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fiachra breac Oct 2018
emotions collide in great crashing waves
as I career from sea to land to bed.
head full of static,
perpetually stuck
between channels.
white noise drenching
my soul in
rich and vibrant grey.

faint images trace across
my faulty mind,
and, for a second,
I catch a glimpse of —
a line must be drawn,
and it is here I must decide,

upon which pillow to lay my head.
I am not ready for this yet.
Heath Leonard Aug 2013
Flickering faces across a torn movie screen,
familiarity now an issue, memories hazed,
played before a blind audience,
gazing with foggy eyes.

Repeated images, phrases, sounds;
Laughter, cries, harmonies,
impossible to remember,
but one never forgets.

Eyes aware among the glass,
lone crystal tears falling down porcelain,
a whisper of laughter flies through empty air,
pained from the lonesome burden.
Carter Ginter Aug 2017
Static pours into my eardrums with an
Incessant buzz of thoughts:
I still love her.
I want to die.
**** yourself, she’s best without you.
Be alone and do it.
Stop dragging people down with you.
You’re the problem.
I need her.
She’s gone.
It’s my fault.
I’ve ruined my life.
****.
I ruined hers too.
I deserve death.
I am nothing now.
I need to die.
I'msorryI'msorryI'msorryI'msorryI'msorryI'msorryI'msorryI'ms­orryI'msorryI'msorryI'msorryI'msorryI'msorryI'msorryI'msorryI'mso­rryI'msorryI'msorryI'msorryI'msorryI'msorryI'msorryI'msorryI'msor­ryI'msorryI'msorryI'msorryI'msorryI'msorryI'msorryI'msorryI'msorr­yI'msorryI'msorryI'msorryI'msorryI'msorryI'msorryI'msorryI'msorry­I'msorryI'msorryI'msorryI'msorryI'msorryI'msorryI'msorryI'msorryI­'msorryI'msorryI'msorryI'msorryI'msorryI'msorryI'msorryI'msorry
K­ill me please.
****.
me.
Please.
multi sumus Jul 24
Visceral reverberations of vellum and gall

The marrow...The morrowed

(culminating existence-cultivated subsistence)

perturbatum ad hoc rememorara longanimitas.
julianna Feb 22
Depression is like a static
You don’t know where is starts
You don’t know where is begins
It’s just the noise
White noise
Nothing else but empty noise
sidra Sep 15
puzzled by his brooding stare
my heartbeat quickens

static lingers in the air
my posture stiffens

I glance down at the table
then back at his eyes

to dancing fire— playful—
a sensual surprise
“You look good today”
I wish there was a term to describe the sensation
of thinking too much about the end....
and the shadowy outline of the plot in between.
Yet, when I look up from my phone to discover
the hours have flown by drowned in hyper, tuned voices
blended together,
bright, artificial colors radiating from a screen,
profanity and insensitive depictions of life
scattered across the interface of the internet
like shattered scraps of stars and meteors in the galaxy,
I realize that I wasn't ever really thinking at all,
drowning out life's mysteries in the undiscovered depths
of the ocean
and my quest to seek knowledge so expansive
that I'd wrap it around the universe twice,
I chose not to look outside and see the present forces of nature
and its boundaries in a world of mankind and destruction,
didn't really want to listen to what my parents
needed me to hear; the moments when I should've grown
a layer of maturity and capability to support us all
in an environment in need of drastic change
and improvement,
didn't say the words my brother needed to
hear and process;
the jumbled up pieces of advice and experience
from a responsible older sister who was able to
put on her big girl pants and educate him
about the crooked ways of the world,
and didn't build up the hard shell of defense
against the addicting symptoms of depression and anxiety
from a society that is materialistic, sensual,
and rotten to the core.
All this time, enveloped in the gray static of my own mind,
never able to break free because  I couldn't concentrate,
and there were so many things more appealing
that flashed across my screen,
so many other realities I'd rather live in.
In the end, it all just comes back to this:
my inability to be present and to feel worth in
my own existence as a human being.
I wish there was a term to describe a person who means well,
who can envision herself striving to become
a more dynamic, open, and thoughtful person
who used to be told by others that she worries and thinks too much,
who used to be able to feel the weight of her family's value
on her shoulders,
but who also now at the same time struggles
to stay and confront the cruel reality of the world that actually exists,
who can't help but flash pretty scenery,
and listen to flowing sugary words,
and stare at beautiful illusions across her screen
to keep herself sane and awake,
who has to convince herself time and again
of the evidence that she exists,
an entity that is just as much as everyone else
entitled to a sense of life,
and who needs to remember that pain
is something to learn and grow from,
not just an excuse to tune out from the world's problems
and forever dwell in gray mindless static.
07/01/19
atlas voyager Sep 2018
i wish i were digital.
technicolor, high definition,
modern perfection.

but i’m stuck in analog.
where i feel colorless, shapeless,
and outdated.
Lawrence Hall Nov 2018
…These men are worth your tears:
You are not worth their merriment.

-Wilfred Owen, “Apologia Pro Poemate Meo”

When that loudmouth on the wireless machine
Alludes to Western Civilization
What does he mean? Paradise Lost? Probably not
Nor Saint Paul speaking on the Field of Mars

The Kalevala, Hagia Sophia
With its pendentives lifting up our prayers
Horatius fighting to defend his bridge
And Wilfred Owen dying bravely on his

Lord Tennyson and Idylls of the King
Chapultepec, Henry V, Becket
The paratroops at Arnhem, Saint Thomas More,
His King’s loyal servant, but God’s first

The Stray Dog poets of Saint Petersburg
The brave last stand of Roland at Roncesvalles
Lewis and Tolkien and glasses of beer
Montcalm and Wolfe on the Plains of Abraham

Hildegard von Bingen, Siegfried and the Rhine
Magna Carta, HMS Hood, the Thames
The Grove of Daphne, “The Old Rugged Cross”
Beatrix Potter and her little pet rabbit

El Cid, Anne Frank, John Keats, Saint Benedict
“I Have a Dream,” Dostoyevsky, and Greene
Viktor Frankl, Dag Hammarkskjold, and Proust
Good Chaucer’s naughty pilgrims telling tales

The Gettysburg Address, Willie and Joe
Stern Saint Augustine of North Africa
Wodehouse writing a jolly bit of fun
Saint Corbinian and Bavaria

The ancient glories of Byzantium
Pius XII contra the bombs and lies
The 602nd TD Battalion
Saint Joan, the Prado, and Robert Frost

And far, far more.

When that loudmouth on the wireless machine
Alludes to Western Civilization
What does he mean?
Of your mercy please pray for the repose of the soul of Wilfred Owen who was killed in action on 4 November 1918, one week before the Armistice.
Words are the chemicals
Packed in vials sublime
Untouched pure in time
Their base Property lyrical

Words are the coefficients
Reactants , The Thoughts and Emotions
To balance the emotional equation
Poetic are the words omniscient

Combustible the thoughts, fragile the emotions
Handle with care , the equations
Cold storage processed, refilled
Magnanimous ,the words distilled

Thoughts never too dormant
Never static the emotions
The words a kinetic solution
Potential they have Charmant
Some thoughts  about words

Thank you all, for all your love for this particular piece, today, 28th May, this got selected as the daily!
Will soon respond to everyone, thanks and blessings!!
**** men burning their bay leaves
in pots of static gardens
underneath all this cement
your past is looking at you indecently
so change the words around you
you can shift their meaning
its all a game and no-one's winning
your tired emotions accent your poetry
umbrellas are scars that carry symphonies in their hearts
you held my hand as we welcomed god back into our skylines
her face is as familiar as the stars
we originated from
with ulcers open in quiet hurting
your youth are wordless and distrustful of angst ridden authority
in unsuspecting situations love’s vacation is ending
her wedding gown got quite *****
since she literally spent her entire honeymoon
wandering idly into banks of muddy water
humanity is worthy of justice and sweaty romance
i breathe your flesh into my bottle
and we take boundless walks upon the clouds
that straddle mountains, graveyards and cemeteries
fresh from wading in the rice fields
i peeled you a ripe banana
under pressure your sweater came off
and revealed a perfect metric for us to emulate
your eye sockets are two umbilical chords
and your voice is a curved sword that cuts through fear
like the moon slices through the sky
i have held all of this inside for far too long
and now it comes shattering forth
spilling itself over every page
every letter an escapade almost as long
as an Eskimo's pilgrimage to safety
Juhlhaus Jan 16
Sipping the air of a city night
So heady in the cold
On the move under static lights
Little worlds about
To collide

Gravity frivolity
Draw broken hearts like earth bound stars
As the pull of every
Small storied point holds others back
From abysses beneath
Dark waters

Lone souls each
And all compose this metropolis
Joy is to be
Discovered in insignificance
Where together
We belong
Three poets walked into a bar. These are some thoughts that emerged.
Marla May 20
Turn the levels down
&
Sharpen your reception.

Stilled imminence
With jarred eminence
Will take you
Deep into a blackhole
Where life itself
Expands

infinitely

As it swallows reality
Throughout space & time
madyson shaye May 29
MAYBE I AM AFRAID TO WRITE BECAUSE IT
MEANS I HAVE TO PICK A DIAGNOSES TO TREAT
MY SYMPTOMS PLAY TRICKS ON ME SO I MIX UP LIES
BUT I PROMISE YOU I WILL ALWAYS COME CLEAN
I BRAG ABOUT MY IMMUNE SYSTEM LIKE IM NOT
THE DIRTIEST ******* YOU’VE EVER MET
BUT NOW I CARRY HAND SANITIZER EVERYWHERE
I GO THROUGH THE DAY CONCEALED BUT CONTAGIOUS
LIKE MY SISTER GETTING MONO AGAIN SIX YEARS LATER
WHY DO I CARRY A GUN? FOR DISEASES LIKE THIS
MY MOM ALWAYS SAID GOING FROM HOT TO COLD SO
QUICK WOULD GIVE ME A SEIZURE SO NOW THAT I CAN’T
FEEL TWO CONFLICTING FEELINGS AT ONCE ILL BLAME HER
I’D SIT IN A HOT BATH AND LET ICE COLD WATER RAIN
I’D LAY UNDERNEATH MY BED IN THE DARK TO *******
I’D HAVE DONE ANYTHING TO JUST OCCUPY MY OWN SKIN
Eryri Feb 5
My weekly downhill drive past your flat
And your static life in your static flat
Briefly synchronise courtesy of your mirror's angle,
Opening a brief view into your lonely life:
Your brown vintage sofa
With it's vintage orange cushions,
Your formica TV dinner table.
A retro combo,
Reminding me of the set of a 70s sitcom
Minus the laughs.
Yes, it's a terrible thing
That I can't help but gaze
At that speedy reflection
Of your Thursday nights
Above your anachronistic Everything shop;
The shop *** museum that you've curated
For forty years or more.
His army perched above in trees,
Watching the front become a feast,
Who wins, care not, in the least?

"The cawing clan of Koronos..."

The thousands black they view the fight,
Staying late for supper -feeding at night...
Picking tender morsels in illumed moon-light,

"Swarthy minions of King Koronos!"

Corvid follow Man wherever he may go,
Feathery tomes of knowledge their treasure trove,
The messengers in the House of Jove...

"His static barbizon Aves; Koronos!"

There are many kings who come and go,
Becoming part and parcel in a wicked show,
But none of them will ever match the Crow...

"Engrosser of the dead; Koronos!"
Koronos is a king from the pseudo-historical Hercules accounts by Appollodorus and Pausanias. His name means, "Crow," in Greek. With the title this piece contains 96 words and two types of verse; rhyming verse and verse. Adding the metered count by line number you get 6, 7, 7, 8, and 20 or 48 times two types of verse; 96. So the metered count works two ways as the Greek and Hebrew mystics intended. The Greeks doublet'd coronae with the Celtic Kornus. The Greeks may be word-playing off Coronae saying that the King does anything and everything that is seen as good and bad?
JB Oct 2018
I'm broke
and **** near broken

some days i can't eat at all
other days i eat too much
can't stand to look in the mirror
wishing the number i see on the scale would switch with my grades

things never go the way i want them to

too many dead ends
not enough ways out

got nothing to do
no time soon

i'm often forgotten like snow in summer

i'm breaking out
but not from this hole I'm in

my brain is constantly fizzling
hopefully soon
i'll get tired,
simply fizzle out
so this static can just
        S
    T
  O
       P

i need something,
or someone,
that takes the pain away

that fills my lungs with something other than this
undescribable
endless
void

i'm done
i'm tired of this body and soul

how many pills does it take
until i no longer regenerate?

is this a call for help?
or a way to let it all out?

but when you ask,

I'm fine
L B Sep 2016
Route 84 would not lend me
the light of a star last night
Radio blazing at 75 mph
nonsense noise to chew gum by
Crackling political commentary
Static of distance and thick clouds
Invisible mountains blocking
Memories seeping through the cracks
coating the music in a film
I rub my eyes
watch myself punch alert buttons
But it’s the angels’ jukebox tonight

Roll down the window
Watch the heat escape

Summer again

I am building a castle of ancient stones
pulverized by relentless tides
Dragged across maps by mastodons
and mammoth glaciers
The scouring hiss
the ocean sighs
Time has lulled these smoothly
rolling them in the softest hands of sand
and gels of life’s comings and goings
tenderly tumbling
in the millionth moonrise—
Time deposits them here
wet and glistening

For the girl with the plaid two-piece to gather
Shoulders sun-burnt barely say
one week only,
one week of the fifty two
“It’s the time of the season…”
and daddies on the beach are watching….

She has chosen yet another stone
And the castle continues—
in oblivion to all but her legend…

     The queen will be safe here
     from the rabble
     The disgraced Tristan will surely seek her
     Among these lofty cliffs
     Between the raging circuit of the tide
     Here winds forbid the vengeful mob
     Here lovers learn
     the debt of love’s bad timing
     “Drink ye all of it!”
     --the potion that assigns our sorrow….
     She will not sleep—
     while I chew this gum--  GUM?

Roll down the window!

Angels escape with the heat
Waking me with the brush of their wings

As that eighteen-wheeler hugs my flank
And leans on the horn
Lights flashing
Rude rumbling under right tires
Tantrum of snow
In the draft of mass and velocity

…and the angels?
They’ve chosen another good one!
They must’ve liked the 80’s
Their wings slapping the windshield madly  
Their hands steady the wheel
As a fourteen-year old, I picked up a book to read at the beach about the legend of the lovers, Tristan and Iseult.  I was so captivated by their story that it ruled my imagination that summer.  

Anyway, I still think of it when I think of the ocean-- as I did on this cold dark occasion when I should have pulled off somewhere for a coffee, but I was trying to beat the snow storm home.
Route 84, also known as Dead Bambi Highway, has a desolate, treacherous section going over the mountains between NY and Pennsylvania.  Didn't have much option for music at the time, so I leaned heavily on the radio pushing the search button to find anything bearable-- not too much static.
Song reference in this: "Time of the Season" by the Zombies-- all time favorite beach song that happened to be on the radio that night.

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=RBxK3CcOQD8
Support to the brighter soldiers....
"Making America Great Again.."
It's not a statement... it's a way to a new life...
From living one like a has-been.
Never throw your hands up...
Energy needs to surge
Before you throw your guts...
All over in fear's purge,
"You need to stay strong.."
It's automatic....
We unite as one....
Victory Becomes
The beacon of vision
Through t.v screens full of static.
(C)2019 By Kevin Michael Kappler. Beacon from The Static. Let's become great people...we are..we just lost the way. I know we can find this road, again. I hate seeing good people giving in to the hate and violence. Blessings to all.
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