"recyclable" poems
This poem is green
Would you buy this poem?
This poem is do-it-yourself
backyard garden green.
This poem is save the world
give peas a chance green;
this poem is azure sky
squeezing the golden sun
all over the world green.
Could you buy this poem?
This poem is apples and oranges
farmer’s artist market green.
This poem has
leaves as pillows
and blankets as grass;
this poem is a lil’ patch of green
earth purchase me plot;
this poem is
100%
recyclable
disposable,
sustainable
(after all it has gotten this far)
You should buy this poem.
This poem is green,
its’ tyro-technics
shooting out of asphalt cracks.
This poem is a snot-nosed brat
full of SASS
(short attention span sentences)
This poem is the hope of audacity.
This poem is fumbling with bra straps
and tongue-tied techniques,
this poem isn’t old enough
to know any better, it’s wet
behind the ears green
petting zoo pellets green
willing to SCREAM green
but not part of
a gang green
this poem is all alone
with its words
Buy this poem?
This poem is green
Its envious of
solar panel studios with eyes on the price
of a venti economy
This poem is the green-eyed monster
of product placement pick-o-the profit
This poem WANTS to make
consumer obedience the easy culprit.
But really…
This poem just wishes it could sing
Won’t you buy this poem?
This poem is green.
This poem has no half-life,
shelf life or
night life.
This poem exists solely in this moment
of your imagination.
This poem has milk carton desperation.
This poem is begging for change.
This poem was stolen from all of you.
This poem is not for sale.
Buy This Poem!
Jul 31, 2016
Jul 31, 2016 at 11:09 PM UTC
It’s time to take down all the decorations,
They look tatty with no celebrations
to give them purpose,
Bauble’s shine turns to rust,
The tinsel starts wilting
Like flowers left in a vase.
Fragments of sellotape cling to the wrapping paper,
And grab at the walls and window ledges it passes on its way to the fire
Trying to escape death.
At least a kind of death.
Floating up out of the flume to be part of a white Christmas for next year.
A flake of ash that ice molecules wrap themselves around to become a snowflake,
And to think you used to be wrapping paper.
So much tasted of last year,
How much is recyclable?
How much to care about complacence of wastage?
How much should I shed a tear?
How much should I care for carbon footprints and ******* tips?
I don’t want to care at all
It’s too much baggage.
All I want is to fly this year,
I’ll make a kite from the bones of the Christmas tree,
The baubles and tinsel and snow spray stripped,
Now bare of all personality.
Maybe it will fly…
If it doesn’t,
There will always be next year,
Until there isn’t…
…And even when I die someday,
Maybe I will get to be a snowflake.
And I’ll get to fly that way.
Jan 4, 2014
Jan 4, 2014 at 6:42 AM UTC
There is this idea, this feeling you say:
A revelation of profound compassion
Riddled with crippling paramount tribulation
Dribbling with drops of pontification.
Thoughtfully and yet aimlessly kicking
Unctuously vacuous presumptions. Promising,
Eventually, to unveil brick by brick
This facade someday and assure me
The imprisoning edifice, with which you keep
Under lock and key, will be effaced
And naked, soon, someday in front of me.
Yet, here another day passes.
From curbside to manhole, up sidewalks and across gravel grit.
Then a squib toward onlookers window shopping
Glaring down at me as both they and you listen
To my dissonant and hollow caterwaul.
CLING, CLANG, BANG! Look at me I'm just a can!
Crumpled and malleable, a thin sheet of five cent aluminum;
Recyclable, reusable, just a means to a mans end.
Ah! But I am not what you think I am:
Within, a bountiful boisterous bloom, unravels
The arid breath of lies and procrastination you exhume.
Your insipid words fall vapidly in my mind like corroded rust
Gently drifting onto a lapping lake.
They are an erroneous ear infection boring my wits
And dulling my thoughts, a waste of time.
All of it bottled, canned, and manufactured
From within your ******** emporium.
Keep your bricks and mortar, think they retain your unctuous pride
While this time, for once, I kick the can curbside.
Jan 26, 2013
Jan 26, 2013 at 9:27 AM UTC
I am an earthquake
In the desert
Working the rough sand to settle
In my belly
So that the ache in the pit of my gut
Might lose its shape
These shoulder blades feel like wings sometimes
Too bad these hands are prehensile
Not feathered or webbed
Just full of chemo-quake
And tremble
Unless I can hold your hand
Hold my hand
I’ll reverberate your ***** soul to settle
Till we’ve shaken the dust a firmament
Big enough to stand on
I need redemption enough
That stuck in the filter of my cleansing
Is enough dirt to build a hill to stand on
Forget heaven
When I can stand on the land of my past mistakes
And revel in the beauty I left behind
Don’t get left behind
And don’t go to heaven
Just stay with me in the middle
Where I have managed to compact this broken to solid
Like a ghost in a landfill
Haunt these hollow halls of filth with me
Until ***** is all that’s left
***** is all that is left
I understand that you might want to bathe sometimes
Not everyone can live like I do
Not everyone shares my infatuation
With broken things like I do
Let me get you just a little *****
Let me break you too
Let me recycle our fuckery
Till the filaments fit
I am a “found” artist
Making the broken beautiful
What everyone keeps forgetting
Is that even we are recyclable
And there isn’t anything that cannot be rebuilt
So let me make a new heaven
So that I can be like a ghost
Haunting a landfill
Nov 16, 2011
Nov 16, 2011 at 4:59 PM UTC
an interstellar vacuum
is far from empty,
all the water in the universe
is melted comets,
and it floods all reason.
bloodstar from afar
or Cape Canaveral close,
no astral projection there,
only a cipher in a foreign quadrant
until...teardrops,
big, wet, unsympathetic drops.
hear it now!
the sonic boom of
marooned tourism,
in short shots,
fast cuts,
horizonal eddy currents
ripe with thorns,
like lakes of suspicion,
if God is listening
then this mission is in trouble.
downcycled planet in the wires
and cigarette lighters,
a home without space,
Andromeda chained in sacrifice
to sate the monster,
her punishing beauty
cascading over the peril
that everything in the universe
is recyclable – even you!
Sep 22, 2022
Sep 22, 2022 at 12:14 PM UTC
A flash of light upon the sky
and dinosaurs were gone.
In a universe that knew them not,
and held no memory to live on.
Of ourselves our human kind,
we think the universe holds us dear.
Through time and vastness of it all
so doubtful it knows we're here.
So many things come and gone
forever changing it still evolves.
Too short is our human existence
to see how all of this resolves.
We think our kind important
a central purpose for it all.
But the universal scale of things
serves to remind our place is small.
We will never know its purpose,
and may never know if there was plan.
But rest assured my fellow humans,
our path will be as the dinosaurs
when the universe recycles man.
May 25, 2022
May 25, 2022 at 10:46 PM UTC
I’m nothing but ink
I’m bleached pulp dyed blue and red
Recyclable
May 12, 2016
May 12, 2016 at 2:37 PM UTC
a partial lobotomy of grey matters only to broken mothers of lost soldiers,
pentimento fading a revelation of humanized
modernized sentiment beyond the reaches of fingerless hands;
jagged bangs cut across the face of Burn-Victim Barbie if she were
seven feet tall,
imperfect,
9-dimensional shattered knees.
vote or die downward spiral protecing six-fingered man of mystery:
my name is the youth of America,
you killed my voice,
prepare to suffer in the solitary expression of the empty room.
peanuts for peanuts in a gold star self emporium with
thinking as a feeling sport contested by numerology in all matters moral.
Our very own
Satan as Hamlet,
set in a post-9/11 forgotten Washington,
drowning Ophelia in an ocean of plastic bottles non-recyclable.
meditation of the Om on a springboard of economic dis-stimulus:
up with the people!
in the midnight Vendetta,
too young to learn or sin originally,
masterful drunkenness shrouded in opera scenes from a hat.
fast track to a treble cliff diver
if you ever were my home.
Mar 12, 2011
Mar 12, 2011 at 10:39 PM UTC
Significant others
believing all others insignificant
little did they know
what they know is very little
how can we love at this age
when love is, in fact, age
oh fine wine
and here I am
drinking Bud Light
out of a *******
aluminum
recyclable
can
Nov 18, 2013
Nov 18, 2013 at 10:00 PM UTC
There's a room somewhere,
locked fast behind an unassuming door
looming grey-brown at the end of a
misshapen corridor.
Inside, the relics of a time lost in time
to time.
A mitt, engraved with the counterfeit signature
of a ballplayer whose name once rang a bell,
smelling of adolescent sweat,
still dusted with sandlot crumbs,
a reminder of those ground *****
that sped by too fast to field,
those fly ***** just out of reach,
suspended in a June twilight
lost to time.
Ribbons and awards and certificates,
signed by leaders of puny regimes
paved and repaved over,
proof of a world before this,
an era of (now) perceived achievement,
legitimized, glorified by Old English type
printed on recyclable stock paper.
Ticket stubs from blockbuster flops,
receipts of a linear plotline:
Drama, comedy, a budding romance -
Temporarily amusing on such a spacious screen
but ultimately unfulfilling;
the plot peters towards the end.
Lost in time the boy cries out
with no one left to answer but the man
who, as quietly as he entered it,
exits the room,
as always, leaving the door just ajar,
enough to muffle the shrieks of a little boy
chasing an invisible horizon.
Oct 23, 2012
Oct 23, 2012 at 8:46 PM UTC
i get bored of using websites
with only strangers on them,
it's like trying to be a stage-fright
actor imitating statues,
it's almost but a too
clear bewilderment;
i wonder why the internet was never
intended for the sole purpose of
bureaucracy, trading, banking,
and all those social requirements,
the dark side of the internet isn't
the dark web as such, it's the oddity
of using the internet to socialise,
the hindering, the crutch, when otherwise
all benefits of the internet have
proven effective, for example?
the shrinking diversity of the high street;
large and accessible world,
yet no community in the vicinity,
and then friendships 12 hours apart,
and then you step onto the streets of suburbia
and death's grinding grip of things,
because, let's face it, the bright lights
and constant social engagements will only
appreciate you for as much time as necessary
to feel over-confident and then you're
easily recyclable - and then the pre cemetery:
suburbia.
Mar 11, 2016
Mar 11, 2016 at 9:20 PM UTC
The Holy Grail, the Chalice of Our Lord
Borne to Glastonbury, the Isle of Avalon
By the holy man of Arimathea
Then lost, and quested for by noble knights
The Holy Grail is present still, each day
In vessels blessed for sharing Eucharist
Whose Elevation in the Upper Room
Was then, is now, and forever will be
In setting fit, in prayerful accord:
The Holy Grail, the Chalice of Our Lord
Dec 22, 2018
Dec 22, 2018 at 2:54 PM UTC
Give him everything you are.
Strip yourself to bare skin with chills on your spine.
Wishbones and collar bones,
your ribs protruding through your shirt.
He doesn't like fat girls.
So love begins on your knees in a bathroom stall
10 minutes after lunch.
Stomach acid burns your esophagus.
*"I wonder if his **** going down will hurt as bad as ***** coming up?"*
Be skinny.
Be everything he dreams.
Quiet, soft, subtle, pretty and confused.
Be this, that, and everything in between.
Be willing.
Be recyclable.
Be trash.
Broken glass in your retinas,
don't look him in the eye.
Let him have every part of you,
but hold back the feelings.
Be emotionless.
Be empty.
Now hope to god its enough for him to stay.
Ignore every part of you screaming
"he doesn't love you".
Unbutton your pants, pull off your *******
and reply,
"But I can make him."
May 21, 2015
May 21, 2015 at 4:29 AM UTC
Hold my hand through the bars,
we can learn how to live all over again.
Mind your Ps and Qs, keep them in a penny purse.
wear your orange jump suit backwards,
live out your sentence in reverse.
Crinkled, crumpled and recyclable,
throw yourself away.
You know that it'll take eleven kps
for any real escape,
yet you try nonetheless.
The sticks and stones, the pebbles I've thrown
don't leave traceable dents.
There’s a mountain made of
boxes I nailed shut, long ago
I mailed them to myself, with a shove.
Up to your cell, wobble towers,
tiny boxes creating stairs
The edges curled, cardboard grew ridges,
the cutout dream
caught fire to my bridges.
We couldn't have turned back,
had we tried.
Etched into the walls,
messages to future prisoners;
instructions on avoiding cafeteria calls.
Hiking boots with cleated treads
for steep hills, rocky cliffs.
The extents gone to freeing the caught,
comfortable behind their striped shadows
are left unnoticed and left to clot.
Used napkins on tourist ferry seats,
cheap asian sauce hiding jail blueprints.
Hide in the elevator shaft,
I’ll meet you in the back stairwell.
You bring life jackets, I’ll bring the raft.
We can pretend the verdict swung
and go back to being free enough to visit supermarkets.
Jul 13, 2013
Jul 13, 2013 at 3:43 AM UTC
I'm raining,
Draining with flotsam,
Washing onward
To the gutter.
I'm decomposing,
Recomposting
On the truck
To the dump.
I'm recyclable,
Reuseable.
Re-fashion me
For a different life.
Aug 11, 2014
Aug 11, 2014 at 5:29 PM UTC
Luminol when sprayed on a cleaned wall
that was once stained with the blood of a human being
will light up every splatter, and reveal the crime scene in all it's
chaotic splendor, even after years of careful hiding
Things happen every day in my creamy, dreamy life
moods, like the calm bay that hides the sharks underneath
the blood splatter of the natural cycle is covered in blue indistinct waves
while carnage and drama play themselves out in the silent muted depths
And as the bay gets darker the further you go down
especially in the deep canyon where a fervent Japanese submarine snuck
into California waters, and chased a boat around briefly before dissapearing
forever, just as these depths contain mystery and waste
so my thoughts, once so churned and pained, lie dormant and unseen
with the plastic forks that are stuck in the sand
and the plastic bags that move by in the darkness like ghosts
Because beneath the surface, in that deepest groove
is where all the pain and waste and wreck of civilization has accumulated
and is creating a new order in a once pristine reusable recyclable landscape
But I cannot see my depths, only try to feel them
in a primitive way, like sonar--what is this?
A small submersible floats through the deep cold water down there
through the snow flakes of biological residue that is food for life
and it looks at the garbage and sends back a video signal
that this is a warning, of our ceaseless, accumulating destruction unseen
Dec 10, 2013
Dec 10, 2013 at 11:37 PM UTC
I'm an environmentalist;
I keep my friends recyclable.
Sep 26, 2018
Sep 26, 2018 at 10:46 PM UTC
i'm afraid there's nothing left in the tank but fumes and false hope.
aluminum is not a friend, it's a recyclable material that contains happiness when the world turns a blind eye to its ubiquitous pain and i am only a scarecrow in a field full of bodybuilders and terrifying childhood memories.
it's all too much. the emptiness is only invisible when the music bruises my ear-drums or when i think of how your lips and teeth felt on my bones. the band-aids will fall off but your words are branded like factory farms.
the worst part? i'm a sketch left on the easel in an abandoned schoolhouse. i'm a half-assed mannequin. i've translated the seasons into colorless cycles in cyclical misrepresentation. astute observation leads me to believe i'm the product of a meaningless procreation.
shutting off my eyes doesn't feed all of the starving souls who actually want all of this oxygen, and we have false hope that some of these fumes might turn into rice and beans and
the love we've always wanted
but never swallowed.
Aug 3, 2016
Aug 3, 2016 at 11:53 PM UTC
The factory gates are locked,
And there's no work today.
The line-up's getting longer,
And the soup kitchen's closed.
The cardboard box was recyclable
As a home above a vent;
My children have no clothes,
I hear my school's been closed.
Then I hear you call her ****
Because she won't sleep with you.
The lake's been closed, no swimming,
And the park soil is contaminated;
I think we're underestimated.
Clear the area
Before Gilligan removes the head,
Or Hawkeye looses his arms.
This is not a false alarm.
Apr 16, 2016
Apr 16, 2016 at 10:47 AM UTC
The stripes in one ear.
But through the other, the music of,
timers, chatter, lunch dates, and gossip,
heels clicking across the floor, black, yellow and glossy.
Steam, glass bottles, plastic bottles, recyclable cups and coffee beans and nuts.
Hipsters...
Pomp and derogation and self empowerment your the sake of self indulgence,
and the who knews of what firsts,
and the ******* iPhones!!!
Everywhere looking out there apple eyes, winking at their older brothers,
openly mocking their lack of flash and exclusivity,
(secretly resenting their rarity, in a world washed in white).
Its the 3.
The 4.
The 5, 6, 7, 10!
Look how clean,
Look how much I payed,
Look how little is left of myself, as my own.
I am one.
I am unique.
I am original.
You are one, of a million others.
You are unique, in your perspective of the world.
That of a carriage horse with blinders, led by his driver to buy and throw away and buy again...
You are original.
You are.
You are unique.
You are beautiful.
But you are Nieve, lost in the sea computerized ******* produce.
So you,
you one in a million.
You unique flake of snow, with a pattern all your own.
Let me take you from this place.
To the beginning.
Where the apple got his name.
Where the trees grow fruit to eat.
And the only music is that of the wind.
And the water.
And leaves in the trees.
And when you feel, rather than hear.
You will be the thing you want most.
Yourself.
Yourself alone.
Jun 9, 2013
Jun 9, 2013 at 7:44 PM UTC
I can't say
my voice has been stolen.
Only frozen.
Somewhere between
the solidification
and the crystallization
was a frigid realization.
Sometimes the magic just doesn't happen.
at the 32 degrees.
Sometimes sciences takes a back seat
to the once-broken, since mended knees.
The mind will fight
but the pen still scribbles a right,
or a wrong,
or something recyclable taken away yesterday.
Now-parallel incomprehensible darkness.
with a voice once frozen.
The light will relentlessly hide
as the rain will inevitably fall.
The frostbite will blacken,
but
you
will
stand
tall.
Jun 29, 2015
Jun 29, 2015 at 11:51 PM UTC
My eyes are all dried up I can't cry anymore
Even if I could I wouldn't waste my tears
It's all in the wrist a simple twist of fate
You have a beginning before you have a finish
When you **** one out it's not the end
Just dig in and pay the price of the ticket
Fire yourself out of a hundred foot cannon
And choose your death before you fade away
Slap your woman on the *** and show her you love her
Let her know that after the fact you'll still be there
Pass on the torch and roll another number
Lay you to rest before you turn into another.
Aug 17, 2019
Aug 17, 2019 at 12:34 AM UTC
the words don’t come easy (Poet’s Nook)
~for the postman who always rings twice~
<>
nah, they come
too easy,
from me, for you, doesn’t mean
they’re cheap, quite the opposite!
hard earned, been through the
washing machine so often,
they claim recyclable status
ok, so they are worn, edges raggedy,
they don’t care, nor do I, cause you
can’t find me any that never been fired
in the kiln of experience that came before
the crucible of my eyes, that says to them
welcome back! old friends, easy and familiar
stay for a few minutes, before you must get
snatched by some younger person’s heart,
send them along with my thanks and my
fare-thee-well, bon voyage, stop by one more
time, if you pass this way, I’ll be in that place,
Poet’s Nook, in our atmosphere of inspiration
where we have cohabitated, cogitated, and
wept together, co-created, and dreamed of
new combinations of our old souls’ cross currents
8:11am Sep 10 ‘20
In the Nook,
S.I.
Sep 12, 2020
Sep 12, 2020 at 3:29 PM UTC
Dispose of them properly!
It might get caught
On the neck of some poor soul.
They are recyclable!
I prefer ones soft,
The ones polymers are made of.
Wear them loosely!
They aren't good for skin,
Besides these masks get sweaty.
Jul 10, 2014
Jul 10, 2014 at 4:08 AM UTC