"pamphlet" poems
*chaste pecks from the super-sonic youth
numb lips flutter to the hollowed cheeks of normality
no longer the hand-prints on the guide book to hostility
a pamphlet of rudimentary teachings;
the principles of tolerance and rebellion and acceptance of human beings
a concoction of suppressed psychotic behavior, quick wit, and center of satirical tease
constantly moving with heavy footsteps and heavier hearts
their minds and bodies plagued with actions from a deserted youth
soul lusting over the naivety of people before self-actualization; how crude
do they call it an existential crisis or the daily life of a agoraphobic nobody
shouts from the depths of caged fears that scrape the oblivious flesh in their brain; a bit gaudy
mother, sister, brother, father how your words crush the knots of comfort that line my internal organs
bleeding from the pores of my screams; streams of moon-beams shooting out my eyes; oh, not again!
stomping our metaphorically spiked toenails against the idealism of pop culture
oh, my, how adolescence is the worst kind of torture
cherry slushies lined with cigarettes to create a whirl-pool of nostalgia
recreational drugs and ironic situations to ease our instinctual sense of proverbial nausea
loud-mouthed demons spawned out of clothes-hangers and emotional turmoil
show up in our nightmares that we nick-name ‘a good place to contemplate suicide’
repeated imagery stacked like flap-jacks in the mouths of blissed-out sociopaths
too self-indulgent to include us in to their personal stories so we can observe, record, and assess
i don’t perceive doctors to be particularly and predominantly just and true
but i one time met a doctor who told me ‘being a teenager is perhaps the hardest thing you could ever do’*
Nov 3, 2013
Nov 3, 2013 at 10:20 PM UTC
Just because it's suggested doesn't make it right.
In the hands of teachers, other staff.
What other purpose could this directly serve.
To defend our institutions.
To further endanger those around.
The knowledge instilled from book to teacher a different practice.
Now holstered, hidden in the drawer of a desk.
What goes through the mind of the victim that's been bullied.
What training can be set in place to stop the next bulletin.
Shooting across the screen.
The kid in 10th grade that carries the weight of the world.
Sitting all day staring out the window.
Mother in hospice.
A fragile thought swallowed by deafening silence.
It no longer becomes a listening session of encouragement.
The after school sessions of comfort sped up.
Another bulletin of hysteria fired across the screen.
Teacher student affair.
15 year old student found with 42 year old man.
When in reality she was seeking help due to a troubled home.
Afraid to sleep knowing the door would creep open.
Leaving her terrified to close her eyes. The relationship between step daughter and father without boundary.
Where's the specialty training for those who care.
The proper resources that extend beyond that of a pamphlet.
The dark skin kids that's made fun of because they look different.
Stereotyped as aggressive.
The dope boys, the baby mamas.
The light skin girl that's made to feel inferior because she turns red with every hit.
Her hair is longer than theirs so she wants to cut it.
Aggressively forgetting all the beauty she possesses.
The active shooter managing to make it pass the metal detectors.
Rallying the attention he didn't get at home.
The debate carries on across every wall except the right ones
Jul 13, 2018
Jul 13, 2018 at 11:33 AM UTC
While sitting at a café once
a boy of sorts went by.
His clothes were bright, he wore a suit
a purple, orange tie.
He looked around him while he walked
and then I caught his eye.
His hair was wild and fairly long,
his shoes were bright and new.
His face was lit up with a smile
and said “how do you do?”
He waved his hand, his giant hand,
the smile quite simply grew.
He walked on over, then he sat
down on the chair across
from me and all my company
a friend, his wife, my boss,
and handed me a brochure of
Learn how to play lacrosse.
“The name is Nathan Douglas Day
of age I am nineteen.
I have thick hair that gets quite gross
which then, I have to clean.
The knots that form, they almost dread.
You do know what I mean?
But hair is not all that I am
there’s skin and bones and thought,
but even then, that isn’t much
my weight is almost naught.
The mem’ry in my brain is small
which leaves much to be taught.
The people call me names to do
with where they know me from
like, Mugbo, or the wanderer,
or rang-rang, or Nathan,
or Nathan Douglas Day and some
don’t call me anyone.”
This speech of his, it left me shocked.
What kind of life was this,
to have more names than anyone
from this metropolis?
I was so puzzled and confused
there was something amiss.
I said “Okay…” and looked straight down
to where the pamphlet lay
and then began to read about
Lacrosse and how to play.
And Nathan snapped his fingers loud
and got a piece of cake.
A strawb’rry shake came next and then
a plate of biscuits came.
he offered them around and said
“they all taste much the same.”
We ate them all. He sat quite still.
I learned about the game.
My boss and friend were wondering,
who was this Nathan day,
this boy who came from nowhere and
sat down and seemed to stay?
They asked me with their eyes but I
did not know what to say.
Then Nathan started talking to
the wife of my good friend
he made her laugh and laugh and laugh
and laugh it didn’t end.
We all wanted to hear the joke
he wouldn’t say again.
“Lacrosse seems very difficult”
I said to stir the air.
“It is” he said “I played it once
but now, I would not dare”
I wondered then why he would hand
the pamphlets out with care.
I wondered maybe did he work
in trade from door to door.
I asked him this and his reply
it shocked me even more
“I do not hand them out” he said
“I found it on the floor.”
Nov 14, 2011
Nov 14, 2011 at 7:49 AM UTC
"Found poem", all the text lifted from a tourist pamphlet picked up in Crete, only very slightly edited.
There are daily buses starting from Chania
to the head of the gorge,
which is called Xyloskalo.
Buses say on the front "Omalos" and depart
from the central bus station.
By taking any of the morning buses you get to Xyloskalo
after one and a half hours.
At Xyloskalo there is a tourist pavilion
where you can get meals, drinks,
and which has only seven beds for staying overnight.
For those wishing to spend the night
on the Omalos plateau
there is another possibility, that of staying
at Omalos village itself, five kilometres before Xyloskalo,
where are two cafés providing several beds. From there
you get any of the morning buses starting from Chania
to the head of the gorge.
The length of the gorge is sixteen kilometres, and you need
five to six hours to walk through it. There is plenty
of drinking water all along the gorge. Tennis shoes
or walking boots are recommended. Camping,
overnight staying, smoking, hunting,
cutting and uprooting plants
are forbidden.
At the mouth of the gorge is Aghia Rouméli village,
which provides restaurants and accommodation.
From there you take boats
either to Sfakía (duration: one hour) or to Soughia
and Paleochora.
Remember that the last boat to Sfakía is at 17 hours,
which connects with the last bus to Chania at 18 hours.
Duration of the bus trip: two hours.
May 9, 2016
May 9, 2016 at 10:40 AM UTC
Mannequin smiles with masks of plastic
stand and huddle, fight and juggle,
for their space in the crowd.
Elbows touching torsos,
torsos touching hips;
kisses under the darkness,
bonfire warming the lips.
A child sits on the shoulders of her rock,
hands resting in the lap of his head,
waiting for the fireworks to be ignited,
set off, lit and begin.
Eyes of raw astonishment,
watery with cold,
a deer eye mould,
looked up at the firework display.
Sharp colour crayon lines
were drawn in the night-time sky.
Sound followed,
cheers and claps, applauds too.
They were lost in the hollow hole
of the houses around,
this’ll be the one she remembers.
Her first display of sound and light
and she’ll remember how she jumped up and down
to carnival music and carnival folk, rides and light,
menagerie sights.
News from the blog regarding my new poetry pamphlet, check the link out>> http://www.coffeeshoppoems.com/2012/11/homeland-borderland.html
Nov 6, 2012
Nov 6, 2012 at 1:07 PM UTC
I imagine sitting on a porch somewhere humid and calm,
a tall tree, full of hand fruits, providing shade to foot traffic.
In this imagining, the lemonade is almost too sweet but doesn't stick to the table when it dries, and the mesh lining of the patio denies mosquitos all entry.
Their buzzing is drowned by the sound of ice being crushed three or four times with margarita mix and my favorite sin. Here, life has halted so dearly in a way I've always wanted, and in this, there is peace.
My parents would have kept a container of peanuts nearby to have with their Pepsis for days like this--
days where sound and warmth and humidity mingle, and fanning yourself with an old church pamphlet was better than being
bored, comfortable, and air-conditioned.
Apr 15, 2023
Apr 15, 2023 at 12:04 AM UTC
Goliath:
You buy your love with bourbon creams,
cans of beans and full cupboard brims;
steal clothes to hide a torso of lies
twist that in with teaspoon brown eyes,
deeper than any holy bible’s spine:
found in hotel drawers,
away from the preachy, needy, cast iron shrine.
David:
Whilst the girl you’re with has nothing to give,
no family member nor money splendour,
you battle on with the train rides
cross country,
cross country train track guides.
Audiobook it; listen to it; learn it and write it,
write the letter she deserves, explaining
the ins and outs of your hidden nerves:
the nerves entitled ‘I don’t love you anymore’
My first poetry pamphlet, 'Homeland & Borderland' is still available to buy for only 3.00 GBP with free P+P to anywhere in the world. Both handmade and self published>> http://www.coffeeshoppoems.com/2012/11/it-is-here-homeland-borderland.html
Nov 7, 2012
Nov 7, 2012 at 5:30 AM UTC
~
Standing to fight
In the heart of the city
The jungles of asphalt
where neon flashes evil
as sidewalk dwellers
window shop hate
and find peace labeled “Not for sale”
I cling to my beliefs
in lamp post graffiti
Spray painted wishes
fading in color
and store owner nightmares,
defacing the brick walls
surrounding my very existence
Fear falls in pamphlet raindrops,
pages scattered
beyond the welcome mats
of big box politicians
in paisley ties
and sharp creased slacks,
shaking hands and scamming votes
Promises made
circled in cigar smoke and cheap wine,
fall on unsuspecting ears as truth
until the “sorry we’re closed” signs
spin in favor of loss…
opening for business
to the throngs of the needy
I see their eyes, hollow,
faltering of sorrow as worry
becomes the next day’s problem
Reaching into my pocket I retrieve
the multi-colored wings you gave me…just in case
and I fly to be with you
Unable to face the fall…of humanity
Oct 30, 2013
Oct 30, 2013 at 3:41 PM UTC
For the girl who used the umbrella as a walking stick,
this is for you.
No limp and leg slide followed your wake
just the upright roar of footsteps on pale shale-
Cambridge cotton stones that reflect and reverberate
the sound from around into the ears of the passerby.
I cannot wait, nor hold it in,
the urge to scribble 11 numbers
onto parchment paper, old receipts or
or that wilted vapour notepad paper,
that nestles in the jeans.
If I had, then we’d be at a meal now- a dining experience
just for two.
22 numbers and one letter was written,
illegible and wrong.
I forgot which phone number worked
and forgot which one you could reach me on.
**A poem from the upcoming poetry pamphlet, published by http://www.coffeeshoppoems.com, entitled "Leather Clad Warriors", available soon for £3. That's only 300 pence.
Oct 31, 2012
Oct 31, 2012 at 11:19 AM UTC
If you take away the ticker-tape barriers
and the scattered signs for luggage,
vending machines and airport
senior leadership teams,
all you’ll have is a hall of
travel.
Some seats remain
for the elderly to reside in,
they’re checking holiday books
and pamphlet guides.
Floor space has curdled
into a mess of white-deodorant-
stained teens who want a
good night’s sleep like
the marines across the way.
They, the marines, joke about
the weather, the women, the
watered down beverages from broken
vending machines and shit-cafe-
expensive-coffee down the strip.
De Gaulle is but a roof now:
drains and curving stretches of
eyebrow iron,
not the general France
once relied upon.
Mar 28, 2013
Mar 28, 2013 at 1:54 PM UTC
I notice you the moment I walk in
You, however, don't give a ****
Looking at your pretty little associates
Giggling over some inane matter
While you sit like you are
Some kind of holy,
With a shit-eating grin
On your face. Your attention
Doesn't waver from them
I walk inside, intensely tired
Gone insane with all the fake-
grins and the somewhat awkward
Fun we all had. Your attention
Doesn't waver from your papers
Your precious little papers
I note, with a sardonic grin
I close my eyes and simply
Don't care any more as I
Strip out of my clothes
Chuck off my stupid heels
And fall on the bed, letting
Out a sigh of relief, comfort
Finally, I get to relax
My spine relaxes but it tingles
With awareness of the
Audience. I open my eyes
My vision blurry from over-use
I meet his gaze across the room
He keeps staring
Disconcerted and too weary to deal
With his mood-swings, I close my eyes
And bury my face in the pillow
My head is hurting, it is pounding
And I am at the end of my rope
He comes with slow, languid strides
Makes me sit-up, hands over the flask
Filled with water, my name engraved
On the cap, and a pamphlet of Aspirin
I praise the medical wonders
As I knock it down and lie on the bed again
I can feel it acting its magic
My nerves are loosening out
My head is being quietened bit by bit
As my vision blackens, I notice his
Face, eyes, expression
Strangely, something looks
Like longing on his face
Oct 14, 2012
Oct 14, 2012 at 10:16 AM UTC
The oppression hangs stiff and unrelenting
And the sincerity comes off too awkward and from left field
I just want to move, but all I can accomplish are twitches in different directions
You're talking at me, not with me
And I'm close to fabricating an elaborate story to put you in shut down mode so that I can continue on my day
I don't care about your message
I'm not buying your book, I'm not reading your pamphlet, and I'm not joining your group.
I'm eating a ******* burrito,*** and that's IT.
Jun 27, 2016
Jun 27, 2016 at 8:15 PM UTC
I turned the corner cautiously
into the kitchen at work,
hoping for emptiness.
I just wanted a quiet sanctuary,
away from the gossip agenda.
Much to my surprise, I found out
I'm ******* the secretary.
"That's odd," I think to myself.
"I don't recall that."
In struts Justin, the ******* from accounting.
"So, how'd you get that play?"
A devilish smile crawls onto his face
**** you, man."
I walk to the breakroom.
Kaylie's there in a pencil skirt that could
be mistaken for skin and a sheer shirt
over a lacy bra that pushes up her ****
so much you'd swear she was suffocating.
She raises an eyebrow and I assume that's
a greeting.
But she speaks as well,
"Hello, *******
I gulp cold coffee down.
This talk is usual and never goes below two feet deep.
"Hello... what is it today? ****
"Very funny. I heard you're ******* the ***** up front."
"Yeah, well, talk is cheap, ain't it? Besides, I heard you're blowing Troy."
"What? Where did you--"
"Relax, red light. I don't give a **** if he's ******* you on his head. Just make sure I don't walk in on the fun, alright?"
"You think you're such a smooth operator, don't you? You know, you could write the book on being an *******
"Well, thanks for having faith, but you've got it wrong. I'm a smooth talker. And it would be a 10-step pamphlet. I don't have the integrity or patience to write a book."
**** you. When I'm a Washington big shot and you're a washed up ******* with a camera, we'll see who's laughing."
"When you're a Washington big shot, I'll set myself on fire and jump ship out of this ********* country, screaming "Kaylie the Cumbucket!" on the free fall down like the lunatic I am."
She grins, "sometimes I think you've lost your mind."
"Sometimes, red light, I know I have."
Nov 22, 2010
Nov 22, 2010 at 3:18 PM UTC
Black box breaking
Slowly breaking
Slowly
I saw the cracks
I saw them ripple down her back
I saw the freeze and thaw of nations
The renaissance and death and renaissance
I saw the wealth and worth of world powers
I saw them crumble
I was there
And I am here
I read it all and wrote it down
I saw it all and wrote it down
I kissed the survivors and wrote it down
I saw the earth in its entirety
I fell in love and vomited and fell in love
I saw her in her emptiness
I saw her sway in the winds
The winds grew cold and colder
She grew old and older
And so distraught
Mangled
Destroyed
Derailed
Demolished
Stripped of poise and polish
Stripped of it all
I saw her disintegrate
I saw her fall
Still I,
I still
I always standing
Watching still
Always seeing
Standing and seeing, I
Drinking tea
Calm, cool, collected, serenity
Now your turn
You see me
See me walking down the street
See my waist-long wavy hair
Blonde and sparkling in the sun
Lipstick smile
Hipbones and cheekbones chiseled and deadly
Long leg strut down the runway
Of center town sidewalks
The world is my oyster
See my backpack full of alphabetized books
Handwriting neat and perfect
Pen behind my ear I’m ready
For all of this
See me smoking cigarettes out my dorm room window
Listening to Mozart
And smiling fully when the strings jump in
See me on the park bench reading
Long Russian novels
I inhale the pages like heartbeats
In-hale
Ex-hale
In-hale
Ex-hale
Breaths and beats fully synchronized to the flipping of pages
And to the Metronome Mozart wrote me.
Don’t be deceived
I made my world and destroyed it and made my world
Independent to a fault
I made my living off stitching together broken bones
And melting old forgotten thrones
Sculptures that said I needed no one
No one could keep up anyway
I ran too fast
I ran all day
And kindof expected someone to care
But no one ever has
I was never worth the trouble
Pull me out from my own rubble
And kiss me if you can
No one knows my secret plan to live an embarrassing convention
All this glass is just pretention
I glued it together myself
I wrote my own pamphlet for self help
I pieced together my own face
I sculpted my own form and adorned it
I broke my own heart and mourned it
I arrived and left and arrived
And here I’ll stay
Black box breaking
Slowly breaking
Slowly
I saw the cracks
I saw them from the start
Death and renaissance and death
***** and love and *****
Jan 19, 2015
Jan 19, 2015 at 12:08 PM UTC
So there's this new fad diet
The Diet of Worms.....
Can you tell me bout it doc?
Is it good for your health?
And I don't quite understand.
Is it the worms we eat
or do we eat dirt and sand?
In any case it sounds expensive.
10+% of everything I earn?
And you have to commit
your entire life or
according to this pamphlet
"your soul will surely burn"? Wow...must really work!
But tell me has the FDA approved, found the claims
to be true? Any side effects, complications? Could I
possibly turn blue?
And why were no American researchers and experts on the team that concocted this diet?
OK OK doc I'll let you talk,
I'll be quiet......
"I've taken it on faith that my patients who've tried it swear that its a miracle....I have no personal experience with it ...give it a shot who knows it might work.".
Hmmmm OK.
"But I heard they have a litany of products so beware that your investment doesn't soon quadruple in size."
Thanks for the visit doc, Ill take it under advice. I think I might....... especially if there's a refund if I don't like it after trying it and don't think it worth the price.
Aug 18, 2018
Aug 18, 2018 at 7:07 AM UTC
Is she a pretty hippy
coming at me with that "you're a fine piece of meat" smile?
Flowing long dress c. 1873
wild hair twisting to her *******
Gracefully she shuffles, feet never leaving the grass
She hands me a pamphlet
I see a ragged leather Holy Bible in her hand
Do her eyes wish I was her husband:
born again Christ Man first, and lover later?
Do you imagine our wedding was today:
communion first and consummate later?
"No thanks, I'm sorry darling"
She and her friend get kicked out of the fair
and she probably felt bad *** for it
Aug 27, 2014
Aug 27, 2014 at 5:56 PM UTC
What do all these unread books mean,
a life that must move, but intends to someday have
more time to sit and ponder?
Or am I slothful from the smudged screen gleam?
Endless tool possibilities, you've become my lvl. 70 distraction
No capture, no defeating
just the monster in the cave
without an escape rope, or even matches
Go so crazy
I wanna light my shirt on fire in protest
and forget to take it off first
I wish for old days of street loitering gossip, and busking
How'd we lose it so fast?
You can't even find the picnic spot without a digital pamphlet
so excuse me as I lament
the dying days
I hardly lived
Nov 17, 2015
Nov 17, 2015 at 12:04 AM UTC
A recipe
I wrote one of those in my head today;
some of it was half-baked,
but what is edible will say:
something about instructions,
something about parts making a whole,
something about convection,
something about mixing in a bowl,
something about dough
and something about kneading
something about confections,
something about breathing.
An epitaph
I wrote one of those in my head today;
some of it was rotten,
what wasn't will rise and say:
something about a journey,
something about fate,
something about love and
something about hate,
something about laying on a gurney
and something about decay,
something about destiny,
something about history,
then it might yawn
and lay back in its grave
A pamphlet
I wrote one of those in my head today;
some parts were mute,
others that weren't will speak and say:
something about tolerance,
something about abuse,
something about inhalants
and something about a noose.
A brochure
I wrote one of those in my head today;
some of it was fake,
but what is real will last and say:
something about a lawyer,
something about curruption,
something about justice
and how it serves a function,
something about admittance,
something about plastic surgery
and breast reduction,
and a catholic priest mumbling
something about perjury.
A eulogy
I wrote one of those in my head today;
some of it was dead,
but what was alive will stand and say:
something about a life
and something about living,
something about a wife
and something about a thing worth giving,
something about a family
and something about foes;
something about winning
and something about woes.
A book
I wrote one of those in my head today;
some of it was filth;
but what was clean will shine and say:
something about character,
something about freedom,
something about development
and something about respect
something about supplement,
something about unity,
something about revolution
and how I think the world should be.
A song
I wrote one of those in my head today;
but it was a bird and it flew away,
If all that's left is just one dying wing
it would flap around
on the ground
and try to sing:
something in near-pefect pitch
something bluesy and
about a *****
then probably something about flight
and finally something about a
bright white light.
A poem
I wrote one of those in my head today;
the lines were seeds
I planted before the cold;
some froze out, some took hold
but what remains grows bold and will say:
something about a heart,
and how you had it from the start;
something about sunlight,
and how you make it seem less bright;
something about the wet wet rain
something about willingness
and something about refrain.
Oct 16, 2011
Oct 16, 2011 at 7:12 AM UTC
White maze for the middle classes,
collect your museum passes at the door,
please
continue through into exhibitions,
photo pictures of art you won’t remember the name of
but because you’re educated you’ll hope to retain its
name, medium, date and frame size of,
and equate them with those pieces you Googled before you came.
Through the double doors
her cries walked down the corridors
whilst cradled in his hands, cradled carefully,
he stood upright in boots on the
newly polished granite, shipped-in, floor.
The art gallery Father and Daughter
are the hidden display
only found in writing in the pamphlet
for today. Some will see them
through cuts in the door,
others may hear them but assume
it’s ambient art-gallery-played-through-speakers
sound coming from the back room.
Aug 31, 2013
Aug 31, 2013 at 10:45 AM UTC
Sometimes I find myself searching
and searching
for pieces of myself that
I've never really wanted in the first place.
And I'll keep that pamphlet,
and I'll cherish that trinket,
and I'll store that bus ticket
just for safe keeping.
And I'll sleep for hours
to see if I can find
what I've lost
in my subconscious
but over
and over again
I find things I never wanted
in the first place
and I'll throw them into the sea
only to swim back to shore,
too late and too far gone
to realize I'm going to have to jump back in.
And maybe I'm talking in circles
and maybe I never really belonged
anywhere
other than where I sleep for the night
Or wherever I decided to
set foot to scavenge
for any remains of myself
that I took for granted.
Maybe a nomad
only finds peace
at the edge of losing everything.
Or maybe they never find peace at all.
gd
Sep 3, 2016
Sep 3, 2016 at 12:53 AM UTC
When my friend committed suicide, I didn’t find out directly.
I found out through a teacher. I was called in the office later that day along with everyone connected with my group of friends.
We sat there, and as the counselor told us why suicide was bad they gave us a pamphlet from the back wall.
How? How could they put suicide alongside ****** ecstasy, *** AIDS, Party Drugs, Teen Alcohol, Texting and Driving.
Depression is not something offered at parties or given out for 20$ a pop. Depression doesn’t make you tipsy or destroy brain cells.
FREDDIE MERCURY DIDN”T DIE FROM DEPRESSION.
Like that pamphlet my eyes were opened.
Bi-Folded and Arranged like an informational epiphany
Nov 4, 2016
Nov 4, 2016 at 1:44 PM UTC
He was older than he felt
but his accomplishments
made him feel like he
was trailing behind.
Middle school said the
next step mattered.
High school said the
next step mattered.
College said your
degree would matter.
Here I am
making your drink.
Hey—did you hear?
I’m selling salvation
in a pamphlet.
Oh—is it clear?
I’m in cheap slacks
on your cheap
doorstep.
People are dying older.
Politics keep getting bolder.
Can’t afford my prescription refill.
Sign me up for war. Use your
******* blinker. I’m only a season
behind.
He looked younger than
he was, all just because
he didn’t live life hard.
Nothing wrong with that—
some people say it’s lazy,
while eroding their bodies.
I thought that looks
would matter.
I thought wits
would matter.
That a career was just
a ladder
you scaled.
Here I am
managing pennies.
There you are
managing memories.
Hope I can afford a
vacation.
Hey—did you hear?
Your death won’t even be free.
Oh—is it clear?
You’re a tenant in your plot
until the landlord forgets.
People are getting older.
Politics are getting bolder.
Choosing insurance over groceries.
Sign me up for Hulu. Five dollars on
pump five. I’m only a paycheck behind.
Oct 4, 2020
Oct 4, 2020 at 12:07 PM UTC
drones
wrapped up in the expansive botnet
of this black facility
prone to
repeat all of last week's protocol
in sequence
and without passion
(the big guy enforces it all)
I'm bored
eye-scanner rejects me twice
fingerprint authentication
prove who I am
beat that proof into the day
a cup of Joe at lunch
half crop-circles under these eyes
yet
you'll still hear me say
I'm bored.
the beat goes on, the beat goes on
the singsong klak-ing of
whatever whatever
a beautiful voice comes over the speakers
ironic
she's the only one talking
and it's a pamphlet talk
about where we all already work.
I'm bored.
May 14, 2012
May 14, 2012 at 1:10 PM UTC
Could you kiss me?
Remember when we used to hate each other?
I think I might have loved you
Did you like girls?
I loved being your son
I still have that Footloose pamphlet you gave me
Thanks for being nice to me
Carrot-top Kelley
I tacked that picture on my bulletin board
scratch my back?
You were my first step outside kid
I still think you were flirting with me
I was surprised when you swore
Can I get a towel, please?
I was writing poetry when you found me
Paul really is great, huh?
can I sit with you one more time?
Aug 14, 2013
Aug 14, 2013 at 10:52 PM UTC