"shredder" poems
Stretch marks.
Cellulite.
Scales.
Want.
Pretty
Reflection,
Is that really me?
Knife.
Shredder.
Fats be gone.
For the better.
Please?
Jun 6, 2014
Jun 6, 2014 at 2:49 AM UTC
Dear exams,
I'm sorry to say, but I've lost all interest in you. I don't see why I didn't
lose interest in you sooner to be completely honest. I use to love learning
new things and cramming useless information into my cranium, but I must
say that forcing myself to study to pass your standards is just not who I am.There's no need to throw a question I cannot answer in my face whenever you're upset. Nor do I have to explain myself to you for that matter. Has anyone told you you ask a lot of questions?
I must admit that I am not perfect, but neither are you. You are filled
with errors and flaws that I must say are simple mistakes. I will always
remember you, but I don't think my memory of you will be a fond one...
I am grateful for all the support you've given me especially with my
grades, but I will admit that understanding you was difficult. I remember
hopelessly thinking about you all night after seeing you. I felt terrible
because I literally had no idea how to go about answering your fifty
questions. Even though you gave me choices it was still a difficult decision
to make. I went home that night disappointed thinking that I had messed
up my only chance with you.
But now you're back, but I admit I am definitely not excited about it.
And I will see you again today, which like I said I am not excited about. I
guess that all we can ever be now is acquaintances. A student to exam
relationship that definitely bares no love what so ever. I cannot wait to be
done with you. As they say, there are a million exams in the library...
And they should all be thrown away.
P.S: The paper shredder was looking for you.
Sincerely,
The unhappy student
Jan 23, 2015
Jan 23, 2015 at 2:56 PM UTC
The ruler comes down from on high
Dragging himself along the earth
Insulation going up like confetti
Take cover, take shelter
Ice the size of softballs
Comes streaking from the sky
There’s nowhere left to run
Huddled under the bridge
And then a sound like rushing water
Feels like a freight train overhead
We weep and cry and gnash our teeth
As the trumpet blares
Drove down Telephone Road
Where it crosses the highway
Sandcastles washed out to sea
Old bills put through the shredder
Nov 2, 2013
Nov 2, 2013 at 12:50 AM UTC
Last night they checked my garbage can.
It’s a good thing that I have a shredder.
My cell phones records are of interest-
I’ve made calls to known “tea baggers”.
Warrant-less “burglaries” have been made,
then I find my screen door broken.
The I.R.S. just called again
my case has been “ reopened”.
On every airline trip I take
I’m “Caressed “by the T.S.A.
I’m almost ready for a cigarette
after they’ve had their way.
Such harassment is “kinder spiel”
compared to what comes next.
They have a “brain wave” scanner
that can translate thoughts to text.
So I wear a cap of aluminum foil
whenever I’m on American soil.
To protect my ideas before they find them
I always make sure to copyright them.
Jan 16, 2012
Jan 16, 2012 at 8:18 AM UTC
In a tiny allotment right next to the zoo
A miniature jungle was planted and grew
The flora was dense and the air became hot
But confined to a tidy rectangular plot
An unthinkable duo of creatures converged
And it's said that a spanking new species emerged
For a curious beast was reportedly seen
Roaming and munching on anything green
Make haste! Away! It's the Buffagorilla!
A shredder of lettuce and cereal killer
With hooves at the front and hands at the rear
The Buffagorilla is near!
It shambles about at the darkest of hours
On hedges it crunches and bunches of flowers
On daffolil bulbs and petunia petals
With hearty aplomb on a cluster of nettles
Covertly perusing with maximum hush
It can wander through gardens disguised as a bush
No carrot or parsnip is safe in its bed
And the marrows are quaking in vegetable dread
Depart! Retreat! It's the Buffagorilla!
The broccoli butcher and vegetable killer
With ape like features and horns of a steer
The Buffagorilla is near!
So if you hear a mention of butternut theft
Or notice a garden, all bare and bereft
Insure your potatoes for damage and loss
Give the salad a purely precautionary toss
For a creature is roaming the byway and track
With its legs at the front and its arms at the back
And it might be your gooseberries or chervil he spies
So I beg you take heed as I once more advise
Be gone! Take flight! It's the Buffagorilla!
The strawberry napper and cucumber killer
Just hide in your cellar and steer well clear
The Buffagorilla is near!
Nov 20, 2013
Nov 20, 2013 at 7:07 PM UTC
Lots of people love their dogs,
weirder people love their frogs,
there are lots and lots of pets out there,
many which don't even have hair!
You could get a parrot now,
or if you had the space - a cow.
You could get yourself a bald eagle,
(even though it's totally illegal).
People will sell you any pets,
even ones that like it wet,
pets are funny, pets are neat,
but please kids,
stop throwing your pets in the streets.
Don't hit the chicks with claw hammers,
you're not "making it even", it's just bad manners.
Don't put the cats tail in paper shredder,
there's no way it'll make him look or feel better.
Don't strangle your owl,
with a towel.
Don't hang your goose,
with a noose.
Avoid these sick and twisted things,
in fact, avoid pets - just go play on the swings.
Jun 10, 2014
Jun 10, 2014 at 6:27 PM UTC
I
The characters on the ashen keyboard were faded, now yellow smudges remain
and the words that once danced like clouds in his mind had been evacuated
Reading back on a thousand pages, the writer realised that he was wrong
while the shredder destroyed the lives of every personality he had created
(God's fading smile)
Littering the floor were the shards of paper, twisted and unnerving
Thin strips made new languages, new words, forlorn dictionary
Grasping at the shreds, our writer assembled a masterpiece
Seward on the Ouija board, advice from beyond
(Joyce laughed from) the grave
Scrawling longhand in a notebook on a jaunting bus through the city
No eye-contact, no interaction, careful contemplation
To the river he headed, concrete conscience
Writing nothing
Careless disregard for the laws of language
While they shunned his intellect
and tore pages before him
Scornful
No education, just a passion for words
Running away from his sadness
and learning that it don't stop
Ripples in the water
Single raindrop
Stop.
II
Start,
A tear fell backwards
Wrinkles in the brow begin to fade
Experiencing happiness for the first time, sweet joy
Sprinting in reverse, looking for the smile, return to a face
Think back to schoolyard glory and the books that were once relished
Admiration
They glued his life together
Praising the grinning genius before them
Careful preparation, consulting his Bible, The English Dictionary
Writing everything
To the world he was headed, mind free of guilt
Shaking the hands of a thousand folk, the happiness in a community
Caressing the keys of a pristine writing machine, black ink perfection on a white page
(Joyce sighed from the grave)
Seward on the Ouija board, applauded from beyond
Grasping at his hands, "this writer assembled a masterpiece"
Thin pages made new languages, new words, pregnant dictionary
Littering the coffee tables of many a home, words of beauty and precision
(God's enlightened gaze)
While the printer confirmed the lives of every personality he had created
Reading back on a thousand pages, the writer realised that he was correct
and the words that once drifted like clouds in his mind, now bees making honey, eternal hive
The characters on the immaculate keyboard were dazzling, free from corruption and scrutiny
Apr 17, 2013
Apr 17, 2013 at 1:46 PM UTC
i.
i still feel you in those times when i can drain the pain from my veins just long enough to smile, before it rips my skin and crawls its way back into my blood stream.
ii.
you are every poem i have ever written about love in a nutshell. you are so **** pretty. your pretty is a shredder, still ripping me to particles when all i want to do is sleep. forever.
iii.
i'd sing no doubt but you don't speak anyway. if i disregarded that though, would you see the irony? would you see that what i mean is i love you, i love you, i freaking love you, and i'm sorry i didn't try hard enough.
iv.
i still think you weave words like blankets for newborn angels. even when the blanket is wool, and it's itchy, and god babe, was that last poem about me? because if so, i want to ask if i'm a baby angel or if i'm just one or the other, a baby or an angel. because right now i don't feel like either, i just feel lost.
v.
you make me sick.
vi.
not because i don't love you.
vii.
i'd prefer you burn me with words instead of whipping my already scarred heart with silence. now my wings are falling off and i am falling apart with them. the cloud i'm floating on is pitch black and its on a pathway to something horrible.
viii.
i define fragility with silent sobs in the back of my throat. my wrists still throb even though for almost a year, i've been totally clean. the amount time i've been clean is coincidentally very close to coinciding with the amount of time i've known you, and i don't know if ever knew you because i never thought you'd just go like this.
ix.
i left for you. almost everything i do is for you- why don't you understand?
x.
i'm still not ready to say goodbye so the change in the weather tries to do it for me. it says that a new season means a new life, and since i didn't know how to live without you in the old one, maybe now i can learn to live without you in this new one.
xi.
this is almost a goodbye. one day, maybe it will be.
Oct 4, 2016
Oct 4, 2016 at 7:00 PM UTC
I have a friend who plays guitar
I've worked with thousands ... but none quite like him.
His chord choices, the melodies and the riffs that he plays
They can only come from within.
He's been out living as a big rock star
But that's not quite the world that you'd think.
It's a rugged, rough struggle of perseverance and passion
And your life flashes by in a blink.
He isn't a shredder as are many these days
Never cramming notes where they don't belong.
He is tasteful and creative, a sound so original
His strings envelop the songs.
He has no need to display some arrogant plumage.
He doesn't show off with any thousand-note solos.
He doesn't do intros that are way too long.
His moody style transcends virtuoso.
He is my friend and proven it so
Once guiding me through a valley of black.
Not with his music, although that helped.
He did so with his hand on my back.
A music teacher once told me that
"Music is the silence between notes".
If that is true, then his silence is golden
As I love every song that he's wrote.
So all you pickers, players and shredders
in garages or with gold albums on the wall.
Take a lesson, from this humble man
You needn't over play at all.
But don't think that he is timid or without some flair
Don't make boastful quips that you think are so witty.
If the mood and the moment strikes him just so
He can make that guitar sound like Godzilla destroying a city.
I am so proud to call him my "Brother"
Such a musician, such a friend.
His music and his camaraderie have both touched my soul
and I hope that neither see's end.
Mar 12, 2018
Mar 12, 2018 at 7:41 AM UTC
I didn't know you could read lips,
so I laughed unreasonably hard when
people were telling you their ********
excuses for not being able to
donate money to you
and your family for Christmas.
The irony being I gave a stranger a
roll of quarters the other day
because they asked,
and I'm eager to lose all riches and go insane.
Yelled at my girlfriend for the first time yesterday;
she was frustrated that I wasn't frustrated that
she was upset, so
I banged my head against the wall and screamed
"What am I supposed to do?"
Still have the mark somewhere under this free haircut.
I don't get how we all push people away
and beg for them to chase us.
Never give me a word, but always
want me yearning. Not old yet,
but not from lack of trying.
Not wise, but it's not desired.
Fools make kinder people anyways.
Amen to "I'd rather get ****** and keep giving."
Guess you could say I make it rain on those in need,
but please don't. Don't ever say that to anyone.
Write it down somewhere unspecified and
lock it in a drawer, or light it on fire.
Put it through a shredder,
I'll tell you a little secret,
I'll try to tell you a secret;
Most of us are more selfless than Christ.
Merry Christmas in August.
Sep 2, 2014
Sep 2, 2014 at 10:03 AM UTC
We all derive from the same paper
that which is forcefully folded,
patiently pressed and
carefully creased.
We all speak through the same pen
that wishes for stencils,
grimacing at unpracticed,
crooked lines.
We all take action with the same scissors,
cutting away from the whole
to create paper people
holding hands.
We all are constructed in the same accordion,
snipping away the background
that falls like snowflakes
to create identity.
We all fear severing the same sections
that conjoin one being to another,
waiting with knives in our hands,
anticipating to cut.
We all fall from the separation,
slicing the connections that bind us,
sacrificing our grip
that suspends us in safety.
We all meet at the bottom
of the same paper shredder,
lost in the screams of its blades,
obsessing ourselves to be
broken pieces of an individual,
but forgetting that we paper people
once all derived from the same paper.
Apr 7, 2016
Apr 7, 2016 at 12:38 AM UTC
Every abrasion
Is a souvenir from the edge
Forever pairing the glass of red
With melancholy
Place the pitiable ruins of this ephemeral vivacity
Through the shredder
Go forth and breeze through life
Never mind the dagger
In my back
Cast a shadow on my existence
Crucify me, captain.
Feb 1, 2014
Feb 1, 2014 at 8:25 AM UTC
I pulled out a scarf and pretended to be a fortune teller;
thick insense, marijuana. Lottery smile.
I'd never lie about my lucky document shredder, my broken down motorcycle.
Not like cheap wine poured over cellulite; a hog dripping blood; she hunter fed on leaves.
Should the basketball hoop fall at a different angle and spare your clavicle, you would
see smoke signals from the squatters place- their fruitcake is delicious.
Can't be sure about their dog though, their dog had rabies and a collar that says FREELANCE.
I put too much hot sauce in the hashbrowns. I was still drunk.
I told my boyfriend his fortune was insincere,
that I am [today] a dead pilot and a stripper and a jilted florist all before noon.
Dec 27, 2014
Dec 27, 2014 at 8:39 AM UTC
Woke up on the cold side of
the bed again.
Lit my cigarette by the wrong end.
With decisions to weigh and debts to pay,
I dance better by myself.
Abandoned paved streets
shadowed by bright city lights;
a motionless breeze gives flight
to broken kites.
The man in the hammock dangling
by a string
stays aloft in his solitude.
In the trivial pursuit of a
worthwhile endeavor
a life neatly filed away is run
through a shredder.
Spoonfed as a child then left all
alone;
jilted like a bad penny.
Seeing through a prism of a dull
grey shade.
Bewildered at the ease of a
one-sided trade.
She built you a throne made of
leather and silk;
a throne made with only three legs.
Jun 4, 2013
Jun 4, 2013 at 12:18 AM UTC
I wanted the high school sweetheart to want me
But she had another plan in store
It almost hurt me at the core
Than i realized that there's already too much sadness surfacing here
So i must distract myself, persevere
Before i could ever endure
The harsher realities
This wasn't a fatality
Calm down, calm down
I'm not taking it to heart
I'm not falling apart
I'm just building a new start
Another chance could come
But I'll forget about it until then
If there's ever a then
I'm not a bleak beach, but I'm a summer you can't sweat out
Staying as long as i can
My mind is more open than the borders of the land of the free
Not everything is free
So why don't you take on me?
No? It's all good in this neighborhood
Economy is still balanced
People are still working
Which i mean my white blood cells
So there's no reason to get angry and yell
It's time to sell
My previous plan to the mental shredder
They'll really love the business
Trust me, they've been harping on it for far too long
I might need to lecture them soon
I'm not tolerating any doom and gloom
In my own living quarters
In my mind
This city has to grind
To be noteworthy
Just like the external ones
So i apply the double standards firmly
Hold your heart that way
When you think it might sink
Prevent yourself from the baleful think
Take out your gloss like Tink
And put an end to this possible siege of lapsed judgement
Aug 13, 2016
Aug 13, 2016 at 12:45 AM UTC
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=kXRW5nnb4VQ&feature;=youtube_gdata_player
The most aware voice of my generation. If you like David Foster Wallace or Mark Strand then etc..... Take Chuck P's "Fight Club" and send it through the shredder of the tradition since, say Shelley, add some good science and dialectical thinking and you have Timmy (well, one part of TD's voice, as there is much more) Please check out his culturally & historically significant poems out. Please.
Dec 26, 2013
Dec 26, 2013 at 3:07 PM UTC
I'm sat at my window the snow softly falling,when I hear the telltale "clickity clack" of a pair of heels.
I imagine the wearer, tall by the time lapse in clicks,
wearing warm well cut clothes, due to the weather.
Her heels beat a tattoo, loud in the night time silence.
Echoing into the dark.
Hush, do you hear it? A softer step, masking its existence in time with her heels. No? Listen at the deep silence, stabbed by the staccato stilettos,
there, a soft crush in the snow. Her heels have quickened their tap,tap, tap on the pavement, the snowfall has also quickened, and so has the soft crushing steps of a man.
My heart imitates her stilettos, dread clutches at my core.
There it is the muffled scream that stops the stilettos,
snow is voicing a struggle, it's fresh crispness creaking and crying.
These noises are not new, they're why I sit at the window,
listening for the female, the male, the footsteps, the scream,
knowing that in the morning the news will feature the man dubbed
"The stiletto shredder".
Me, go as a witness you say, how?
He does what he does outside my window knowing I can never tell,
I'm his perfect witness,
I'm blind.
Jan 20, 2015
Jan 20, 2015 at 10:04 PM UTC
like a piece of paper
printed-stored in a dark file
then -after a while placed inside a shredder
that how useless i felt
when our love went through the wire
it doesnt matter how much i couldve prayed
but i had fallen pray
of this cycle of life that happens day by day
like a piece of paper
i got recycled-re vived again
as to become useful to somone
out there
willing to make me appreciated again
turning me into something different
making me feel useful again
pegz (c)
Jan 19, 2010
Jan 19, 2010 at 1:29 AM UTC
The last girl I kissed told me I have a heart like a colander,
it is 2007 and I have not met you yet
there was no reason for my feelings to be wet grounds in coffee filter
I had yet to need the caffeine, but with you,
it lays there soaking
more than five years of boiling into unattractive brown sequins.
I am still kind of the same: still hear
pinecones hitting the roof and think that rain is falling
still dream about ************ in front of my biggest infatuation.
My heart still strains a bunch of gunk, I think it could be a kidney too
but now it simmers for a while first and stores
images in locket cases, now sometimes I believe in love,
it is 2013 and my name means serene
yours is “wealth” for every bit of love you can collect, are keeping.
The last girl I kissed would not believe I gave any at all
I even rejected the sea
because inside every conch, I heard creatures who could touch me
if I would just climb into their shell-walled places.
When I was thirteen, I attempted to cook pasta without water,
this was also when I was obsessed with
cutting every photograph in my mother’s reserve
either to display it on my white plaster door or to **** those pictured.
I murdered eight different family members and myself
nine times without even sending them through a paper shredder.
I am still kind of the same:
though I soak everything up before I can throw it away.
May 7, 2013
May 7, 2013 at 4:18 PM UTC
Dilapidated ruins of gravestones
Cracking up remains of my decayed bones
Lying still…lying still!
The spirit leaves in haste
To clean up all rotten waste
From the last one I killed to leak the blood to taste
Roaming free still in hopes of vein
To snap ‘em up ‘n leash ‘em all
****** human beings struggling against my reins
No wastin’ my hopes, no waitin’ in vain
To see if the blood pours down with the rain
Who waits…Who cares, just strangle with a chain
Burn in electric chair to ashes n throw ‘em down the drain.
You, you all come over here
Put your head in shredder, make it tear.
Die a brutal death, make me cheer
Lose your sight, lose your limbs, forget what you hear
Useless reasons support your faith
No use of you, just stop that breath.
You were already dead
You are still dying
You will still do so, every single day
Die oh Die, Die please Die
Don’t bother others, hoping they cry
You are the same loser mortal
Who didn’t succeed in any try.
Worthless slaves Must DIE!!!
May 9, 2010
May 9, 2010 at 7:20 AM UTC
This morning I watched a girl’s heart
sink a few inches.
Through the bottom of her stomach,
past the only thing I’m keeping her around for -
It clawed through the crooks in her ankles,
and spilled out onto the sidewalk,
into pools of red,
before sinking into the earth.
My love for you,
engulfing her
suffocating her breath,
smothering out moans of my name.
Suffocating her until “oh gods” turned to
“oh...god.”
My name,
on her lips,
“while I dream about your lips,
on my hips”
like in the poems i wrote you when i was sixteen.
You killed her with memories of your tongue
.
Spitting “I’m so sorry” at me
for the hundredth time.
She died in the echoes of my shouting,
asking you if
“lonely” was worth it.
Was it a good enough excuse?
I’d take you back in a heartbeat.
And now i’m left with a stack of apology letters
unstamped,
headed for the shredder.
Alyssa,
I’m sorry for not calling you back.
I was just writing to ask what gave me away;
Was it my inability to look you in the eye,
or did you hear me whisper her name?
Hannah,
You’re one of the sweetest girls I’ve ever met.
Our time just wasn’t right.
Bryn,
Thank you for coming to see me that night,
after your late shift,
during dinner with your mom,
I owe you one.
You came clear across town to watch me cry,
all because she sent me a letter.
Emily,
God Em,
I wish I could mop your heart back up.
Suction it right back through the arches of your feet,
Guide it through your stomach,
weave through your rib cage,
and land right her within you chest -
where it belongs.
“lonely”
is a good excuse.
Jan 6, 2019
Jan 6, 2019 at 2:03 PM UTC
we'd worked it all out in our heads
but when we'd made it to our beds
our dreams ruined everything
and we pulled apart anything
to make some sense of something.
we'd worked it all out on paper
but it slowly reached the shredder
for the sake of it never working out
because what this was all about
was deeper than the tile; it was in the grout.
so we had to start at the base
and gave ourselves the space
to make it all work in one way
and that's when i began to say,
"you're dead, as the horse is to his hay."
Oct 15, 2012
Oct 15, 2012 at 7:58 AM UTC
Are they snowballs down in hell
or just fire, smoke and heat?
I must live forever in my shell,
solving the matters of your deceit.
You put my feelings in the shredder,
wearing that silly mask of Cupid,
I'm guilty. I should have known better.
You're Evil in disguise, and I'm so... stupid.
You were feeding me with charming lies
about how your Sun is kissing the snow,
you made me walk away two thousand miles,
now I don't live at home anymore.
We should stop playing this blame-game,
and don't hide behind the shadows of a traitor,
the loneliness is whispering now my name,
believe me, you will thank me for this... later,
when your raven years will bring you wisdom,
you'll sit and have your morning breakfast,
you'll make confessions to God's kingdom,
only then you'll triumph over Life's tempest.
Apr 30, 2019
Apr 30, 2019 at 4:32 PM UTC
The multitude is flowing ahead
Teeming with dreams and hope
Crammed, with little place to move
There is dearth of space in the mind
Physically, we are reaching fatigue
What do we have for choice?
The power to choose is taken away
Our choices influenced by publicity
Duplicating a parallel world of feel good
Yet, deep down we are queasy
Something is not right, not identifiable
Blinded by the dazzles of show- biz
As if, all the actors are being directed
Chosen to play a role, not ours to choose
Memorizing written scripts, to deliver
Speeches which are not ours, we feel
Our dreams invaded, and manipulated
Our originality, suppressed in the makeup
Masquerading, our inner thoughts and ideas
Repeating the same role everyday
Delivering the scripted dialogues
Keeping in mind that we are here for audience
Our originality and individuality torn apart
Our original script has gone down the shredder
Who has the energy to pick up the pieces?
To join, the strewn dreams and live in a new way
We are just a created avatar, directed, indirectly
Of what we love, wear, eat, and live our life
Swept away by the waves of multitude
Individuality is relegated to the dark confines
Where can we start searching, our real counterpart?
© Amitav (Radiance)
May 17, 2014
May 17, 2014 at 11:16 PM UTC
Torn margin, yellow age
Empty whites, nothing pages
Much powder, talcum trees
Birds, endoskeleton, bees
Shredder circling claws reach
Ring, ring, ting, and some bleach
Mula lost, wormful peach.
Jan 15, 2018
Jan 15, 2018 at 7:34 PM UTC