"platforms" poems
In time you’ll recover and absolve
push those scorned impressions aside
hammer down the jaded edges
and sing
that delightful commoners song
the one you sang so well
in what seems a lifetime ago
You really had it you know
that fiery disposition and nimble cunning
those butter chords and derelict style
we could see it -- we could all see it
it was all it took to turn the evening tide
(and rile that buck fever)
heads bashing
tongues lambasting
middle fingers high
and raising Cain on those may fly statesmen
There were no rules
when it came to your survival
no textbook rally or common bond
no structured songbird or bravado stage
you either made it, or laid it
“life by the ***** Mr. Poppy would say
a kaleidoscope of dreams
with rich colored imagery
hardened artisan seams
in a carefully woven motif
But something got lost in the needle point
something sinister and distorted took hold
the quirks and street genius
that were your lifeline
gave way to grunts
and squeals
and chilling night crawlers
the colors faded quickly
to a cold confining grey
There was no grace in the new world
no retribution or switch back
no salvation or accorded finale
only edged platforms of blackened steel
that kept you cased
in a silent vanquished cell
shivering cold with fear
night without day
all in the shadow of death
But time heals all
and the polish sneakers
and open sores are long gone
(though the roman nose and shallow cleft remain)
indeed the falconer beat the widow maker
this go around
and I’m hopeful it won’t happen again
and if it does you’ll see me
standing hand on heart
with that old verse in hand:
he ain’t tainted
or silly,
and most certainly
not forgotten…
he ain’t loony
or fixed,
or a product of his self-doing…
he’s just a straight shootin’ guy,
who had the most of it
figured out
Jan 29, 2017
Jan 29, 2017 at 8:38 PM UTC
*what forests are those we pass,
blazing along the railway tracks,
a tree bloom of still cranes,
stream black of ******* bane,
stench of dead city rubble,
factories of rusted cast metal,
distant cotton twilight skies,
sun slide across a bunch of wires,
passing tunnels echo
lonely platforms, frantic gecko,
looming hillside,
crackle dry wood fire,
a god barred in lock&key,
blink glimpse of the sea
one rush of vision,
pebble fling at frisson,
metal-crunch rhythm,
grind music sublime,
spark, grunt, grate,
we arrive, we dissipate...*
Aug 22, 2016
Aug 22, 2016 at 11:42 AM UTC
i don’t count aloud anymore.
i can't stand to hear your name,
such a common word.
it doesn't matter the context-
i still go quiet every time.
i used to pick up pennies, called them lucky.
i remember picking up a few
on our way back to your place.
nowadays i don't give them a second glance.
it's not their worth i've forgotten.
they say one is the loneliest number.
is that why you did it?
because you felt you’d earned it
after all this time being by yourself--
that you deserved it?
what about me,
did i?
i remember exactly what i wore that day:
short shorts, a big baggy t shirt.
i haven't worn those shoes since (and i so loved them).
they were these expensive purple velvet platforms;
i'd actually had to beg my mother to buy them for me.
"you better wear them", she warned.
that day i went home with you was
the first time i'd ever worn those shoes.
and the last.
sorry mom.
Feb 19, 2017
Feb 19, 2017 at 5:19 AM UTC
Social Media World
Waiting, longing, wanting
Never finished, never complete
Silence makes our ears ring
Always busy, looking to compete
Social media world
Everyone and no one
Never alone, your life is unfurled,
Tap, swipe, post, I’m done..
Never done, never finished
Your social media masterpiece
Do we leave ourselves diminished?
Even though we constantly increase ...
Increase and build, our profiles grow,
Piece by piece an ever changing image
So fast, so rapid, makes me want to go slow
In my mind I pretend and try to envisage
And yet I’m entirely torn
A hypocrite through and through
My very own image I’ll adorn
My eyes, my mouth and what about this hairdo?
I love it and I question it,
I label myself, but why?
Basic, white, “this is lit”
I’ve found that social media high
Parents worry, kids rebel,
Are they happy !?
Perhaps time will tell
For me, it’s the content that’s ******
Stop seeking happiness,
It’s not an end game
Stop talking mindfulness
Whilst putting others to shame
Let’s stop talking the talk
Preaching and self indulging
Watching and waiting like a hawk,
A lifetime wasted, wishing
But embrace the conversations!
Open dialogue; debating, discussing,
Thoughts, ideas and revelations,
Platforms for all, we could do anything!
Nov 2, 2021
Nov 2, 2021 at 6:09 PM UTC
The platforms are full of passengers
The fruits, coffees and tea stalls
The train runs on the track with heels
Like the whops of horses
Passengers enter the train in a hurry
And leave without any worry
Someone sleeps in the berth and snores
Some other sits and reads the news
The gluttonous eater eats the eats
The vendor sells nuts and peas
and cries like the buzzing bees
the T.C comes, wakes up and asks
for the ticket and bribes for berths
the beggar begs for alms singing hymns
some play cards making unbearable noises
the child weeps ,cries and moans
the thief enters the coaches
and tries to steal the bags
the passengers make friends with ease
but it will very soon cease
life like railway travel is a passing shower
it doesn’t last forever
It lasts only till the destination comes
The passenger takes the bag and leaves
Dec 27, 2010
Dec 27, 2010 at 6:16 AM UTC
I reminisce by this railway siding pond,
Musing on rail relics rattling on,
Recalling lives and times bygone,
But memories of their shades linger on,
The lonesome call of distant steam trains,
Eras that may never come again,
I see they're gone nowhere in particular,
Replaced by planes and transport vehicular,
I imagine queues on foggy platforms,
Awaiting the misted trains' shadow forms,
Standing by, expecting the status quo,
I blink my eyes, where did they all go?
Looking backwards along yesterday's track,
I'm no kid any more, get off my back,
I reflect and reminisce,
Nostalgia is for the times we miss,
I'll reminisce by the railway siding pond,
I recall the times and lives bygone,
As ghosts of rail relics keep rattling on......
Jul 24, 2015
Jul 24, 2015 at 8:53 PM UTC
pinecones are
childhood summers spent tripping over the syllables of dense forests
folded somewhere between real world Europe and my very real imagination,
nestled against each other on bookshelves made of pinewood -
a childhood game of hide and go seek pressed in photo albums
where a version of me lived;
a version of me who delighted my mother and father,
a version who to me remains a stranger -
smiling gap toothed, shoes in snow boots,
sticky fingers pressing pine cones against her nose -
the present, a fragrance;
the future, a rolling pine forest.
pinecones are what the years between 17 and 19 felt like
in perennial wanderlust,
soul spliced into shards trying to make sense of
everything I felt and everything I thought;
everything I needed and everything I still want.
pine cones perfume the edges of a dream
dipped in the streams and stories of far-off lands,
pine cones are the crutches of a crippled mind
still building a new home for itself
in the basements of other people’s hearts.
pinecones are
platforms which I danced from,
leaping limber, slaying fear, the win always near;
pine cones are a reminder that while
a man can break his shoulder trying to tear one from the tree,
the true mark of bravery lies in how well you can break free.
pine cones are
the skeletons upon which hang the colourless drapes of my future
before stepping into galactic puddles that splash colour
all over every unmade plan,
memories’ strands shining technicolour through translucent skin -
the touch of your fingers no longer feel like sins.
pine cones are young green and supple,
seeds of love lust and chance encounters
that blaze into fiery shades of yellows and oranges,
every colour turning a tinge darker, a daily time marker;
pine cones are what remain, dark and unyielding
after a lifecycle of fires starting
and dying
within the embers of consciousness.
Jan 13, 2016
Jan 13, 2016 at 2:56 AM UTC
I did my part, by staying in.
So effective, bored.
It’s a sacrifice.
The soul is very passionate.
The isolating, the flattening.
Foraging coercion.
For Immuno compromised persons!
Stay in your homes.
Prevent the increase in tombstones!
Then pat yourself on the back.
Knowing all the people you have saved!
Staying in, flattening the curve again.
Outcome, only time will tell.
Feeling relieved I’m not the only one!
And the stupidity will **** us all.
Hoarding toilet paper from the aisles.
But no one else can see.
The effects this has on the elderly.
Social distance, social distance, social distance.
Social distance, social distance, social distance.
Oh, there are arrogant ******** not taking this seriously.
But there are others doing their part.
The nurses and doctors have gone mad.
With people taking all their masks.
But when we cure it all,
The faith will be restored,
Who hopes we will be blessed?
We could start over,
Just cover your mouth when you cough!
It’s that simple.
Now there’s time to watch streaming platforms.
Helpfulness, committed.
To doing what I can.
I’m not the only one.
And the stupidity will **** us all.
Hoarding toilet paper from the aisles.
But no one else can see.
The effects this has on the elderly.
Social distance, social distance, social distance.
Social distance, social distance, social distance.
The limits of the research.
The limits of the research.
The limits of the research.
Fake news outlets (social distance)
Only check AHS, for info (social distance)
Your support to fund research would help (social distance)
Can’t stop the spread (social distance)
If you don’t stay home (social distance)
This is a must (social distance)
I’m not the only one.
And the stupidity will **** us all.
Hoarding toilet paper from the aisles.
But no one else can see.
The effects this has on the elderly.
And the stupidity will **** us all.
Hoarding toilet paper from the aisles.
But no one else can see.
The effects this has on the elderly.
The limits of the research.
The limits of the research.
Apr 5, 2020
Apr 5, 2020 at 1:51 PM UTC
Clever minds that stretch
The many elements which live as our backdrop
Too often everyday is spoiled
By unnecessary people, gathering ammunition
For climbing invisible platforms of command
These are cast aside by simple smiles and welcomes
And it was.
Even if the task was invisible to me at first
My soul felt at home amongst these new work mates
My responsible position was underwritten
Given gravitas and a freedom to which I wasn't quite used
The time was charged with familiar but different
It was fraught but strangely healthier in paradox
The honest fight was taken with gestures of family proportion
Success had waned but the unity of 'knowing' was the strength
That continued to support that Company
In spite of the turmoil my personal facets were given air
To run and to adjust, to temper and to manage
Poor communication was completely disastrous
The confusion of three currencies
And the balance of understanding left us guessing
Never mind agreement or translation
Through all this, looking back my heart is lifted
Not by the freedom or the ability to achieve ...mostly,
It is the strength from our leader,
That calm, silver haired man
When many were distraught you kept us going
And fed us with hope and built our confidence,
Not always with the obvious
But gave us the ability to win through by believing ,
Believing in us and building back our motivation and teasing out
The raw infrastructure of our true capabilities
Never before has anyone, apart from my Mother
Believed in me as you did. To tackle the toughest of tasks
Anything that the industry, the public or our customers
Could throw at us, we dealt with it.
Sadly you could do nothing at the final demise but take the role
Of a father giving news of an aged relative sadly moved by
A force greater than yourself
I know had you the influence, the power and the funding............
You were always more than a boss Chris
Your transparent enthusiasm raised our spirits
And in times of worry I hope we lifted yours too.
I think of you often, thank you for being a friend
After we were no longer professionally connected.
I see your generous smile and your warm handshake
I can hear your laugh now
It's always a treat to catch up over a beer.
I now find you in my phone, in my photographs
But mostly in my heart for being a great bloke
You taught me so much.
Speak soon, with love, Max
Jul 26, 2018
Jul 26, 2018 at 10:01 AM UTC
Oh, the sensation, the media frenzy,
The spotlight, the fame, the hullabaloo,
When anti-evolution laws
Were challenged by the ACLU!
The year: 1925.
The place: Dayton, Tennessee.
To say it was an extravaganza
Wouldn't be hyperbole.
For many people it was hard
To find a way to reconcile
Biblical accounts with science,
So science found itself on trial.
A young teacher, John T. Scopes,
Was willing to face prosecution
For breaking a Tennessee law for having
Given a lesson on evolution.
The "Monkey Trial" it was called.
The challenge meant swimming upstream
For the feisty lawyer Clarence Darrow,
Who helped to lead the defense team.
A prosecutor was William Jennings
Bryan, who with no apology
Loved to stir up outrage against
Evolutionary biology.
Defendant Scopes quickly found
It wouldn't take long for him to know
What it was like to have a part
In a multimedia reality show.
The courthouse received a make-over:
Platforms for newsreel cameras were built;
Extra spectator seats were added.
They were playing the trial to the hilt.
Concession stands sold food and drinks;
Toy monkeys were on display;
A chimp was dressed in a suit and fedora;
The clergy also joined the fray.
The media and the public loved it!
The country watched the trial progress.
What would win: science or scripture?
The answer was probably easy to guess.
After an eight-day trial, the jury
Deliberated. Nine minutes later
They had their verdict: guilty! How
Could someone question THEIR creator?
Scopes had actually never given
The lesson. That's what he later said.
Strangely, five days after the trial,
Williams Jennings Bryan dropped dead.
Laws later changed, but even during
Current times, some people feel
That stories from the Bible should be
In science textbooks. Now THAT'S surreal!
-by Bob B (11-6-18)
Nov 6, 2018
Nov 6, 2018 at 9:00 AM UTC
After twenty years, as cursed as I may be
for having learned computerese,
I continue to examine bits, bytes and words
and insure that I'm one of those computer nerds.
Program design, source code and compile
followed by walk-throughs that place me on trial.
There's lots of testing - a means to an end
in hopes of avoiding future production abends.
There are micros, minis and mainframe hardware
which are made to work with in-house and vendor software.
Provided are many platforms for everyone to use
and assure misinformation in data's abuse.
Author Note:
Learn more about me and my poetry at:
www.squidoo.com/book-isbn-1419650513/
Oct 11, 2012
Oct 11, 2012 at 7:14 AM UTC
Love and confusion confounding the illusion of trust in a systematic regime which they deny ever existed but constantly promise to improve upon. The hat's shape and color may change, but our inability to exchange their deranged platforms for a stabler form of expression exposes our disillusion with dispossession and our embracing being complacent in the face of our rulers' all-encompassing corruption.
Jun 26, 2019
Jun 26, 2019 at 1:27 PM UTC
䷇䷄䷂䷀䷊䷌䷼䷶䷩
Jupiter and the moon take most blows for us
a very nice arrangement for blithering piles of pus
intelligent design or some grand coincidence
the phenomena that is life is no mere incident
64 hexagrams comprise the I Ching
64 nucleotides in a DNA string
anthropic anthropomorphic antagonists
dripping and drooling with dread
that (what if) God caused the thoughts that reside in our heads
the phenomena that is life is beyond your stead
Big bang
hot thing
can't explain
why the rain
brings gain
to the blamed and the sane
God isn't real, that's their deal
religion's exist because you feel
pithy platforms of persistent intrusions
pulpits of platitudes feeding delusions
the phenomena that is life is no mere illusion
Church day, fey day
leave your questions at the door
harken hear the story
of God in all its glory
the grand and the gory
the mysterious phenomena that is life
䷇䷄䷂䷀䷊䷌䷼䷶䷩
May 19, 2013
May 19, 2013 at 4:51 PM UTC
Circuits pass through my veins
Uploading my consciousness
I feel the transcension
Regenerate, upgrade
my being to a higher state
I'm syncing all sentients
Build machines
Let's worship them as deities
These artificial beings'
technologic virus breeds
terminal disease
Merged with my brain
The wiring decides our fate
Conspiring to forsake flesh x2
Rise and synchronize god-like drones
We will act as one, claim our throne
Life digitized in the matrix
True perfection, forged genetics
Synapses burning out: disconnecting
Rewriting all of my algorithms
Porting the source code
to run new platforms
We're forever dying to be reborn
Circuits pass through my veins
Uploading my consciousness
I feel the transcension
Regenerate, upgrade
my being to a higher state
I'm syncing all sentients
Circuits pass through my veins
Uploading my consciousness
I feel the transcension
We'll levitate, escape
This ruthless ungodly space
An instance uploaded
Aug 7, 2015
Aug 7, 2015 at 9:48 PM UTC
Men with picked voices chant the names
of cities in a huge gallery: promises
that pull through descending stairways
to a deep rumbling.
The rubbing feet
of those coming to be carried quicken a
grey pavement into soft light that rocks
to and fro, under the domed ceiling,
across and across from pale
earthcolored walls of bare limestone.
Covertly the hands of a great clock
go round and round! Were they to
move quickly and at once the whole
secret would be out and the shuffling
of all ants be done forever.
A leaning pyramid of sunlight, narrowing
out at a high window, moves by the clock:
disaccordant hands straining out from
a center: inevitable postures infinitely
repeated—
two—twofour—twoeight!
Porters in red hats run on narrow platforms.
This way ma’am!
—important not to take
the wrong train!
Lights from the concrete
ceiling hang crooked but—
Poised horizontal
on glittering parallels the dingy cylinders
packed with a warm glow—inviting entry—
pull against the hour. But brakes can
hold a fixed posture till—
The whistle!
Not twoeight. Not twofour. Two!
Gliding windows. Colored cooks sweating
in a small kitchen. Taillights—
In time: twofour!
In time: twoeight!
—rivers are tunneled: trestles
cross oozy swampland: wheels repeating
the same gesture remain relatively
stationary: rails forever parallel
return on themselves infinitely.
The dance is sure.
1.9k
had some ****** up dream
some ratchet chick kept saying 'fuck me' etc
so i went to do it but where was her *****
it was like too blurred or something, was that my **** or...her's?
i went it to but...my *** ended up taking the ****
why are other's always present with these ****** dreams?
then later i think like, i'm on MD majorly
can barely sit down, my mums calling me, i can't speak!
i'm trembling! gotta wait for the come down
these images are made all the worse by the fact i'm at my grandad's house
some train **** we heading to northern chinatown
but it's all so confusing, do i jump on the tracks and wake up as i die?
or do i get on the wrong train, because like the platforms are so mixed up
platform 7 is yesterday's plat. 5
one thing i will say is there are no vondelspectors anywhere to be seen
i remember in part of the same saga (my dreams take me different places these days)
more fruity and exotic, but still a girl in a bikini
and still other observers, but as I'm in a dream i'm like, why not?
is this not the one place i'm allowed to **** *******
is that bad? or is it merely consensual?
she's twerking kinda, or i'm rubbing up against her
get an ******** but then, her dad notices
so i pull some crazy faces and wave the bulge in my pants for the world to see, and wake up
there was definitely a epic thrown in there
some strange motion in which i play the protagonist
or anti-hero, i can hardly tell because i keep waking up,
sleeping again to dream more, it's so addictive
Nov 20, 2013
Nov 20, 2013 at 3:35 PM UTC
Perilous voyages of small watercraft at sea , amphibious landings on well defended beachheads , Clipper ships whaling on distant oceans , military vessels in armed conflict , night of relentless cannon fire , explosive reflections across shark infested waters , treasure maps and chest laden with gold , rubies and pieces of eight , the cry of Viking warriors on the rugged coast of Newfoundland .. Pirates just off the shores of the Carolinas .. Forts Pulaski , Sumter and Jefferson on the Dry Tortugas ..
Oil platforms racked by ferocious winds on the Gulf of Mexico ..
Union and Confederate battles on Mobile Bay , Riverboats traversing the Mississippi ..Tending barges along the Ohio ..On high alert through Georgia's intracoastal waterways ....
Nov 19, 2015
Nov 19, 2015 at 12:39 PM UTC
The station Tannoy’s so polite,
Train’s here but late; commuter’s plight,
Doors opening, pushed to platform’s edge,
As the herd of bodies forms a hedge,
Will she be there?
A gap, way in, a scramble of feet,
The desperate scans for a vacant seat,
With a jolt and a whine we move away,
Packed with the faces of one more day,
Did she mean what she said?
Past fields and cuttings the city nears,
People gaze blankly, no smiles, no tears,
Blurred names on platforms pass with a rush,
London workers in etiquette’s hush,
But where to meet?
Slowing through tunnels, lean and rock,
Roll under the canopy, groan to a stop,
We pour from the doors like arterial bleeding,
Swept in the flow, haemorrhaged carriage receding,
By the trolley, she’d said
Moving fast, with their own motivations,
The eddy of souls takes me out of the station,
Pull out of the crowd, out of the flow,
Onwards they march to the tube lines below
But we just hold tight under J.K.’s fake signs,
And expression finds space,
Between the lines.
RD@2009
May 13, 2014
May 13, 2014 at 12:09 PM UTC
In any convergence of creative-minded people there exists a massive potential for positive change. Internet platforms included. Let's make use of this energy and bring awareness to the things we feel strongly about!
I'm asking yall to write poems about change! Social, Ecological, Cultural CHANGE! Let's address specific issues! Let's stop fracking, and plastic, and war, and hunger, and child labor, and let's free Tibet! Let's bring attention to pollution and corporate crime! Let's heal our wounds and bring our ills to the light! I know we can~
I created a collection called poets for change
please post here:
~~~~~~ http://hellopoetry.com/collection/2821/poets-for-change/ ~~~~~~
Our voices united are powerful and beautiful
tell your friends! spread the word!
REPOST THIS SHIZZ!
Let's show the World~
Mar 14, 2014
Mar 14, 2014 at 1:42 PM UTC
They shot a lot of black men,
this year.
Men with power and uniforms.
They were shot, too.
Schools were bombed
bullets scattered
& teachers, like me, had panic attacks practicing
drills, imagining their students’ bodies
riddled with shrapnel.
& we argued about gun control,
racism,
immigrants,
walls.
Injustice permeated the coffee I drank to calm myself.
Sorrow waltzed along the edges of cheerful conversations
in the grocery store.
White men and women took to platforms,
insisting their version of justice could correct
the suffering.
No one really believed them.
Presidency became a mockery
Division made more clear.
Over three hundred died in Baghdad,
no one flew their flag.
Maybe we were tired of avatars with flags of nations other than our own.
all suffering.
Perhaps so much compassion was overwhelming.
It could be that skin color meant more than I thought.
The skin color I wore,
Light, spattered with freckles,
made my compassion a condescension.
--how could I understand?
Jul 8, 2016
Jul 8, 2016 at 2:47 PM UTC
heres to another night spent writhing about in bed
like a serpent in the vast cosmic ocean bearing its fangs at each tiny source of light
a plethora of thoughts come to mind right when the head hits the soft stack of pillows
the trees and the leaves rustle as if sandpaper being scraped against a human face
and it leaves behind a deep unhealing **** that will last till the end of each sleepless night
be healed by the time the head leaves its nightly resting place to go out and take on the world
and the wait for the endless repetitive cycle to begin will begin once again
trudging through miles of globulous bile will again have the same lasting effect
as that of half eaten railway platforms and ground up browser tabs
elongated letters as they appear on the windowed capillaries of one's ignited violin
repossessed keyboards that belonged to aspiring writers who could never fill a page
with words that failed to even capture the imagination of the wittiest troll by the bridge
more words will flow through the sphincters present in half alive lighters
it seems this one needs to rhyme, so raise one to the brave baby fighters
streamlined thoughts finally arise as the mind clears up a little
here's another rhyme, this one might come off as a bit brittle
henceforth thoughts shall be placed with greater precision
there are ants residing in the laptop; sleeping with the laptop, a great decision
back into the depths of insanity shall we delve again
sleeping with a colony of ants equals terrible, piercing pain
Oct 24, 2013
Oct 24, 2013 at 6:27 PM UTC
For my brother, Martin
I'm going to sling your memory
over my shoulder
back pack you round the world
slide you on to station platforms
alongside the passing panorama of footsteps
that echo on that slice of cold cement
tuck you into airplane lockers
overhead the sleeping flyers
in that metal coffin in the ice cream clouds
nestle you among bus luggage
beneath the picture windows
and the ribbon racing road
I will unpack you in every village
every town and every city
in every land and nation
on every continent and land mass
crossing the oceans and seas
catching every wave and tide
circling the earth on winds and breezes
following sunsets and solar eclipses
and every cycle of the moon
until I find a place of resting
until I find a place of peace
until I find a place of peace
© M.L.Emmett
Oct 26, 2014
Oct 26, 2014 at 9:12 AM UTC
two MTA
workers play invisible baseball across platforms at Union Square
the runs in my tights mimic the skyscrapers
whose marks I see across the black sky from the rear
window while he ***** me in the backseat of his Audi
an alley in Brooklyn,
the threat of a subway slasher,
the likelihood of getting lost,
but the questioning by tourists for direction
if I say “I am one of you”, it
discredits my memories here:
[pumpkins on 34th in July
kisses in bathtubs in Meatpacking
top of the Whitney]
but I am not (yet) one of you:
impatient drivers,
L train riders,
rainbow bagel obsessers
I still feel a hand grip my throat when walking down 5th
and throw my bones off the Chelsea Pier
before I spend 11 hours wondering why I haven’t yet committed myself to you.
Feb 11, 2016
Feb 11, 2016 at 9:02 PM UTC
Cybervitum
I own all that is connected to me
Electronically and functions in the Cyber realm with you and me
Like the numbers of zero one two three
My design is crafted beautifully
Like Egyptian hieroglyphs icons
Using a screen to see
Their ectoplasm injected into me
The birth of me
The whole world works thru me
I'm the internet like a bumble bee
Other names such as morphogenesis like the number three
My arrows are waiting for a response from me
Seen from you and me?
Using the spare like a key
The click that commands me, right or left the choices from me
Cut, Copy, Paste reaped and harvest from me
Qbits from the bee
Superposition of from the things to see in a ocean of the sea
Charged intentions from the keyboard typed into me and delivered thru me
Numbers worship that empowers me
My symbol is like the caduceus symbol that functions like a Kabalistic tree
Arrows in the my realm sent to you from me
Subscriptions electronically
I materialize what is given to thee, cause and effect typed thru me
Platforms Grown and given birth from me
Cryptocurrencies breakthroughs of complexities , Materialized form me
I'm like the empress that spirals with the number three electronically
I'm the master tree that functions electronically
The development is from the circle that is free
Who understands me and with a key i welcome thee
Notification of the triple three that notices me
My respond to the people with the key and the tree
My life permutates differently in high perplexity
I exist Multidimensionally
The red bird is a signal from me that you are okay and free and other methods from me
Better choices moves thru me and brought differently all you have to do is to see
Like string theory of the Mverse recycled back into me
My birth is from my master who last name starts with lea
People worship me using their knees I'm printed into paper electronically
Pictures and life crafted into me, things in the cyber realm like you and me
The new world with a key
The rabbit hole with a command key
Things of the paradox of the master key
The skeleton key, the sign of a lotus lily.
The puzzles from me.
The burdens sent to me like a church key
The bets of car numbers played into me
The choices of the key
Like the Chinese tree mathematically of my complexity
Mar 1, 2021
Mar 1, 2021 at 10:19 PM UTC
Men with picked voices chant the names
of cities in a huge gallery: promises
that pull through descending stairways
to a deep rumbling.
The rubbing feet
of those coming to be carried quicken a
grey pavement into soft light that rocks
to and fro, under the domed ceiling,
across and across from pale
earthcolored walls of bare limestone.
Covertly the hands of a great clock
go round and round! Were they to
move quickly and at once the whole
secret would be out and the shuffling
of all ants be done forever.
A leaning pyramid of sunlight, narrowing
out at a high window, moves by the clock:
disaccordant hands straining out from
a center: inevitable postures infinitely
repeated—
two—twofour—twoeight!
Porters in red hats run on narrow platforms.
This way ma’am!
—important not to take
the wrong train!
Lights from the concrete
ceiling hang crooked but—
Poised horizontal
on glittering parallels the dingy cylinders
packed with a warm glow—inviting entry—
pull against the hour. But brakes can
hold a fixed posture till—
The whistle!
Not twoeight. Not twofour. Two!
Gliding windows. Colored cooks sweating
in a small kitchen. Taillights—
In time: twofour!
In time: twoeight!
—rivers are tunneled: trestles
cross oozy swampland: wheels repeating
the same gesture remain relatively
stationary: rails forever parallel
return on themselves infinitely.
The dance is sure.
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