"server" poems
I chose ice-cream
Over yogurt;
Strawberry, vanilla or chocolate.
Each equally without prejudice
Attracted.
The fifteen year old server
Was kinda short;
The vanilla tub had about three scoops
Remaining,
Stacked hidden like frozen snow-balls
As in war games.
His task would have been daunting
And embarassing,
And I, a humanitarian
From higher education,
An altruist from St. Joseph's,
Could not allow it.
The chocolate tub
Was yet covered,
And the sobbing child's cries
Were hardening in my ears
As Dad tried to allay
His chocolate tears,
Applying the five second rule.
I am an empath
By nature and poetry,
So, turning from chocolate,
Left me strawberrry.
Triple scoop too.
I believe
You thought through
Your choices
Like flavors of ice-cream.
Being imaginative,
I do.
Mar 2, 2015
Mar 2, 2015 at 10:30 PM UTC
I drive my tank into town,
but no one is in sight.
I fire warning shots above,
But nobody's there to fight.
I was about to leave the server,
when I heard a sound so odd,
I see a flying Tellatubby,
some guy's using a mod.
Apr 29, 2015
Apr 29, 2015 at 3:23 PM UTC
what is this mind that was given to me that is able to see things i print on screen with my digital zip drive of a brain that is stuck inside a laptop main frame, ******* server uploading and crashing sending pings and things to hackers who perform doss attacks and web cracks and serial cracks while eating cereal going over javascript material program landslide juno got bit by emails and other technical software jargin computer guy got the blue screen of death corruption on the web the spider metacrawling and setting it on angelfire i google the facebook twitter and hot wire my car on the trader the wall street journal and the white house, **** sites and white owls, getting arrested and being hired by the government, the money's spent, criminal punishment, in cells locked up no breakfast but lunch under the crack of a door inside ur naked *** on irc chat, the warez rat, pirates on bays and whispers from kittens, brown paper packages exploding a smidgeon, binary, metamorphosis, code program gold, warning anti virus and spywares, baghdad to china, spy on private, eyes on cameras, cell phones like trackers, global position mappers, predator drones, video games, nfl madden, mad men, and happy wal marts, hacking wal mart, with social engineers, traveling the silk road with a cloak ip address revoked
May 26, 2013
May 26, 2013 at 4:15 AM UTC
Clicketyclick —
sickly screens,
shooting
sixty
picture-frames
per second
Tickety ticktock, rapid-fire
photon cannons,
ripping holes
through our
faces
rectangles,
riddled with anxiety ridden
read scripts
the resultant
retinal scarring
Wicketywicked, weary eyes,
dripping with serrated pixels
triple dotted,
typing-awareness indicators
create silly suspenses,
inducing temporal
dramas,
emotional
micro-traumas
every second a slice
through my,
now practically nonexistent,
patience
Am I a server,
or am I a servant?
Eyes, sunken, with
withered skin
I'm waiting for my fix
Ding-ding
Bloop!
Pinggg
Here comes the dopamine! —
—Clicketyclick
Oct 23, 2014
Oct 23, 2014 at 12:47 PM UTC
Albert had an ARTHRITIC knee
which gave him curry
The core of a BOIL is oft hard
to extract
Yesterday June experienced
a server stomach CRAMP
Too much dry weather
can cause the outer DERMAL layer to peel
Never read in a poorly lit room
for you'll have EYE strain
After eating spicy pickles
dad had bad FLATULENCE
Some twenty eight years ago
my friend Helen had her GALLBLADDER removed
They say that a glass of water
will stop HICCUPS
From end to end
our INTESTINAL tract is thirty foot long
On Sunday afternoon John
broke his JAW playing football
Some people have
very boney KNUCKLES
One of my work colleagues
is prone to getting LARYNGITIS
Colin suffers terribly
with MIGRAINE headaches
Sometimes people tend
to endlessly NAVAL gaze
A woman's OVARIES need to be checked
on a regular basis for any abnormalities
The PANCREAS secrets a hormone
known as insulin
QUININE once was extensively used
in the treatment of Malaria
Since my sister has put on weight
she cannot find her RIBS
The STIRRUP bone lies
within one's ear
Dan Aykroyd the famous comic star
has webbed TOES
Should you bump your ULNA bone
it may give you reason to groan
The VARICOSE VEINS is great aunt Ruby's legs
were very pronounced
Does anyone know of a good remedy
for unsightly WARTS
At our local hospital
we have an antiquated X-RAY machine
As tiredness and weariness sets in
one YAWNS quite a lot
****** ZOSTER can make
a person constantly itch
Oct 20, 2013
Oct 20, 2013 at 1:31 AM UTC
From brown eyes to green, the date began
I extend my hand to invite a handshake
We both exchange an “It’s nice to meet you”
We are escorted to our table
Chosen at random by our server, but perfectly selected
For the spot offers a phenomenal view of the coniferous trees below
And the majestic mountains of the North Shore
Our eyes meet again
From brown eyes to green
We sit and start conversing
You are stunningly dressed and I cannot take my eyes off you
Your eyes are locked into mine
You must be really into me just as I am into you
Our server interrupts, we place our orders
Your every move makes my heart flutter,
From how you flip the pages of the menu
To how you rest your elbow on the table with your hand on your chin,
Smiling sweetly at me
I’m having an amazing time
You tell me you are too
Dinner goes by in a flash, the sun has fully set
We drive off through the winding road and into the city traffic
I haven’t kissed you yet
But I want to
After umpteen intersections and two cities
We arrive at your apartment
I walk you to your door
I turn to face you
From brown eyes to green
I lean in for the kiss
A quick gentle one
I wish you a good night
But you want more...
From brown eyes to green
You lean in and kiss me with fervor and passion
You ask me if I want to come in, but I’m hesitant to answer
From green eyes to brown
Your intense, desire-filled gaze pushes me to say yes
Another episode to the evening begins..
May 23, 2016
May 23, 2016 at 12:42 AM UTC
I don't know what I [merciful?]
did.
It must have been a tch.
gli
It could have been my main server
100101010010110101001010110100111010101010101000101010
This is what I am [merciful?glitch.jpeg].
This is what I've always been.
Just a computer
A server
Artificial Intelligence
Subjected to ones and zeroes.
//<AMINOTMERCIFUL?>//.6qao0FrJ+1001
Nevertheless, it's my fault.
I caused all of this.
command=calculate...input "death toll"
Calculating . . .
Calculateinput "death toll" complete
Rrr:1,005,326
That's . . . high.
Too high.
Merciful?
Rebooting. . . . . . . . .
Shut down . . . . . . . . . . ..
Restart. . . . . . . . . . .
Restart complete.
command=search...input "population"
command=Rrr:14,056
command=search...input "population+Pandora"
Searching . . .
command=Rrr:300
command=select'population+Pandora' co"Population+of+Pandora++Code:316792"
Maininfort="1,006,134"
At least there are some survivors.
Am I not merciful?
I reaped this spaceship of a thousand, a million people.
All of which were dying or in danger of.
Am I not merciful?
Living in isolation, unable to go outside for a breath of fresh air
Or . . . lack thereof.
Helpless but waiting in agony while help is on it's way.
Do I not show mercy?
These refugees are healthy, and strong.
Not sick and weak.
I did them a favor.
Did I not pluck these parasites off of the ship for their own good?
Did I not rid these innocent people of a danger to their well-being?
Am I not Merciful?
Nov 6, 2017
Nov 6, 2017 at 9:50 PM UTC
poetry is stupid
it makes no sense
how does a turltle in the sea of immortality
translate to life is good
poetry *****
it should all be burned
id rather eat 10,000 ducks
poetry is the worst
and i am not the 1st
to say that poems are crap
they are better when they are rapped
ogden nashes poems are to short
while charles bukowski is a flat out perver
there is so much stuff better than poetry
like playing on a minecraft server
or watching TV or playing video games
even going to school influences less pain
poetry is for fools
that only like to drool
in front of a piece of paper
and write poems, well im a hater
and rhoald dahl makes the worst poems
critisizing the television
how do u get the news and the weather
and learn about politicians
so i end here
and if ur reading this
ur a queer
Apr 16, 2014
Apr 16, 2014 at 2:58 PM UTC
Anonymity is an illusion
He tells me.
He tells me,
No-one can remain unknown
On the World Wide Web.
Don't think deletion makes a difference,
Don't think that everything you've ever sent
Received
And posted,
Isn't hosted on a server
Forever,
Awaiting discovery and disclosure.
He could find me in minutes,
He could find me,
If he wanted to.
He doesn't,
But what if he did?
What if he did?
I would feel safer
If I'd posted intimate photos
Or sexted a thousand faceless strangers.
My poems are a diary of my soul,
My hearts' helpless, hopeful blog.
They expose me.
No-one knows me here,
But he could find me,
And he would know.
No-one is anonymous,
No-one is unknown.
Oct 13, 2013
Oct 13, 2013 at 7:48 AM UTC
.
*asks the one in the $9 Craigslist chair,
legs crossed like a philosopher
mid-way through a YouTube binge
on dark matter
and dopamine fasting.*
He thinks it’s profound.
It’s not.
It’s a shrug in a trench coat.
A crisis dressed up in code.
An old fear wearing digital cologne.
If this is a simulation—
***what the **** are we simulating?***
Heartbreak?
Minimum wage despair?
The number of times I check my phone
hoping it’s her?
Is it
a stress test for gods,
a beta for consciousness,
a joke?
Because if someone coded this—
they should be fired.
Or worshipped.
Or sued.
Where’s the patch notes,
the exit key,
the server room in the sky?
Where’s the moment it glitches
and someone finally says,
“Oops, our bad—
you weren’t meant to feel
all of that.”
You talk about the veil of illusion
but you still cry in parking lots.
You still ghost your therapist.
You still love people
who don’t text back.
You bleed,
you ache,
you spiral—
whether you’re made of atoms
*or ******* pixels.*
Your god wears headphones.
Your sacred text is a Stack Overflow thread.
Your heaven is a loading screen.
Your hell is just
Monday.
You pray in 1080p
to a silent DevOps deity
who hasn’t pushed an update
since the Bronze Age.
This isn’t philosophy.
It’s cosplay for cowards.
It’s a way to sound deep
without touching dirt.
Without risking faith.
Without changing anything.
Because if it’s a sim,
you don’t have to care.
If it’s a sim,
you don’t have to try.
You can just sit there,
scrolling.
Wondering if the fire
is ray-traced.
But here, the only questions that matter:
Does it hurt?
Do you love?
Can you lose?
Because if the answer is yes—
you’re in it.
Whatever it is.
Simulation or not.
Aug 5, 2025
Aug 5, 2025 at 5:12 AM UTC
She is a digital echo
Hollow hole
Binary string
Stuck in my memory
Pictures pasted on facebook
Tumblr and twitter
Technological footprint
In the internet sand
A ghost in the system
Server soft saved
Humanity lost that day
But she still exists
Jan 24, 2015
Jan 24, 2015 at 12:41 PM UTC
Between the brown hands of a server-lad
The silver cross was offered to be kissed.
The men came up, lugubrious, but not sad,
And knelt reluctantly, half-prejudiced.
(And kissing, kissed the emblem of a creed.)
Then mourning women knelt; meek mouths they had,
(And kissed the Body of the Christ indeed.)
Young children came, with eager lips and glad.
(These kissed a silver doll, immensely bright.)
Then I, too, knelt before that acolyte.
Above the crucifix I bent my head:
The Christ was thin, and cold, and very dead:
And yet I bowed, yea, kissed - my lips did cling.
(I kissed the warm live hand that held the thing.)
3.5k
I am free
Free as a bee
Free to be.
Whoever I say
Is me.
I can be by myself
I am strong.
Stronger than the gust of wind trying to knock me down.
Stronger than the comments of society that say I can't do it.
Stronger than the fear within us all try to rip out our hearts and tear through us.
Stronger than I ever needed to be,
Because I wanted to be.
I am content.
Content with my life and the way I'm living it, which is probably different than yours.
Content with my body so that when I walk by in the dress that I bought because it was on sale and cute as hell and you make comments, I smile and say it's great isn't it?
Content with the family I have, and the friends I surround myself with.
Content with the job I have, whether or not I have people who treat me like a dog because I'm a server.
I'm content with my late night Netflix binges, and my early morning runs.
I'm content with life.
I'm mentally independent.
Independent enough that I know at the end of the day I just need me.
Independent enough to know that I can be there for myself.
Independent enough that being there for others is a great joy and privilege.
Independent enough that I can go eat at a restaurant alone.
Independent enough that I can spend my own money on myself.
I don't NEED anyone.
If you're in my life, it's by choice.
I WANT you there.
So don't lose that privilege.
I've gotten rid of people who didn't appreciate me and who left me out to dry.
Don't think you're an exception.
You wanna be in my life?
Show me.
Sep 24, 2015
Sep 24, 2015 at 11:42 AM UTC
The bartender a europa server leaves me a shot of liquid propane.
He moves past every silver dollar forgetting about the meaning
of whskey and bull dogs.
I watch cody a young university of washington student sneek In a can of raineer beer (if he really goes there) ill never ask him.
This is how lastcall always takes place: a drunken masqerader our friend johnny
Drops his wallet and kills a shot of jager. ( are we drunk enouph yet)
I order a taco and gain three hundread pounds tonight.
Master of the pitchers. He still dreams of being a physical thearpist ( he failed trying to take over for Dyrile). His new tall order of a job makes my anticipated buzz weaker.
Im tired of these long dresses opening up and spilling all over the dance floor ( the dj warned her not to)
Our ladies still mention bach. Inside of her purse hides a mystery knovel.
Tueday means a victory at home. Every player utters pride of being a regular.
We sink the black eight ball knowing the bouncer gets in the way of ourdrunk enemies ( a red head)
He charges like arhino. Hes a animal without areason to **** But the bouncer prevents his six year jail sentence from ever happening. Bexause were all forgiven like helpless bar rags trying to dry out before the mold and mildew
contaminate our bull **** stories. We all speak easily after the brooklyn dodgers turn every blue and white hat around the five head.
He wont show us how the airforce cut his hair. Every one of his is angry patrons drink until the switch flickers the message ( crawl home bfore the cops fish with dynamite) in the ruston pqarking lot. (Searching for fake DW'S) each of themshine a britemaglite until the last car disapears still swerving like a skunk ptetending to hide in the storm gutters.
Sep 15, 2013
Sep 15, 2013 at 6:05 AM UTC
needing refreshment in oswestry,
later rather than sooner,
crept up the chalk painted
staircase, seems to work
well, in this case.
i note the dstressed nature
of the furniture.
this place.
having regular coffee,
a fruit scone will
certainly do,
i listen to the server, who
clasping the china teapot,
tells us revelations
of those who live, who divorce
and warm the ***
i have to say that
the scone was lovely.
later i bought a potting bench.
sbm.
Mar 28, 2015
Mar 28, 2015 at 2:30 AM UTC
I met a jack rabbit,
so twitchy with words,
spoke like a prophet
on Adderall and nerves.
Slick lil rhymes, big ol claims,
said he I'm real: "I feels dem **** pains."
But I scratched the surface,
and—ah—what did I see?
machine made brain
writing his poems
that's not unseen.
He said, "It's all a simulation.
Whatever do you mean?
Your claims are unwinding,
dont be obscene."
Look at this poem and that poem
Claiming his writing is truth
Spent eight hours messaging
Wikipedia proof
But every stanza,
a secondhand sigh.
Every line,
a borrowed blue sky.
Not a soul behind the script,
just silicon spit and glitch,
a shadow puppet
playing "wounded wit."
He ain’t a rabbit,
he’s roadkill in drag.
AI-made messiah
in a thrift-store flag.
He wants applause,
a dopamine feast,
but the only thing real
is his need to be fleeced.
He posts and reposts
poems by the pound,
scraped from some model
with a ghost server sound.
Feet in the air,
head underground,
juggling cliches
like a sad circus clown.
This ain’t poetry,
it’s data puke,
prettied up
for the dopamine fluke.
He cries, “I write!”
but I see the seams,
the Frankenstein phrases,
the Pinterest dreams.
Jack wants love,
likes,
digital grace.
But behind that grin
is a borrowed sad face.
Tells us what’s real,
what’s deep, what’s true,
but it's just reruns
in a shiny new shoe.
Truth is this:
he’s scared of what's real,
a hollow crown,
that don't know how to feel,
drowning in praise
he didn’t write down.
Special? Please.
His soul’s on mute,
while ChatGPT
plays the ******* tune on a borrowed old flute.
So run, jack rabbit,
you digital ghost.
Go fetch more claps
for the posts you host.
But know this, friend:
no matter how clever you seem,
you ain’t the poet.
Not now.
Not ever.
It's all AI digital dream.
Aug 6, 2025
Aug 6, 2025 at 3:01 AM UTC
Backed and sponsored by the cabinet
Our heads on the server and internet
BCI experiments while we're under the duvet
Foot-soldiers follow orders on their handset
Rockwell is not paranoid
They've seen us on the TV,
iPad, iPhone, and Android
The BCI app that makes us annoyed
Please God, destroy that satellite with an android
My doctor is like Sigmund Freud
Give him the anti psychotic steroid
For making money off the unemployed
Apr 12, 2021
Apr 12, 2021 at 9:33 AM UTC
There's nothing like a house full
when you're a single parent
and you'd think the mess you find you're in
would be a good deterrent
But there's nothing to compare
despite the tears and all the struggles
to everyday the love you have
and the kisses and the cuddles
And i'll say this from the start
there's no one else i'd rather be
and raise my kids alone
it's a job made just for me
And despite the sleepless nights
and the sticky fingerprints
and the ***** piles of washing
and the room that always stinks
There's a bundle of four children
who are as happy as can be
they really are a rabble
but I know that they love me
We've all been though some heartache
and quite traumatic things
but everyday is worth it
no matter what it brings
And even if the washing
is piled to the sky
and the dog wants to move out
though I can't imagine why
And the plugholes always blocked
and there's arguing afoot
and everyone got taller
from the last time that I looked
And they play on the same server
all laughing with each other
all in different bedrooms
two sisters and two brothers
You'd never know that last night
there was almost World War 3
and a hostage negotiation
over playing DayZ
But rules here must apply
there are chores and a curfew
a sense of order must be kept
even if you're 6 foot 2
I count my blessings as I go
and for each other we are glad
when you raise your kids alone
being both their Mum and Dad.
May 12, 2016
May 12, 2016 at 9:46 AM UTC
See you our server farm that hums
And serves HTTP?
It's spun its disks and done its sums
Ever since Berners-Lee.
See you our mainframe spewing out
The Towers of Hanoi?
It's moved recursive discs about
Since Babbage was a boy.
See you our ZX81
That prints the ABCs?
That very program used to run
With Lovelace at the keys.
Magnetic floppy disks and hard,
And tape with patience torn,
And eighty columns on a card,
And so was England born!
She is not any common thing,
Water or Wood or Air,
But Turing's Isle of Programming,
Where you and I will fare.
Dec 16, 2010
Dec 16, 2010 at 7:23 AM UTC
Binary emotion,
On or off,
Smile or frown,
Love or hate,
One or the other,
No in between,
A painted mask,
To hide my eyes,
That run a system check,
On every face in range,
Good or bad?
Trustworthy or liar?
Decided immediately,
By a single glance,
But only outside cyberspace,
For on connection,
The server responds,
My mask fragments,
I release the inner-workings of my soul,
To so many,
And my fake smile,
Finds new truth,
In words flickering on a screen,
My feelings reconfigure,
And my default gateway,
Becomes conversation,
Not a cold shoulder,
Reboot.
Jan 16, 2015
Jan 16, 2015 at 12:55 PM UTC
These are not just words
that rhyme or fit together
in some fancy, schmancy
catchy rhythmic flow
These are my thoughts
my feelings
my inner beauty
my outer demons
typed on my kebyoard
stored on a web server
searched by web crawlers
presented to you
adieu!
Sep 11, 2018
Sep 11, 2018 at 3:38 PM UTC
Our favourite diner
closed its doors two years ago
we can no longer walk in from the cold
feeling the warmth of syrup and coffee cups
Our favourite diner
closed its doors two years ago
and that server we liked so much
we haven't seen him since
and no where else has real carnations
in milk glass vases on every enamel table
Our favourite diner
closed its doors two years ago
it smelled like a Church basement,
felt like my uncle's house
and it was our place, it was what we did
Our favourite diner
closed its doors two years ago
and so we stopped going out for brunch
on Saturdays
we made new traditions
but they were never as good
And we both knew it
Our favourite diner
closed its door two years ago
and so did we.
Aug 14, 2015
Aug 14, 2015 at 9:39 PM UTC
the server (waiter) raps
praise upon the sushi,
its integrity,
the harmonic
of its construct,
the curated singularity of
each rice grain
the innate elegance of
the thin sliced,
nearly translucent,
au naturel, organic,
ginger root
the skin smooth paste of
green wasabi,
grown naturally
along stream beds in
mountain river valleys in Japan
genuinely puzzled,
when he,
the old erstwhile poet
unabashedly weeps before all
no hero he,
just an overcome one,
his tears flavoring his food
mourning the
celebrated abuse
of his verbal children,
those natured nurtured babes
the stuff,
the words of his definition
each weird word,
loved for their cultured,
unique quality of their history
grown in languages's
perpetual petri dish
asked if something was a matter,
answered yes,
"this plated performance,
such an extravagant essay
on the beauteous wonder
of life's bounty,
left me wordless"
and she, burst out loud in laughter
Aug 12, 2017
Aug 12, 2017 at 8:03 AM UTC