"strobe" poems
The router's a strobe light;
I can't connect.
The microwave fritzed,
I can't heat.
The circuit shut;
guess no electricity.
Ayo no technology.
Let's talk ancient
philosophy,
NOT whether
Beyonce is a feminist.
Let's have a bonfire
and roast meat
cause none of us
were vegan
before this.
Let's light candles
in the streets.
Pray batteries die
on LCD screens.
Cause we were alchemists
before technology,
the versed probing
the multiverse,
thrilled,
lighting our golden
embroidery on life.
Now were just bored.
Coy toys to tied strings,
webs that touch
everything,
but the space between.
Sep 22, 2014
Sep 22, 2014 at 2:31 PM UTC
1. We are critical.
We find flaws in
everything we see
because nobody
wants to write
about perfection,
even though sometimes
we wish we could just stay
staring into that
unblemished surface.
2. We are never satisfied.
We live our lives upon
mountains of
scrunched up
bits of refill and
ideas we gave up
trying to
express.
3. We never forget.
We write words about
eye contact made
three months ago
that we replay over
and over in our minds
even though it
stopped
being relevant.
4. We are fickle.
Our emotions flash
from one
to the other
like strobe lighting that
disorientates us
until we feel as if
the world
will never be still.
5. We are exposed.
We don't know how
to keep our feelings
to ourselves so
we'll write them
down for
you to find
'accidentally'.
6. We are vulnerable.
We wear our
hearts on our sleeves
and won't lift a
muscle to fight back
if somebody tries
to break it
because we thrive
from the pain.
7. We will never stop.
We will never stop
feeling and
we will never stop
hurting,
we will never stop
breaking and
bleeding and
loving
even though the cycle
is endless
and we know what's
coming next.
We are addicted
to agony,
but we agonise
for the art.
Dec 16, 2014
Dec 16, 2014 at 11:20 PM UTC
Passion is blue,
Passion sounds like medicine rattling in a pill bottle,
Passion feels like my soul burning burning up with the most violent flame.
Passion looks like strobe lights seen through closed eyes,
It tastes like body fluids mixed with your love.
It smells like your t-shirt.
Jul 21, 2014
Jul 21, 2014 at 8:15 AM UTC
A musical trance seance under control by the hand of a shadow
A "Du hast" to a "Loco" To a "beautiful people"
A fraction of symphony, Sent by the gods of rock
Spiderweb rooms an corridor covered with the entrance to darkness set in place with danger light's, Strobe lights, an a fog machine set on auto
A haunted feel to a shack left cold an abandoned.
Equipped with superior beings and extended solo's of 6 string guitar's along with drum's and distorted bass guitar, setting the rhythm for our soul's,Feeding threw 4 large kickers.
This shadow was me
Venom
Decorated in crow face paint, Along with black attire to match my attitude
People came and went and came again
Supporting my and there craving for sublime sound
But one, the one, my goddess, my angel of death came to my dwelling, she came with a message
To indulge in my love
But also to give me a message of misery
To break me free of this chaotic world i was fixed in, with a bite to my fingertip the purified pressure was on
She wore the same colors as I
Only more dragged inline's
More pain, More beauty than she could see
I stared into her crystal corroded bloodshot eyes
I seen deep within herself
I saw pain, I saw hate for her fire, I saw hate from others
I had seen everything and nothing
I arose from my slumber to meet her in the darkness or mothers sleep
To give mother a great vision, a great dream and it was this
My angel of death, Meeting face to face, Eye to misery, Cure to disease, Beauty to ugly.
The words rolled off her tongue like the greatest embrace to a lover
Her words were sweet and seductive
Sprinkled with tears of a suicidal mind and a scarred wrist.
Then in a perfect moment are perfect tender love met with crying eyes and black lipstick.
Within that moment i ingested her misery
I took it and gave her what she deserved
Beauty
After the release of this lover's choice
We met vision and from there i seen the truth
I could never release her from this insanity
Only pamper or even embrace it
This timeless motion of misery will never stop ticking in my heart
Not till it expires!
Oct 14, 2014
Oct 14, 2014 at 10:33 AM UTC
Malice ripples
lying low, under
penetrating nightlife strobe.
Repercussions?
None to show.
Limp bodies
'getting loose'
In truth,
injected with poison;
a slow-acting noose.
Repulsive actions of the
vile & depraved
****
endorsed at raves.
Oct 25, 2021
Oct 25, 2021 at 4:56 AM UTC
in june I felt the project change
from trying charting all scenarios of your face
to looking to books to blacking out spontaneous lines in found papers
to clearly eventually
be a misneglected omen of your impending collapse.
"I would like to blame this on the weather,"
I said to the sky,
"I would like to stay."
I felt the camera flash stop taking
strobe light moments of our strobe light moments
instead slipped tape recorder in your cereal box
videotaped the tooth brush
ever scraping dead skin while you slept.
I said, "If you wake up I will know nothing."
if you call this a dream, I will shake
and shake.
I said "it is clear now that you are decomposing."
(there's only so much the heart can take.)
stopped thoughts about the bus would hit you
spent time watching the sun through your palm:
little bones will scatter light.
little scars on thumbs.
we are made up only of who puts us back together.
and I could smell the rain.
I said, "It is easier if you stay angry"
I said to the sky.
"I would like to stay."
I put the Starbucks mug on the radiator
ceased to chart your worried looks.
I knew your brow, heavy clouds as you'd undress
but made a scrapbook of frozen dinner clippings
drew a line through where you went that day.
I said, "I want to prove that you meant nothing"
I said to the sky.
"I would like to stay."
I said to the sky.
and then the rain.
Nov 3, 2012
Nov 3, 2012 at 4:44 PM UTC
My work day woke to Monk,
the click of typing keys,
clock watched, Spotify playing,
random thoughts rose like bees
to freeze in these jagged lines,
then swarm in threatening flight.
Hours of data entry later,
on a stool, in a bar, a clock's
hands tock, I flick a wrist,
and slur my words concluding
an anguished monologue,
“They call it work, you know.”
Awash at home, in the strobe of
pixelated panel light,
visions surge and dissipate
with the pulse of the night. Osip,
were you tempered to embrace
attention’s fugitive caress?
You etched memory’s texture
with candle soot for ink,
and the gulag’s blackened gaze -
I type lines by hunt and peck
humming Monk’s WELL YOU NEEDN’T,
hoping for an adequate phrase.
Copyright © 2004 Gary Brocks
Aug 26, 2018
Aug 26, 2018 at 10:38 PM UTC
The glitter of strobe
gratuitous gaiety
platitudes
and sanctimonious guile
******* cocktails
on the menu
an ingratiating mask
a gratified grin
Contorted vocal chords
lots of laughter
no time for irony
look at me.
Oct 3, 2014
Oct 3, 2014 at 8:02 AM UTC
Standing on the highest peak,
Gazing over the shadowed city,
From here it looks so frail and weak,
The fires rage, I feel no pity.
The sky is heavy, thick and black,
Thunder bellows its ominous laugh,
As explosions echo, the heavens crack,
I leave destruction in my path.
Shiva
Alarms sound and cars crash,
People running for their lives,
Lighting strikes with a strobe-like flash,
I’ll be surprised if anyone survives.
Shiva
The last of the buildings collapse to dust,
Icy rain falls from the skies,
The time has come to do what I must,
I wipe no tears from my eyes.
Shiva
Turning my back on the wretched sight,
I block my ears to the terrified screams,
And as I walk away from the light,
A skyscraper, in the distance, gleams.
Dec 12, 2012
Dec 12, 2012 at 10:56 PM UTC
The air hangs heavy today
After last nights banging of the drum
Its strobe light pyrotechnics
The awe inspiring deluge
That washed even criminality from the streets
The old horse-chestnut tree who's shade I often steal
Proudly exposes its now swollen spiky fruit
We sigh together, this old friend and I
Another summer will soon come to pass
Let us drink its final rays
Aug 5, 2014
Aug 5, 2014 at 9:34 AM UTC
By Arcassin Burnham
She said when I wanna fool around why do i always talk?
I couldn't blame you this may come as a shock,
Sending and vasting off into a deep plain with no bloodshed,
Maybe I could be the zombie in your Evil Dead,
Do things that might end up as later possible regrets,
I could be the father of grandeurs tucking you in bed,
Showered in beer , blood and threads,
Strobe blinding my eyes,
Love it when you tell me lies instead,
Girls,
They like to have a girls night out,
And when they do,
Then they need to arrive at my raves ,
Then if they don't,
Then they'll have something to regret.
Welcome To The Rave!
Apr 12, 2015
Apr 12, 2015 at 4:15 PM UTC
"That there
That's not me
I go
Where I please
I walk through walls
I float down the Liffey
I'm not here
This isn't happening
I'm not here
I'm not here
In a little while
I'll be gone
The moment's already passed
Yeah it's gone
And I'm not here
This isn't happening
I'm not here
I'm not here
Strobe lights and blown speakers
Fireworks and hurricanes
I'm not here
This isn't happening
I'm not here
I'm not here."
- Radiohead, How to Disappear Completely, Kid A (2000).
Oct 8, 2015
Oct 8, 2015 at 2:48 PM UTC
Spent my day out sitting beneath the sun
Drinking gin and tonics and Tom Collins
Reading a novel I wish would never end
But want to end
So that I may move onto and into another book waiting patiently on my shelf
Thinking about the past and the future
But living in the present with only the cold drink and book on my mind
Listening to the neighborhood kids
Grow up faster than we did
But never reach the age of maturity
They play in the streets
Dribble their basketballs
And rob houses when they need some cash
Listening to the insects make their noises
And if you listen closely
You can hear the spiders lying in wait
Setting their traps
Hoping to catch their next meal
The clouds roll across the sky
The sun hides and comes out again
I squint my eyes in the light and relax them in the shade
A slow strobe light of natures intent
The wind blows and howls periodically
Freezing the sweat on my chest
And cools me down on the parts my drink doesn't touch
There's work tomorrow but that is a decade away
And even further from my mind
Today I sit out in the sun
Drinking gin and tonics and Tom Collins
Reading a novel
That never ends
Aug 4, 2013
Aug 4, 2013 at 3:22 PM UTC
addicted
turning on you
you’re more toxic
than ******
scroll fluid
in my veins
you're dangerous
a sweet poison
harmful to my health
I fill myself with you
of your essence
every fiber of me
wants to feel you
your voice
your words
your smell
your hands
your mouth
light me up
and raise me
to dizzying heights
and they throw with me
in adrenalin
descents
that leave me breathless
you’re never enough
darkness takes you away
and I’m in withdrawal symptoms
you’re hot oil
in my veins
burn
my nervous system
my heart
is covered with pus
a thin and unquenchable
itchy
crawls under my skin
my brain cells
seeking frantic
satisfaction
in wrinkles of memory
dig every corner
crave a drop of you
forgotten on the bottom
of an empty bottle
you’re toxic
abstinence
doesn’t give me peace
I’m alienated in a whirl
of strobe lights
sweat
dehydrated
confused
find me
take me
save me
Jul 12, 2016
Jul 12, 2016 at 11:12 AM UTC
I walked past my pantry
Late one Friday night
To the sounds of what appeared to be
The goings on of a party inside
I grabbed a hold the latches
Swung wide open the door
With absolutely no earthly idea
Of what was soon in store
Colorful lights were flashing
Somewhere in the back
I moved aside the ketchup and mayo
To see where it was at
I took out the pickles and saltine's
So I could better see
What all the commotion was inside
Of my food pantry
That's when I saw the flashing lights
Inside the jar of Nutella
I picked it up right away
Me being a some what curious fella
As I held it at eye level
It vibrated in my hands
In what felt like a driving rhythm
From a 70's Disco band
Can't say I wasn't nervous
As I loosened up the lid
No telling what was going on inside
What dangers lay ahead
With both hands slightly shaking
I removed the rounded top
There was a party in the making
And it was going on non stop
The Nutella had it's boogie on
Or if you prefer, it's groove
Whatever you wish to call it
A party was the mood
There was a strobe light and confetti
Even a tiny Disco ball
As I gazed over the edge of the jar
I saw banners wall to wall
I guess you could say Nutella
Is quite the party treat
That may cost you at the grocery store
But once home the cover charge is free
Jul 4, 2014
Jul 4, 2014 at 8:22 AM UTC
Just once I knew what life was for.
In Boston, quite suddenly, I understood;
walked there along the Charles River,
watched the lights copying themselves,
all neoned and strobe-hearted, opening
their mouths as wide as opera singers;
counted the stars, my little campaigners,
my scar daisies, and knew that I walked my love
on the night green side of it and cried
my heart to the eastbound cars and cried
my heart to the westbound cars and took
my truth across a small ****** bridge
and hurried my truth, the charm of it, home
and hoarded these constants into morning
only to find them gone.
2.5k
Whoa! The thunder woke me. It shakes this little house. The lightning seems to come directly to my window and it lights up my room like strobe light. I feel very small, and very scared. It feels weird because there was a time when this weather was rather empowering; now it is the opposite. But...I recall that time to be when I was the happiest with myself. So, things have happened, and I've lost confidence. I am realizing that only I am able to talk myself into who I was. Because I've never been one to stay down long. I've got a schedule of achievements to make. I am determined to rebuild what I have lost.
And just like that... the second round of thunder encourages me and I am laughing with excitement.
Dec 17, 2014
Dec 17, 2014 at 6:16 AM UTC
They found her sprawled back there in the alley.
Dead. Asleep in the Lily of the Valley.
She was obscene and cold, flat on her back,
All for a **** hit of five dollar crack.
Beneath the grime and the blood and the gore,
The innocence, before she was a *****
Could not be seen for she met her maker,
A one hundred percent street-wise faker.
Dead blue eyes, peroxide hair, a wild vine,
Earrings in her nose, tongue; defiant sign
To the world that she is a wild child,
Who many years ago learned not to smile.
There was one thing which stood out about her,
Where everything thing else was an ****** blur.
A gold cross on a chain under her throat.
It looked out of place, as a sable coat.
A gold cross, from her unknown, murky past?
A present from someone she held onto fast?
A detective, hardened to scenes such as this,
He shuddered, covered her with a low hiss.
Blue strobe lights lit up the night near the dump,
Police milled around the unmoving lump,
Keeping the official face was a test,
Sheet covered her body, outlined her breast.
Each man, woman, working the dreadful scene,
Spoke terse, if at all, about the *** queen.
Many times they'd been called out in the night
To look at and ponder similar sights.
How much can one take before giving in
To the horror and suppress it with gin?
The one, lying still, sculptured by a fiend,
Wicked hand carving out her end, not clean.
She came to this end living the life she did,
But she was much than a ***** on the skids.
God, a detective screamed at the slaughter
Please don't let this happen to my daughter.
©August 4, 2003 / Jerry Pat Bolton
Jan 2, 2012
Jan 2, 2012 at 10:13 AM UTC
Return trip from the borderlands
and Maria, she's driving though
she's had a little too much based
on the tremors and the listless
drift of the party bus from left lane
to right.
I'm in my Chuck Taylor's,
the Warhols, the $795 collector's,
thumbing through my girlfriend's
Facebook timeline. She just bought
a Picasso, a self-portrait. I want
to stab her with the long end
of my ****** shoes. They're
on the carpeted floor. Jenny's
on the carpeted floor too. I roll
her on her side so she doesn't
choke on her own ***** Hero.
The path lights overhead start
blinking and somebody, Kate
or Kristen, I get them mixed up,
starts screaming, "Strobe." We're
in the left lane going ninety, ninety-five.
The right lane looks weak.
Jenny mumbles something as I step over her.
"What's that?" I ask.
"Read the quiet book. Love the quiet book.
the whole human experience captured
in twenty-six scattered symbols."
Someone's in the ****** laughing.
We go into a tunnel and everything
goes quiet and thoughtful and black.
Breathe in through the nose and out
the same way. Click the heels together
and wait.
Mar 23, 2015
Mar 23, 2015 at 10:28 PM UTC
The moment you were brought out from the hospital room
and I saw your soul open its eyes for the first time and
the drums of your heart start its beat
all my troubles, all my cares, all my worries fell apart
and at that moment I decided
that I would teach you to live.
You were born in the age
where to write is vintage
to think is ancient
and to love is prehistoric
but I will rewrite history for you
and make sure that you live in the past
before buildings that block out the sky
before someone decided to take time’s hands and spin them ‘til they whipped like a tornado
before people had to start paying for oxygen
because the air had become too polluted with chemicals and greed and so-called innovation but in reality every nation was just trying to be one cent richer than the other.
You were born in the age where
books are only found in museums
and flowers are only found pressed in between those books
but I will make sure you grow up with a garden of words and wildflowers
I will teach you to treasure every letter, every seed, every fern
because there's no better remedy to anything
than a good old paperback and a fistful of freshly picked lavenders.
I will teach you to walk
in a world that tells you to run, to glide, to ride
the latest, the fastest,
I will teach you to walk
not to be late for school, but to be early enough
to see the city opening its eyes
to see the machines hum to life
because there’s nothing more beautiful than beginnings
and to see the morning sun push and pull
push and pull
push and pull you away from the strobe lights
away from the stench of loneliness and lost time
I will teach you to walk so that you will be forced
to slow down, breathe, and think
because it seems to me that your generation hasn’t heard of that word before.
You were born in the age
where people look at themselves as gods
but I will teach you to see beauty
without mirrors and empty words
I will teach you the wonders of the heart
I want you to know how it feels like to watch something grow
I want you to know the joy of licking a homemade ice cream cone
but I also want you to know failure
to know how it feels like to struggle and strive
to know the pain of losing someone
because no matter what those empty advertisements and
neon screens tell you
life isn’t a dream, and the pain
shakes you and
aches you and
breaks you
reminding you that
you are alive and there is still so much to learn and
there are a million other things I want you to learn
but most importantly
and I swear to you
I’m not leaving this earth
until you learn how to live.
Sep 12, 2013
Sep 12, 2013 at 6:00 AM UTC
Strobe lights
Flashing different colors
Every which way I look
They catch the texture of my dress
As I shimmy beside you
We are a strange couple
You with your pale skin
Me with my sweet caramel twist shade
The song changes
This more upbeat
The florescent lights flash faster
The bass thrums in my heart
My body starts to feel the music.
I let go and allow my body to do the rest
I feel a tap on my shoulder
Him.
This boy
I declined
Because of an age difference
He bows and asks for a dance..
I consider
I look at my date
With a stern look upon his child-like face he nods his head at me
He doesn't like this newcomer
Yet
He let's go of my hand as if to say
"It'll be okay for one dace"
I go take this newcomers hand
And dance a slow dance during a fast paced song
Odd...
The song is over as fast as it started
The guest thanks me
and sends me back on my way
back to the boy awkwardly waiting for his mistress to return
A smile immediately illuminates his face
"We are just friends," I think
"We must be..."
As the night progresses it is soon time to leave
He kisses me on the cheek as another once once did and goes off on his way
As I do mine
I see the visitor once more but I decide to evade him
For he is not worth my time
He does not notice me
Good.
I am off
Off to sleep
Now safe in my bed
Homecoming?
Perfect way
To end my night.
Feb 17, 2013
Feb 17, 2013 at 5:33 PM UTC
For Sam Cook and Michael Lee
While standing at Marshall and 140th
the lightning over the horizon begs me to come to it
it's like the flickering streetlights, seeming like silent firefights,
simply asking to be looked for.
When I still elementary,
I used to watch the sky as the bolts shocked the earth
and I'd count:
one
two
three
Until I heard the boom and crack of thunder
three miles away, at least, the fourth graders said each second was a mile
it could have been true, it could have not, yet still I watch the light.
The flickering of the fading streetlamp tells me that this moment is not going to last forever
that it will not be heavenly or touchable, but it is there
and it wants you to touch the light as it flickers like a strobe light
like kids playing with the tabs of flashlights
and like the first discovery of light switches
and I'm reaching out so far.
Trying to grab hold of a piece of simplicity,
of normal,
of what I can always find:
Mistakes and wounds
and trying to hold on
Because lately, it seems like the only places we want to flicker are in the clubs.
Standing on a planet where illness and difference are cause enough to torch cities.
We like to light the fires and we like to watch them burn,
but we could care less about what their burning
and it seems like the dark ages came and stayed,
But like tributes to Guy Fawkes say:
*A man can be killed and forgotten,
but four hundred years later an idea can still change the world*
So I think as I stand at that intersection
watching the streetlights and the night's light bulbs flicker on and off like the light in my head
I can feel my fingertips prickle and I seize that moment to reach for the lamppost and final destination
those kids are flipping tabs faster and faster
my hair is at attention
and I can feel the race.
For a second,
everything slows down.
The streetlight stops flickering as my fingertips come upon it
and the lightning illuminates the sky
I can feel the breeze push my hair to this minutes path
and for a second,
I have something.
I pull my fingers away from the light and it returns to its flicker
the lightning fades away
and the boom comes in.
And here, standing at what once for me was Marshall and 140th
I realize,
that all I have
is all
I'll ever claim to know
Oct 21, 2012
Oct 21, 2012 at 6:48 AM UTC
As fridge-rator to beer in the head between the ears adorned with flashy widgets with which to trap the hoes he hopes that he can pull into his poles. His gravity whips wide so hands find and feel up erthing that gots the tail, he wants to rail so hands out he walks and tilts to one side and back holding his glass. Two fingers limp around the rim, dipping his fingertips into the juice like he wants to dip into you, pinkies as he holds your head forcing you to **** like you want his come as much as he wants to come. Then when done zips up, runs out, ***** sayonara", switch rerun mode without emotion. He floatin. He floatin. He gloatin.
Head on the couch back making tired, one eye open scoping everyone's glow as they move, when up he comes sittin in my face, spittin what he thinks I want him to say, I'm like, **** guy control that tongue, you spray like that always I'm afraid I won't take that wild **** as tool is to you as to yo ***** Right ******* ****** spittin harder in the lean up perhaps the lead up to fist flung to react. "Man you too loose, I gotta tell you, I've got just what you do." "Your uh ****** Man watch ya flavor of language, I got just enough ****** left to get hard and stomp you, heel first in boots bought to stomp, pre-emptive to deal with the bullwhip effect where first you droolin to **** me, then retract like a bowstring because my ***** resembles a **** "What you want, ***** You wan **** this **** for real?" (For real?) He floatin. He floatin. He floatin the room, he ghosting.
Lick my lips, cept it's not a tongue. For this purpose it's strobe lights, in light show, and like snow, black and white between sheets of plastic TV screen on get settled into my flow, rip back and forth like prongs on a fork on your ******* blindfolded and scolded right angle, bent like an L-shape repenting for **** by taking the ****** flash cards, held up on headboards, trying to teach you metrics and standards lacking in you to tune you into the lifestream, no empathy and no tact to show, remember this hell well while you sail through life preying, I'm praying and making marks in meat coats. But he floatin. He floatin. He gloatin.
Dec 27, 2014
Dec 27, 2014 at 11:32 PM UTC