"recordings" poems
I still reference you in conversations.
I still smell your flannels.
I wonder how soft your hair is today.
I kiss the walls of the shower just to hear the same pop our lips would make.
I wish I had endless pictures of your collar bones and eyes.
I wish I had endless access to your thighs and chest and that dot on your neck.
When I *** I say your name.
Your voice recordings aren't the same. I want you to call and put me to sleep with your breath and I want this all without the repercussions.
I want you to be my friend.
And I want the benefit of you being my lover again.
Feb 11, 2016
Feb 11, 2016 at 4:02 AM UTC
I can only hear your voice now
Through recordings
How sick is that?
I mean I do know for a fact
That you are dead.
But honestly I can't get it through my head.
Nov 20, 2014
Nov 20, 2014 at 10:05 PM UTC
we never really
hear our voices
only the echo
in our heads or
recordings
that make us sound
electronic and
nothing like ourselves
-
so how could we
even begin to fathom
how utterly beautiful
we sound when
we whisper to someone
at three a.m.
that we are
in love with them.
cs
Nov 12, 2015
Nov 12, 2015 at 4:57 AM UTC
for Harlon Rivers
the river potion,
the river portent,
the river potent
it is all of these and not one
he is bank sided,
observing the false idols,
the image mirrored
in the glass of the river
transfigured molecularly
he becomes something ferried frothily, forcefully
as if a twig
or a small thing of human manufacture,
an object tossed up airborne-repeatedly
his poetry:
the clash of particles at the many junctions
of objects and water, eddies and the currents,
ceaselessly circumnavigating,
searching revisionary pathways
directed,
but randomized,
prisoner of the flows,
servant to the wind's directives and the
earths magnetic indivisible undulating waves
thinking,
this life,
its unsteady gait,
the irreverent wavering of drunkenness
resultant from potent potions,
portents of inopportune position
in him,
my own histories,
my poetic recordings
also become
water borne,
watermarked,
replayed back for me,
for erasure, censure, closure
and rededication
this River
is a tapestry,
a torn map,
drawn on broken shards
of slivered water,
living with all the others
but we,
are the untitled,
we,
are the un-entitled,
and he is the
Rivers
<•>
Aug 17, 2017
Aug 17, 2017 at 2:36 PM UTC
When, instead of cozying in bed
I wander out there with Kerouac,
Imagining that I am Kerouac
Or some slave who walks upright;
Or a priest without a crowd
With hands and feet tied.
When, instead of snoring like hell,
I am left unimaginative by some;
I am making disgusting Love with shadows unknown
And remain pinned against the wall.
I am some nine year old senile who wets her bed
in fear and disbelief.
Lights flicker and then fade
And the switch becomes a button pressed to send
Someone in raving comfort.
I am not a stranger to sleepless nights
Even when night becomes noon.
Nightmares haunt me no more but I
Am left haunted by my bed.
Sheets crumpled by tossing and turning.
My bed does not recognize my warmth.
Voice recordings and constant tweetings
Pump blood to my Über active head.
Sleepless nights are well received as my body
Succumbs to sleep.
I live in a different world with five hundred other names
And the ten thousand other Me’s are all in disarray.
(And when the clock chimes at one, two, three ‘til way down six,
There’s a carnival of sorts with hair strands flailing like
Seven sets of arms.)
I am not a stranger to sleepless nights
And wetting my bed is not a Sin.
I am sinful beyond recognition, as my bed is my witness.
I have had different beds
But to me, they’re all the same.
Some, soft; others, too hard
Or covered in satin, exaggerated by the moonlight. Some, made of wood
While others, with tight springs.
Water’s absurd but so is steel.
Double padding, triple linings, four feet, at times, none;
There’s the car, the guest room, the floor, hospital bed,
A seat next to a complete stranger ---
I make my bed before sleeping
And leave it when I’m done.
I am not a stranger to sleepless nights
And I jump on the bed at midnight.
I am not a stranger to morning tides and the morning shows on TV.
I’m not a stranger at all, no,
And when I sleep, I sleep in peace.
Stranger things have happened
Noons and sudden weekends are no way sleep - inducing; I am left believing
That nights and days dance in my
Sleeplessness.
May 23, 2012
May 23, 2012 at 8:19 PM UTC
Governments fall from sheer indifference.
Authority figures, deprived of the vampiric energy they **** off their constituents, are seen for what they are: dead empty masks manipulated by computers. And what is behind the computers? Remote control. Of course. Look at the prison you are in, we are all in. This is a penal colony that is now a Death Camp. Place of the Second and Final Death. Desperation is the raw material of drastic change. Only those who can leave behind everything they have ever believed in can hope to escape. Don’t intend to be there when this ********* goes up. Nothing here now but the recordings. Shut them off, they are as radioactive as an old joke…
Oct 7, 2016
Oct 7, 2016 at 5:58 PM UTC
Bobo's kitchen
in the kitchen
icebergs rampage from the freezer
burying pizzas and waffles
in a glacier jungle
Bobo swings forks and knives
at the ice until the maintenance man
cusses in Polish
gallons of water
dripping downstairs
sizzling Bertalina's soul
the fiery bilingual single mom
living in fear
below his fear
of noise complaints
she sends tape recordings
to the landlord in her
cute red faced anger
loud people! and bongos!
guitars! stomping! laughter!
nightmares for her boys
who think they hear ghosts
her tight black spandex
drives Bobo mad when she runs
drifted scents of her food
sift in through his windows
knocking him out
in hungry frustration!
¿Como estás? he asks her
I speak ******* English! she barks back
back up the stairs Bobo goes
to his own kitchen where
the mice crawl out the stove tops
and potatoes grow tree roots
clear through the window
toward another life
Jake Mahaffey
Copyright (c) 2013 Jacob Mahaffey
Jan 23, 2012
Jan 23, 2012 at 12:28 AM UTC
***a morning conversation
with surprising anecdotes
of unique explorations..
reported confrontations
by science practitioners'
sudden dates with death..
now authoring testimonies
of their dimensional truth..
much comfort growing
from ample recordings of
bright tunnel experience..
let us now inquire
are these flashing NDE's
consciousness leaps..?
might they point
to death's vital role..
at last finding
real self-awareness..
life in this moment..?
asking then..
is not each breath
our moment experience
of near death...?***
Feb 20, 2013
Feb 20, 2013 at 12:11 PM UTC
A Softer Way to Die
We live and study life
We pray that somehow
God changes his rules.
No one wants to die
No one wants to follow
Those complicated laws;
I mean no lie-ing - no steal-ing
no *** - before marriage no
Fornicate-ing, no kill-ing
No lust-greed or defil-ing the earth.
Amen.
All we can do now is try to find
" A softer way to die".
Pick your battles...
There are many ways to die.
I asked, God why?
When mom threw a
"Monkey wrench" in my world
Answering - "We all have to die"
I immediately winked at God...
Thinking to myself ( not I) .
Gave him a little nudge;
Sidebar God : I said to God
Adamantly "I do not want to die"
"Can you change the rules "?
I never heard back from him
On that subject..
I went to him again
God "Can you at least
Keep me with a mom-
I said "So that I won't be an
Orphan like Shirley Temple" ?
He did get back to me on that
And Mom is Alive and well
Plan A. ( living forever)
Still not executed.
Once again contemplating
Thoughts on how I want to die.
I could not think of a pleasant way
To die, none that seemed appealing.
Nor any options that would be fun.
hmmm, eat myself to death.
Playing chicken with the train,
Might prove thrilling.
As time grew nigh
My thoughts continued
....On a softer way to die.
Childhood gone, middle age gone'
Old age approaching fast and furious
Destroying me like a sudden
Approaching hurricane...
This storm knocked out my lights
Memory gone now..
Forgetting my life- my loved ones
Forgetting my friends,
Children,and foes alike
Forgetting my wrongs - my sins
and accomplishments all.
Everything's gone. So now
What do I do ?... How can
I rewrite my life,Take account..
Of that which I remember not.
The realities of my existence
Has been wiped out from
The Forest Fires burning
In my minds eye.
Have no recordings of
Who loved me or of who
I shall never forgive.
How will I know that I ever even lived.
Taking my dark blank pages into
The after life- My shadowy
Existence ends. I feel no pain
I Have no thoughts,
Have nothing to contemplate.
For I have asked to live forever
Or that I die a,softer way
Forgetting to eat
Forgetting to drink-
Forgetting to swallow
Forgetting to breath...
Forgetting this life-
I close my eyes and fade away.
painlessly
© Vicki Acquah
Oct 14, 2015
Oct 14, 2015 at 7:49 AM UTC
Abalang-abala ka sa pakikipag-usap sa iyong kustomer at hindi mo na namalayang tumatakbo ang oras. Ang nasa isip mo lamang nang mga oras na iyon ay matapos mo ang iyong trabaho nang walang palya at walang ano mang iisipin pa. Nang iyong tanggalin ang headset ay doon mo lamang napansing ikaw na lamang pala ang nag-iisang ahente sa ikatlong palapag ng opisinang iyong pinapasukan sa isang call center.
Tanging ang liwanag na lamang sa iyong station ang tanglaw nang mga oras na iyon. Kaya naman ay sinipat mo ang orasan sa iyong wrist watch at napagtantong isang oras na lamang at sarado na rin ang buong building at kailangan mo ng umuwi.
Inayos mo na ang iyong mga gamit at siniguradong na-i-document mo nang maayos ang mga calls recordings mo. Nag-inat-inat ka pa muna bago mo pinatay ang monitor at CPU ng iyong kompyuter. Hinintay mo munang naka-shut down na ito bago ka tumayo. Nang tuluyan na nga itong namatay ay agad **** binitbit ang iyong back pack. Nang tatalikod ka na ay isang malamig na simoy ng hangin ang nanuot sa iyong balat.
Sa iyong pagkakaalam ay sarado naman ang mga bintana sa opisinang iyon at sigurado kang pinapatay na rin ang aircon kapag isang tao o walang tao nang naiiwan roon. Ngunit, kakaibang lamig ang iyong naramdaman. Hindi lang iyon dahil isa, dalawa, at talong beses kang nakarinig na may nagtitipa sa keyboard.
Halos lumabas na ang iyong mata sa takot pero nanatili ka pa ring matapang. Huminga ka muna nang malalim at agad nilingon ang kanina pang nagtitipang bagay sa iyong likuran. At doon ay lalo kang nanginig nang makita ng iyong dalawang mata ang biglang pagliwanag ng monitor at sunod-sunod na pagtitipa ng wala namang kamay na mga letra sa keyboard.
Nang mag-flash sa screen ang mga letra ay doon ka na nagtatakbo palabas dahil nakasulat doon ang mga katagang TYPING KEYBOARD na may kasamang pigura ng duguang bungo.
Oct 28, 2018
Oct 28, 2018 at 10:24 PM UTC
Well now, I used to teach.
I mean, I still do, but it's only for their benefit now, isn't it?
It's like the doctors and the greengrocers
and the streetsweepers and librarians,
still going through the motions
while they take recordings and what have you.
I guess we should be glad
that they're interested in the way we lived,
you know,
before they arrived.
But my kids, you know,
they're all actors.
They might learn the odd piece
of arcane knowledge
but I can tell they know
they don't need it.
No, no, I'm no rebel
I don't want any trouble.
Things are better since they arrived,
of course they are.
I mean, their technology -
we couldn't have come up with that
in a million years.
And they're very polite.
I have a colleague who says
this is because they feel guilty about their success,
but I don't know about that.
Things were bad for a while,
but I guess maybe that was our fault.
We didn't know how to react.
We adjusted poorly.
It's hard to accept that you're, you know,
obsolete.
Even me, you know.
For a while there I was,
well,
I was drinking a little too much.
It was hard, seeing the school destroyed.
They've done a good job
with the facsimile though.
even smells the same.
Yup,
can't complain.
Can't complain.
Jan 24, 2012
Jan 24, 2012 at 3:46 PM UTC
Often poets communicate
via internet voice recordings
sharing dancing lovers videos
as pen pals may venture to do;
no it doesn't mean
we do not exist
people aren't virtual cartoons!
We have feelings emotions we love
the mind makes it all real.
We are real people in different countries interchanging loyalties
we are perhaps more real then couples living together yet disconnected in many ways,
and not in love either
but rather utterly bored.
~~
So don't be cruel saying
I am virtual and you've met
the love of your life already
and want no one else,
but your Zaheera for all eternity
because she's omnipresent real.!
Trying to make her jealous with me
a real poetess!? think again!
Zaheera and me can smell your rat.
She is more a fantasy for years if she even exists
Why the virtual competitiveness
and AnK isn't real?
We are breathing eating sleeping loving trusting sharing
yet not real!?
In your book of tricks ? Hu?
How shall we search for real connections hu?
have you noticed though
the whole planet has gone virtual.
it's become a ritual,!
All people are real living brings
not virtual their lap tops cell phones c are the virtual conduits,
though so what !?
~~~~~~~~
By Mr and Mrs Andrews
inspired by Karijinbba.7/21
Jul 3, 2021
Jul 3, 2021 at 5:50 AM UTC
*When you are gone,
Its not your smile that I'll miss the most.
Nor is it your laughter.
I will not miss your rythmic voice
Nor will I miss your amazing speeches.
When you are gone,
I'll have all those video clippings
And all those unnecessary voice recordings to be my aid in your absence.
But hundreds and hundreds of clips
Filled to the brim with your laughter and voice, will never be able to take your place.
And that's because they'll all be a repetition.
They'll show me what my eyes have already seen.
Priceless moments...
They'll never be able to create them,
Like you did all the time
With your amazing mind.
However hard I am on myself.
The truth will always be that I'll miss you.
I'll definitely miss your heart which was your aid until this last day.
But what I'll miss the most, is your mind and your everlasting soul.
I'll miss them beyond words.*
Jun 2, 2014
Jun 2, 2014 at 11:52 AM UTC
There it sits
Waiting
Watching
It's a Yamaha
With a Union-Jack back
The last of it's
Kind
It's been a faithful companion
It came to me
When I was six
Not brand new
But second hand
Through all the tears
All the humiliation
All the pain
All the scoldings
All the belittlings
It stuck through with me
With sweat and blood
Shed on the keys
It didn't complain
When I threw
My tantrums
Banging the keys
Even kicking it once
Or twice
It just waited
And watched me
Till I calmed down
And felt
Stupid
After
I practised
Everyday
And not once
Did it
Complain
It has a really bright
Crystal clear
Sound
With this certain
Energy
And depth
I took great pride
In taking care of it
Polishing it
Every other day
Till it shone
Like a mirror
As time went by
One grade after the other
The practises became
Less and
Less
I didn't care for it
As much as I did
Before
A year passed
Then another
Now I'm fourteen
It's twenty eight
Or more
I've had my share
Of performing
On stage
With all types of pianos
But there was this
One thing
That was different
With my piano
Something it
Lacked
The sound is there
The energy is there
But somehow
When I compare the recordings
My dear piano
Just sounds
Tired...
The touch stickier
The keys start failing
On some days
It sounds
Muted
Always slightly off key
No matter how many times
The piano man comes
This is one patient
The doctor can't treat
Is it possible
That emotions
Can be transferred
To objects?
Has my raging
Over the keyboard
Tired it out
By having to
Express
What I play
And what I
Put
Into the pieces?
It's a piano
Of memories
Of thoughts
Of an inexpressable phenomenon
Called feelings
"Where words fail, music speaks"
I salute you
Dear piano
For allowing me
To express myself
Through the written pieces
You help
Materialize
We have grown together
Walked this long journey together
And with all the memories
Sweat
Blood
Tears
That has made me today
I won't part with
Till the very end,
Dear piano
So shall we continue?
Jul 12, 2013
Jul 12, 2013 at 1:07 AM UTC
Is there happiness hidden behind your withered bones? You've always felt everything too deeply, maybe that's why your ribs are broken.
How many mirrors have you broken since he left you? Every day is another battle between who you were with his oxygen and who you are now without it.
I think the saddest thing I had to witness was you carving his name into stone skin so you could bleed out all of him that was left in your veins.
You fill voids with sunset pictures and recordings of his voice when we both know it's killing you more than it's keeping you alive.
How many days has it been since you overdosed on sentimental morphine?
How many times do we have to go through this until you realize he's not coming back?
He's never coming back.
Nov 22, 2014
Nov 22, 2014 at 4:56 PM UTC
~
*I work in the clouds
Building a world out of hype
I could be a beekeeper
A prison guard
Reverse pop idol
Extinguishers, all
Hackers ferry contemporaries
Around the diseased city
Merchants of transference
Polymorphing
Paths and angles
Pieces of eight
They could be brutal war fantasies
White noise translations of the snow
Cathedral nights in the deli
Ghost recordings from an opera house
Each with its own price tag
All the pretty girls
Thick with mascara
Go to plasticity
Drink chloroform
100 aspects of subterranea
So long as they come home
With a credit problem
Money devotion
It's what transferred us
Into numbered silhouettes
Slavishly pouring our blood into the sea*
~
Aug 24, 2022
Aug 24, 2022 at 5:12 PM UTC
~~~
*dedicated to the three, who read this first
(S.B, J.A., & T.M.R.)
and know it all too well*
~~~
more than ever presumed,
more than ever thought realizable,
indescribable attainable,
a modernizing magic powder,
synthesizing my intemperate body
~
at last, all ego falls away,
now but corn husk mulch,
detritus, non-toxic nuclear waste,
for growing better visions,
fruits undiscovered
~
write for me,
my recordings, my blog,
not to differentiate,
to substantiate,
to integrate
your gasps imagined,
mine realized,
exhalations upon lips grazing,
the soil of our rainforest
wetted by
living smiling,
eye droplets,
forming a singular stream
~
write for you,
sharing too close,
are you my first or second skin,
for there are no spaces
~
satisfaction discovered that is insatiable,
this pleasured seeing,
this pleasured sharing,
this poetic reason,
to exist
Aug 13, 2015
Aug 13, 2015 at 6:23 PM UTC
subway
ed sheeran, especially give me love, our ******* wedding song
black and white photos
england, you wanted to show me everywhere
6"2'
the fault in our stars
always
italian, why did you even feel the need to say ti amo
***** you were drunk when you said it the second time
5.30am
scars on people's wrists, don't be silly, you said it was an accident
collar bones
tumblr
dreams, the good ones were mine, the bad ones were yours
voice recordings
11.11 wishes, the ones you promised you'd help make come true
the word ****
succulents, like on your windowsill
bastille and cars, you would always sing along in the passenger seat
postcards
airport and train station reunions
all those songs i played just for you on my guitar
my sister's birthday, why did you have to choose that date
you're perfect for me, you swore you weren't a liar
***
the anne frank house, where you were ******* texting me from
february 26th
melbourne's federation square
your name was in a movie and i started to cry
Oct 22, 2014
Oct 22, 2014 at 9:27 PM UTC
Once upon a time, sweet soldier, we were everything!
We were shy glances and piercing stares,
bitter coffee and sweet cider,
nervous laughter and easy smiles.
We were all-nighters and painfully early mornings,
utter exhaustion and unexplainable energy,
distracted work days and focused only on each other.
We were photographs and video recordings,
magic tricks and storytelling,
Monty Python and Charlie the Unicorn imitators.
(We were total dorks!)
We were late night jogs and wrestling,
motorcycle rides and beach-walking,
seekers of adventure and last minute decision making.
We were short pecks on the cheek,
and long passionate kisses,
fierce embraces and soft caresses.
We were soul-searchers and wound-healers,
dreamers and risk-takers,
keepers of secrets and whisperers of truth.
We were sanity and craziness,
possibilities and improbabilities,
with everything and yet nothing going for us.
We were in love.
Jan 14, 2013
Jan 14, 2013 at 4:46 PM UTC
Free Flying above
the clouds
Soaring above the Earth and through the stars.
Past all of the known planets
Those out of our galaxy
The new planets I view
The new and hotter suns I see
Blaze more energies to fill the empty regions
of my mind
called "mystery."
Fuel my spirit and make it run harder
To new found inhabitants and their newer worlds.
Astral planes of spirit that don't require a vessel
or star ship to hold in or hold back
the soul that travels as it's own transport
Faster than any "law of physics"
Realer than the factual brought in by third party satellites.
I gather more and more brighter and true information
Later to bring such forth in my grounded and non-traveling form
Waiting to share my results to those who don't limit their beliefs
to any said "rule" or "fenced in logic formula"
I ride the waves to the calling gates of astral transport
As my soul escapes my heavy and limited physical self
Late in the night
The recordings of fact stored in the logics of my soul
Are vivid and ready to be replayed
to share such gifts of learning to those eager to believe in it's payload
and form.
Sep 26, 2018
Sep 26, 2018 at 8:33 PM UTC
The screen is a madhouse
of body-building, ego-boosting,
and bad gig recordings.
I see her bronzing in the beach,
applying lotion and laughing
with a new friend.
I'm still stuck in the snow,
watching her skirt in the breeze.
I chain coffee in the morning
to counter sobriety,
to show that I know her more
than just by the light of the moon.
In sunglasses, we'll meet somewhere
neutral; an escape route to run
if the patient becomes lunatic again.
She'll administer the pill
from her pockets to ensure I'll flat-line
through her absences,
and then resurrect when she's lost her
appetite. Far away from this
selfish depression, I dream
of us painting a wall. Nothing dies
when it is made into memory;
nothing lives without your early morning call.
Jul 24, 2014
Jul 24, 2014 at 8:55 PM UTC
Photographs can't capture
The majesty of sight
The daisies in the rain
Cloaked in vibrant light
Recordings can't capture
The music of ears
Melody of wonder
All I wish to hear
Words can't always capture
Feelings I possess
Raging storms in me
Leave me as a mess
May 31, 2015
May 31, 2015 at 1:07 AM UTC
the Internet sets
higher aspirations
a teaching guide,
on how to
go beyond and deep into
the fast lane's curved and wide,
stretching
the straight and narrow
longer than lasting,
lasting no longer than
memory feelings
blurred overlapping burnt edged video recordings
pores pour oil and noise,
differentiating little between
beginning ending continuous
in the mind, from the walls,
Santana Rob sings "Smooth,"
but it is
the guitar wailing controlled penetrations.
a national anthem
of driven perpetual needy fomenting
outspoken physical truths
you don't care how you
got there,
where you are,
anybody's name,
high octane high performance
*** today,
is not for
the shy and the retiring, sissies,
we all got the necessary expertise,
with violin accompanist of pharma teaching aids
recalling first time tumblings,
exhaling
deep down throated rumblings,
rushing
fumbling ********* an ****** innocence
rushes of surprise and discovery,
success of feeling successful,
the shame of miscommunications
think I'm gonna watch me
a romantic comedy,
write her a love poem,
come up from behind,
caress her *******
kidding kissing her ear lobes,
then entering her entry point,
her neck
even when she is
armed
but forgiving,
busy chopping dinner's vegetables,
make them make them
give up the hidden
soft atonal squealing
like a
piccolo on steroids,
high pitch teasing,
pinched by air ****** intaking
I'll play the bass,
hitting those low notes,
********* my own strings,
deep ooh's and aah's
diode emitting,
the drug employed
is unadulterated
wanton but wanted
desire
this won't be the poem of the day,
no mind,
it already is was and
will be...
Mar 29, 2015
Mar 29, 2015 at 7:27 AM UTC
Albums, collections of songs,
A collection of words
brought together
to right, wrongs
or just to hurt
they're there forever.
Somewhere.
Old recordings
on vinyl
or hand written on papers.
New recordings
still on vinyl
but more objected to haters.
To be
easily accessed
and heard by everyone
fans or not,
torn to shreds
when criticised, a song
is unappreciated for what
amount of effort
the artist went through
to create something new
and original
just for you,
for your ears. To view,
to be a signal.
That originality
isn't dead
or dying
or even injured
but instead
living
to be heard
by millions around the world.
May 22, 2016
May 22, 2016 at 5:21 PM UTC
Thank you for visiting this page.
Please press 5 on your keyboard
to proceed.
Thank you for pressing 5.
That was just to ensure you are alert and active
and doing something instead
of falling asleep as you read this poem.
Press 4.
Press 2.
And 6. And 8. And 9.
See, that keeps you awake.
As we were saying:
Welcome.
And to read the poem
please press 8.
Did you?
No, you didn’t!
We didn’t even feel a thing!
Please note
your reading and responses may be recorded
by a mind-reader and
your feelings as you read
this poem will be e-captured
by a soul-reader.
If you do not wish to be recorded
please press 9.
And 10.
And 2534.
And 6. And 8.
Now, please be informed you’ll still be recorded anyway
for training purposes
as this ****** poet here has no idea what poetry is.
Press 7 for fun.
And now press 229 for distraction.
Good. Your pressing skills have improved since we started.
Now, you may read the poem:
“Jack and Jill
went up the hill
and Jack came running back to mummy:
‘Mummy! Mummy!’
said Jack
‘Jill pulled my pants down
and poured ice-cold water
on either side
of my bottom!’”
When you finish reading
please press 23567876549807975987
and just for the heck of it
press 8.
Wow, that feels nice.
Thank you.
Now, that you have read the poem
and pressed a few numbers like a thoroughbred idiot
we are processing our reading
of your responses
as you read the poem.
Please hold on; this may take a few seconds;
you may hug the computer screen while you wait;
and please minimize that **** page immediately.
And for the fun of it,
we suggest you press 13.
And here is the result of your reading this idiotic poem
as revealed by our recordings of your responses and feelings:
You blady isdizot! You &&&***%%$$^# !!!!!
You hate this poem! You think this is 67757***####!
Get out of here, you nicmo9088768!
Never ever come back here to this page!
Now if you like – you may press 9…
Now you may hang up and return to that **** page you minimized.
Please call again – no, not at the **** page
but here at the Idiot Writes Idiot Poems Page…
Thank you. Please press 5 before you hang up.
Oh, that feels so good…could you press – hey!
Come back here!
Sep 29, 2010
Sep 29, 2010 at 5:35 AM UTC