every chord that made people dance.
May 29, 2014
May 29, 2014 at 8:38 PM UTC
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no more worries call zippy's-fungus-r-us and forget your worries
the other half of the year. missing your near-and-dear ones, well
no more tears with zippy's wirefree intercom service we'll put microphones
through your loved ones communication interfaces and you can hear
what's going on 24/7 no matter how distant or spaced out they are,
even if they never darken your graveyard again, you'll be in-the-know and
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Feb 16, 2011
Feb 16, 2011 at 9:39 AM UTC
the ultra-sound of love
must go something like this:
first a slow turn; a white line on
the black canvas and then-
a dim heartbeat as if
it would take the biggest of
all microphones to hear it and then-
a kick to your stomach,
because let's face it:
love hurts bad.
and let's face it:
it's the hurt that reminds you it's alive.
Nov 10, 2012
Nov 10, 2012 at 10:39 PM UTC
I am from "Shut up" and "Why are you so stupid?"
From an older brother who's opinion for some reason matters
From skinny jeans, skull shirts, dresses, and boots
I'm from cheeseburgers and fries with family and ice cream cake
I'm from hay rack rides on haunted trails during Halloween
I'm From sheet music that comes to life with each note
From the smell of my leather jacket in the rain
I'm from dream boards and bucket lists
From clarinets and microphones
From "you're Michael's little sister?" or "you're Mrs. Hanson's daughter?"
I am from the black, grey and white ball of fur cuddling next to me while I sleep
From my best friends tears as I beg her not to go and trying to make her feel better in hopes she'll be ok
From my boyfriend's smile that transports me to a completely different universe.
I am from days at work and weekends with friends
I am from learning:
There aren't always happy endings but you have to keep trying until you find one
Music and books taught me that we can escape from our reality
And my mom, who taught me everything I know
Sep 10, 2018
Sep 10, 2018 at 4:15 PM UTC
Which came first; A.D.D./A.D.H.D.,
or a subconscious unwillingness or perhaps even inability
to give half a genuine **** about anything going on?
I believe social, media, technological, and habitual programming
are at least some of the antecedents to these Modern chemical scapegoats:
Bureaupharmipseudocures, baby!
Causing more problems
justifying more Pharms
making some people rich
depriving and inuring the rest
almost as if depicted in
BRAVE NEW WORLD
Beloved, distracting, ubiquitous Handheld Devices
with cameras, speakers, headphone jacks and microphones
which, at any given moment,
can just as easily be used by you
as be used by Big Brother to keep tabs on you
through GPS, recorded sound and video, transferred and stored data, and company records
almost as if depicted in
1984
"HOLY ******* ****
I practically hope you're saying
(ideally, this is old news)
"FOLLOW THE MONEY."
I hope you're realizing.
IT ISN'T THAT HARD, FOR NOW,
THANKS TO THE INTERNET.
Without the internet being a public, secular (in terms of politics) entity,
it would be neigh impossible to follow the money
without extensive efforts made by very brave and hopefully cunning *************
Nov 12, 2013
Nov 12, 2013 at 12:47 PM UTC
Night #1
Around the dinner table crickets directed a noiseless choir
It's all full of emotion
But I don't know how to
Define a face full of
earthquake expressions
When the stars play guitar
with three broken strings
it sounds like musical genius,
and the grass is waving to it.
"Dude, the moon's coming out now,"
I hear from the crowd.
The autumn brown leaf outside the window
turns green in amazement
And then it swallows the sky whole.
Night #2
I don't even feel my drunkness, I just feel the
highness and euphoria.
I wonder who sees Orion with me tonight.
The triple XXXs behind the drummer and
ringing tambourines scream with
guitar picks and microphones
and I think I know this euphoria is more
powerful than the whisky in my right hand.
I'm the king of upside down guitars that read
"DEATHBOT," and the "B" is backwards
and I don't give a ****
Night #3
Arnold Palmer and coconut juice
A pair of glasses and a sight that's obtuse
I don't need to see straight
like a wave in the ocean that capsizes at night
And I roll up a joint that is beyond precise.
Jan 31, 2016
Jan 31, 2016 at 10:42 AM UTC
And she talks while my hands shiver
She’s a lie
She’s a lie
She’s a live representation of untruthfulness
A great portal of unworthy in-transparency
A grand stand of podiums and microphones
Flat screen tv’s
With radios and horns pumping your blood to your brains
Blocking your sight
And vision
Rocking impure notes
Of Dead metal
She’s a lie
My love is a lie
My love is a lie
Shedding tears on what she stole
Breaking my heart and taking it all
Spring time flowers and I fall
Beneath the trees
of beautiful regret
And powerful surrender
Trees that I used to climb
To look at her window
And see the angel of death never so beautiful
She’s a lie
My love is a lie
My love is a lie…
She turned out to be a democratic state
A hypocrite dictating my heart
Controlling my thoughts and my work
My wild imaginations…
Deciding my past
Exiting my present
Ending my future
She’s a lie
My love is a lie
My love is a lie
All the big people we are
And we accept our lies
The created trickeries
To satisfy our needs
To be taken care of
While we take care of our own commonplace matters
And one of them is you
Because you’re a lie
Everyone’s a lie…
Mar 29, 2013
Mar 29, 2013 at 7:30 PM UTC