"prototypes" poems
Giraffes have their heads in the tops of trees, merrily munching
great big beautiful eyes and just the cutest faces, heads way up there in the clearest rarefied atmosphere
what a stretch that must have been for evolution, millions of prototypes,
and then the finished article, just as well we do not eat them, can't imagine eating a Giraffe burger with ketchup and fries.
Feb 22, 2016
Feb 22, 2016 at 6:02 AM UTC
"One of Gods own prototypes"
One of his weirdest broken toys.
A very strange character,
An even stranger boy.
Made to help, dream, love and smile.
Made to love for eternity and dream for miles.
Made to live and suffer along..
Always looking strong.. always, with a smile.
Wish I was walking on the moon..
Perhaps, the lack of gravity would take away the weight of the pain.
A pain that has been carried for too long,
A pain that doesn't get weaker as life goes on,
A pain that destroys your heart and weakens your brain.
That takes all your feelings and hopes away,
Until you feel nothing.. nothing, but the same old pain.
Ohhh moon.. Hope I get there any time soon..
Mar 4, 2013
Mar 4, 2013 at 3:41 AM UTC
The sad saga
and brittle memories
for the cast and crew
of a sinking melodrama.
No badinage
their faces turned away
silent as secrecy
in the bright artificial light.
Rewinds of prototypes
of decaying greys
with visions
that glare at shadows.
Oct 26, 2014
Oct 26, 2014 at 1:36 AM UTC
The internal battle..eternal....(one from the vault)
Lucifer and Jehovah dancing some mad bossa nova
While angels on horse backs fought devils with black jacks
The white dove of peace had surrendered his lease
So God ripped off his wings.. he no longer sings
Then the Devil ripped out his heart so it could end at the start.
Wagner and Chopin got frightened..
..and off they ran.
But Beethoven and Bach were sat in the park
Composing arias to fight Hells hot fires.
While Chekhov and Handel burned coramandel
But the smoke from that pyre stank like a byre.
Socrates was sat dispensing the ethics
Hippocrates swore while dishing out medics
The Muses were musing one or two were enthusing
Oooh look.. the good against sinner
Let's go down the bookies and have a bet on the winner.
Cometh the day cometh the morn
Cometh the hour cometh the dawn.
Here is Joshua blowing his horn
And here comes Gabriel but all that he meets
Are the countless dead lining up on the streets
And the wounded and deathbound far far below
I feel sorry for Gabriel I wish he could go.
But Picasso arrives and cries
My God it's my Guernica I'll do a pastiche
Oh F*ck it he says and has a pastis (or two)
Then Pollack turns up totally ******
Picks up a paint and says what I have missed?
What a fantastic sight.. angels flashing demons crashing
The hounds of Hell with teeth a gnashing
Then Neptune arrives astride his watery chariot
Scything through Demons and sat beside Judas Iscariot
Mermen and mermaids mercilessly slayed
By Beelzebubs prototypes
Those that live in the black nights.
But as the dawn breaks God knows what it takes
So he sends for his legions calls out to all regions
Take arms and do battle
Till we hears Satans death rattle.
And the heavens rip asunder to the sound of the thunder.
Satan rings on Hells bell.. tells them all is not well
Then disappears from our sight as if he's turned off the light.
Then I awake with a start knowing that I've been a part
Of something vast something grand
A spiritual war being fought in this land
I am alive and I shall survive.
PRAISE BE.
Feb 6, 2013
Feb 6, 2013 at 9:08 AM UTC
Ana knows I can't be alone,
So she will mourn by my side,
While I count down
From the start
When...
Love lived a decade ago;
Calendar dated 10th century,
Top chest smeared with last millennium's dust and dried rose petals,
Bottom shelf stacked with the Recent epoch's chronicles in scrolls,
And I wrote this anecdote during the late Eocene,
But I am now an era old;
Too short of memory to remember fairytales,
Too outgrown to believe magic tricks or play a game of chance,
Too outworn to have my heartstrings plucked,
Too callous to bear a soft spot,
Too archaic to belong in any contemporary world,
Too ancient for a technological revolution.
Fixed in a period that won't age,
Absent of a timekeeper, missing every timepiece;
My antique mind couldn't only smarten up for
This relic of a body, camouflaging skin-deep among prototypes,
Preserving the fossils of my endangered heart.
Maybe one day a noble clocksmith will come
And build us a time machine.
Maybe I'll have my youth back
When Ana teleports back to Erin,
Where her misplaced soul will finally be home with the gods,
For I think I'd do fine without her anymore,
As I land inside a time capsule,
Or wake up as a hand-me-down,
In time at long last with today's pendulum clock.
I'd be lucky if it's the clocksmith who takes such artifact.
But until such time warp,
Ana knows I can't be alone,
So she will mourn by my side,
While I count down
From the start
When...
Jun 9, 2013
Jun 9, 2013 at 9:26 AM UTC
You are all hollow bodies with vacant minds
I sadly continue to waste my time
Ignoring my instincts, complying with you
Such a fool I am to disregard the obvious truth
You’re all designed for social situations, never obligations
Engineered for leisure, whatever is easier
Too blinded by toxins, too apathetic towards authority
You are the majority of this dispersing minority
Aug 19, 2011
Aug 19, 2011 at 11:00 PM UTC
short-sighted vision
complacency
a dangerous choice.
prototypes in my mind
fill the vacancy
fill the silence.
silence the needs
pretend like i die tomorrow
but live like i died today.
motivation for desire
stays and wallows
in it's comfortable rut.
change clings to
concentric circles.
Feb 15, 2011
Feb 15, 2011 at 7:15 AM UTC
On Star Trek: TOS; what u'll often see
is an alien woman who can assume the
guise of any & every woman or an army
of beautiful duplicate women; these are
fembot prototypes; apart from feminist
Number One there are dominants & subs
Aug 14, 2018
Aug 14, 2018 at 8:30 PM UTC
Pencil and paper turn into stylus and screen;
our world is industrializing like we've never seen.
Manufacturing products out left and right,
and soon enough our prototypes will join in the fight.
Are we possibly producing more than we can consume?
Do we understand that technology could lead to our doom?
Convenient, oh sure, as we just sit here and get fat.
We have iPhones, and iPads, but no eye contact?
The air is getting dirtier and unhealthier per day,
and we believe the government when they say it's okay.
Do we not realize how much harm we're actually doing,
even though a better world is what we're pursuing?
Apr 29, 2016
Apr 29, 2016 at 12:04 PM UTC
My desk is scattered with
notes, drafts, prototypes,
of my love letters to the world.
Ugly, thin spider-scrawls
of hieroglyphic ink,
pleading for my future self
to flesh the bone,
of the skeleton in my thoughts.
Beside them, the trusted red wine
to chase down the pressures
of the world, hold them in line.
Each sip, a godsend,
each bottle a promise
that love will never end.
The simple pleasure of a desk;
a confounding beauty,
the collage to your life
and all that preoccupies you.
Your personality is laid before you;
each picture, beer bottle, notebook,
a fragment of yourself.
My desk is scattered in
the loves, hates and frustrations
of my place within this world.
Ugly, thin spider-scrawls
of unintelligible ink,
pleading for some higher power
to flesh the bone,
of the skeleton that is myself.
Nov 21, 2013
Nov 21, 2013 at 8:59 PM UTC
Becoming who you are
Is not an easy feat.
You have to shed the skin
Of many failed versions.
Prototypes are stowed away,
Blueprints shredded.
Which laugh works?
Is this personality too loud?
Will I be a loser if I don’t go to that party?
Or to that event?
Should I modulate my voice?
Am I too much of a nerd?
Am I not enough of a nerd?
Do these glasses work with my face?
Do these clothes work for my body?
Over and over,
The plans change,
And you change,
And you try to find the best
Version of yourself.
And you wonder why
There’s more than one
To begin with.
You wonder what happened,
To the innocent kid
Who thought her elementary school
Friends would always be there,
And who thought she could do anything.
You look back on yourself
As an athlete.
You look back on yourself
As a writer.
And you wonder why
You became this person
Who will just settle
To get by in life.
You wonder why
You’re constantly at
The drawing board,
Why the things you really
Want to do in life
Are impractical,
And why the things
You’re going to do are
Only semi appealing.
How did you get
****** into this society,
And how did you become this
Automaton with no autonomy?
Why can’t you decide
What’s best for you
Without being wracked with
Guilt?
Looks like you need to be
Reprogrammed
So we’ll scrap this model
And get back to you
With a new one.
Try not to break it.
Apr 6, 2016
Apr 6, 2016 at 3:50 PM UTC
I’d heard a story in that proverbial once upon a time
(Though its origins are hazy, at best, to me now:
Perhaps something my son heard at Sunday school,
Or part of the never-ending nattering
From the marketing guy at lunchtime,
Maybe cackled by the crazy, toothless blind guy on the 16A bus)
Concerning the programmers who’d worked on a project
In the earliest days of nano-technology,
Creating software for their relative monoliths,
Australopitchecuses of artificial intelligence,
Serving as prototypes for some envisioned universe
Where tiny drones served the whims of some doctor or researcher
Operating unseen and omnipotent behind some microscope or monitor.
The trials went quite smoothly, almost flawlessly,
The models impeccably doing what binary switches
And if-then-else statements decreed,
But the researches noticed that
Just before they executed the final bit of code,
The models would invariably exhibit
A slight hesitation--almost imperceptible, infinitesimal even,
But clearly occurring, nonetheless.
They’d assumed, quite naturally, it was a mere matter of de-bugging,
Some misplaced comma or parentheses among the thousands,
But they reviewed the code any number of dozens of time,
Only to find it was clean as a whistle.
What’s more, they’d found that while the vacillation appeared
At the same point in the process,
It didn’t happen at exactly the same time;
Indeed, they cropped up, relatively speaking, months, even years apart.
One of the white coats jokingly referred to the pause
As the machines “Peggy Lee moment”
(You know, ‘Is that all there is?’)
But no one else involved the project saw the humor.
They’d decided to ignore or accept the quirk, though it was rumored
That it drove a few of the programmers to near-madness,
With one or two of their number bolting the project without notice,
Entering monasteries with the intent
Of shutting themselves off from the outside world
For the rest of their days, and its existence was buried
In reams of footnotes at the end of their final report
(Though as I said, the tale’s source is unclear,
And I am inclined to regard it as apocryphal.)
Dec 22, 2016
Dec 22, 2016 at 10:00 AM UTC
Where has our honesty gone?
The world is spinning out of perspective
Individualists
More like conventionalists
Wanting to be a free soul
Instead, we’re losing control
How do we define different?
“Different
A pseudo-polite way of saying something is unpleasantly weird or unacceptable” [www.urbandictionary.com]
What about individual?
“individual
Individual's may actually conform, just to prove that they are individual from other individuals...
There is no definition of an individual, for to define an individual is hideously oxymoronic.” [www.urbandictionary.com]
All of these rules and ideologies
Which become more like mythologies
Giving us a…what… purpose?
Because without one were all worthless?
How does the media propel
Drive some great minds down to hell
But wait, sometimes those scars
Are not the real person they are
What about the girl next door
Is she perfect? Or is she a *****
How come the prepped up ****
Gets a thousand girls to put his ****
-Y attitude towards
What about all those hipsters
“individualists” in all their glister
PROTOTYPES
We are always followed
“To be, or not to be”
Now THAT is a real question
Why cant we all just BE
F R E E
Within our own minds
Refuse ourselves to be confined
But no matter where we go
The world will be a tv show
[scripted and masked]
Because the crazy professor who screamed in the crowd
Did a small scene from a movie out loud
And the individualist across the street
Got her haircut from Georgia O’deet
While the artist down the road
Saw his painting when it snowed
Though its obvious we refuse to admit defeat
Individual doesn’t march to its own beat
Nov 7, 2011
Nov 7, 2011 at 1:42 PM UTC
Have you ever watched a candle burn?
Flicker, fade, wasting away
The wicker waxes and wanes in pain
All consuming and never full
Unsatisfied with life so dull
It grows and builds and strikes and screams
It roars and eats and tears at your seams
You want to let it out but it never quite seems
Like you can.
We live in a world today
Where people's candles melt away
They drip and drop and slowly fall
A silent plop, heard by all
But acknowledged by none
For they have their own flames to deal with.
I was reading the news the other day
And, apparently, there's this new invention
A mental confection
At some grad school somewhere
That's still in the works
From minds of the same inflection
That uses sound waves to
Extinguish
Fire.
Prototypes,
The device and young minds alike.
Relatively unheard of, at the time,
But they may one day save countless lives.
An interesting thought, that sound overcomes
That an amplifier may dampen
Sound inside our hearts
The burning flame that rips apart.
But fire consumes the air itself
And what sound do you make when you cannot breathe?
You open your mouth and you can only seethe
The fire consumes and grows in height
And try as you can with all your might
To make a sound, some drowning noise
The fire devours, ignores and toys
With you.
Our lives are filled with sound.
Why is it then that all around
People fall and fires fade
And candles wax and slowly wane
We burn alive from inside out?
Can this be stopped with just a shout?
A cry for help, a strangled plea
"Please, just listen to me!"
But our lives are filled with sound;
Fires burning, melting down-
Until we learn to hear the truth
Ignore the flames and blow the roof
Off our little hearth, and open wide
Expand our limits, let the flame inside
Perish away and finally breathe
Free from the fires that forced us to seethe-
A prototype, that's all it is.
Relatively unheard of.
Apr 3, 2015
Apr 3, 2015 at 4:25 AM UTC
‘Reality’ is an empty promise
A word manufactured and fitted
To address this infectious disease
Us humans call life
Because material items,
Deeply rooted beliefs,
And honest emotions,
Only exist within our heads
And if my perception were to be so askew
As to deem myself dead
Then I’m living in the 7th ring of hell
We are fragments of projected images
A wasteland for forgotten dreams,
Useless prototypes,
From the stars that shine in our imaginary minds
We are just fragments of a masterpiece
That we cannot even see
Nov 19, 2012
Nov 19, 2012 at 8:22 PM UTC
You set out without a clear intention. You jot down vague sketches,
plans for prototypes.
Each iteration is
a little better
than the last.
It grows. It develops
into something familiar, yet
completely different.
Something new.
The gears fit better together.
You make it smaller and more compact.
Each prototype gleams with pride.
look.
it says.
*I am special, I am beautiful, I am
a marvel of engineering and metaphors.
Look.*
It is ready. You let it out, watching as
your machine, your invention
revs its engine and zooms off
into the night. It will plant itself
into people's minds and make them
Think, make their
gears fit better, make
them familiar but
completely new.
it is a poem. a machine called a poem.
May 4, 2016
May 4, 2016 at 12:45 AM UTC
These dashing Olympian-like
Prototypes wholly mesmerizing,
Alike a dew drop on
Poison Ivy;
Peacock pinned, chiseled and
Sewn.
Enticing love and war always
Seemed to inspire
Some quiet riot that raves round me.
Oblivious to the silence, enticed
For a certain melody;
All the headlights like
Stars ,and onto a stage
With golden glazed curtains.
Racing the other cars
Like a myth in my own mind.
Like marbled marvels,
Structured out of stone
In grandiose paradises
With a kind of palpable discord;
Rife with morose sycophants
And where diluted revolutionary zealots do roam.
Lights hung like Christmas shine
And dismiss us;
Is it a blessing or
A curse
Falling thick,
Like covenants?
A generation of messed up youth,
Sick and insane,
Seeing through a meek screen;
These gods among us,
Mighty and lean.
Jul 6, 2015
Jul 6, 2015 at 2:34 AM UTC
Melancholia 1 2 3 4
All of my sisters of disasters
Some messier some not
It's a calling
it's a fall
It's my insane heart down the floor
Here are some prototypes
Of better versions of me
I could be less this
I could be more that
I am just bare and bruised
I'm waiting for a hand
1 2 3 4 and so many more
Some green monster with sharp teeth
Wishing to be closer than unique for thee
For someone
To be special
To be loved
To be seen
As ugly as pretty
As wise as silly
As devoted as selfish
Oh God I cannot breathe
I cannot tell
More words to choke my truth
I don't want to say it
Every word that I write is so twisted
Around my neck
1 2 3 4 and some of them they hate me more
They shut me
They hurt me
They protect me in their own way
It's a calling it's a fall
It's a aching it's a wall
It is loving and not at all
Cut me here cut me there
Dissect my spirit
Holy and hellish
Pure as dew on blueberries
Everything is dying
How long will I drag this ghost everywhere behind me
It should be dying
All of this suffering
All of these thirsty words
All of these hopeless gazes
All of these empty hands
And this dereliction
Always reaching out for something
An echo or a king
Someone to burn the mess within
Someone to dance in the blood with
Someone who can understand that there is nothing wrong with me
I am only full of emotions
I can walk on thorns with a smile on
I am only devored by personas who all want to be lived
And it's demanding
And it's exhausting
I want to express everything
I want to pour this all out
I'm a river
I'm a volcano
Of passion
Of tenderness
Of frailty and strength
Some soul they feel
Everything multiplied
By all the people inside them
thousand times much worse
Thousand times much more beautiful
It's heavy like a stormy sky
You cannot hold my rain
you're no pain
you cannot understand
You're not in pain
How could you understand
I am so alive
Every feeling **** inside me
Who could understand
That the stars crash in my spirit
And I hear too much
I never rest
I feel too much
I hardly ever rest
Melancholia is made of the spark of youth
And the wounds of knowing
1 2 3 4
You cannot choose only one
I am every version of me
I am not a nice book to read
No one can read me till the end
I am not a kitty to cuddle
Sure these are things that I can be
I keep saying I'll be home
I keep saying I'll be safe
I keep swaying in the dark
For some peace of mind
burning old and useless pieces of mine(...)
Jun 4, 2016
Jun 4, 2016 at 2:40 PM UTC
They left us a birth prize
We all believe to be gold
They glided to the front
They called it bronze
The city engulfed by ire.
We concluded again they left us silver
They called it stone
The city bewailed of inequity
Blood, blood....
The city unrest
The antagonists sacrificed.
"Either bronze or stone show us our birth prize" The voracious compatriots claims trickled to the negotiating corner.
In spite of all words,
Their actions betrayed our claims.
Again, the city soaked in dread,
Antagonists wanted,
Heedless, we protested
"Give us our birth prize"
Antagonists thundering voices
silenced with prototypes.
Shrewdly, they dance to the city
with drums and packages: lustrous education, fat salary, electricity, infrastructures, healthy economy, social amenities, health care...
They boast of frequent return of all only with the birth prize.
In their wit, we found relief, and
We drummed home to feed on
repercussion of a new dawn.
Dec 1, 2018
Dec 1, 2018 at 1:57 PM UTC