"postscripts" poems - Hello Poetry

The census is a gun and every ten years for a bit of fun someone pulls the trigger. The body count gets bigger all the time because once a decade's far from fine,we all know that we want a little more but just who is keeping tabs on us and what's the score? If you're more than willing to fill in and tick the boxes one by one we'll carry on the same and be just a figure getting bigger reviewed by counters mounted in the book and taken down looked and read underlining, numbered in red ink and thumbed,fed into ,computerised until algorithms drip from and dot the eyes with postscripts slipped upon the page which mention dates of birth and gender this is the age of the want to know and we're being counted like sheep we go through turnstiles,smiling,clicking,sickening in the need to feed the ever growing need for information,technology will be the death of me and in a census yet to come or when my numbers up I will be done shot full of holes the census gun is indiscriminate but there's no fun or sense in that,they'll tamper with the workings,lay them flat and reassemble parts until we're part of some vast assembly in a Wembley stadium,the gun's the game we'll be numbered until the final whistle blows and someone goes to tally up the score and in the counting they'll count more and more as if in some final lunacy the lunatic accountants see there's numbers coming out of their ears and say, 'thank God it's only once every ten years' Data will as data does and do and who would count the countless where the few are many and any mistake means you have to start again. Censuses another pain and millions more and someone will come knocking on your door to give you forms and envelopes all hope's lost so be counted and don't count the cost let the ones who get paid for this kiss their sanity goodbye.

0

Jul 7, 2013

Jul 7, 2013 at 11:38 PM UTC

john-edward-smallshaw

Fingers and toes

The census is a gun and every ten years for a bit of fun someone pulls the trigger. The body count gets bigger all the time because once a decade's far from fine,we all know that we want a little more but just who is keeping tabs on us and what's the score? If you're more than willing to fill in and tick the boxes one by one we'll carry on the same and be just a figure getting bigger reviewed by counters mounted in the book and taken down looked and read underlining, numbered in red ink and thumbed,fed into ,computerised until algorithms drip from and dot the eyes with postscripts slipped upon the page which mention dates of birth and gender this is the age of the want to know and we're being counted like sheep we go through turnstiles,smiling,clicking,sickening in the need to feed the ever growing need for information,technology will be the death of me and in a census yet to come or when my numbers up I will be done shot full of holes the census gun is indiscriminate but there's no fun or sense in that,they'll tamper with the workings,lay them flat and reassemble parts until we're part of some vast assembly in a Wembley stadium,the gun's the game we'll be numbered until the final whistle blows and someone goes to tally up the score and in the counting they'll count more and more as if in some final lunacy the lunatic accountants see there's numbers coming out of their ears and say, 'thank God it's only once every ten years' Data will as data does and do and who would count the countless where the few are many and any mistake means you have to start again. Censuses another pain and millions more and someone will come knocking on your door to give you forms and envelopes all hope's lost so be counted and don't count the cost let the ones who get paid for this kiss their sanity goodbye.

37

i think i've always known i've loved you — in smudged postscripts in the next page of a letter, in the secrecy of bated breaths, and lonely, sunset afterthoughts. i think i've always known i've loved you, and to be able to say this now without fear or cowardice or equivocation: i've loved you, in past and in present tense — it's magic. it's transcendent. it's freeing, and free-falling, and stepping into the warmest summerlight. it's us — in subversion of poetry, yet just as beautiful, my love — and just as poetic. i think i've always known i've loved you — in smudged postscripts in the next page of a letter, in the secrecy of bated breaths, and lonely, sunset afterthoughts. i think i've always known i've loved you, and to be able to say this now without fear or cowardice or equivocation: i've loved you, in past and in present tense — it's magic. it's transcendent. it's freeing, and free-falling, and stepping into the warmest summerlight. it's us — in subversion of poetry, yet just as beautiful, my love — and just as poetic.

0

May 15, 2021

May 15, 2021 at 2:06 AM UTC

femininedeath

to my leo lover

i think i've always known i've loved you — in smudged postscripts in the next page of a letter, in the secrecy of bated breaths, and lonely, sunset afterthoughts. i think i've always known i've loved you, and to be able to say this now without fear or cowardice or equivocation: i've loved you, in past and in present tense — it's magic. it's transcendent. it's freeing, and free-falling, and stepping into the warmest summerlight. it's us — in subversion of poetry, yet just as beautiful, my love — and just as poetic. i think i've always known i've loved you — in smudged postscripts in the next page of a letter, in the secrecy of bated breaths, and lonely, sunset afterthoughts. i think i've always known i've loved you, and to be able to say this now without fear or cowardice or equivocation: i've loved you, in past and in present tense — it's magic. it's transcendent. it's freeing, and free-falling, and stepping into the warmest summerlight. it's us — in subversion of poetry, yet just as beautiful, my love — and just as poetic.

2

The incessant twang of complexity against my ribs Accompanies the unwanted phantom touch on my hips But the gentle caress of healing only barely brushes my lips This is a beginning, but it feels like an ending with no postscripts The things I used to find comfort in are futile Against the battering of emptiness against my chest; it's brutal But physically, I'm intact. Selfishly, I'd feel better if it was gruesome However, only my mind is in disarray, if I'm being truthful Do you know what it feels like? Sometimes it feels dreamlike More aptly nightmarish, but lifelike A distant reality, objective, almost businesslike It feels like a sordid, shameful affair Although I played no part in the cause of my despair I am the one who has to deal with it, so I send up a prayer My soul hopes for speedy repairs

0

Nov 16, 2020

Nov 16, 2020 at 5:41 PM UTC

timeaway

The First Step

The incessant twang of complexity against my ribs Accompanies the unwanted phantom touch on my hips But the gentle caress of healing only barely brushes my lips This is a beginning, but it feels like an ending with no postscripts The things I used to find comfort in are futile Against the battering of emptiness against my chest; it's brutal But physically, I'm intact. Selfishly, I'd feel better if it was gruesome However, only my mind is in disarray, if I'm being truthful Do you know what it feels like? Sometimes it feels dreamlike More aptly nightmarish, but lifelike A distant reality, objective, almost businesslike It feels like a sordid, shameful affair Although I played no part in the cause of my despair I am the one who has to deal with it, so I send up a prayer My soul hopes for speedy repairs

16

Numbers stun me letters numb me postscripts let me down why can't it all be black and white why can't I just sit tight and wait until it all comes clear to me? I can see my exodus in chapter fifty eight which is not quite halfway through this book I write but that's alright I think I'll cope just pencil in the margins a little bit of faith and hope some charity for clarity ,we all need that. It leaves one feeling flat though, when the thought to go before the book is wrote and read, means only one thing. One being,being dead. I might rewrite, I do not know where the story in this tome will go and if I did would my pencil do as it is bid or would it wander off alone to atone in scratchings on the slate before it is wiped clean or is it all too late? Sit tight and wait? that's what I'll do until the writing's through and I break through into the other side, slide those curtains open wide and view the library of my life.

0

Jul 23, 2013

Jul 23, 2013 at 1:02 AM UTC

john-edward-smallshaw

Quietly please

Numbers stun me letters numb me postscripts let me down why can't it all be black and white why can't I just sit tight and wait until it all comes clear to me? I can see my exodus in chapter fifty eight which is not quite halfway through this book I write but that's alright I think I'll cope just pencil in the margins a little bit of faith and hope some charity for clarity ,we all need that. It leaves one feeling flat though, when the thought to go before the book is wrote and read, means only one thing. One being,being dead. I might rewrite, I do not know where the story in this tome will go and if I did would my pencil do as it is bid or would it wander off alone to atone in scratchings on the slate before it is wiped clean or is it all too late? Sit tight and wait? that's what I'll do until the writing's through and I break through into the other side, slide those curtains open wide and view the library of my life.

26