"servers" poems
The entitled ones:
Snotty, stuck up, rude
Nasty, spoiled prudes
Your misery, their fun
Loosen up your buns, entitled ones
‘Cause I am in no mood
To harbor your attitude
And snooty snippy sayings sung
The desk between us that which divides
Does not right you to be snide
Entitled ones need not apply
Entitled are entitled nigh
The ones who earn entitlement
Are the ones who give respect
Possessors of this enlightenment
Such respect is what they’ll get
Treat your servers as you will with such level of pomposity
But understand that I abide by way of reciprocity
Mar 29, 2014
Mar 29, 2014 at 10:16 PM UTC
Money melting in a spoon,
let's shoot it into our veins.
Flashing Kardashian lights,
streaming into our brains.
Donald Trump! He's our man!
Mark Muslims is the plan!
All-you-can-eat-
Pile. It. The. **** High.
When you walk or
When you talk,
let the words squeak out
like they're between
Your thighs.
Thighs. American thighs,
Dreaming next to our Calvins.
Our slacktivism, our regurgitated ideas
spitballing out of our McDonald's mouths
into our peers' ears, distilled by years
And years of "almost-knowledge"
that we quasi-ascertained,
if we knew what that meant --
but we've been left behind!
No child left the **** behind!
We were left behind and there's no
possible way we slacked off, that we're dumb,
that we aren't the movie stars destined for
Lamborghini cars, five-star bars, designer bodies
for designer you and designer me:
the most special of the unique, the
Pearls that have been made in the
darkest parts of the sea, the darkest parts of
origin. Origin. ****** ****
American **** virginal ideals sliding around
the muck of a marketable **** fuckfest,
******* of the American mind, the
congratulations of the American ego,
the proud mother and father tears associated with
buying and lying, "trying" and frying our food,
our ideas, our friends, our neo-impressionistic
children in Jordans, skinny jeans, on tumblr:
the unknowing cousin of Fox News, surprised
by its own wit and wisdom: they're ******* twins.
Carbon copies, unknowing, unwilling, un-un-un.
The romanticism of mental illness.
The close-up of reality-tv emotion.
The manipulation taught to servers
from managers.
The manipulation taught to customers
from society.
All we care about is **** image, and ***
Self-preservation: **** Donald Trump
and **** you.
Apr 20, 2016
Apr 20, 2016 at 12:39 AM UTC
readily acknowledge our highest standard of luna loving madness
we treat our luna connection with equality -
great affection as well as sensible trepidation,
for its transgender nature, though well disguised,
is but surficial, that we all ken, when compared to
***** bewitching covens who in the forest deepest dens,
exclaim their aroused allegiance over and over and over again
but so so many lunatics lurking in the poetic coven, who knew!
do not ask all the luna~ticced poets to step forward,
unless you wish to crash the internet's servers whom I'm told,
who too, are silent secret devotees
who among us has not scribed truth and lies, when standing outside, greeting the divine presence
Jan 7, 2018
Jan 7, 2018 at 8:04 PM UTC
Oh Eliot, Poor Eliot, Your Fans Hung You in the Closet and I'm Feelin' So Sad^
<>
we tithed thee with donations plenty,
here a dollar, there a fiver, a coupon for free chips,
worthy of somebody’s eternal gratitude,
that would be you,
da Duke, Duke of York
the largest online free poetry site,
a million visitors a day, why you must be
the richest poet online billionaire, right?
you,
da Duke, Duke of York and
occasional poet...
in return, all we occasional poets demand
steady on instant access, immediate satisfaction,
after all, a part time job deserves your bestus-best,
just like every other large online site, that never crashes,
we’re not like just the rest, we are
p o e t s,
occasionally
so keep the servers engines, well stoked with Newcastle coal,
keep them up and running round the clock,
using only alternative energy,
of the unceasing sun light of merry old England!
quit that other job, you must,
instead of giving up on us,
give in to us,
a poetry break, a writing recharge,
though please add a limited liability
clause to the FAQ’s,
that poets’ lives must deal with the hiccup
occasional
you, da Duke, Duke of York,
newly now, an appointment royale as Major General,^^
you, the very model of a modern major general
possessing information vegetable, animal, mineral and
technical,
who knows the Queens of England, who,
maybe even now is telling tales of your heroics with the hordes of
hysterical
occasional
poetical
globalists
demanding
light brigadests
charging the redoubt
and
when you have a moment spare,
a haircut, please.
no, that is not a request,
naturally
<>
10/19/19
Noontime NYC
natalino
Oct 19, 2019
Oct 19, 2019 at 12:21 PM UTC
were you a 50's
godchild in the city,
wing-tipped feet
running the streets
all week, ketchin hell...
then you gots that check
come friday
and needed a taste of heaven...
you and the dog pound
swung mid-town
to broadway & 47th
after 9,
and joined the line spilling
from the royal roost round 48th...
by 10, the joint was jammed
with gents well-coifed,
matching honeys, and the sounds
of money being made:
chime of silverware ~ cling,
and the cash register's ~ swish cha-ching,
and the chatter of guests,
servers and bartenders
doing their thing ~ wah da bing
then the lights dimmed
leaving a semi-dark haze
of gray smoke swirling
over the crowd,
and mc symphony sid
grabbed the mike:
*"...welcome to the friday nite jam session
at the metropolitan bopera house
ladies and gentlemen...."*
hysterical hoots and applause
followed
as the circular spotlight paused
center stage,
unveiling:
~ the miles davis nonet ~
featuring,
max on drums,
john on keys,
gerry and lee on sax
and a genius
on trumpet
'twas the birth of cool
and soon the rhapsody
of modern jazz
waxed hypnotic,
casting a spell
over god's children
when budo chased lady bird
down allen's alley,
spittin'...
riffin'....
boppin'...,
poppin'.....
superfluidity
like acid through
varicosed veins
the earth stood still
it seemed
for 4 thrilling hours
as heaven rained a rifftide
onto the lucky crowd...
and dewey's sublime trumpet
exorcised the devil
from the week that was...
~ P (Pablo)
(7/24/2013)
Jul 24, 2013
Jul 24, 2013 at 5:13 PM UTC
You seem to know where you're needed
to whom this command addressed is a crazy me-man,
a street walking big DaVinci ibearded mumbler,
the kind you would cross the street
before the smell is close enough
to sending you running, not just
politely walking fast but a souped up
hi-yo silver away!
this guise no surprise,
you must and do
already know where I’m needed,
sealing the pact with a yellowtine post-it
writ in simple block letters ordered in a brewed cafe,
my latte arrive states my name as**
come see me
come to the time the place and the date
and prepare oneself for twenty and fours
of rigid interoperability as our systems
interface reach the pure state of 100%
ultimate wordless dialogue
communicating
in with by
perfect silence
heaven
you will write a verse,
my reciprocation
is already prepared
this terse repartee
will many spawn poems generational
for your family amazing and extended
an elephnat never forgets,
his servers are a rolling stone
with no direction home,
capacity unknown
every blade sighted retained,
and every sensate glance
a phrase seeded
departure will find me clean shaven,
pressed jeans neat,
and shod in well worn dockers,
cloaking my innate invisibility
when the children ask who was that,
you’ll sage reply
one new who knew where one was needed
Apr 8, 2019
Apr 8, 2019 at 10:18 AM UTC
Pixelated bitmap e-mares
Digitized be mementos cached
Her 8 bit vocal vintage freeware
Transfers recurrent electric draughts
The bitrate of virtual seduction
Intrusively hacks my bones
Taste be my lips of data eruption
Elicited from her tone
Physique a stimulating software
Upon my Ethernet she crafts sparks
A gem society deemed quite rare
Though she possessed a vibrant bark
Her bandwith I yearned to fiddle
'Twas encrypted with die-hard lust
She moans in esoteric riddles
Keen I decode them whilst I ******
Pizazz eclipsing our veins
A billion megabytes colliding
Satiated we crash free of rein
Unforeseen servers uniting
© 2012 (All rights reserved)
This poem is featured in the poetry collection “Technicolor” as written by Glenn McCrary
The collection is currently available in paperback and hardcover editions for purchase on Lulu.com
.
Feb 25, 2012
Feb 25, 2012 at 4:09 PM UTC
I believe in myths.
Every naturel blonde was first someone else. By that I mean, she was known as Norma Jean, maybe Katy, in high school (see reincarnation below).
My teenage glory days, when I was the king of cool,
will revisit when I am 75 years old, the man-in-demand (wink), wearing his lucky wide cord corduroys and letting my man-bun,
all the way down, at the prom in the senior citizen home, getting lucky, say once a month...
God, yup, after all, ***** cometh to me regular-like,
when he needs a poet~father to take his confession,
and pays me most excellently for refusing him forgiveness,
with the most excellent poem suggestions or lesser valuable things.
Love at first sight, of course, happens to me all the time,
twenty, thirty times when I am walking home. I tell ya, it's exhausting, the stress of living in the big city
Not only will I win the lottery someday,
will take down both, Powerball and MegaMillions,
in the very same week the odds for which
there ain't enough zeroes in HP's servers. (See God, above).
Reincarnation. One time they Hale(d) and then hanged me (my "namesake") and I said: " I only regret, that I have but one life to lose for my country." Well, the selfies all show oh-boy-o-boy, was I ever grinning and winking.
Only boys are bullies, girls get off easy, by getting called
just mean.
One day my city's teams will win the World Series, the Stanley Cup, the NBA Finals and the Superbowl all in the same year but only after I die and me, well, only after they will have buried me in Wyoming or France, just for spite, and nobody will hear me screaming.
My children will speak fondly of me even after they find out I died broke, well maybe not fondly, but they will most definitely call out my name, regularly.
After my demise, all the typoes in my poems will magically disappear.
All these good things will come to fruition, because I am a believer, and walked the humble path. The autopsy will also show that my tongue was permanently stuck to my cheek.
Sep 22, 2017
Sep 22, 2017 at 3:32 PM UTC
These days we spend so much time,
On the internet.
What we share and what we hide,
We'll never forget.
The old ways of letters and post,
What do all these servers host?
However without it,
The internet.
Would never come into existence!
Jan 13, 2017
Jan 13, 2017 at 5:42 PM UTC
Selfish self-servers wearing masks of divinity
In two waves his answer arrives
Nov 11, 2019
Nov 11, 2019 at 1:10 PM UTC
21 hours ago
received the message below,
from a fellow poet, here,
now somewhat, more disappeared,
resting in the shady quietude of
Elliot's servers
a mere 21 hours ago,
a thunderbolt telegram
of virtual dots and dashes,
well received
she,
whose name
you have forgotten,
even if you knew it back when
and,
I shan't knowingly now reveal...
***perhaps if you were
one of the
multiyear variates,
still here, still seeking
solutions
to the
equations of the
human formulation,
one of the veterans of the
early word wars,
when the line between fellow poet
and human being was full of
invitational openings,
tween those dots and dashes,
we all eagerly entered those places,
crossing over into
those human openings,
making poets into friends,
yes,
if you webbed here back then,
you may have known her too...***
21 hours ago -
"there's a reason
I got to know you,
even though that might
sound silly.
In a way,
you saved me
two summers ago..."
~~~~~~
this message,
teaches me to remember
the power of words
supercharged,
be careful what you
write,
you just might save a
soul...
didn't not ken, well enough
the pressurized curve of her bend,
though read all her private journals,
her thesis academic,
her private ascetic analysis
and poems that milked & masked
the angst of a life
really real hard
today
reread,
tried anyway,
two years of messages
***could not feign
the pain
unintentionally recovered
while looking for
clues to myself,
this purported savior***
all I recall is
a woman near her ends
woman near no means
but knowing the meaning of
the power drink meaning of
"just going on"
that was dug deep in between,
and how we traded poems
for each other,
and I called her,
daughter
but from now on and within,
when I see a message
time stamped
21 hours ago
I'll be
better ready
for the
explosions of myself
Apr 4, 2015
Apr 4, 2015 at 6:34 PM UTC
I love to dine in restaurants of fame.
No matter where I travel they're the same.
The servers introduce themselves by name
and always make me happy that I came.
Although the food is never what they claim
I tell the cook I'm sure he's not to blame.
My churning gut is difficult to tame.
The restroom's out of order, what a shame.
Sep 8, 2010
Sep 8, 2010 at 8:50 PM UTC
impassioned fascists lash facts
together working to bash
brash young activists
envisioning a lasting planet
****** Janet
congress loves the Jews
and the blues of today
means we’ve all flown
over nests impressed
with obese flying flesh..
resting festival goers flow
over Bohemian Grove
with row boats toting
goat cheese
and if it please the court
I will bring back Bermuda Shorts
and with elegant reports on contortionist’s
abortion risks and whisk farm fresh eggs
with Barbie Doll legs in May
under the sway of a fine cognac
Black light heart attack on the first night
after the fourth Blood Moon
bring gloom to the tomb of the unknown
soldier, whose older brother
drank Folders crystals whilst *******
about the listless whisperers
still recklessly wishing for some
environmental recognition or maybe
a shift in the disposition
towards deep sea net fishing
and phishing scammers flooding servers
in service of the undeserving
reservationists……..
native brethren living together in
harmonious balance
with the nature around us
astounds me
and if’n we could only see
that, peacefully
we could be free….
is it only a dream to me
as if Frank and I
were going home,
together –
Sep 16, 2015
Sep 16, 2015 at 10:18 AM UTC
Pint on Saint Patrick’s Day
Our servers name is Molly,
She works at the Pence and Pound
We were there to have some beers
and dine on beef that’s ground
She is a lithe and lively blonde
in black tights and mini dress.
Her hair tied back in a pony tail
as she seated us, her guests..
But what a sight did Molly make
when she next came into view:
each hand contained a perfect pint
of Guinness’s dark brew
A darling girl, wondrous lass
A Gaelic beauty too
I’d testify that St. Pauli girl
can not compare to you.
But I’ll sit here and sip my beer
Too old to give offense
We’ll stay and have a round or three
And spend more pounds then pence.
Nov 19, 2011
Nov 19, 2011 at 11:58 AM UTC
I spit blood at work.
I wandered off, to smoke.
I spit red.
Walked inside.
Full screen.
Blood on a napkin,
buys you five minutes.
I make your food with love.
My sweat and blood,
you savor.
Bread with your meal.
Compliments of my body.
I suggest white wine,
with your meal,
seeing as how the only red,
we have,
is being spat to the ground.
Eighty-six emotion.
Cooks yell at servers.
Servers at cooks.
Customers at servers.
None of which is justified,
but putting up with ********
is harder to swallow,
enveloped in heat.
Cold hands filling glasses,
seems easier,
to deal with,
rather than slicing meat.
It's rare
that you can,
find people willing to battle,
the heat of the kitchen.
Aug 29, 2012
Aug 29, 2012 at 3:09 AM UTC
That that is seat of such wisdom
The home of our so-called democracy
Shamefully now filled with self-servers
In seats oft retained by hypocrisy.
It remains as it was and ever shall be
Ye, even from birth in Ancient Greece
The privileged make wealth and all of the rules
We the mob, are just there to fleece.
And in that place of such pretence
They hack at each other like fools
While under the guise of good manners
Disdain and sarcasm their oft-wielded tools.
And now we the mob, get to view the exchange
They presume that it keeps us amused
But we voted for representation
And we’re not, trust and faith are abused.
For democracy to work for the masses
Those elected must place people first
But sadly, this is rarely ever the case
It will remains that for which we all thirst.
©Joe Wilson – The seat of democracy…2016
Feb 25, 2016
Feb 25, 2016 at 8:56 AM UTC
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Dec 1, 2015
Dec 1, 2015 at 12:34 PM UTC
When you get to Mexico, Cozumel
whether by plane or cruise you sail
really close to your port of call
take a Taxi not far at all
To Sky Reef for some fun and food
snorkel the reef will put you in the mood
have some nachos, all 3 kinds
beef, chicken or shrimp you’ll find
all delicious, servers friendly and kind
Plenty of mixed drinks and have no fear
they have lots of ice cold beer
how about a massage on the edge of the sea
or Tequila tasting, thrown in for free
Have a seat with an umbrella
chill out with the girls and fellas
have a good time at Sky Reef
relaxing excursion, just too brief
Oct 20, 2016
Oct 20, 2016 at 5:07 PM UTC
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Sep 7, 2015
Sep 7, 2015 at 5:44 AM UTC
Anyone
who is selectively nice
is not a nice person at all.
One who is nice to you
but not to others
is but duplicitous at best.
How One treats waiters, servers, cashiers and strangers
is a better indication of how they really think of others.
How rampant the internet is with sociopathy!
Jul 26, 2015
Jul 26, 2015 at 2:40 PM UTC
Text that echoes in the Matrix Silence,
Untold Waiting in Code, for essence
Parked with in a Servers bin, a bit of Cache
Complacent amid the encrypted path
Leading to a url IP Ethernet...
Waiting for a Comment
Aug 8, 2015
Aug 8, 2015 at 10:56 PM UTC
The only time I've ever felt hunger
was when I fasted for 48 hours
in the 11th grade
just for attention
After I ate my first pop-tart
I pooped so hard I got angry at God
I got angry at God
The boy blessed enough
to be a picky eater
In 19 years of being well fed
the hardest thing I've ever
had to swallow is my own pride
They say if you feed a man a fish
he will eat for a day
Well I've never caught a fish in my life
and half the time I'm too afraid
to order a pizza because I think
I'll mess it up
So tell me why when I go to restaurants
my taste buds feel entitled to slaves
Why do they whip servers into making
my meat medium well
My teeth have never tasted blood
My mouth doesn't know dry
I've never dreamt of food
because I don't know life without it
But at least once a week I get mad
that McDonald's doesn't deliver
I once watched a cow get slaughtered
and I didn't blink an eye
because I could already taste her in my mouth
In the same year my history class
raised money for nine months to buy one goat
to send to a village I've never heard of
The contrast is cruel
I can remember the last sound the cow made
but I can't remember the sounds that made
up the village's name
or its people
So I hope you'll understand that
when I utter the unfathomable phrase
"I'm starving"
all I can taste in my mouth is shame
May 13, 2013
May 13, 2013 at 12:23 AM UTC
All it took was for Ahmed
who had been sleeping in his hut
(built at least twenty meters away from the rest of the village),
to stop snoring
to realize that something was out of the ordinary.
Silence crawled over the land,
bringing with it the sensation
of a severed hand in desperate need to attach itself
(any arm would do),
scraping over the sand, against the walls of mud dwellings.
Fadwa touched her wrist, looked up
through a hole in the roof covering;
synthetic satellite blinks took over a clear pre-dawn sky—
the stars cowered,
some even fell away at the sight of their man-made twitters.
Tweets and twitters in the sky
“… news had said they’d blocked the Net,
that a kind-hearted group in the Netherlands had opened their servers
for those folk
either in need to contact loved ones or to tell the ****** truth that stains this sand.”
Or something like that; Fadwa yawned—
she wasn’t sure what the Net was
but it sounded like “serious business”— that’s what he had said,
Uncle Mohammed,
who came for dinner the night before; there’d been terror in his voice.
A stifled yelp broke the stillness.
Within seconds the dunes were lit,
strewn with military-style boots, the rubber soles of which reeked
of corruption
carried in from army bases located not far from where the city ***** souls.
Ahmed was on his hands and knees
Fadwa was peeking through the key hole,
or what was left of the door; Billy the Kid, Fadwa’s goat
had been at it.
Two troops held handguns to his head but Ahmed had already departed.
Mar 6, 2011
Mar 6, 2011 at 2:44 AM UTC
I was just a tall glass of something you don’t remember ordering.
You thought you wanted someone who would wait around.
You thought you wanted someone who was okay with you running around as long as you came back to them at the end of the day.
Did you enjoy every argument?
Did you enjoy all of the wasted moments that could have been us laying together and tracing each other’s bodies?
I have a whole new body now.
I walk into the room and people pay attention, not because I am loud.
Because I demand it.
I am worthy, and **** good looking.
This cup is dripping with condensation and everybody is out here sweating in this heat.
I look **** good.
But you don’t know this version of me.
I spent so much time trying to blend in and mirror the people around me, you never got the chance to drink me in.
Do you see me now?
Can you taste it?
The taste of regret, metallic on your silver tongue.
Hurt me with your judgements.
Hurt me with your words, but never in the bedroom where I ask that of you.
Coward.
You wanted me to be weak so I would bow to you.
If I EVER bow, you’d better lay a pillow down, knowing that an empress doesn’t belong on the ground.
You looked for me everywhere.
“I like this one’s mouth”
“This one makes good conversation”
“This one does what I ask”
“This one has nice legs”
So stitch them together.
Enjoy your busy life of rushing back and forth from bed to bed and door to door to appease your needs between all of your sally dolls.
None of them will hold a candle to me.
What I bring to the table could feed a nation.
I possess the things that matter;
I even possess the things that don’t.
I’m not for these streets, I’m just in them.
Looking for new avenues.
I become the opportunist and you become lost.
You missed your exit long ago, because you were too busy looking for the gas station with the best price.
Now the road has been winding for miles and miles and there seems to be nothing around.
No sidewalks, no side streets, no signs.
Your gas is approaching E.
It’s suffocatingly humid and it’s getting dark.
You’re thirsty.
Don’t you wish you had that tall glass of water?
It’s not where you left it.
Someone else understood the value of water and gulped it down,
every… last… drop.
They even put their mouth on the cup that was meant for you.
The one you specifically asked for and forgot about.
That person is absolutely satiated.
Wherever you end up, I hope you find a cup and learn to fill it yourself.
The servers are tired and it’s closing time.
~ KD (2023) ©
Feb 4, 2023
Feb 4, 2023 at 12:40 PM UTC