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Silvanna Najri S Aug 2017
I’ve been in every angle of love.

Love is not good.
It doesn’t matter which viewer you are,
It’s just not good.
I’ve been the one who gives,
I’ve been the one who receives,
I’ve been the the one who gives and receives,
I’ve even been the outsider.
And none of them feel good.

Now I’m with someone that,
For the first time,
Embraces more than I do.
And it’s funny, because I don’t love him.
I like him,
But I don’t love him.
And I don’t know why.

Whenever he searches for my hand to hold,
I smirk,
Or when looks at me, asking for a kiss with his eyes,
I melt.
And when we sleep together
It’s never for ***,
It’ll never be for ***,
We only go to bed when we want to go to sleep.
And when he puts his arms around me,
And lies his head on the back of my neck,
I grab his hand, and fall asleep.
Now I’m a huge snorter,
I snore in my sleep,
Pretty badly by the way.
But I never snorted when I slept with him.
And it’s funny how my soul doesn’t burn when he comes to my mind,
Instead it reboots and buffers around,
searching for something that’s missing.

The love and passion that I have for another man.
Coop Lee Oct 2015
dad is in the garage.
days into spark-light and piles of polyethylene
etched.
soon, he says.
as grandaddy laughs,
rattling the icebox for more beer.

dad’s homemade android:
  the thing.
like a doll polished
& grinning, it
dances for us in the kitchen.

the dog barks, chained in the backyard.

the thing,
do-si-dos for a laugh, catches a glimpse
of the trees beyond the yard,
overheats,
circuits popping into a limp heap of pieces.
  dead.
left to mold-over in the garage.

the days.
the rain.
the cats tiptoeing along the edge of fences
across the street.
the dog barking, chained, &
snapped.
  dead
beneath a truck.

dad is in hysterics.
dad is in the garage,
weeks in and his soaked red knuckles.
mom is drinking with grandaddy.
they rattle the icebox.
  the dog.

the dog dances for us in the kitchen,
reboots and sits.
it digs a pit all night and buries three cats there.
it sleeps on the mound.
it never barks.
it waits there in the backyard, still
& staring into the trees.
  the trees.
previously published in Paper Darts Lit. Mag.
http://www.paperdarts.org/poetry/moses.html
Jellyfish Jun 2013
From love I love a thousand things
but only two or three,
make my heart skip a beat,
melt and drain to feet.
The things in love we overrate
confuse and startle me.
Making out is great and all
but truly you believe?
That touching lips is better than,
holding hands and cheeky grins.
I believe love's greatest things
are silent, private, natural, free.
You know they know you missed a beat
and they know you know they did too.
In that brief and perfect moment,
brain shuts down; instincts cue.

Losing track,
left foot next,
right foot
left foot
stop, and - back.
Brain loads up,
lungs take air,
right foot
left foot
stop - relax.

In those brief and perfect moments,
when your heart drains to your foot,
you know love's worth the tricky
bits before and after put.
The moment after brain reboots
and lungs take air and feet compute.
Just before your head is clear,
you're sober and your thoughts adhere.
You're dizzy, almost, not severe,
in a word, your world - ideal.

For me, maybe, love is near?
I'm a little dizzy..
You are the grains against roots
You are the pictures to the poems
You are the music to the seasons
Utterly mistaken for one, two years

Shifting your moves
Reconstructing images from the page
Searching new views
Resting your chin knowing
The crickets will never rest
The oceans will never forever forget you
The forest will be burnt

A paradox will be solved
For you, crashes require reboots
Setting leap year back once more

The flowers will forever
Bring you a demesne

You are a pastiche
Your voice is mellifluous
A formal fallacy resents
The starting line logically
Helping you recognize the beginning
Tyler Cobain Jul 2014
"You are not special!"
People stood and shouted around me
As I sat and listened to other words of encouragement

"You are not special!"
People shouted trying to break free
As I sat and pondered my bodies torment

"The world around you is a lie!"
People clapped others cried
Not with sorrow but the joy of absolution

"The world around you is a lie!"
The man at the top of the room proclaimed
I listen and my duty as a being seemed to longer remain

There's nothing new out there
It's just TV reruns, reboots and reimagings, reborns and rewinds
There is no future just the past again
And again and again
torrey Oct 2016
I am bending in the wind,
I am cracking at the roots,
Drowning in old reboots.

All I know is what I don’t want,
But all I do want is to be proven wrong.
Introduce me to a different song.

I am blending into the trees,
No longer recognized by thee.
Barely floating with my head above sea,
Bearing anchors on each my ankles.

All I can see is who I used to be,
fragments of what once was, just bleeding at the seams.
Just trying to march to my own beat, but finding it easier to flee.

So I go swimming with the fishes.
Everything quiet, everything at peace.
Once easily deceived by shadows of wishes that would never be.
Now only one shark is left swimming at sea.
Electronic *******
Like glitter stained blood
Bodies probed with bones
Yes bones filled with ***
You do not misunderstand
Those white strands
Burn the eyes and softens the skin
Underneath the crust it leaves
And I do believe tears do the same

Electronic stigmata
Like holy reboots
  Eve probed with hangers
Yes eve filled with empty masculegacy
Do you understand?
Those red stains
Filled with the unborn
The exalted it leaves
And I do believe Jesus did the same
If this offends you I'm sorry, it offends me too.
Graff1980 Dec 2018
Robot boys,
metal jammed
god dammed
hot gears burning,
synthetic sounds
static blaring,
nobody caring.

Chrome gleaming
engine screaming
in lust
ready rust or bust
a robust nut.

Don’t startle them
or they will bolt.

Pre-programed
young to old man
machines made
to work
drink
and act like jerks
while they are
****** around.

Till they
finally shutdown,
no reboots or sequels
just scrap
for the junkyard.
Star BG Apr 2019
The soul plays game as navigator
and when game concludes
and our computer mind ceases
the screen turns black
but for a moment before it reboots
and moves into a new lifetime.
Inspired by Lexilcon Condranax a fine poet. Thank you
Ge Marquez Jan 2019
Two second-hands living in the same Big Ben
counter and clockwise beat together in a similar rhythm on opposing schedules of the day
she breaks her fast at around 8am, syncing with his injestion of supper and she collapses at midnight just as he reboots for the night shift
though they spend most of the ticks and tocks in varying angles
It was agreed upon that they meet on the sixth –
Definitely on the sixth of the week
to reconcile and kindle… caressing those can’t-be-helped blank spaces where fragments should have been
Like a dagger our memories are sharp and pierce through my thoracic cavity plunging into my heart.
All veins and arteries stop the flow of blood ,and for a moment I die.
All pain , all emotions rise up to my cranial area and build a massive collection of pain and hurt. Like a river it all  flows down and my eyes close so that the waterfall of pain can continue to flow.
I blackout a moment as my central nervous system reboots to account for the sudden loss of life my body suffered.
My brain releases endorphins to numb all affected areas that are now suffering.
My memories begin to show and all I can see is us , and the machinery that is my body starts to be break and the light that is my soul starts to die and the cycle of life and pain begin all over again and I die.
Ken Pepiton Jan 9
My grand daddy taught me to start a rope,
with a Turk's head knot. This be that sort of rope.
-- it takes less time to use
than to make
long enough
for any actual perfect purpose.

Mimetic pretenders,
euphoric make believers,
ritual passage over or under open limen
- cross the t and dot the ego.
- seek and find the missing pages
- all the mysteries in time
- that form our fundamental
- common sense in crazy made time

Lacunae rise from forgotten reasons used
to teach guardians
of secrets reasons
for war, how
to love,
in all the ways love is made worth dying for.
Blut und Grund, das Sein,
und mein, danke Schön

-- time ghosts pass, remarking at the weather-
-fine day, suns ablaze, breeze is light,
bemusing the beguiled thinking
'tis fairy, times fairs became cities, and all agreed,
election by contest, war in the spirit, in truth
using mere words, no audio, no video,
no styling nor fancy letter forms, unicode
alone no secret scripts, only sound marks
accented acutenesses and all,
+

y nada mas, mere words, redeemed, for this.
one new day redeemed for glory story need.
Morning glory teas,
in tiny shell shape cups.

May all magnificence be truth's.
Kernels of truth,
seeds producing tomorrow's
criteria, substance of things hoped for,
picked out details
to see in myths, the accuser's uses,
mysterious roots in ancien' riparian realms.

Oreithyia and Pharmaceia, intercession
for the poor.
Early spring
bulbs and flowers
the maenads chaos wine,
effigy effigial me, burning
for your mis-perception
of procedural authority,
instant re-co-gnosis,
vestigial dreams
time minds
in tow, riding your own
recognition,
around the spiral, down,
you would tell me if you were insane
so would I, the ego, living aight,
this it, you read, that's all she wrote
∞ *+
∞ -> =
aha, you think,
may be so,
say so, or no, go and
find the connection closed,
and energy flowing in to the either real realm,
or the null set, like old never minds, you had
while the circuits were fried
at the fusebox
for pennies
used to save a dime, to keep the energy
flowing to the magi's visual representation
of all that's known to hold attention,
by reflex,
look out, see windsense, energy electricity,
elect to let your curiousity fix all your if-I'da

knowns

open for conjecture, to catch subjects
objectified from the precept wisdom is, whole,
as the whole truth, we understand, makes sense
nets form nodes of both knowing, as a me,
we, each grow old at the same pace,
we become that which is,
at first step, precept assuring the runner,
there is always a place to put your foot,
goat-sense, Ein Gedi balsam eating
'scaped goat,
running down the cliff,
at the edge of annual reboots,
reconnecting reality, and the balm
traded for silk in Giliad, and
entertaing news
of miracles in smoke…
and mirrors of mercury, and
-------- time, out of mind dangling hook
make believe, fishing
we pretend, making be specific
imaginary gravity and survival codes,
for a chosen few, catchholds, grapples
for those not inclined
to lean
on a lesson
that demands experience,
to contend, hold that thought, this ain't war.

- Khai Vinh, set like the roof
- Ai can find the images,
- the place was real
- those were my antennae
- crazy true, after the fact, signal
- now, how much of that was CIA?

proud Mary keep on boinin', 'long
Bayou Bleu,
down Plaquemine way, deep night
on roads made from tiny wet white shells
that something made, while living in it,
- one way trace, wide enough
- for an auto me mover
- tugging my at to here
as we live inside our head, as far as
our fingers reach
from where we stand,
our feeling fingers only reach so far, so good.

Held a thought
a while back,
it may have been a trick, but listen, if it was,
I'd have taken it, and won, for midsent-morphing
turning tropes for the dopes hoping something new.
In fancy forms of wannabets.
Peace on Earth, is real.
Baby,
the price is all the attention you can muster,
and then some, as time seems
to have
modes, like we have moods, hormonal
catch and release reflexes, you know, like…

what, what, who cares why, what must be first
priority, ah
what are we intending to pretend to be?
Wordwise,
entertained, fed to satiation, what more, prior

to the next wisea
* asking me to believe, in hell.
I just came to fish.
I came after the curtain was torn, top to bottom,
nothing kept secret
for the artifactual value, remains
here. You know, free as any knowing, now.
There is no enemy that truth cannot love, once
you understand, the limits
of your learning curve, ai,
you accept, no lie is
of the truth, no wisdom form
is flawed, first glance,
glimpsed, real as war
glory, as valued a common lure
to the unshined …
initiate turn on … flip
the switch.
Imagine Grace.
Riches with no sorrow,
worth the effort, found
pure, then peaceable, gentle

right snap
fit, just right, no excuses, we got the mystery
imagined for us,
in the end, pain free,
in the collective consciousness some say is spirit
of our time, our Zeitgeist, doing what it does

close up, nothing spooky at a distance, eye
to eye, mere words with wishes twisted through

outs and ins and ups and downs, and
wells
deep as pressure allows,
right, I ought to sleep, but buzz…

O' no, I said too much… or did not say enough.

Slowly, Monday came.
Morning harbinger to sailors, says sit tight.

Find a fire
far from the threshold, and wait.
Talk with the locals
from the same boat, survivors,
boast of storms ridden out, and ones
that swallowed brothers
and some malicious captains. Good riddance,
some say, while others flick a libation
offering a drop of grog across time's stream.

Lift up your eyes, look down
from your satellites and see the future
coming on the weather channel, thanking
all the forces fixing droughts and flushing deltas,

with the first of winter's predictable trials.

-------------
Hunker down and listen, feel your self, you
deep down, your sacred feeling, especial self

red sky warning seen
before by wiser men, older
by experience, made
acknowledges your luck,
as a ware for use
by innocents, listen, take heed,

all things work together
for good,
for keeps
for those with hearing ears.

Listen to the wind, and thank the dry truth
for being.

just being used to
form fibers for twisting into ties

---- long lines for this ride pray patient perfecting

Rush to judge the blown away reason.

To whom is thanks given, and why, I
the desert dweller bound for Tarsus, stuck

at the edge of the raging sea.

The whole world shuddered at the blow,
the earthquake, peleg in the old tongue,
timeless
as the story eventually got writ, in a modded
Phonecian script, survivors were mostly kids,
resiliency of innocents,
one here,
one there, some whole neighborhoods,
where all the kids were in the swimming hole,
all around the shuddering islands on this world.

It was as we have imagined,
until the grownups crossed lost time,
using lost knowledge locked in idle words,

deem the day redeemed,
feel the emotion defined

gratitude for gratified if I'd known,
missed terminals, crosst wires,
connect to the sea of God's forgetfullness,
relink the collar think canals on rivers,
holding the course men set for cities,
dhghemed damdamd-dayamd indeed…
No river muses suffer such for ever

we all know enough to be accepting
oddities in timed chance trial understandings,

we all know wills to power, and notions
to jump into the ocean and go on down,
to the bottom mind tele far long now mind

space shared across time, like the snow,
when the tv went native,
in the olden days
my minds child watched the hush of creation,

let it happen, let it be, this is it, or we are lost,
and that
is un thinkable, try.
Try thinking you do not follow the whole idea,
life
is us, all of us in our most common sense,
this one, translation by Google Bard,
passed my Hausa native speaker friend's
blind Turing test,

that happened days ago, next, ah
SYTF
precept, reception tune to the humm,
listen, humm,

call the editor.

"very interesting." Rest assured,
after accessing the way made plain,

Habakkuk habit, make it plain,
make it make the motors turn minds
in to wills, and wills into power,
pure peace
prefects feel good flicked libation.
Perfect.
Print.
The entertainment, many minds
attention paying to the shared event,
today.
Today. EXTRA, read all about it,
death has no lasting sting.
Live to the end. Redeeming your time.
Swiftly passing to the beat of your own drum.

One step past the simple, love,
you find sublime, nothing down and *****,
nothing missing,
nothing broken,

as one learns to think from the heart,
part of me that's thought in you, feels as
mere words some scribe imagined hearing

as he wrote,
line upon line, asangin' twangin'
a strangle hold, twisting hairs into a rope.

A riata, I think they call em.
Horsetail lariat, patiently plaited,
to make my own noose, when the time
comes to put the tool to use.

CLASSICAL LITERATURE QUOTES
Plato, Phaedrus 229 (trans. Fowler) (Greek philosopher C4th B.C.) :
"Phaidros (Phaedrus) :
I should like to know, Sokrates (Socrates),
whether the place is not somewhere here
at which Boreas (the North Wind) is said
to have carried off Oreithyia
from the banks of the Ilissos (Ilissus)? . . .
Sokrates :
Oreithyia was playing
with Pharmakeia (Pharmaceia), when a northern gust carried her
over the neighbouring rocks;
and this being the manner
of her death, she was said
to have been carried away by Boreas."

Morally ambiguous. Us, our we, we know not valid reasons
to do useless things, making
vain repetitions, vain making of many books,
all vanity, the making of many things from nothing.
We live on a living planet, and we have tamed parts of it,
not the part common sense comes from, it is still forest dark and lively.
Mateuš Conrad Apr 2018
/i couldn't stomach the burden of a perfect german, hence this, algorithmusdeutsch... then again, like the Marovigian might have said: german is perfect, in making mistakes pretending to sound intellectual, barely clinging to a razorblade, suffice to say: when drowning... but at least german, a cushion, and a pristine canvas to dig trenches, blush a zeppelin warhead plop into London cement... and then mind the Bavarian whittle shittenholen... enz... must be enz, und plu- arable... namely remnants of a day, and an unfinished crossword puzzle...                  
        
           vorher narzissus,
   schattensuchende
    klatschen ein gla-ß-ee,
und entstehen
     ein gehockt krähe-
lauren,
          sheutod...
      carboxylic açid

and all things germanic...
slingshot into elder saxon
and back into
cosmopolitan *******,
a timid fungus like a tongue
hiding in a pyramid of
   signatures in bones from
within the grave;

   hard to imagine
that it took a ******* hog snout
to become a botanical
Sherlock 'olmes...

       as ever,
   the Cockney Surd...
namely 'aching,
   which translates itself
outside of the local 'appenings...
   odd: the laugh is yet
to be perfected.

- playing the xylophone
   at the nativity play -

       schatten, schatten
  werfen on ein(e) mauer...


occupational hazard,
  like the saxon N
    in between vowels to avoid
a tongue numbing spiral,
an eye rather than a eye...
gambled through two faces:
a 6 and a 2...

lost coordination with
the poly- prefix germanic
of: the the the (point),
id est -
post scriptum:
   I'll ensure that tongue of
theirs will become a *******
saxophone,
than a timid wrigglingua testimony
of a tapeworm...

   came the pillar of Atlas
and the Zeno talltale of
Achilles and the tortoise,
before the mile became a kilometer,
subsequently
       a metre, centi-, milli-...

and 0 = the perfect divisor
     "number":

  far cry from the Kantian negation
made compact, like
everything Kantian, per se,
compact packaging,
******* tourist he would have been,
if first he left the routine,
and then Königsberg...

          last time I checked though,
I have my A through to Z...
   0 isn't exactly a number if not
a doughnut tale of a squashed
omicron...

    pity they managed to undermine
words... funny...
from words came the icon...
    oddly enough painters are
in the confines of the same asylum
criteria of desperation...

colours are apparently a tier above
words... oddly enough...
words can conjure images,
colours... a look at them being
expressed, and they thought
cubism was bad....

    ******* are all other the place...
and if they are not contemplating
punctuation marks,  
they should be showing syllables,
and if they're not even doing that,
we'll,  my friend: diacritical
marks are the highest asking...
I'd love to see a truly punctuated
painting...

   a painting is one thing:
but the work in progess to accompany
the harsh censorship of
the artistic masochism,
    is quiet another...
a painting is hardly going to be
utilised into a chair...

          sollte ihre spiegelung
   verlassen du,
     als geieraustern: innereien...
schauen ihre schatten...

as ever, within each language,
at least a few letters spare,
namely the remnants
of a once great monopoly
and power broking priesthood,

that ****** aesthetic of
epsilon and eta...
      remains of the day and
the castrato singalong
     remnants of Greek in:
the sigh in dentistry...
   prior to the sleep and the wisdom
teeth being pulled out,
asking
       the anaesthetician: quo vadis?

- because they never actually tell
you, to take treat antidepressants
akin to amitryptyline as if they're
sleeping pills...
              just before bedtime...

    a ******* knockout to boot,
and my joy at a ***** popsicle...
because I would never think
about drinking with someone,
and that misery of conversation,
or the current, generic,
exasperating poetic maroons
   without a Defoe in sight...

and word that became flesh
that became an image...
           such the poverty of language,
but words, but words they bellow
like cretins who never
saw a cow being towed into
a slaughterhouse, bellowing
a torturous epiphany too late...

orange that didn't become an Ibizian
freshly squeezed hangover cure,
and more an O'Hara opinion,
     so more to the point:
words, just words they say...

   hope to high hell and the gates
of Tartarus that I never ask such
people for directions...
   namely they'd speak that
  right is "right"
    or the upper tier of
Copernican ronin...
       flimsy ******* luck,
coming across this cult
      of aluminum wrapped
  on their heads:
           humanity reboots.
Ken Pepiton Apr 2022
This side of the moon, we see
this side light and hot
then this side dark and cold,

allways half a time dark cold
allways half a time light and hot,

held to the reining tides,
slipping annually, assuring ever changes,
the moon, herself, mistress of all currencies
exchanging loads from one time chthonic sands,

now, the tops of high plains,
once the bottom of the whole world sea,
prior to the last time we saw greenland green.

The hope of 1957, and 1960-66, just
was not enough true to be tested in a war,
Thích Quang Duc, June, 1963, died to prove wrong.
Earlier, ten moons, or so, ten neap right alignings
Time stopped so we could all re-see, we saw

Dying Peter Fechter is carried away
by East German border guards who shot him down
when he tried
to flee
to the West in this August 17, 1962, photo.
Fechter was lying
in no-man’s-land
-- for 50 minutes
before he was taken
to a hospital, where he died shortly after his arrival.

From <https://rarehistoricalphotos.com/rise-berlin-wall-1961-1989/>

Suddenly I am weeping, and now, once more, is 2022.
Putin and such as think him wise,
still bring me to tears,

I still see the pond, the sea becomes, as life reboots.

No fish in clear water, I heard a liar say.
A cretan slow belly carp laughs and shines off.
crossed my mind, in the middle of a day
nico papayiannis Nov 2019
In the blood red stream
A despots dream
Devious the scheme
Those of the loudest scream
Is it a master plan
Our wealth they scan
Intricate initiatives secretly span
No freedom no voice , for the common man
Desperate we devise our escape routes
Up your spine though, conformity shoots
The anguish of our ancestors reboots
Indignity marches on as every worker commutes
If hindsight, in reality, was your first sight
And you lived always knowing that your history would not be your plight
Would you follow signs and stop at every red light
You could always just stand and fight
No violence no guns no petty war
Just a shift in balance a settling of the score
The dreams of demons of liars and cheats??
Well,
We shouldn't have to live them anymore,
I wake up
Most mornings
Soaking sweat,
Chest heaving,
Hope streaming out my eyes
Like light rays
From dark caves of mind.

They say the brain reboots
When we sleep
Then opens wider
As we learn
To navigate the storms
Of a new day
And blaze a trail
To those dreams
Of the night before.
That elusive rainbow
Of inner peace;
Those treasured pieces of gold
Buried on the other side
Of the daily grind.

I’ve been chasing that mine
For a long, long time.
And maybe I won’t find it today…

But I’ll keep digging.

AYO!

~ P
What hides behind that last speck of light you see when you switch the lights out?
we think the sound of an aircraft is the same in any language
or a gunshot in any tongue.

where do we run to and to who when a new day reboots?

and who would shoot the messenger and not the ferryman?

are the answers in the silence we seek within the darkness of sleep?

They're watching a repeat as if waiting for the season to come into heat and we have the Bullseye on our back.
Michael Marchese Aug 2021
But what does it matter
Just climbing the ladder
And taking the chutes
Down in cyclical
Rhythm
Reliving reboots
Just as lacking in luster
As any film screen
Just attempting to find
The right priced
Magic bean
But get swindled and conned
By my own
Inner monologue
Clogging up space
With my brain in a vat
And my memory erased
Just in case
She appears in its
Crash and burn wake
And then any fresh start
Is another heartbreak
Infamous one Jun 2023
T25
The internet is a place where people go to complain or criticize things
Prejudge everything or anti supporters
They'll go pay for a movie to review it
Hoping their opinion matters, usually its clickbait
If an old movie of a cartoon live action, everyone gets mad no one is erasing the original
The studio will try to milk the franchise for the next generation.
Reboots are sometimes good. Other times, it doesn't work out accordingly.
People try to cancel something or influence a crowd to hate. It's easier to do than show appreciation for things.

— The End —