"ringtones" poems
**feet fade into feathers
streets are named after leather
longing for loops of string
ringtones that dream in desert timing
first rhymes then rhythms
decency gone blind
so we must find our light inside
held in bed against our will
vintage bells dressed in music
goose feathers used for pillows
the west-winds find his lips
respect turns to trust
and kisses your bones
in bird language i speak
tones of glowing stones
roses freeze the afterglow of darkness
dressed in moans and loaning
their hands to anyone that passes**
May 30, 2017
May 30, 2017 at 1:19 AM UTC
I open the blinds and see the world - in return, what
does the world see? It sees me, and all my splendid, split
personalities, living these amazing times, of amazing
pleasures, in which we tweet tweets, and post posts re
ego-trips and copyrighted links, videos and things; and,
as stray dogs, we ramble randomly, and all the time,
living in our infinite worlds, of infinite lanes, till infinity;
yet we suffer so much pain.
Our Shih Tzus take us on extended walks, firmly leashed
to our Koss plugs, as we drone cool tunes on multihued
iPods, iPhones buzzing ringtones of tittering babies,
stolid kings and hyperactive frogs, which would all make
my eighty-six year old dad want to gag; we fly
ultralight megaplanes at the sonic sound of speed,
through virtual and real space, connecting dots at low-
cost prices, while we belt-up, gear-up, gulp Gaga and
gorge heat-inducted meals of deer, horse and over-
promoted crap; and then, wow surprisingly, we are all
so unsatisfied.
We consciously all move-in together, and **** on end,
like statistical sheep, pre-married, unloving, and broken
up, and justify it all, to ourselves, with our fully
stretched spandex morality, over low-carb brunches
@Starbucks, two 14” screens of separation; we paint
pornographic images of virgins, all called Mary, in the
name of art, and, white-clad, **** babes and alter-boys,
and penetrate each other, first with our fingers, deeply,
then superficially, without even wondering, for a
zeptosecond, why we can’t stand one another any
longer.
We crank-up dependencies, like high street mainliners,
shamming and slaughtering for neurotoxic fixes of
smileys and Crystal on billion-dollar Kogo yachts, while
we all just pedal on, dispassionately, down and over
interior canals, to the core of our hocked, abbrev lives,
chronically connected and severely distracted, in
aromatic polymer bubbles, heedlessly cruising through
comic-strip farms of mock vegetables, surely to nowhere
and towards no one; and quite frankly, the world laughs
at all this, and sobs, and so do I.
May 5, 2012
May 5, 2012 at 4:08 PM UTC
1. The Race Card: Whether it be in suggesting that anyone who doesn’t vote for him because he is black is probably a republican, or in blaming Bush administration racism on a slow response to Hurricane Katrina, Obama is quite comfortable playing the race card.
2. Anti-Indian: After the Obama campaign released a paper disparaging other candidates for their ties to the Indian-American community, the chairman of the bipartisan US India Political Action Committee, Sanjay Puri, stated that the Obama Campaign was “engaging in the worst kind of anti-Indian American stereotyping.” Of course, Obama denied any hand in the racist document put out by his campaign.
3. Corrupt Buddies: Tony Rezko, a long time friend and fund-raiser for Obama, was indicted last fall on federal charges that accuse him of demanding kickbacks from companies seeking state business. When asked about his friend, Obama said, “I’ve never done any favors for him.” This turned out to be a lie, as evidence turned up proving that Obama had written letters to city and state officials praising Rezko’s business practices.
4. Wal-Mart Ties: While bashing of Wal-Mart’s labor practices in public, Obama has been profiting from their business through the money his wife made as a member of the board of directors for a company that produces food for the mega-corporation.
5. Religious Ties: Is Obama a Muslim? Is he a Christian? Nobody is 100% sure, but it is true that Obama was raised in a Muslim family and at one time attended an Islamic school. He currently claims to be a convert to Christianity, but some are concerned about his Muslim upbringing.
6. Anti-Second Amendment: Obama is one of the most anti-Second Amendment legislators in the country. He supports a ban the sale or transfer of all forms of semi-automatic weapons.
7. Gas-guzzler: Obama might attack American automakers for not making enough environmental friendly automobiles, but when he goes home he drives a gas-guzzling V-8 hemi-powered Chrysler 300.
8. Obama Ringtones: The most annoying campaign tool ever.
9. Obama Girl: I take back what I said about the ringtones. This girl is far more annoying.
10. His Unelectable Name: Barack Hussein Obama, ’nuff said.
Jul 15, 2014
Jul 15, 2014 at 10:05 PM UTC
So much to do, my mind is buzzing. My fingers are dancing with perverted excitement as my lips form words with more syllables than letters. I feel as though I were a more capable Atlas. May the world rely on me, I shall hold it higher than an aeroplane as it soars through the sky. Our skies.
A testament to the ingenuity of man the turrets, ******** the weak, and credit God; the asexual ****** he is.
This is no song for the hipsters to play as their ringtones as they feel for each other through their LCD screens. They search for other brazen articles of humanity trapped within their social networks, a web of faces, **** smiles, faces and words with us wherever we we go. An inextricable mass that haunts like schizophrenic vocals droning out the real life. But there is no real life. We are all just like Him.
***** Not natural. Filthy. Unclean.
Today, I grabbed a handful of sand just to see if I could feel it. Ten years ago, I would have felt every grain as it passed through my fingers; crisp, sharp, invigorating. Now, it’s dull. Blunt, rounded, indistinguishable. ***** Not natural. Filthy. Unclean. Nothing for our worshipped deviant to see.
My life is pornographic; an infographic of my exquisite taste in infectious lies, in the slaughter of old days, in the times immemorial. A map of things that don’t relate to me. A chart of things I don’t care about. I have too much to do, so much to write about! To write about...me.
***** Not natural. Filthy. Unclean.
My mind is buzzing.
Until the next day, when my bones fall sluggish and my mind thinks plainly of its singular desire: Sleep…dirty, sleep...filthy, sleep. But I can’t.
So now...I work. I am alive, alive, alive a lively beat of my heart as blood runs like an inmate from the bars of confinement. From my body: a testament to the ingenuity of ********** My body. Where my heart is beaten.
Beat, beat.
Sleep, sleep.
Fly high.
Mar 4, 2012
Mar 4, 2012 at 3:13 AM UTC
sitting
rivers of Singapore life
flow around me
over me
forever drowning in noise
clatter of plates
rumbling traffic
the discordant wailing of ringtones
diaspora
cultures, colours, faiths
streaming together
oil on water
you stare
‘ang moh,’ you mutter
red haired devil
am I?
alone
you don’t like
to share my table
or sit by me on the bus
and yet
like water on the mountaintop
ever seeking the sea
with gentle persistence we live together
still waters of humanity run deep
Dec 20, 2010
Dec 20, 2010 at 2:42 AM UTC
sitting eating
rivers of Singapore life
flow around me, over me
forever drowning in noise
clatter of plates
rumbling traffic
the discordant wailing of ringtones
diaspora
cultures, colours, faiths
streaming together
oil on water
often you stare
‘ang moh,’ you mutter
'red haired devil'
you don’t like
to share my table
or sit by me on the bus
and yet
like water on the mountaintop
ever seeking the sea
with gentle persistence we live together
still waters of humanity run deep
Jun 21, 2011
Jun 21, 2011 at 11:23 AM UTC
Apples and Blackberrys
The fruits of your belonging
On the table… place of prominence
Screaming ‘look at me!’
Clinging to their network
As you do to yours
Talking to your colleagues
Eyes flitting from one to other
As your fingers anxiously search
The table next to your glass
Constantly seeking the reassurance
Of your disconnected connectivity
Voices compete with ringtones
Over the rumble of the traffic
And the hollow echoes of your laughter
I can’t help but ask myself
Where are you?
Are you really there?
Jan 17, 2011
Jan 17, 2011 at 5:27 AM UTC
Fast food
of love,
eating, eating, eating,
there's no discussion, no daydream or
bright-eye'd plan,
only blankets, ******* Jack rings,
and plastic floating promises
in a draining bathtub.
The blackbirds circle and sing,
while you download new ringtones,
paint your nails,
and screen.
Once you've got the knowledge,
you can't fake ignorant bliss.
Once you've got the knowledge,
it's no-hit-all-miss.
Soften you up
with promise rings,
Hallmark cards,
and confetti strings,
the ******** frees,
the ******** ease.
Once you've got the knowledge,
you can't fake ignorant bliss.
Once you've got the knowledge,
how can you love yourself?
I'm under your skin,
with my pen uncapped,
I'm the love your mind's got
on tap,
as the cigarette burns,
as the knives unfurl,
I know,
you know,
that ultimately
you're growing sore
from the impending
marital bore.
So blow up the bridge,
walk through the alleys,
let the guilt of your heart
dissolve in coffee,
the time--now,
as it's always been
because
once you've got the knowledge,
you can't fake ignorant bliss.
Once you've got the knowledge,
there's a riotous beat in your chest.
Aug 6, 2011
Aug 6, 2011 at 12:53 AM UTC
They are the kind of raindrops that hang around for awhile
The ones that laugh at your coat
Get your shirt wet anyway
The kind that if it weren't so **** cold outside
You'd really like to stand under them for a while
The kind they make those slow-motion-water-drop-hitting-water videos out of
Those
And all I'm doing with them is watching
Watching them fall on windows
Watching them tear apart the littered receipts on the sidewalk
I'm watching them tear leaves from cherry trees
And wondering if they listen to Beethoven or Slipknot on their way down
Portland is always so far away until it rains
Then even here in this farm town
Everyone finds their North Face
And these raindrops remind me of something
Not our first kiss though
Or the tears
Or the leaky faucet
Or the day we did nothing but watch the Discovery Channel
It just makes me think of you
And how I never knew if you were there to water me
Or tear me apart
How I never knew if it was a Rascal Flatts day
Or an Evanescence day
How I never knew if my hand on your cheek would be a turn on
Or a trigger
How bad days had ringtones
And good days were just waiting for the call
These raindrops remind me how close I am
To the only city I've ever loved in
How far I am from ever getting over you
And how incredibly jealous I am
That moving on seems to be easy for someone who does it so often
I can't let go of the damage you've done
Even though it's clear now watching the rain
That you were just falling
And I was just in your way
Mar 18, 2015
Mar 18, 2015 at 4:22 PM UTC
Lying in a flower patch
Staring at the sky
Wishing you were here with me
But its just me, myself and I
Never had the courage
Was always just too shy
You always looked so pretty
With that sparkle in your eye
I miss you so much
And I let out a sigh
But I just want you to be happy
To you I'll never lie
I had always hoped
That I would be your guy
My phone starts to ring
My ringtones "Pumpkin Pie"
I listen to it ring
Before I pick up and say "Hi"
I turn around just like you said
And almost start to cry
You run to me and give me a hug
You don't want to say goodbye
This place just means so much to you
And its easy to know why
Because without you we're like flowers
We'll all just wilt and die.
Dec 28, 2013
Dec 28, 2013 at 2:59 AM UTC
She was above nasty gossip
and
He was a violent perfection
from rubber 24 hours
Because
His 24 hours was a
violent
crazy
hate
He thinks stress has trans-fats
and
She has fear at all-nighters
because there's no such thing as
silly all-nighters
far from boredom and regrets
She wants to ban
her fear of boys being players with cement hearts
and
He wants to ban
pretty over-the-top perfection
The both fear
the regrets and pretty lies of love
But
He is pudding
when he's around her
and
She feels like he has a suit of
fresh cement lines
Because she's fallen and is now stuck
They get
jitters next to nerves
around each other
Sick of bad karma
on a birthday
on my birthday
She has 3x fresher ringtones
He thinks the sentence
"that smelly belly"
is funny
I love cheese
We are (nothing but)
Rubber lines r o
like the ugly lies that were always a us u
d n
Ban Insecurity.
May 11, 2010
May 11, 2010 at 7:35 AM UTC
Suddenly woken from my nap...
I heard the running tap...
Heart pondering, with sweat rushing...
I jumped up moving nearly crashing...
Ouuch, I think I hurt my knee...
But forgetting the pain I searched for the key...
Alone in the house where can it be...
Remembering the place I tracked the key...
Opened the door to see which tap could it be...
To my astonishment, I couldn't see...
I chilled myself relaxing on the couch...
Holy mother, the sound came from my pouch...
Reaching to see what it was, then realized...
I bought a new phone with features customized...
Ringtones set as water splash inside...
And here I assumed evil running sitting outside...
©sim
Feb 19, 2018
Feb 19, 2018 at 5:01 AM UTC
She calls no more.
There are no more letters or silly cards from her.
The spot reserved for her emails,
a picture frame thumbnail, sits vacant and sad.
I know I should delete it, but don't know why I haven't.
Ringtones are a dirge.
Pillows and covers and mugs and sofa divots wait expectantly.
Lamenting.
I had to throw out my clothes, the ones she wore when she was cold
or too lazy to pick her own up from the floor.
Was it her scent i could still smell from them after a hundred washes?
Another life is being filled by her existence, now.
He wont notice her impact until it's too late.
I hope it works out between them.
And that she's always safe.
Oct 28, 2014
Oct 28, 2014 at 8:18 PM UTC
I grind my teeth
Hearing the clicks
What are these cords?
Puzzling with all these words
It seems alienitic
They say I am hand picked
To use such things
No! not the ringtones
Take it away and leave me alone
Stop making me act like a clone
These machines make me crazy
My brains and bones growing hazy
They not mine not my own
How am I here in this time zone
It's suppose to be 500 B.C
And here I am sitting next to a P.C
Hail God! get me out of here
I fear my end, I fear I am nowhere
I'm getting insane, I am haunted by phobia
The trouble I get in, is through this techo gear
Year by year they send me here
To examine my head cause I am a lunatic
A crazy being over used brain, a phobiatic
No pain just systematically down insane
A shot and a dramatic labelled in vain
Technophobia was the tag
And again they let me out of this bag!
©sim
Dec 11, 2017
Dec 11, 2017 at 8:48 PM UTC
Al is dead.
Saturday early ringtones
a warning signal,
an unexpected call,
harbinger of no good at all
Al has passed,
felled in the lobby
of a movie theater,
by sudden heart attack
did we want to come, he asked,
but I demurred
on our behalf,
having been out
every night this week
so now I have to think about that...
shoulda woulda coulda
but didn't
she sobs on my neck.
he was a good friend
to my woman,
for many years,
years of loss and discomfort
she pauses her weeping,
to punch me in the arm,
as is her wont,
warning me to lose that weight,
or else she'll **** me
more likely
says I,
to die
from repeated blows
to the right arm,
than from
my accumulated excesses,
thinking all the while,
I'm a **** good liar
so now she laughs and sobs
intermittently which is why
someone invented the word
blubbering
tears of diminishment,
a lessening in the world,
part of me expunged twice,
now that Al is gone,
in part predicted,
in part foretold
you didn't know Al?
Oh yes you did!
*"Al, what you did not ask was this:
With each passing poem,
I am lessened within, expurgated,
In a sense part of me, expunged,
Part of me, passing too,
Every poems birth diminishes me."*
4:38 AM
September 8th, 2012
http://hellopoetry.com/search/poems/?q=With+each+passing+poem
Nov 22, 2014
Nov 22, 2014 at 1:20 PM UTC
lemon drops
and worn-out tops
pre-made meals
and vintage steals
nothing ever changes
unless you want it to
broken circles
if only I knew
damp-stained walls
and cropped overalls
books half-read
and plants unfed
eagerly awaiting
for when it comes around
the thousandth time
lost as the first
unkempt sheets
and forgotten feats
time zones
and preset ringtones
Oct 26, 2019
Oct 26, 2019 at 10:34 AM UTC
The wine I am tasting has just been tasted,
The perfume I am smelling has just been smelled,
The song I am hearing has just been heard,
The girl I am seeing has just been seen,
The skin I am touching has just been touched,
The many things I am thinking have just been thought,
These lines I am writing have just been written,
Are we then just living in the immediate past?
If time is relative, can now be extended?
Should we rather think of now as time-limited actions?
I will be drinking this wine until the last drop has sunk
I will be smelling this perfume until my receptors are saturated
I will be hearing this song until the battery lets me down
I will be seeing this girl until she disappears in the wild and out of my mind
I will be touching this skin until I am crippled by cramps
I will be thinking until my brain is starving
I will be writing these lines until an elusive timepoint
If these events take several minutes, several hours, or several days,
Is tomorrow then also now?
Can now be stopped?
Suspended, unanimated, just like a broken clock.
At the speed of light time does cease to exist.
Can I then slow now down when I run a sprint?
Now equals present, just like a gift
While present can lead to taking the final lift.
Can now happen when we are not?
Free of life, lying down, some with the precious key to the holy padlock.
Can now (truly) be synchronized when we live on different time-zones?
Different countries, different continents, different rhythms in similar ringtones.
How long is now?
As long as the finite time
Between the moment we’ve left the past
And the moment before we step into the future.
This sticking junction that can never be past.
May 28, 2020
May 28, 2020 at 6:59 PM UTC
the hand, is perfectly formed
for a device that speaks our minds
attention defecit is a medical issue
but the cure is ringtones
we are born with ten fingers
glad I took typing, its useful
on a nine inch device
they say humans are capable
of deep thoughts
did'nt realize Lol is a cue to laugh
I wonder if the aliens recieved my texts
they would probably reply, we love Houston
use to be loud noises got our attention
but now the rings and dings
has cured attention defecit
Aug 20, 2017
Aug 20, 2017 at 1:08 PM UTC
Though I may
Though I might
There are so many other things
That I wish on this night
The tide stores splices of onerous flesh...
stashing them out
And bringing them smoothly inside-
the rucks of darkness encloses
Tall frawns taller skirting vines
of turbulent giant bladder kelp
Survival should do one more...
then plenty is each species of human that cares
Grime sedentary shimmied hurriedly amongst hidden foul dusts
Plots spoken wed cloths
damask silken treading
lightly weeds where they don't belong
As we catch up to the cries
Senses to fulfill seniority demure paucity
oh they rinse and ringtones wash the dreams back out
Craft sols dented pride it's sinister
always aiming hollow
shat the one toothed grin
I could not be I if killed certainly jeering
at stimulant cartwheel punches
the crap lit doing wrong
yet by being studied each wave it repeats
a logarithm of ultimate denial
a surface squalor assuring currents champion
Wash away polyhedron pith
the face of pestilence
Personifications attempted
Douse the material frost with fire
from the grand stares glancing at you
Whose to realize the first and last valiant voyage
is tiding as of driest concerned philanthropically beholden logics
Jan 7, 2021
Jan 7, 2021 at 12:58 AM UTC
Amid the glitz and blinking lights of the theater district,
where even the obligatory McDonald’s was dolled up
with flash and pizzazz, a showy two stories with a Vegas marquee.
we strode into the buzzing, lavishly appointed lobby
in creased jeans and wrinkled T-shirts,
and loaded up on draft latte cans, single-origin tea, and IPAs.
We ascended to the balcony seats I once thought were
the sacred preserve of aristocrats, but which turned out
to be the cheapest seats in the house if the view was obstructed.
True, our grandparents dressed up for such occasions.
But their contemporaries were the indecorous ones
who failed to turn their phones off after multiple warnings.
The play wasn't a musical,
but it was serenaded with factory-issue ringtones
that chirped and chirped over the playwright's dreamscape.
Jul 9, 2018
Jul 9, 2018 at 3:00 AM UTC