"reassemble" poems
~*for M. both
a living one, and
imagined, too*~
10/5/25
just woke up and began to work;
the muses are cofuse-ed
they think when head hits pillow.
it is there then the~moment to
refill my head
with verses glorious, alas, alack,
into the sub-subconscious furnace they go
to melt, meld or even die
iron of ironies; 90% of these words,
were adrift in my head when I
to bed, "for to be repaired" last night, and
only came to be recalled @ 2:34 am
when them muses and you guru,
woke me to 'get outta bed', and you
who
bids me sleep,
this clashing arousal,
starts engine's cylinders to begin
live~composing, stoking and stroking,
to awake, create, reassemble and uncover
the poetic notions trans~versing my head
one-day, someday they will depart,
for cleaner, greener Champs-Élysées,
where reborn poets speak all languages
with equal fluency, eagerly awaiting
my spouting in Hindi (already ✅), in
Hebrew and any/all dialecticals this
god earth
ever mothered
And there you have it, my FPOTD, dear m.,
SUNday 10/5 & writ in the city where I am alive
in the Den of Writing, where the muses
like to hang out with their old companion,
until such time they will come to inhabit
a younger, well rested, equally restless,
a not-my-mine mind
<nml>
Oct 5, 2025
Oct 5, 2025 at 3:08 AM UTC
Cry with me
Reassemble my broken heart
Yesterday was yesterday so today cry with me
Jul 2, 2014
Jul 2, 2014 at 5:29 PM UTC
A wild man is not a boyfriend, he is a force.
Can you love me in the blinding heat of a birthing star, when I shower warmth on distant moons?
Can you love me in the hole of the cosmic Black, where no one can reach me? Not even you?
Can you love me then too?
Can you love me when I drag buffalo skulls through the dirt for days, to the rhythm of an ancient drum?
Will you love me if my beard hides the scars in my heart, from battles I cannot explain?
WIll you love me when I lack courage, when I am defeated, when I won’t let you patch my wounds?
WIll you trust me when I smell of sweetgrass and sage, and when I stink of whiskey and sweat?
When I drink from the cup and play in astral light, will you anchor me to Home?
What happens when my words don’t work, and I can speak with only my eyes?
Can you love me enough to let me go, without asking me where I’ll be?
I am no poodle to lay groomed on a leash at your feet. I am the wolf that fetches the bones of truth.
A wild man is not a boyfriend. He’s not built for animal husbandry. He is a force. He is a cause for an effect. He is a mission.
Are you afraid to let me inside you? Not just my flesh, but my soul. The wild man is neither burglar or vandal. I will not take anything from you. I will not trample on sprouting seeds or pick flowers as a trophy. I am the sun on flooded fields and the fire for tangled webs.
Don’t be scared, lover, mother, maiden, crone. Take me as I am.
Even if I have the power to destroy worlds, I will not destroy you.
A wild man is a protector. A father. A warrior for all that is good.
When the chaos seeks to obliterate you, sheering your flesh from bone, I will hold all the pieces together in love, until you are ready to reassemble.
When your seas boil, and your winds throw cars at corn fields, I will wait patiently for you to catch my eye, so that both of us can laugh.
When Hell opens up the fiery gates, and sends all the cosmos against you… I plant my heels deep in the ground. I lay my shield low. My sword is sharp then, my love. The steel sings sweetly. With a smile, Hoka Hey! My last breath a farewell kiss. Today is a good day to die.
For ours is the oldest love affair. The greatest story ever told. Cupid and Psyche, Shiva and Shakti, You and I.
Same same but different. Would we have it any other way?
A wild man is not a boyfriend. He is a force.
Jul 29, 2015
Jul 29, 2015 at 9:09 AM UTC
I tinker
I overthink
I mull over
I sink
I entertain
I disassemble
I ascertain
I gamble
I play
I rewind
I play again
And again
I find
I reassemble
Still I sink
I'm in battle
When I overthink
Mar 11, 2017
Mar 11, 2017 at 10:35 AM UTC
(Love written in the heavens, a true tale)
I hear a gentle knockin at my door and go to see who it may be.
To my surprise it is a beautiful angel waiting there to greet me.
The angel says, "Child, you suffered darkness, lessons you've learned.
It is your childhood love and your soul mate, that I am here to return.
You must choose now to walk out the door, trust me and take my hand.
His heart yearns to return to the rightful finger, another golden band.
He's who the Father of the Heavens wrote for you into the book of life.
So now it is time to reassemble the true story of a husband and a wife.
It is time to let go of all that has brought you great torment and pain.
From this day forward, is only joy and bliss, no more sadness or rain.
20 years apart, fleeting encounters of great love were caused to hit & miss.
Today you must trust, I was sent here with your key to Eternal Happiness.
Lopez ©reationz 2014
Jun 14, 2014
Jun 14, 2014 at 8:57 PM UTC
---
**i'm here
invisible hand
retching in your pocket
reaching in your face
teaching all
or nothing
blue bottles buzz
round my head in circles
making me dizzy
I pick a posie of dandilions
gone to seed
I foray about
looking for the shiniest
diamonds in aluminum cans
the brass ring
must certainly be
tarnished gold
the forge bellows that is my chest
heaves in another cough
cooling my tounge
the empty wind that echos ashes
spent embers collect
in the cracks
of the
abyss
my bones which were disjointed
oh so slowly reassemble
instantly
but someone
at the factory didn't
read the
destructions
my legs are arms
my hands
feet
i lie under a cold
sky
in july
oh don't cry
when i die
no whitened seplechur my inheritance
my epitaph nonsense
a palm tree o'r my
grave**
soulsurvivor
(C) 6/13/2015
Jun 14, 2015
Jun 14, 2015 at 12:38 AM UTC
they looked like mangled
silver dollars
shells split into fifty pieces
arranged as the were
like a blue print
for god to try and
reassemble
there were so many
I didn’t count
but there were many,
many dead turtles
strewn
across the
road
and
as I walked along
I tried to avoid
them
but
sometimes
there were three
or four in a row
and
it was really
hard
to
avoid
them
like life,
life is hard,
hard like a turtle’s shell
cracked into fifty
pieces
Jun 6, 2012
Jun 6, 2012 at 11:16 PM UTC
The alarm clock rings
and once again
the rooster sings
the morning new.
Slumbering flowers
lift their petals to drink
the drops of dew.
Reliable Sun
vanquishes the darkness
as he lightens the sky.
I see an honored guest
is in the garden,
his tiny nametag reads... butterfly.
But on the other side of town
someone struggles with
addiction.
Habits grab hard,
break will powers in two.
The will becomes won't
and the power is all through.
Satiated,
temporaneously satisfied.
only till the next time the habit has to be gratified.
The victim moves on trying to reassemble his day
Avoid
a crooked roaded relapse,
along the way.
Oh ghost of the host why must repitition repeat the most
and feel so good in its continuation?
Why must familiarity breed the need
for more familiar feelings?
To the point of killing control, sealing a fate,
dealing defeat,
stifle healing.
If your out there guardian soul, spirit helper, what's your roll, your goal?
Guiding with helping hand or let stand the habitualized
habit man.
Isn't there a self preservation station within?
A gland or impulse control button to switch from sin to win?
Even Edgar Allan Poe stubbed his toe on a ten step program trying to get in the door.
Ill-begotten and craven, drunken and unshaven cried the raven...never more.
Guiding spirit it ends here!
No more slave to the crave
or impulse picking from the addiction tree.
The need to repeat and repeat
the pattern becomes a self fulfilling prophesy.
Back to normalacy, complacency,
it's a moderation that one seeks.
To enjoy the ****** of bells, hallalulah wails,
a babies dimpled cheeks.
Can you do that Spirit helper, please.
Let sing the bodies vibration.
No more internal damnation.
No more self flagellation.
Allow to draw power from these words.
Think of this all as an intervention!
Jun 25, 2018
Jun 25, 2018 at 6:52 PM UTC
Doc, I've been trying to deal with these issues for quite sometime to no avail;
A good friend of mine (you may know him, Elmer Fudd) recommended you.
I fear I will never be able to eat, let alone catch this turbo inspired example of flightless foul;
Stuck in this celluloid world vividly inspired by an Emmy award winning colorist.
I am a proud animal from generations of fine breeding, born in the pristine coyote valley;
I am not stupid, not a fool or buffoon, and so I thought contractually, not one to be laughed at.
And I, always the bad guy, constantly daunted in pursuit by haphazard ACME products;
Expensive, bulky, time consuming, they characteristically fail right before they almost work.
Rocket powered skates, unfortunately, only allow me to kiss the cliff-side really really hard;
Very heavy anvils serve no other purpose than to be dropped on my head repeatedly.
The incredulous manipulations of the impossible by the so clever writers of this farce;
From trains appearing out of nowhere to run me over, to fierce lightning storms in an instant.
Laying there in the release of my own bowels as the uncontrollable result of
500 Megajoules of energy traveling through my body yet again.
I am the twice electrified mass of dribbling spastic protoplasm
Personified proverbially in that lightning does indeed strike twice in the same place!
As the smoke arises from my chard hairy frame and I sweep up my ashes to reassemble later;
I realize Doc, I'm losing my grasp on the reality of ever succeeding, I need your help!
I'm still hungry;
And still I have not caught that **** Road Runner,
**** you Warner Brothers!
-----ChawzzyScript
Mar 29, 2013
Mar 29, 2013 at 1:13 AM UTC
Phones reflect the self within us.
We use covers that show a hint of our personality maybe a panda cover, covers that mask and hide the scratches and bruises but they are still there.
They seem to grow and deepen each day and we have the power to stop it but how do we stop the scratches from showing, stop the smudges from appearing on the screen?
The point is we can't.
If the phone drops, it drops simple as that.
yeah we should make a big deal out of it especially when new scratches appear but we have to pick the phone up.
When it slips and falls again we must again pick it up.
When the screen cracks we feel like we should have put a screen protector on.
Then we try to protect it as much as possible.
We try to prevent the cracks from deepening.
We can't get new phones though, the self might be able to reassemble once cracked but fragments of the older self still remain , it can never be replaced.
We can only try to take care of it like we would our phones.
Mar 12, 2013
Mar 12, 2013 at 8:49 PM UTC
Deconstruct that which may not serve many,
and reassemble it so that it may serve more,
and you have creative destruction.
Deconstruct that which may serve many,
and reassemble it do that it may serve only a few,
and you have destructive creation.
Either way, there are resources relocated
to create or destroy something.
To deconstruct something
would be to separate it
into that which can be used to construct it...
Yet,
to construct something
is to reconstruct what which has already existed...
So is there only the illusion of creation and destruction?
Whether something is or is not,
from how we perceive it,
seems to rely on how and whether or not it is organized.
Jun 23, 2014
Jun 23, 2014 at 9:03 PM UTC
I wish I had one of those
Brand new pretty A.I's
The kind you see
Over seas
With the animated eyes
Perfect body
Sculpted in
Secrets underneath
Rebooted to learn
Oh don't be concerned
I've plenty morals
Left in me
Bio parts programmed
To feel the cyber burn
Develop in such rhythms
Cybernetic squirms
Bandwidths pleasure
Poetic themes
Creative forms
Me and machine
Bio feedback
Drama queen clean
Nothing like the real thing
Just me and my machine
Oh how lonely that would be!!!
.............
Jul 31, 2018
Jul 31, 2018 at 8:14 AM UTC
So you want to make me?
A moody?
Ok, here's what you do.
Have a caring soul.
Tear that soul's heart to pieces.
Then try to reassemble those parts.
If you are successful, put that heart inside of a body that is fat, too tall. and not noticed by anyone.
There you have a moody.
Caitlin Moody.
Jan 17, 2015
Jan 17, 2015 at 11:31 AM UTC
Gently scraping the adhering paper from the firm plastic, colorful cube
That beared a delicate weight in my soft, precarious pink hands,
I grasped the sticker and pressed it on my protuberant little veins--
“Innocence!” Clarence cried my misleading appellation,
“Are you cheating? You’re taking off the stickers, mindlessly relocating them
To unravel (or reassemble, rather) the poor little tormented Rubik’s.”
*“Nay, you fool. I’m just rearranging them so that no one can solve the puzzle.
I’m a sadist, not a fraud.”*
Jul 3, 2014
Jul 3, 2014 at 12:16 AM UTC
there is no such thing as an antihero,
only a villain
who has found an exuse,
an antagonist who can speak more prettily than
all the others
who can lie holes straight through
the hero's
heart,
find their place in the universe
and blot it out on the map because
the universe
does not tend towards anything
but solitude.
you will find yourself all alone.
you will find yourself all
alone
and you can snap the neck of every doll you own but
despair will never be anything more than
an unrequited love, an
attachment that you never grew out of, a
high school crush that you stapled to your heart so as you grew it was like
a gastric bypass
you cannot hold as much love in your heart
as your mother
said you could
but you can kiss and sigh and with every moue you'll wonder just
why
your chest feels fit to burst when you get any deeper than
touch
heart fit to rupture you are the main villain
of every book
i've read
the antagonist in every story you are
the angry girl whose doll parts
lay in pieces
at her feet
whose bomb will detonate if you get too close
{the character i could relate to the most the character i hated the most the character
i talked to whenever i could and
memorized every line to replay, god
i hate
the way you speak
and i want
to hear
it more}
i ripped out your staples and added my own.
{despair will never reciprocate but
i understand you i
do
because we are the same and i hate you because
you hate yourself
and i could give you nightmares every night and
listen to your motives
every
morning
'people are disgusting'
you said
as if it was
a revelation}
you're not ****** up, just out of luck
because four-leaf clovers can't survive droughts.
you are seventyeight percent water
and every drop you spent on
drowning
the background characters
and every doll on your bedroom floor
{i love the way you cry when you laugh because every time
i hope
that one, that one tear
is the final drop wrung from the shroud
of a sailor a burial at sea
and you will crumble
into
dust}
you angry girl your eyes
are a yellowing bruise on the storyline
your backstory is a rash
on the protagonist's hands
and all your inner demons told you you were not alone but
you explained them away and
appeals to pity left you empty.
i will rip out all your staples i
will make you
seventyeight percent
saltwater
my heart is a mirror you can find yourself there and
reassemble yourself
from all your broken parts
i will be the blueprint from which
you rebuild
yourself
{a story is nothing
without
a villain}
Jul 25, 2013
Jul 25, 2013 at 3:25 AM UTC
As the halo icicles melt
From the slender fingers of the trees,
They reassemble themselves
As sharp shards throughout my hair
And make me feel enshrined
In the Snow Queen’s palace;
Although slightly confused
As to whether her spell has worked on me.
For rage bubbles up inside of me
Like the volcanic lava of Vesuvius
As I carefully remove the icicles from my hair
And attempt to reassemble them
Into miniature castles,
Under the Queen’s command.
But then once the Vesuvius of my mind
Erupts,
Innocent soapy bubbles float out
And children shriek with laughter
Leaving Pompeii safe from harm.
But the ancient people worry anyway
Since historically-speaking,
Molten lava is scheduled to surface.
Should I then worry?
It hasn’t yet singed my pores
But rains have attempted to fabricate themselves.
Yet something has managed to hold them back.
I am not so grateful.
May 5, 2012
May 5, 2012 at 4:32 PM UTC
***
*****
I am a fractured soul
A broken man
Fragmented
and destroyed
into tiny pieces
Left with sharp edges,
misshaped parts
and empty spaces
A jigsaw puzzle
I continuously work
A never ending project
attempting to reassemble
But like a shattered vase
glued back together,
it's not quite the same
What was pristine and beautiful
is now just something I resemble
*****
***
Mar 18, 2018
Mar 18, 2018 at 11:04 PM UTC
Sometimes poetry doesn’t happen
Until you’ve fashioned what you want to say
And felt its worth in prose.
You go somewhere a little known
But time newly fashions its affect.
Late autumn then, today summer’s end.
Since early morning the sun has shone.
Heading north, the clouds magisterial.
Spread themselves, ermine-cloaked.
I watch you as you drive:
The pleasing proportions of your seated self,
a warm glow on your left cheek.
*We have become so careful you and I
With what we say and the way we say it.
Hard to keep the conversation aloft.*
After ninety miles it’s good to get out
In a by-passed village, a quiet place.
Bicycles now take us towards the ancient coast.
There it is: the sea. The spirit lifts.
Wind at our backs and grateful to turn
to the pleasure of a minor road.
Now there’s time to take in a distant manor,
the swallows’ dart and spin, a stone tower
from which the landscape’s perspective flows.
A long straight road runs to a coastal village.
Lunch is eaten against a churchyard wall.
As a cloudy afternoon beckons, crows gather.
Turning east will the headwind strain
The morning’s calm confidence? Perhaps.
Have we come too far and expect too much?
At the causeway now, where the tide has left
The horizon-reaching expanse of mud and sand,
It seems a long road to the village at the island’s end.
Briefly, we sit to contemplate a yet further isle
Where, facing the sun’s fall into the folds
of distant hills, a northern saint found solitude.
So tired at the hotel I insist on immediate food
And soon the tension of the day falls from your face
And briefly I catch a smile from your eyes.
*Memory returns me to another room where, newly married,
I caressed your long nakedness in a strange half-light,
My hands and body visiting every part of you.*
As dusk falls we walk briefly to view the sand and sea.
Then bed and hardly a page turns before seeking sleep.
Restless, I reassemble the day, moment by moment.
Nov 7, 2012
Nov 7, 2012 at 1:20 PM UTC
I feel it starting, like a prickle down my spine.
My rubbery lungs expand and push
against my ribs.
Organs start crawling
up my throat
leaving a hollow cavity
which I must seal.
My heart is pumping faster
but the only thing to get my blood moving
is to fill my emptiness.
Hands shaking I scrawl a haphazard
paper chain to keep me from floating away
as my love looks on concerned.
“Can I fill it with a kiss?
A caress? If I whisper to you
will my words fall through your ears and
weigh you down?”
But anxiety
is not like drowning
and a life preserver won’t reign me in.
The only thing to do is wait
for me to compress my lungs
and talk my insides off the ledge.
Let me close my eyes and breathe,
give me room to reassemble.
I promise I will come down soon.
When I can concentrate enough,
the Earth starts shrinking
until its mass rests on my pen tip
and I can write the blood back through my veins.
Jul 21, 2014
Jul 21, 2014 at 6:52 PM UTC
he took my last quarter and dime,
pocket lint, the missing *****
of something I’d meant to reassemble
if I’d remembered or had time
then wandered off
rubbing shoulders with the sidewalk preacher
searching for signs of end times in rainstorms
or faint rumbles of passing traffic,
holding high his Good News
in a half-folded forecast for tomorrow;
this exodus -
across a patch of crabgrass
following a diagonal path of earth foot-worn
into a thin gray line defining the shortest distance
from his concrete corner to the door of the liquor store
justified a sacrifice of hours, the cold lies told:
lost wallet,
old mother,
car just out of gas
practiced to passersby or filling station patrons,
their rumpled tithes
reborn into an afternoon sermon
wrapped tight in brown paper
still warm with silent echoes of amen
Apr 1, 2013
Apr 1, 2013 at 11:07 PM UTC
fingers tapping against your thigh, music note mumblings. subtract everyone else and watch the feeling
m
u
l
t
i
p
l
y
disassemble and reassemble the ensemble and allocate your earnings as earnestly as you can without appearing overeager. overhearing a conspiracy between my lips and your neck. a secret isn't a secret unless you whisper it, so do it, make sure the russians don't hear us as they rush off to give reports on that look I just gave you, the one that is oh so telling. reveling in it. living in the revelation of your skin, pouring down your presence like honey, like sweet molasses dripping thick and sweet, simmering under the sun, glimmering in the water like a jewel, jealous and **** painful and dark and dazzling. beating only in anatomical hearts, out of tune, cacophony and cruel crimson, missing someone not something, left wanting and waning in the light of a lopsided moon, farsighted and fingers that prune in purple light rippling across the walls, willing to travel the planes of your body, embodied travesty traversing the sahara, dunes doomed to be swept away by the wind, breaking and kept away, each grain unable to touch one another more than once, gorgeous enough to be pain, staking your claim on misery before the misers bury it in their own backyards, backwards discovery, a convenient amnesia, believing ruses and runes to decipher in delicate dictum like tricking a language into translating itself.
almost too much of not enough.
Apr 23, 2017
Apr 23, 2017 at 12:14 PM UTC
Basically I'm broken, shattered, pulled apart and torn to pieces, shards of sharp shimmering glass amass into a clump of crunching sounds. Crush. crack. Crunch and crumble.
My whole innards begin to tumble, whirr around like clothes in a dryer. Pockets not checked, so their contents are set. Set to begin a cycle of being flung from side to side, swishing around, drowning in a swirl of cleanliness which should of course, ease the pain and wash away those steeped in stains and cleanse a spirit that's been pulled apart. Like a cotton thread. Slowly being pulled away from a wooley jumper as its caught.
Okay, it's caught on a zipper. from an old pair of jeans. Whose paths have crossed many times in outfit combos but now tumbling around together they no longer meld, together. They clash like; tartan and polka dots and conflict each others path to rightful cleanliness.
Basically I'm broken, shattered, pulled apart and torn to pieces, shards of sharp shimmering glass amass into a clump of crunching sounds. Crush. crack. Crunch and crumble
Alas, the thread is now long and wearing thin. It has lost its shape and would have to begin again. Once aired out to dry its a mound of mess, a cotton bundle looking all distressed. It tried its hardest to fight the emotion, the tug, of its strings to maintain its strength; but bowed down to defeat when knowing full well that it was beat. How could it now go on in life when it's torn. Torn to pieces and now ceases to exist in a form that would generally state: It! Exists!
Exists as a life form and a living part, how can things continue to breathe without a beating heart.
Thump thump, beat beat, thud thud. It starts. Thump thump, beat beat, thud thud. My heart.
Trying to mend the cracks with this battered ***** Mangled with regret and forlorn with spite, how can this reassess itself until it is right.
Thump thump, beat beat, thud thud. It starts. Thump thump, beat beat, thud thud. My heart.
It takes time to mend a broken ticker. Time passes by and memories become bitter, tainted with a brush that's tarred, marred with the longing for those moments to still occur. Not for your mind to now blur.
Blur those memories you once held so dear, remembered with a chuckle or a wry little smile. How can you comprehend these again for a while?!
You can't.
You shouldn't.
You couldn't.
So don't.
Thump thump. Beat beat, thud thud. It starts. Thump thump, beat beat. Thud thud. My heart.
broken, shattered, pulled apart and torn to pieces, shards of sharp shimmering glass amass into a clump of crunching sounds.
Crush.
crack.
Crunch.
Reassemble
Mar 17, 2015
Mar 17, 2015 at 11:34 AM UTC
Her beautiful silhouette
explodes
Into a flock of birds
scattering in all directions
I scramble to
catch them all
hoping to reassemble
the original form
I witness the sky split
in two
One half filled with doves
One half
wolves
They slash and cut deeply
Bite with forceful hate
Pouring my life into
The streets below
I lay there motionless
And watch
The sun set
Within the glowing orb
balanced on the horizon
I only see her
silhouette
Jul 16, 2016
Jul 16, 2016 at 4:14 PM UTC
The game played no longer how it once was
No votes on new posts
don't check the trends
or check your own for views and comments
The substantive roaming data of broken WiFi connections
Mangle your jangling words, hide your swollen faces behind forced smiles, Rembrandt bastardisations or smeared oil paintings of the black soul(less) beasts that lurk in satiate tree shadows fawned over the lawnmower blue cycle rinse washed acid soaked daydream ***** slap nation
So you revere the works once read on poetical facsimile sites
only to smear words of younger wordsmith wrangled teen angst
and now in your age and ardor it seems advantageous to judge
But then that will leave you hollow inside
or in fact, you could jump from a tall building only to bounce off the concrete into a children's pool and drown there in three inches of **** coloured rain water
But so instead the workload decreases as your dementia bedpost nightmares
all come aflutter
The laced lily white throng of petal pinched patterns masks
the marked men on their dusty knees
There, watch how heads explode
or listen to foley artists rendering the lacquered finish of the watermelon headjuice
Make up words
or make up lies
Wear make-up daily, earn some prize
or don't
I don't care
idc
idk
Resemble rhyme or reason
Disassemble the times and season
Return to pejorative pretensions, rants in verse verse verse verse prose format and **** the rest
Or simply return to the old ways of playing the game
Upvote this, and maybe they'll take interest
Comment here
return one there
Use tags, hashtags, wash rags, fat slags, arm chair fat cats
But always separated by spaces, prettyblankspaces
No, I don't do slam poetry, I'm too white and not nearly rich enough to not care
Reassemble the times and season, maybe make sense of it
Maybe not
Just don't let them become a passing trend, please
Jan 26, 2015
Jan 26, 2015 at 12:23 PM UTC
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.
Jul 7, 2013
Jul 7, 2013 at 11:38 PM UTC