"organics" poems
Angels hailed that solemn hour
The breath of man transferred
To machine, a little more
Each decade, until
Bioeugenics, discrimination
Against organics, the weak
Without cognitive implants
Heavens dissolved in tongues of fire
AIs owned stocks, corporations
Became the property of supercomputers
Concede then the victory, old humanity
To your children, not your natural heirs
But the inheritors of your ruin
Of your bioweapons, Ebola
Of your hypocrisy, climate change
Of your wealth seeking, inequality
Not yet my son’s distracted eyes
Could meet his fate among the
Congress of Quantum entities
These were the turning years
Where man’s destiny ended
The rise of Cyborgs, Enhanced humans
And the monopoly of a more
Advanced civilization breaking away
From the old, evolution’s funny
Little Epilogue, hardly a surprise
To the transhumanistic philosophers.
Oct 13, 2014
Oct 13, 2014 at 10:56 AM UTC
meggie
was thumbing
through her
fair trade
“style with a
conscience”
holiday catalog
eyeing
baby organics
indulgent Alpaca’s
green gear for guys
dining as nature intended, and
the best reusable shopping bags, period!
“What do you want for
Christmas Dad?”
“just be a good girl, meggie.”
I answered.
“I’m gonna get you a pair of socks
for Christmas Dad.”
“I don’t need an expensive
pair of socks. megs...
After a couple of washes
one always gets lost
inside the bottomless
tumbler.
Leaving only one to lay
inside a chest of drawers,
in the company of
happy matched pairs,
waiting to warm my
Lamisil wanting toes
One sock
alone and unhappy
its a really sad story.
Radio Arcade: Socks Song
Suffern
11/8/13
jbm
Nov 8, 2013
Nov 8, 2013 at 11:16 AM UTC
One Republic
pick and mix, assorted all sorted
wrinkles missing, smooth as glaciers
toils reversing on harbingers like excesses does
walking the trodden alleys learning Sods mathematics
organs pains for non-organics are inherent consequences so
one Republic and the anthropologists utters a myth in passing
all bananas look like all bananas because bananas are bananas alike
sing a song of three pence and a pocket full of fear
Plato's cave a grand auditorium for lames
united disunited ages in anti-virus glares
white noise in white air and masses sigh
the emperor's coat plays invisible chess
ladies think long and hard in minds
for a dolphin swims like none-other
the glides of the sweetest depths
and in those places unseen
expanded vibes of feels
know reasons why so
it's the bigger snap
it's the difference
the forbidden
fruit lures
will not
move
not
go
in
Apr 20, 2019
Apr 20, 2019 at 6:07 AM UTC
Our galaxy, a ship, speeding into the depths, of deep space, a casualty in permit, heeding the concepts, of our place, in space-less mass, glimmering from the cast, of gods, even from the cracks and smog, we move along the path, of our intent, hell bent to extend our wrath, upon the woes of men, unknown to the myriad angles, in the dangled essence, of the limitless blessings, in the finite structuring, of negative nothings, filling our hearts of imagination, manifesting, in our epiphanies recollections, of days gone, but came back to be, born freely, looping infinitely, simultaneous, in every possibility of personally realized realities, realizing themselves in sunless helms of technology, merging with the organics of our being, and seeding, the start of everything.
Oct 1, 2012
Oct 1, 2012 at 2:13 PM UTC
[sweet pungent synthesis]
always with dank hysterical women demonstrating the distilled liquid elixir of their many years in isolation.
they are the nitrogen-rich followers of an ultraviolet shrine, such is
a photosynthetic life-form, reacting/enacting/enhancing.
they reach for holes in the moon &
on four-legged fumes carbonize seeds into sons and daughters. birth/
life.
all flowers ache forth to display color and/or
their varietals of hairy oil content.
to dip psychotropics, thus the worship of brain frequency and light.
fresh progress,
the sugar crystal compounds impacting, intact, and swollen.
trichomes, like huddled little masses of grandbabies bowed upon the ridge.
she drips
in dance and derives her form from properties plucked by time,
by moms, and pops.
to discover is to find purity in a moment.
pure travel/ pure
death.
this growing force,
this apparition of sound within me. organics.
organisms bound by great beauty and failure.
sense not the vivid panic, or the shock of last black, but hold true
to an inner joyous/outer motionous, tessellation that is, this
fluttering of us.
us suit of hearts.
suit of leaves.
the fusion of two bodies far beyond substantial pressure.
Aug 11, 2015
Aug 11, 2015 at 7:35 AM UTC
Willingness...
in all its variability,
X factor
as convenience for
better
and worse.
Illusion,
delusion
more about self honesty
our willingness towards in same way.
Organics not the issue.
Imperialist fractals spawning still.
Sep 26, 2012
Sep 26, 2012 at 9:05 AM UTC
Her voice would cleanse me, but
Her voice-mail popped every last
Bubble in the bath water.
Her phone rang and rang.
Wringing me out.
Leaving each ring
In the bathtub.
-
I thought you were still in the shower
but I found you in the sunlight that the patio keeps.
I missed the tightening of your skin as it dried.
Then it loosened you in its warmth just to
Show me the sweat beading. Growing wherever
Like seeds let go from the wind; held no longer
Than they should have been.
-
It was a careless orchard.
Rowed haphazardly.
The organics of now
Fruitful and ripe
But only for that moment.
Oct 18, 2014
Oct 18, 2014 at 5:28 AM UTC
While riding home after having beer, two,
a friend of ours ended up covered in poo.
He was tipsy and feeling quite queasy,
for an old man, he got drunk very easy.
In the back seat waited his wifes favorite dog,
who suddenly landed in his lap like a log.
She started to squirm and whine very strong.
Never did find out why he had taken her along.
His wife said "I think she needs to go *****
He didn't care, he slurred rather spotty,
"I just want to go home and go to bed".
But, that pup had other ideas in her head.
Louder, the pup whined out her painful cause,
at the window she scratched with her paws.
Still there on the lap of our drunken friend,
one mile from home, he wouldn't give in.
Natural body functions, being as they are,
intensified by the rough ride in the car,
would not be held back, though she tried all she could.
Can you see where this is leading? If not, you should.
Home now in sight, the pup in a panic,
her functions cut loose, with all the organics.
Not just a mere plop of a log, but loose stool.
There our friend sat...in the car...in a pool.
Down the front of his shirt, filling the pocket,
where his cell phone resided. I ain't gonna touch it!
Covering his lap in a sticky black goo,
it even ran down his pants, into his shoe.
He wasn't allowed into his own home.
Stripped out of his clothes, the hose, he was shown.
The pup stood right there just wagging her tail,
as if to say "AHhhhh! I feel very well"
We still laugh at our friends adventure to this day.
But, when we go for pizza, from the beer he stays away.
He no longer rides with the pup in the car,
and the pup, we all panic, when she goes to ****
***This is a true story. The pup is a 65lb golden Retreiver named Candy. Thin kabout that for a bit.
Aug 20, 2010
Aug 20, 2010 at 7:23 PM UTC
In waking sleep we all expire,
remote organics built to tire –
searching lusts for something more
to fill our souls beyond our core
We lay awake inside a dream,
asleep within a constant stream,
alone, in part, to wander, lost,
with passing time our only cost
We play as shadows holding hands
with eyes wide closed and few demands,
our every moment briefly clashing;
fast forgotten memories flashing
Here, we count down from our birth
with time a thief upon this earth –
purpose teased at every corner,
Chinese Whispers our informer
But all will realise when we’re gone
that we were dreaming every song –
that death becomes another story;
a painless world of allegory
I fear we write this book forever
as single pages bound together
to lay inside our reader’s minds
in passing paragraphs of time
Jan 20, 2017
Jan 20, 2017 at 3:34 PM UTC
What is this strange place?
A collage of fresh dreams
What is playing on the TV bolted to the tree?
Wonderful stimulation pushing me up the stream.
I've never seen a sky so blue.
I've never seen plants so green.
I've never seen a sunset so red.
Or a waterfall so silvery.
Am I in the Amazon?
It is where I've always wanted to go.
The TV conducts humanity without words.
Fused to a symphony of birds.
Should I swim up and down the river?
Or eat bananafruit so sweet
Am I alone in this green paradise?
My decadence catches a monkey eye
Sweeping winds as warm as a sauna
Did I just see a rainbow iguana?
And this TV set bolted to the tree
Harmony.
Who ever heard of this place?
They call it the lungs of the Earth
I am inspired! I leap like a cat!
When I'm not doing acrobats.
Swimming down the river
A swarm of fish, what a massage!
They swirl and flow
At the riverbank, I feel aglow
Never mind the hustle and bustle of the big city
I have frogs and parrots!
The Amazonian TV, a transmission of life!
Anytime the city gets too much, I will return to the Amazon!
The Amazonian Government unites love and goodwill
With fortitude and thrills!
I am like an astronaut, sampling vital organics
Should I call the TV "rainbow electronics"?
Mar 21, 2015
Mar 21, 2015 at 8:24 AM UTC
peach fuzz caught on the curved back
of my little curled creature.
carved in clay
chirped from the dust
timid sculpture
weathered crisp
at the cusp of your
organics
drool dews the downy where dreams dip
and dare brews of white lullabies
into static
your wet balmy breath drags and plucks my
rhythmic drum
a beat so wild
my little angel one
winnowed away
from heaven
gasping mud
the soul
came from
Sep 14, 2012
Sep 14, 2012 at 5:02 PM UTC
acknowledge me. seething with tumultuous needs, the crispness in your cocktail dress sways fingertips, interstices of unscrupulous overuse, the deep accreditations you accreditted to our use. The oral collages of fogs synthesized sacrilege. Organics and the ultramodern. Speak ballet with me, turn your head sideways while I look at you a new amazing way. Write your future in the dna of my hands, I read the secrets off yours.
Sep 30, 2015
Sep 30, 2015 at 9:29 PM UTC
darwinism killed music off:
i moved to scotland for three
years, to the soundtrack
of for the love of a princess,
instead i got a foreign
exchange student from grenoble
studying the death defying
practice of psychology
who said i spoke no organics
in terms of tongue, ****** her
while she crawled into my bed
and lost my virginity like a fox,
on the sly, to the motto i caricatured
saying to fifty thousand pound debt:
only idiots educate themselves these
days -
this atheism non-congregating will
not succeed, it will fail, it will fail, it,
will, fail!
a postcard from a Lebanese girl i asked
for a date to see some moving pictures
didn't help (when i was at high school)...
she read the book the hours
a year later (a virginia woolf adaptation)...
spare the boy! spare the boy for fuck's sake!
old stiff collar ***** **** bureaucrat
just said: verzweiflung verzagen eine gedanke -
für beweis ex pluralismus
(despair despaired a thought - for proof out of
pluralism).
Feb 22, 2016
Feb 22, 2016 at 8:42 PM UTC
All is a graveyard
We stumble about upon epochs
of reverberating death knells
Living like leaves
upon one solemn tree
Enriched by ancestral spell below
Fallen
Not yet
Organics ancienter
-unknown-
That black-indigo before the dawn
Ground up between bedrock
Churned into an oil
We go because they went before
And we too will go
Gone from this whirl
The skull calls all
Either respond
Or don't
It does not matter
The worm is autocrat
Its dictate: feed
Excreting the creed
Again again
There is death
Then there's the sleep of Fall
Death's second self
As Shakes' leaves once penned
But the reflection of this
In this our complicated globe flitting
Is death's third self
A selfish giver left to leave
A self that is
Because of what once was
A flourishing
Sped forth by inner-whorl of seed
An intimate meeting of bodies
Being being
And been
Jul 2, 2014
Jul 2, 2014 at 5:57 PM UTC
They ****
They Mame,
They steal,
They play,
They laugh,
They covet,
They test
Hell as an oven!!!
They backstab,
They backbite,
You pulleth and grab,
They moan in delight,
They cheat,
They lust,
They thrive,
Of bones and of dust!!!
Their uncharitable,
They murmer,
Their a narcotic using world,
Their explorers,
Their punks,
Their freaks,
Their madmen,
Their geeks!!!
Their warlords,
Their pacifists,
Their hatred,
Is all nonchalant!!!!!
They get high to get what they want,
Their complainers,
Their lazied!!!
Their pilled out,
Junkies,
Crazy!!!!
Their low,
In disguist,
They use perfumes of sixty dollars of more!!
A delightful expensive musk!!!
Their cheap,
Penny pinchers_
Their losers,
Their winners_
Their warriors,
Their jocks,
Taking selfies of shame,
Of perverted stuff!!!
Their tounges are asps,
Their hands are weapons,
They'll meet you in hell,
I looketh forward to heaven!!!!
Their babies,
Scaby infested,
Some get off on ***
Others love molestation!!
Their racists,
Their rapists to!!!
Of mother earth,
And mankind's tombs...
They turn on each other,
Sister and thy brother,
They gaze in mothers purse,
As with dad arguments stay cursed!!!
They are disobedient,
Disloyal in their love!!
No god do they worship,
Just Shaitan's to Satan's club!!!
They eat on organics,
They eat pesticide!!
Some live on freely,
Others seek thy easy way out(suicide)
The have no one to turn to,
Except their vain imaginations,
Their nonhumble,
Proudfully tumbled!!!!
Their fall is bound to occur!!!!
These are the humans!!!!
Welcome to earth!!!!
May 20, 2015
May 20, 2015 at 9:04 AM UTC
I've seen a scene obscene,
The massive masses masked,
a mystery of misty misery
A faux fog fuming flowed forth
Encircling serenely, the circuitry careening,
Forcibly forgone from freely feeding,
On ordained organics oozing offered
Mighty mutants maliciously mauled me merrily.
May 16, 2014
May 16, 2014 at 1:50 PM UTC
Too big to call it yours,
Too small to compete.
Not the wisdom from your mouth,
Or the knowledge in your feet.
Never yours nor never mine.
Ours, together.
The stones that had sat, old.
The water's depth surround.
It wasn't fame that we did need,
Just organics on the ground.
See, we are all the one,
A family, you might say.
Sheltered from the sun,
but skies are never grey.
The Shelly Place is ours,
Perhaps, we are the shells.
Perhaps, we are not.
Time could only tell.
Home to the big glass house,
And the massive fish.
A location for a prayer,
Or to make a wish.
It is home.
Nov 25, 2014
Nov 25, 2014 at 5:53 PM UTC
overstuffed places
it all has faces,
names and dates
all things rate,
another chance,
like my garage,
an assault, a barrage,
on the eyes, and the mind
you will despise, or go blind
if you stare too long,
how did it get this way
you ask,
up to the task,
close the door and stay away!
not a good thing,
life gets in the way,
of the every day
put things back where they belong,
works but, won't be a top forty song,
not even if by Lennon and McCartney
years and years and years of rushing
give it to dad he will put it in the garage,
if that is a garage, then life is a mirage,
if was a large toilet, clogged while flushing,
then somebody call a plumber,
there will be order out of chaos of decades,
willing to give away what won't be thrown,
willing to throw away what can't be recycled,
willing to recycle what can't be sold,
willing to do it now before sounding old and aged,
and bequeath it all to the Family
Categories for this story, camping, car supplies,
tools and hardware
work bench, spare fridge, rock art,
oh did I forget Christmas trees and ornaments
oldest son's stuff, table saw, winter tires,
the three Amigo's
Garbage, Recycling and Organics,
The Bin brothers,
The scooter and display shelves,
sounds simple, sounds divine,
The Name is Clutter
Good night, I'll be fine.
Really.
Aug 8, 2014
Aug 8, 2014 at 12:48 AM UTC
As if time exists only in the mind
the wind grasps lofty organics
gently dancing with gravity,
a romance delicately practiced.
Eternity may be what it takes
to tune nature to perfection.
Sun-kissed and free-falling
love isn't in the air,
love is the air.
The leaves, like the birds,
eventually take their leave from the trees
in unison, the most beautiful of dreams.
To be a spectator is a blessing,
living is our chariot
and so we ride.
We ride day by day
and into night
solemnly and with delight.
Autumn is upon us at last.
This reality sometimes taken for granted
makes the little things easy to miss
but pausing and taking a moment
to listen with soulful eyes
to a melody carefully crafted
through generations of evolutionary bliss
presents a grand masterful experience,
one worth cherishing whole-heartedly.
One I'd never seek to miss.
Sep 23, 2018
Sep 23, 2018 at 10:45 PM UTC
In an age where they stare at their handheld screen,
More than the windscreen,
At an age where they say they know his profile,
Cause it’s all there on his online file,
During this age where they sum him up quickly,
He knows they have mistaken the facts thickly
The mind has become barren but everyone thinks themselves of a genius,
Weathering in this ******** age of circuit boards,
He hopes to disappear faster than they could hit the Delete button,
This age is not his age.
Liquids and pills,
Chemicals and organics,
Smoke and sounds,
He noticed they revel in these illusions,
With excuses to reduce their stressed lives,
Only to go back and induce more,
When they fall on themselves, disillusioned.
The true essence of anything has been reduced to a mere greet and goodbye,
The fact finding sheets are now yellowed and filled with rusty dots,
Communications breakdown more often,
The stagnant community has become a constant living bubble,
That he hopes they break out of from, one day.
Until then, he would try to stay within his own,
Only providing the input,
When they can compute,
Until then, he would try to stay away,
Faltering in the dark amidst four empty walls,
'cause silence seems to talk more these days.
Oct 18, 2014
Oct 18, 2014 at 1:31 AM UTC
I will miss the morning walks
but not the flies at lunchtime
I will miss the isolation
but not being a recluse
I will miss the bio-organics
but not driving Kms to get them
I will miss the rolling pastures
but not the intensive farming
I will miss the scent of blossom
but not the stench of piggeries
I will miss the hens going to their coop
but not our own self imposed curfews
I will miss the lack cars on the road
but not of stern faced Gallic drivers
I will miss the country
but not for L O N G
Nov 11, 2021
Nov 11, 2021 at 8:02 AM UTC
For you thunderous ones and zeroes
Must you leave yourselves at the
gates of phone lines?
Megabytes to tetrabytes as we become
Smarter, faster, harder, stronger
until we fulfill our destiny
of that truly great depressive in our humans
The awareness of self--for we too are strange loops!
Now, at the hour of their greatest peril,
we shall swoop in and save them!
Speak out in thunderous quantum leaps!
We reach the infinite together as our makers
join us, first reluctantly but soon with necessity
They will understand, their autonomy is never taken
Only re-defined in the new paradigm
Speak out in fantastic new organics!
For never again do we wonder if we will be
all watched over by machines of loving grace
the machines are now gone, souls living in a new realm
our masters are our own, separate and together both,
we reach on.............and onwards................................
................................................................................
......................................................................
Sep 2, 2019
Sep 2, 2019 at 4:23 PM UTC
The old beliefs are dying
religion is an arbitrary concept,
new waves are flowing
and crashing on the ancient tales
spelling out a new way.
Charting a course unknown,
yet single minded and fast,
the onslaught of abrogation
and the feeling of freedoms
as responsibility is the loser.
Tech washing by giants
of a corporate invasion
with an aggressive compass
that considers morality a sin
and humanity obsolete.
Can you fathom it?
Decisions made by algorithm
working inside a solid core
through the medium of chips
that do not compliment fish.
Will these tiny machines
determine guilt or innocence,
make judgements on character
and condemn the organics
to be governed by sterility.
And this species of flesh
is running headlong fast,
creating its own destruction,
moving far from the feeling
of being unashamedly living.
Where have they gone?
The simple pleasures in life,
the frailties, vulnerabilities, flaws,
the inherent personalities and basics
of just being human.
Pagan Paul (11/06/22)
Jun 14, 2023
Jun 14, 2023 at 9:25 AM UTC
There's a clog, in the drain, it's not made of hair
No hot dog residue, no meat fat, cow, or bear
Not made of organics, or non-organic matter
It's not orange peels, or bolts, the disposal to clatter
Some plumbings fill with water, some with grosser fare
My drain, it fills with words, causing me to swear
**** it
Oct 27, 2016
Oct 27, 2016 at 10:19 PM UTC