"spacebar" poems
it's funny how technology
has made it impossible for us
to bury things completely
our past is never hidden
when all you have to do
is google a name
and a lifetime pops up on the screen
tonight i spent hours
reading the messages
you sent me
that said that you'd love me
forever and that you would
always be a part of my
happiness, no matter what
if this were 1953 i'd be
reading letters
and my tears would smear
the heart felt hand writing
that bared your soul
instead the salty liquid
sits stagnant on the
spacebar and i'm
holding on tight
to my screen
trying to force myself
to simply shut the laptop
hoping that closing it
will wake me up from this
dream, oh nothing is
going to wake me up
from this
says the inner realist
and i'm still typing away
about you
adding to the never-ending
archives of our love
or what it once was
May 23, 2011
May 23, 2011 at 2:28 PM UTC
Nearly five in the morning but not quite yet,
my coffee is cold, but its my best bet.
The mind is racing the body has crashed,
a ***** spacebar being constantly mashed.
In the distance there is a disgusting cough,
Just one more hour until im off.
Aug 28, 2014
Aug 28, 2014 at 6:02 AM UTC
we know how those doctors about to retire type:
index punch, index punch, left hook index tap,
brawler's right kiss index tap -
thumbs are for the spacebar!
but this little oddity got me thinking: i can tell
you that my grandfather had beautiful handwriting,
and a massive library, and all of this... under
a communist regime... more books than
the modern capitalist household, let me tell you -
oddly enough i followed suit, never truly recognised
my father aged eight at victoria coach station -
4 - 8 under my grandfather's construct -
6 - 8 psyche of a child given a doberman by
his mother and left, upon return asking
for a devil's mask in warsaw, the same devil
mask a furore at a fancy dress party in school
ripped by friends all wanting the share of
suffocating under plastic.
but this got me thinking, i never had the
proper handwriting fluidity for an A grade in
english during examination, that's always a grade
more than anything you put your mind to
in terms of content. so... on handwriting fluidity:
omega alpha beta flows nice, because the greeks
managed to convene that letters had to
have names, no wonder the export of greek lettering
into mathematics and science...
imagine if it was the romanic letters:
that's *** arr squared: peeing on the arc of triumph
seeing sqaures?! bonaparte with a bunch of pirates?!
no! πr2, the area of the ****** circle!
never mind that, that's just me overstepping
the giggles, but i think because of the non-complex
denotation of the romanic letters we have terrible
handwriting, just like it sounds, punched in by dyslexic
judy separately: look - a' b'e c'e d'e e' z'ed.
no wonder the alphabet turned to programming
and cyborg fancies - plus it's no fun trying to remember
alpha bravo charlie... i mean, it's a bit **** that nato
phonetic ******** over the phone: oscar v. ω?
ω! romeo v. ρ? ρ! sierra v. σ? σ! let's face it, greek
too ancient and romanic trying to speed up... no wonder
there's a bit of charlie and the x-ray;
or maybe this whole phoneticism is a way to say -
keep that ugly so we can lego it into beautiful stances
of the fencing tongue.
Sep 16, 2015
Sep 16, 2015 at 12:15 PM UTC
Like the purest sand brushing the tips of my porcelain fingers.
White as snow,
Hot as hell.
I catch your scent in gusts of wind,
Cinnamon, like your skin.
The blue of your eyes lingers behind the clouds.
Whirling, twisting,
Lighter, darker.
You are everywhere.
The cream swirling in my coffee mug,
The whisper of the leaves as they escape the trees.
The click of keys and the punch of the spacebar
Tip, tap,
clack.
Though muddied in a puddle,
Your reflection still clearer than my own.
I search for you in seas of people
And forget to swim myself.
You suffocate me.
You resuscitate me.
Breathe you in.
Breathe you out.
Your voice,
It’s the melody that harmonizes perfectly with mine.
Your touch, the very thought of it-
It kills me.
Rips me.
Destroys me.
Come back.
Be who you used to be,
Love me.
Use me.
Rebuild me.
Feb 8, 2016
Feb 8, 2016 at 4:57 PM UTC
i told him i could drive him home
after his safety was threatened
by the enter key.
he graciously thanked me
and curled into himself
the whole way home.
that evening, i asked him
if i had made the wrong choice
by smiling at him before school
all he said was no,
and that he appreciated my help
but that he was numb
today he asked me if i could
drive him home from school
next week
the quiver of his spacebar
was apparent to me even
without the barrier of speech,
his hesitance before
he touched the enter key
solidified the situation.
the enter key has hurt him
more than it has saved him
and i'll be honest with you
he is afraid to touch more
than just a key on the keyboard
he told me on the drive home
that he doesn't know affection
from inflection, that he recoils
at a handshake or hug
and honestly i don't blame him.
there are so many kinds of neglect
that even i can't name them all
but for someone who has been
left hanging in the dirt while the others
dance around them in circles
to simply accept how the world works
is absurd and unlikely. all of us
have our damages and we have all
been hurt by a touch.
so at the touch of an enter key
i tell him she lied to him
and he is, in fact, wonderful.
Nov 24, 2017
Nov 24, 2017 at 10:16 PM UTC
Let's just pause our friendship,
Let's just limit our talks,
And let's just play the memories spent together forever,
Let's just untangle the strings of sorrow we carry,
Let's just say it loud the guilts we keep,
Let's just stop hiding the pain and fooling ourselves,
"" OR ELSE ""
Let's just get distanced,
Let's just be the strangers which we were before,
Let's just get apart from being close friends to just friends,
Let's just fool each other and enjoy
the silence we created like that ozone layer surrounding the earth,
Let the miscommunication create misunderstanding and
Let the unspoken words be left hidden behind the spacebar of our keyboard whispering blaringly the untold stories buried in the graveyard of our dear heart,
So let's just get distanced from the formality of being just friends my dear ...
Mar 6, 2018
Mar 6, 2018 at 3:50 AM UTC
Life has given me a spacebar,
why not control and Delete?
This War is like a Self war,
I'm Fighting myself and we....I and Me is getting cornered by the ESC..
but i have found the word escape
all i wanna do is escape.
but me keeps talking like its too late.
To know i have to keep a smile on my face is getting really Tab and Shift just a lot of yelling and then Dip..
if you didn't get my drift.
i'll be the type writer on the lowkey!
God be the hands that control
I don't know me but you know I and Me has given up on myself cause i
keep typing restart.
Feb 26, 2015
Feb 26, 2015 at 5:25 AM UTC
Dwelling in letters
somehow makes you suffer than looking at the Moon
and imagine whether
he will ever stare back
with just a preview of how love looks like
Smokes are smoldered from the grumpy pipe
sadden the health, the wealth of tears
and disappear
in the thick athletic air
Slippery hope
some of yours lie alright in the future cloud
bounded by logics, flickered with his unfound
but the longest spacebar of hopeless hound is running right now
And you're the fool clown dancing alone in the circus
How do you save yourself from smearing into the blank found
heart breaks so fast
falls incredibly hard
Love tears you apart
At the very moment it didn't even start itself
And that's the preview of how the unlove looks like
Feb 19, 2019
Feb 19, 2019 at 6:34 AM UTC
this house is crowded with waiting room chairs;
this house is crowded in general.
this house has a shanty roof.
this house is made of parapraxes.
this house is made of the stuff of dreams, the stuff of sugar glass, the stuff that reminds you you are reading a poem and nothing else.
this house is a spacebar -- empty and exists to separate.
this house is made of cigarette butts and coca-cola bottles.
this house is ash -- this ash is dust -- this dust is house.
this house is broken up with empty space, dissociated.
we are those that stared up at the sky in new york city and snapped our guitars over our knees,
we are those that hallucinated t-shirts with keyboard patterns on them.
we are those that have smoked nightmares and drunk melted ice cream.
we are those that destroyed our howling vocal chords by screaming at the sun for too long, waiting for icarus to fall.
we are those that don't exist and exist at the same time, shooting the breeze at motels on the outskirts of town.
Sep 10, 2016
Sep 10, 2016 at 3:04 PM UTC