"projector" poems
Red streaks of thin hair, finely cured,
Sugar-coded skin, sweet yet sticky inside…and then you sniff,
Freshly sliced with soft cries for help, the grass grows,
Dried in the most delightful setting; a miniature shadow of the sun,
The initials share a basketball in one palm-
-The pop from the stereo reflects the ripple of a king-
-----------------------0----------------------------0-------------------------
A complete package within, once the engine has revved- the liftoff-
Find yourself inside of her powers; the majestic magic maneuvers the mind,
Mend many memories and flick the switch on the motionless projector,
Guilty pleasures please the people and protect peaceful guidance,
Keep close the cultivation of a captivating lover-
-She will rise in your soul like helium in the lungs-
--------------------0--------------------0--------------------
She, who I breathe for, calls my name; forever entering the cave,
I broke off a chunk of everything she has grown to be,
Crumbled, chalk-like pollen, piles into mounds of distraction,
I set flame to the lone match and touch the wick- a silent sway-
She burns, her hair still a fiery-ruby blend, but like all living expectation-
-The ash separates and with the wind…she performs flips-
Nov 20, 2014
Nov 20, 2014 at 3:44 PM UTC
There is nothing more unsettling
than a teenage Christmas.
The coming of age
when adults find their inner child again
and you have to try and get rid of yours.
11 is fine.
Part of you still believes Santa put the presents under tree.
12 is also okay,
just a little less pixie dust stirs in the stomach on Christmas Eve.
13, 14 and 15 are tricky.
You don't want to look babyish by getting too excited,
so you shrug it off and ask 'Santa' for a mobile phone,
a laptop,
a TV,
until by 15
you ask for the most 'grown up' present of all.
"I just want money."
The words burn your lips and tongue like acid,
a yearning for the sensation of a gift you can unwrap
tugging in your rib cage.
You can't buy that.
16, 17 and 18 are Christmases tinged with nostalgia.
Little ghosts of the younger you run down the stairs on Christmas morning,
feet clad in slippers and Power Rangers pjyamas askew,
whilst you follow in procession,
almost a funeral.
It's not that you don't like Christmas.
It's not that you don't love your family.
It's not that you don't feel a fire light in your belly when you bite into a mince pie,
it's not that the battered Christmas videos your family replay each year don't still make you smile,
it's not even that you've gotten too old for it all.
Have you?
Slippers and tiny fists batter against advent calender doors,
begging you to open them.
When you're 19 you do.
You let them out and let them rush to rip open their presents under the tree.
You let them eat their selection box first before dinner.
You let them cry when the Snowman melts
and you let them laugh and not mock heave when your father chases your mother with mistletoe.
You let the ghosts become holograms you can play in your mind like a projector and slides,
no longer a need to leave holly by their graves
but a chance to remember and smile.
You let them be happy.
Dec 17, 2013
Dec 17, 2013 at 10:08 AM UTC
Tempestuous longings from behind the screen of life’s moving picture
You stare back at me, in a glimmering, shimmering afterthought
Laid low by foregoing passion
In a moment’s torrid glimpse from our hollow reflections
Fragrant evenings during seasons of filming
Solemnly captured and revised then experienced
The all encompassing struggle with context and setting
Abides a steely night, in the rustle of autumn branches
Requiem for an unremitting beloved!
Sung in the valley between piercing peaks of sorrow
She floats through the scene as distinct aura and vague essence
An embrace from the trail of vapors and misspent gestures
All emanating from a glass of cider beneath nostrils
Gracefully, you embank on the wind of time’s shadow
And nudge my cheek with impetus and vigor
Lashing out at my skin in ambivalent revelry
As if my follicles were vacuous caverns
Catching the callous moments which flutter the ***** of hillside tents
The unearthly gusts of banality extinguish the projector’s gleam
While nature embodies your beauty furthermore
Toward the end of the pathway
And the credits of the film
And the allegro of the score
And the solitude of eternity
And the rustling of the branches
Aug 30, 2010
Aug 30, 2010 at 12:09 AM UTC
I am up at night
sending my prayers to anonymous strangers
because maybe they have the answers
maybe not the ones I want, but the ones I need
there is something beautiful about them
human blank canvases
potential for beauty
comedy or interest
their nameless faces
playing on the projector of my mind’s eye
the closest I have come to finding God
Apr 11, 2014
Apr 11, 2014 at 3:49 AM UTC
Clusters of lights like lilies,
Or like boiling craters in obsidian
The black is inky,
It could swallow me whole,
I'm thankful to be strapped in
The horizon scrolls back as the plane lilts
Like an image in an old slide projector
Suddenly the moon is below me
Icarus should have winged by night
I’d be god if I weren’t strapped in
Clusters of light like lilies
In this lolling pond we skim
Light strung like dew on spider silk
A flattened web to stretch the land
thankful not to be attached
Shimmering grids draw nearer
Enveloped in their seductive shimmer
thankful not to crash
Oct 20, 2018
Oct 20, 2018 at 3:52 PM UTC
if you listen carefully
to that song that you love
so much so that it brings salt
to your eyelashes
pay attention
stare directly at the sun
or into a projector
displaying a map of canada
and witness it
the luminescence
and every tone and shade
of every chroma
flashing with every blink
the liquid provides
a spectrum unbeknownst
to vertebrates
much like blood for vision
Mar 23, 2013
Mar 23, 2013 at 6:51 PM UTC
I head outside for cold air and quiet, escaping too-loud laughter and the filth of drunkenness. As the porch door closes behind me the silence explodes, cacophonous, both ears simultaneously bursting with the high pitched squeal of the sudden nothingness. It surrounds me, vibrating my bones, frothing the marrow within, pressing my temples, heart quickening to steady the body against the assault of the stillness, the stagnation of the world around me. I don't know who I am. I am not -- not anyone. I am alone. I am what they want me to be. Seated cross-legged on cold concrete, the alcohol plays the stars across my eyes like a projector: they move this way and that across my field of vision, swaying, dancing. I feel myself floating, getting lost in my own mind again. I hate that feeling.
I put a cigarette out on my hand, pressing orange embers into soft flesh. I grit my teeth as the world rushes back. The voices bring me down. The clink of glass bottles brings me down. The searing smell of my skin brings me down. I light it again, pull a few deep drags, then stub it out again, this time inside my forearm. My eyes squeezed shut, I feel myself fall back into reality, like a soft bed, like my skin loosens just enough to let me breathe again. I land on both feet, quietly, softly. I stand up, bush myself off, and walk back inside.
I'll burn the whole pack tonight.
I kissed him on the cheek, secretly hoping he'd wake from his stupor and keep my company, but he was too far gone, lost hours ago to two or three too many shots taken in bad faith, but with good intentions. I left him on his couch. He'd be safe there. He needed his sleep.
Why couldn't I get as drunk as them, drunk enough to numb away the emotions, the longing? I was disappointed, but I wasn't surprised. I curled up on the couch alone, pulling my sleeves down to cover the blisters, already rising. If I could just sleep, I could forget. Everyone slept but me. I went out for another cigarette.
Nov 5, 2012
Nov 5, 2012 at 11:13 AM UTC
my mind is a planetarium
where each memory is a meteorite
and every apology burns like a dying star.
enclosed in the vast celestial stretch of my skull,
planets tend to vanish without the courtesy of a goodbye,
but i'm just happy to have housed them for a little while.
my projector is faulty and sometimes,
the images i try to convey become obscured
("asteroids may be larger than they appear").
i can't help but speak in broken constellations,
and hope that you somehow understand
that i have nothing but the best intentions.
not to mention, i've seen a lot of visitors, though
none have ever stayed for long, after they've surveyed
that i'm nothing more than a bunch of chaotic galaxies.
i rubbed the collection of stardust and debris from my eyes
and to my surprise, found that you hadn't gone anywhere.
instead, you were there, floating through my solar systems.
you've got me orbiting around your finger
like the rings around the sixth planet from the sun.
i come undone a little more with every word you breathe.
my bones are made of moon rock, aching like cold craters,
waiting patiently for the radiant warmth of the sun,
or your breath, or your touch, whichever is closest.
the most stellar display of stars i have ever seen
are not in the belt of orion, nor anywhere within the milky way -
instead they are lightyears beyond, resting comfortably behind your lips.
- m.f.
Nov 26, 2013
Nov 26, 2013 at 2:44 AM UTC
The theater's empty and I can't seem to figure why,
The ground feels like a sticky, but hard lie,
It's plain with drapes to a darkened heaven,
With movie posters that make me nostalgic for when I was 7,
Or was it 11?
The projector starts to warm up,
And the ghosts in the machine show who they wanted to be,
This popcorn reminds me of a love that was wearing her favorite leather jacket,
Holy **** how did I get popcorn?
The screen shows ads for ****** ****
But its in Spanish with Czech subtitles ,
And a weird sense of accomplishment,
Seems to give way with the images, now gone,
Apparently I have a soda that I have never noticed nor engaged or enraged,
Blue stills of ****** knees and beaches unbeknownst to any future,
With the credits rolling of names I'll remember, forget and lie remembering
A calming anxiety seems to fill in where the smoke creeping oot the vents does not,
The teleporting popcorn comes with me,
And choose to leave, with the seat,
I seem to forget to ask myself,
meow so clear,
How did I get here?
Jul 9, 2015
Jul 9, 2015 at 10:55 AM UTC
It's no longer snowing, but dandelions float dead through the air,
landing on the wet soil soul I keep
while my skin is crunching deep.
I have no one to sing about.
Feel I have no one to sing about.
I want someone to sing about after you.
You don't deserve this.
Memories of faces flushed and close play on the wall.
I'm thinking of all I could say,
But the projector clicks and strains from jamming in my head-
It's driving me insane.
And though I tried to stop I lost my reason
With you and the changing season.
I can't remember your smell, still,
I bloodied my fingernails to dig you from my skin.
I have no one to sing about.
Feel I have no one to sing about.
I want someone to sing about after you.
You don't deserve this.
Jan 2, 2010
Jan 2, 2010 at 11:56 AM UTC
Tell me, what do you know about me
Am I just any other guy on the street
Am I being hoody
Or that type of guy that walk around; moody
Am I the type that always tries to protect all
Or that type that loose confidence in front of the projector
Am I that maths-guru that always take all the A’s
Or that computer guy that’s good with symbolic-gate
Am I that proud guy that always put his shoulder’s on
Or that humble boy that’s always scare to fall
Am I that lover-boy which love makes him to change his art
Or that ugly who walk around with half-broken heart
Am I that man who isn’t good with public speech delivery
But write poems effectively
Am I friendly, annoying, stupid, handsome, ugly, optimistic just to mention few
I exist in different dimension; what I am depends on you
Sep 2, 2018
Sep 2, 2018 at 6:53 AM UTC
Barely Walks.
And does not sleep
day squinting
night in trance;
Moonblinked
& Anomie doesn’t speak
What she thinks
Until she drink
Apart; life projector spreads in sheets
Anomie not loveable
so off she goes
with dogs in sheets
that bark and bones
& in the padded womb
zaps milky-Light
synthetic-filtered-bright
A spotlight for the bees
Getting Drunk between her Knees
Confusion explodes confetti
disorientation takes the plow
*** the only how
An ****** or a fake hopeless meow
She lives in mental corners
watching window borders
They push in; she falls out
Brand new day
Teeth on pillows crack
Anomie's mind
has to react
She's fast to split-
Spit out a rebuttal
method witty-tactix kit
No one tells her time to go
But when Bee's belly full
She-goes - Self-loathes
Morning Glories still shriveled in their pods
They own the glory of her story and her song
Hiding in sarcastic retreat for clean feet
under ***** water bathes
wipes off the meat
Not your friend
She's trouble to love
The dirtiest dove
Anomie is naked and she's hated
Take away the curtain glove
eye slit under sunlit
She recovers
Don't judge
it's all her love
but you ****** Anomie anyways
just because
The Thrill
Feb 4, 2013
Feb 4, 2013 at 4:48 AM UTC
In a different town.
The baked streets have thinner air.
The fata seem to belong less to Morgana than to the mountains.
The tall mountains that freeze
The water of the eyes to
The water of the roads a mile away.
The terrific air.
I can now only barely recall.
No sound, the film skipped,
Slightly off the projector track.
The dark insides of a native heritage.
The store with an open door.
The stern woman behind the white smoke counter.
Turquoise is expensive,
But no one buys enough for it to be in vogue.
A vogue might swallow all the sulfur
Sand.
The sharp nose,
Cheekbones that squint the little black eyes deeper inside.
I can see why they must have been afraid,
Though I’m not quite sure what I mean by “they.”
This town is different from any other one.
And you can feel it when the mountains
Pin their tongue into the sun.
Apr 20, 2010
Apr 20, 2010 at 1:42 PM UTC
..............there’s such a clamour
so much choring
memory thread
I sit
armchair
rocking head
receiver of motion
bleaker of putty trauma
creator of mammary craving
.....best take up knitting or wood carving
the fortress of thought
(in strict connivance with a bewildered host)
compiles the 'person idea'
protects the fragile calculator
from biting at its own exposed
and useless self mating psychology
from glutting on its own tail
and merry going mad
in a tune of hoops...
..stammering to achieve valuation
for our decent management
projector
may you continue operations falser still
defeating our own polygraphs and making fools of our internal courtrooms
i sit on this chair
things go still
thoughts occur elsewhere
am i left to not be ?....................
May 11, 2021
May 11, 2021 at 10:00 PM UTC
Society has made a pact
On how we must act
People tell me to be a real man
But that seems like a stupid plan
Because every time a guy describes a real man
I hear the way they perceive themselves
A father
Says a real man takes care of his children
A fighter
Says a real man is a protector
We need to break this masculine projector
I used to think being a real man
Meant having a *****
But I'm not even sure about that anymore
How do we unlock
This malebox?
We'd have to leave our houses of hiding
And walk to the road that connects us to each other
But when the fashion is to fake
Our compassion starts to break
In a world
Where things are simple
We can't have a pimple
In a world
Fundamentally filled with maleboxes
We search for a loving locksmith
Sep 19, 2017
Sep 19, 2017 at 5:03 AM UTC
You don't have to remind me to listen to three AM school-night words that come out in the soft whispers you've been waiting to share with me in an attempt to shield it from the rest of the world
I'll remember the things you didn't say like engraved textbook lessons
when my skin starts to dampen and stick to my body like a raincoat
my head hits the wood desk so loud everyone stops pretending to pay attention
and i have to write
"he doesn't love me anymore" one hundred times on the chalkboard
and bang the parts of my past i wake up forgetting together
watching the chalk dust from the day my mother told me; they almost lost you fall to the floor
Every negative hallway interaction bubbles over in an abandonment issue chemical reaction
and I had to drop chemistry because I found none of the connections and formulas could fix the imbalance I carry around with me like i shouldn't be failing Psychology 101.
Maybe I'm clueless because I can't tell you why weather changes or square roots of negatives
But I can recite the lisence plate of the car my dad has never visited me in
and my sisters contact information for the 4 minute and 57 second call i can pay $6.43 to make to sit on the floor and learn about juvenile detention while history notes offer me cold faux-sympathy
Maybe I'm clueless because id rather memorize the way your hand moves down my back than the quadratic formula
and give up on poetry mid sentence
and change "moves" to "moved" because it's all in past-tense and the difference between present and present perfect and banging erasers and not sleeping and
forgetting how to function off of autopilot mode
and
there are lessons I will remember that won't come from staring at a projector screen
when to stop talking
how to look like you weren't just sobbing in the bathroom
the unwritten "give a stranger a ****** if they ask" rule
I'll remember every word you tell me like the test is next period and I'll study every syllable and drown in iambic pentameter
and I'll still fail
Nov 23, 2015
Nov 23, 2015 at 3:51 PM UTC
I wake up at 7 AM, its raining, go figure. I catch the bus by Cohen’s Food Co., soaked, on the bus now, and the windows are down. Lucky me. I brought my big Boss head set because last night the convenient apple iPod ear buds got soaked too. I guess it was karma. But at least these have good bass. Transit bus, not yet to arrive to the station, we travel over a vi doc, the distant fogged *** view? A St Louis skyline. Busy people in and out of the station. Babies. Druggies. Fuglies. The woman in front of me has no teeth. She kept doing a ritual gum technique with her lips. Smacking them inward as if her teeth were actually there. **** I ride for awhile through the town. The plainest Jane land around, at least this Monday morning it was. My feet can’t touch the bus floor when I sit in the back. I like this, it reminds me of trips to California when I was small. The rental car was boring though once we got off the plane, Dad was asleep through the whole desert interstate. And my birthday, and your birthday. I’m at school. This junior college of filth. Free coffee though, I take a high advantage. MATH DRILL. Math. Simplifying the trickiest equations. Ratios and angles. Lateral products and dividing something half way through solving the problem. ***** math. 30 minute break. Smoking section. Nice little ash trays they supply, it would be a total turn off to walk far for a smoke in the wind. More coffee, I hate the taste, but need the caffeine. Second class starts. Writing. I like writing, but the projector smart board was broken, so we covered grammar from a text. We read something about complete sentences in the early 1920’s. In Europe. They would try as little as possible to use add verbs. Re-read this.
Jun 6, 2010
Jun 6, 2010 at 4:29 PM UTC
The Basketball Diaries
I’m losing my faith in humanity,
and I’m just as much a part of the problem,
here I’ll explain an example,
it involves The Basketball Diaries,
went to a rooftop cinema in Budapest,
there I met two beautiful girls,
they brought me up to the VIP,
fed me drinks and helped me feel again,
it was a bit surreal,
on that rooftop,
watching Leo on the big screen,
it’s always surreal seeing someone on screen that I’ve actually met,
Leo’s a cool guy,
trying to save the world even though it all seems hopeless,
anyways there I was watching Leonardo DiCaprio,
play the starring role of a strung out poet,
the parallels are there,
but my addiction is not ******
yes I’m strung out,
but my drug of choice is women friends,
so when the two girls in the VIP,
got closer and closer to me,
I feel deeper and deeper in love,
because I love unconditionally without apologies,
we went back to my place,
I put some videos on my projector screen,
I almost had *** with one of them,
the one I though would be my girlfriend,
her friend interrupted,
girl interrupted,
boy interrupted,
she said she wanted a guy to have *** with too,
so we went back out,
albeit reluctantly,
to a cliche club with a bunch of tourist,
so my girl’s friend could get some exotic ****
it was then I realized,
as the two danced together,
trying to lure in a man,
just to get him inside of them,
that humanity is truly lost,
and apart of me died,
right there on that dance floor,
I felt the club,
see,
I don’t want to find a girl to just fck at night,
I don’t want a dawn goodbye,
I want mimosas with my lover at brunch the next day,
I guess I’m too much of a romantic,
that’s what I get for being a poet,
feeling strung out like Leo,
just searching for another fix,
just chasing that first high,
that first real love,
but all I find out here these days,
is ******* and hoes that are counterfeit,
fck it,
I’m so done,
maybe I should become a monk,
my life is too blessed,
to mess with these girls that couldn’t care less,
I miss,
humanity,
and I watch it sparkle and fade,
as I add another piece of me to this charade,
a piece of me died on that dance floor,
and I probably deserved the pain that brought,
and call me naive or whatever,
but I still feel that not all hope is lost,
see,
I’m losing my faith in humanity,
and I’m just as much a part of the problem,
here I’ll explain an example,
it involves The Basketball Diaries…
∆ Aaron LA Lux ∆
Feb 20, 2017
Feb 20, 2017 at 8:02 PM UTC
I love sleep
Don't get me wrong
Sleep feeds me
Without it I'm pretty much useless
Batteries always need to be charged eventually, right?
Sometimes I'll snuggle up and close my eyes
See the wonderous things that reside nightly
Behind my eyelids as my brain plays
The projector, eyelids play the screen
And I'll awaken feeling like I've just returned
From a land of fortune and prosperity
Like Columbus after he returns to Italy
But from time to time
It gets really, incredibly difficult
To willingly fall victim to the beautiful Sandman
And I'm left squirming uncomfortably
In the center of wrinkled sheets and blankets
Spinning endlessly between reality and dreams
My mind running a marathon through rough
Terrain and hopping hurdles that keep
Growing taller and wider and more menacing
I'm flashing beacons desperately trying to
Get the attention of the ambassador of slumber
And sometimes I'll "wake up"
As the Sun peaks it's God-like face
Over the unassuming horizon
Rays of warm light taking refuge where
The moonlight once settled and called its home
And I'm left there, head in hand, eyes nearly
****** and feeling like I've never slept a second
In my life
Dec 16, 2012
Dec 16, 2012 at 12:46 PM UTC
At the end of the show
After the final theme, there is another song
For nobody to hear but the ones expecting
there will be something else
After the last flicker
of the projector's light
As the music fades out, the screen is turning blank
Nothing is left but eyes, locked into a last gaze
At the end of the show
After the ending theme, a song plays for no one
Two voices, harmonies still ringing in my ears
Slightly out of tempo
Chords on the minor scale
Stop before the chorus
As the music fades out, the screen is turning blank
Nothing's left but the room, and the ghost of a tune
As the music fades out, it's the end of the show
But the show must go on,
but the show must go on.
Jun 6, 2014
Jun 6, 2014 at 10:48 AM UTC
love - noun
deep affection, fondness, intimacy
-where your jaw drops to the floor and
your heart beats out of your chest like a cartoon character
past tense
-where time slowed down, or even came to a stop
because you locked eyes with this one person across the room
and your entire future flashed through your mind
like a projector streaming home videos on a
sheet hung upon your living room wall
but it didnt last and eventually time caught back up
and you ran out of film
so again you were stuck holding your own hand
love - verb
adoration, worship, idolize
do you love me?
could you ever love me?
dont answer that
Feb 15, 2016
Feb 15, 2016 at 2:42 PM UTC
You don’t know, do you?
That, in a crowded place, my eyes will always search for you
one thousand miles away
in a different country
somewhere you couldn’t possibly be
I’ll look for you
and I’ll see you there
in every pair of brown eyes
in every head of short, dark hair
in every walk that is just a bit too confident
you’ll come to my mind
your name will sound in my ears
and every memory of you will play like
an old film before my eyes
a bit faded
jumping over some parts
but holding the greatest stories
it will hurt when logic finds its way through
like the heat of the projector lamp
the movie will burn away leaving nothing but
an understanding that
this is
not
real
-h.n.g
Apr 20, 2014
Apr 20, 2014 at 12:30 AM UTC
I am a glass of skim milk.
I am a reconstituted congealed protein fixture-ate
molded like a rack of ribs.
I could be alien technology
if I weren't christmas lights and a projector.
In fact if I were any more prosthetic I'd be...
a picture of a painting of a plastic rose.
I'd be at the globe theatre.
I'd be lear, othello, hammers, macky, romero and roz.
Cuz I'm a lick-on-stamp of higher education,
and I'm a bottle of **** that you find under your seat in the van
when you're so thirsty you can hear Berbers in the distance.
I could be the mermaid on the front of wooden ships.
I would be the black olives on your gordita cruch;
and I'll smile at you with 9 inch long teeth
as I dutifully hang your laundry in the rain.
With dozens of laughs all covering up
tender spots I'm too chicken to cry about
I am a master parade floating up, up,
in the middle of the street,
Til I fall with a big black box of bottled bourbon *****
for my buccaneer bravado's.
And fists
I make while walking
and beating sticks
I carve, still beating,
with imaginary reasons
that I find a bit disturbing.
When I go walking I go walking off into the ending
cuz I'm just killing time while trying not to go crazy
i-I-eye-shouldastudiedmore
I shoulda beat up my *** drive in a dark alley
while it was still raining,
and a I shoulda
red more
bled more
sweat-ed more than I did,
cuz I'm standing here in a bucket
with the thunderstorm looming
clutching onto a flag pole for dear life
like it was my mother.
Hoping just for one big bang
to send me off into the twilight
to shoot me out past the moon once again.
Cuz I'm drowning in the rain that doesn't hit the ground.
and I'm smiling like Bob Wiley on a tree stump,
as I sip at strychnine
like it's Chianti.
Oct 25, 2014
Oct 25, 2014 at 2:28 PM UTC