"subscribed" poems
We friended on Facebook,
Scrolled down our profile pages.
Lived together in a virtual world.
Our images and websites we shared
With Instagram incisiveness.
Meet all my friends.
Block any you do not like.
All busy we are, doing nothing.
Like if you agree.
Laptops were not enough.
Users subscribed to Smartphones,
Iphones, and God knows what.
Google them if you wish.
And if you like my words
Retweet them.
But beware!
I now use words like lol,
And even ***
Hehe.
Sometimes I multitask,
Flicking TV channels
Like a Subbuteo striker –
Gone virtual by now I guess.
Flicking and flipping while I scroll
My laptop page.
I make new tabs
As I message many friends:
Emoticons exploding
All along the way.
I’m Tivo-boxing clever
All the time,
King of my domain.
So get your VDU lit up
And monitor my words.
Download my thoughts
Into your memory banks.
I hope this all computes.
Paul Butters
Feb 5, 2015
Feb 5, 2015 at 4:10 PM UTC
In haste,
I took the first woman like a whiskey shot--
every ounce of her scarred my throat
kept me silent, kept me staggering under the weight.
When the bottom shelf love went beyond full bloom,
I vomited her up, leaving me with a headache.
In good conscious,
I took the second woman like an aspirin pill--
every milligram of her alleviated the pain
kept me similar to content, kept me tame.
When the effects wore off and I pined for another drink,
I put her in the cabinet, leaving me rambling nomadic.
In guilt,
I turned myself into the third woman like a penitent criminal--
every liter of her blood solidified
kept me wrapped behind her bars, kept me seeking her good graces.
When the prison sentence drew to a close,
I left her behind, walking with an unwashable history.
The fourth found me frightening,
the fifth just ignored,
the sixth designated me the "other man",
and the elusive seventh only said, "You could do better."
In my mind,
the pills, prisons, and liquor melded --
the days cut short,
the nights grew long,
but I could do better
I could do better
I could do better.
I sold the pills, I poured the whiskey down the sink,
I left prison to the prisoners,
and in the mirror I became a religious practitioner.
To the Church of Better I subscribed.
Sober, lone, and free my cry.
To the darkness I whispered:
I am the resurrection,
I cannot be killed,
I am the resurrection,
the Buddha,
the Jesus,
the Krishna,
the Allah.
I am the resurrection,
born again and again and again.
Sep 16, 2012
Sep 16, 2012 at 3:08 PM UTC
[Fanfare, obviously]
This poem should begin with the call of a bugle,
as is fitting for an ode of Braveheart Macdougal.
Children of Parklands, take heed and be wary,
as I relate now, in verse, a tale cautionary.
Benigna Murdie was a most virtuous lass,
blesséd with promise and a penchant for sass.
To peer pressure she was admirably immune,
and ne'er did she bow to the temptation of goon.
Nary a drop of ***** has e'er passed her lips,
save for politeness and church-mandated sips.
Yet even the mightiest fall-- what a pity!
(harder than I did that night in the city).
So I hope you all glean a moral from this,
and your interpretation does not go too amiss.
But all is self-evident, to quote Descartes,
so allow me to recount this tale from the start.
She hails from a country renown for their piety,
for their pacifist ways and universal sobriety.
The Scottish are known throughout the land
for their temperance of character and lightness of hand.
And our poor Bennigles was no rule-exception,
she subscribed quite wholly to this perception.
A more reserved and reclusive girl you've not seen,
virtually a saint at only nineteen.
Passed out on the couch, liquor was never the root,
only strain from the studying and academic pursuit.
A paradigm of virtue, a pillar of purity,
no “that's-what-she-said's” to compromise maturity.
But that all changed one day touched by fate,
when Rachel realized that hedonism's great.
She took to the streets to revel in her glee,
and legit nothing bad happened cause this isn't tv.
Alas, now I'm drunk and the screen is a-shaking,
perhaps of wine I should halt my partaking.
I cannot continue with this facetious ode,
as we all well know that this is a total load.
But I'll miss you, my Brit, and our shitshow nights,
our Australian exploits and your culinary delights.
Sorry I couldn't finish to detail your demise,
but perhaps I'll conclude after an Australia-reprise.
Feb 13, 2013
Feb 13, 2013 at 6:20 AM UTC
Somewhere on the moon last night, Neil Armstrong came back to life and was standing in the middle of the Sea of Tranquility in complete darkness. His frail, decaying hands that were no doubt filled with formaldehyde, held a rather large and sure-to-be extremely heavy boombox that loomed up and over his head, blasting “Total Eclipse of the Heart” on repeat. He said that it crossed his mind more than once to replace the six faded white American Flags with the stereo, but ultimately decided against it.
In mythology, bleeding is considered to be a feminine attribute:
“I bleed, therefore I am.”
(But this is also the downfall of a version of feminism that is not intersecular.) ((Your lunar cycle does not necessarily need to function in order to be considered a woman.)) (((I am not sure of which, if any, version of feminism Neil Armstrong subscribed to.)))
When a woman is bleeding, they say that she is at the height of her power; she is aligned with the tides and the cosmos. She is celestial. Blood is sacred,
eternal—the very essence of our beings—
but if the Blood Moon was
really just the moon on her period,
what could she do last night she could do at no other point in her life?
Where was her power? She was isolated,
forgotten by the sun,
hidden away inside the umbra of the earth.
(Which is the part where the masculine power of the sun rejected the most important feminine attribute of the moon.)
Michael Collins flew solo around the moon while Neil Armstrong and Buzz Aldrin played with dust and rocks. For 48 minutes he was completely alone, radio silenced behind the shadow, and he thought about death and being the last man standing from Apollo 11.
Inside Neil Armstrong’s speakers, Bonnie Tyler was crooning that
“your love is like a shadow on me all of the time,”
and I have not yet decided if this is
good or bad.
Instead, I am wondering if Buzz Aldrin feels sore for
eternally being second best? Or if he still thinks that the view from the
moon is still one of “magnificent desolation?” And
does he feel this way about all three of his ex-wives?
Do they know that the moon was his first love?
We name missions to the moon, to
Luna’s surface, to Diana’s territory, after a
Greek and Roman god of the sun, when
wolves howl to the goddess
instead.
Oct 1, 2015
Oct 1, 2015 at 8:42 PM UTC
I was just reminded why
my pencil is so dear.
Commented on a post ...
...replying in poetry to the host, the battery died
and one if my best pieces
just disappeared.
I struggled in vain
to write it again but
gave up ....
had a fit in a hurry.
Had I subscribed to the prescription I apply,
I wouldn't be sitting here worried.
I still have poems I wrote
when I was 13
because I write old school
.....in pencil on paper.
Sure they maybe faded,
torn, have some folds
but at least they
didn't just become vapor.
So if it hasn't happened to you, learn from this fool
cuz losing prized verses
is not ever cool.
And if it already has,
beware....
technology again
Is not your friend,
It won't pay dividends
So don't be crass
Cuz you'll be
near the end
then **** ...
its gone ....
having bitten you
right on the ***
Aug 19, 2018
Aug 19, 2018 at 1:28 AM UTC
I still can't go there.
To that little swatch of grass
bathed in sunlight
without even a dappling of shade
It seems like a green field of memories
with almost no one left to remember
Even the words subscribed on the tiny brass plaques
seem somehow belittling
With them set into the ground
for the convenience of mowers
to pass over
It makes her seem
so inconsequential
that she shouldn't trouble the groundskeeper
with her monument
It makes me think of the mundane consequences of death
that overshadow the greatness of life
Like the simple economics
of maintenance
I can't look at the life of such a beautiful women
summed up in such a small way
it seems so common
so trite
I know that she would have told you
that she was common
but she wasn't
She had a greatness in her soul and being
that transcended the normal
that transcends death
I am overwhelmed by that little plaque
and it's insignificance
Enough to paralyze me from going there
I know that if I see it it will push
the other memories from my mind
and supplant her
She will become a place in a cemetery
with a little map on the grounds keeping shed
gridded and numbered
number 6 in row B
a little part of the order in a small field
and I can't have that
Jan 23, 2014
Jan 23, 2014 at 9:38 AM UTC
I see you over there,
hey!
No, don't run away
there's no reason to hide
just because you're crying.
There's no need to wipe those tears
away and out of your eyes
because whatever fears you've subscribed to
only make this experience blithe too.
You're just lying to yourself
if you try to not cry
or run away and hide
because someone like me will spy when you do.
Be you, be real in this moment of feeling
no matter if you're kneeling or reeling
no matter if your mother has died
or your other slipped into the night without a goodbye
or even if you're clutching that rye-whisky really tight
please know that this scene of you crying
out in the open tells other's it's o-k.
There's no shame in having a good cry
it doesn't mean you're lame if it's after a futbal game
or in the middle of a stadium because your girl, or guy proposed.
It's fine to get misty-eyed in an art gallerye
or the pain felt when I tried to rhyme that last line!
Crying doesn't equal weak, if anything it adds to your mystique
as someone who has comfortability expressing their feelings.
So the next time you feel your eyes start to well,
and your first impulse is try to quell such a sight,
say "What the hell" and let your tears fly as you cry
wisdom distilled.
Nov 3, 2014
Nov 3, 2014 at 6:37 PM UTC
Compare these Models of their Chosen Mode
One the Harper of his Sun-Sparkled Prince;
The Other follows his Hermit-Bound Abode
As each does Smooth their Circles ever since
And since Habits etch their Persons unique
As Water for Oil a Challenge combine
Then with Morals coded place Values oblique
A Milestone too daunting to undermine
Yet to Magnify some Common Bond seen
That we Levelled Species are wont to do
As Lives contest like avid Bankers been -
Cheques made to myself yet subscribed to you.
That your Hub its Keys encode beyond my age
Of Millions you Party crowd my Screaming Page.
Jul 6, 2013
Jul 6, 2013 at 4:53 PM UTC
Today i subscribed to your poetry
I wanted to get in touch
With your inner beauty
Not learn about what eats you up inside
To day I wrote I love you in a tex
I wanted to touch a heart
With the beauty inside me
Not hear about what a hard boring day yourve had at work
Today I held the hand of a child
That barely understands the concept of friendship
I wanted to help him learn
But he took his hand and hid
Unable to connect to the world outside
Today I saw the sunrise
And I dreamed of being somewhere else
This scares me because I'm ment to be in love
I loved you because
You saw in me what I never saw myself
I held you for a while
Before I knew I had to walk away
Today I made a note to self
Be grateful
Be wise
Be ready
To listen carefully
because boredom runs deep and if this is all you see
It will be all you get
To not take for grantage
That we all feel different
And at the end of the day the child held out a hand
In need of connection
Be ready when the sunset comes
To take hold of the moment
Before it disappears
Be grateful
Be ready
Be wise
Jul 5, 2011
Jul 5, 2011 at 4:57 PM UTC
I do not claim to represent.
I humbly present my claim.
_______________________(Begin Forwarded Message) _______________________
3 April 2014
Classification: UNCLASSIFIED
From: [email protected]
To: [email protected]
RE: present
To whom it may concern:
I have been subscribed
To your service
Involuntarily.
Two springs ago there was an anniversary.
An old friend tempted me
Under the guise of celebration.
That is not to say
There weren’t suspicious omens about;
Oh, what I would give
To have heeded them!
I’m afraid you provide
A service which far surpasses my needs
(Such that it is the only thing I want).
Your free trial led me to believe
Led me
To the promised land
Only to enslave me there.
The fertile grasslands,
The forests, and the island shores
Mock me in my imagination.
Your service has been
deemed surplus.
The benefits
no longer
justify
the cost.
_______________________(End Forwarded Message) _______________________
I humbly present my claim.
I do not claim to represent.
Apr 3, 2014
Apr 3, 2014 at 3:09 PM UTC
Natural phenomena make for great metaphorical explanations
Of otherwise indescribable realizations.
When you've reached an epiphany about your own situation
You are dawning upon a new understanding, a new revelation.
And perhaps its this very satisfactory description
That drives poetry as a healthy natural addiction.
Words which could never be expressed with proper diction
Spring to life in pages written as if fiction.
Far too often we find ourselves relating to the feeling of blue
But a color in fiction can feel so much more real and true.
A not so hidden and blunt allegorical, yet personal clue
Banishes our inner animal, and allows us to begin fresh, anew.
What is this community we find in isolation so well described
That encourages others to respond as if obliged?
The common understanding rains as if prescribed
To be the antidote to the gnawing emptiness to which we are subscribed.
Some inner purpose is behind why I rhyme
Driving me to an inner peace that is sublime.
Those who wait for sunny days that are prime
Write poetry, the ultimate victim-less crime.
Oct 7, 2010
Oct 7, 2010 at 11:47 PM UTC
They told me your never supposed to see your mother cry.
But what the forgot to mention is that seeing your mother cry isn't the end.
Its when you see your own mother telling her kids that she hates her life and wishes she'd just die.
Its when you see your own mother drinking that last drop of ***** as if its the only thing keeping her alive.
Its when you see your own mother taking all those pills shes subscribed because the doctors think it will fix her.
Its when you see your own mother talking to herself saying, "its time."
Its when you see your own mother laying on the floor passed out, with a still lit cigarette in the ash tray and beer cans spread around her.
Its when you see your own mother look at herself in the mirror and drop down to the floor telling herself that the person in the mirror isn't her.
Seeing your mother cry isn't the end, its seeing the aftermath of the tears, seeing all the pain in her hollow eyes eat her alive.
Jan 14, 2015
Jan 14, 2015 at 3:20 PM UTC
~in plain, and sadly o' spake...
fear here wholes me, that--
we as Whole have submitted
our words.
that is...we more, and the more
remain unmoved by their seldom
come... per, and per poetic.
our very existence seems to
write us...bereft o' words.
how...and How...shifty the medium...
birth's subscribed us to--as to be
sidestepped perpetually by creeping
things...could it be...could it be...
a scribbler's de-nied an opus, magnum...
trying to scribble upon a Hurrah-icane's
bygone eye wall?
Konstatinos Mark
Nov 28, 2013
Nov 28, 2013 at 2:04 AM UTC
Star Shooter
Why, of course why baby, I can see it in your eyes you can’t live without the star in your life
but it passes by, I guess the star shooters aren’t aiming for your life at this time
and time is all you have, you gaze amongst the clouds waiting for their time to flow away
I guess the pictures they create aint something you care for today
you prefer the brink of the night where light is preserved by milky ways and Hercules
you haven’t seen one move yet but you know you will and when you do you’ll move with it til its still
but the star shooters don’t aim for the landfill of broken feels
so you watch space hold the light still like a vase with daffodils
its beauty is sacrificial as the night heals
tell me how it feels as you waste the time that kills
its the pain that drills your mind, so close to the bottom line
I see the picture in your mind, you feel he’s one of a kind
like the pain you agonize will disappear like the summer flies
but his anger flies by you, you can’t accept the fact he’s bad for you
his personality was the way he was issued, like you subscribed to a life that was made for you
he gon' break your heart again and tell you what you need too
you fall into his trap of thinking he’s a good man
let him convince you’re broken and he’s got what makes you whole again
let him change your perception on love between friends and let him get to you at 2am
let his hands push past boundaries you said he would never cross again
then let his body meet yours and let him tell you its out of love and this what it means to be fulfilled again
so you break your morals while he breaks the floor boards, you broke your promise, while his love was anonymous
you threw your self respect out the way, so he could change your for a day
now your days are limited from the moment he took and ran away
you couldn’t ever convince him to stay
now you sit and stare out your window waiting for the stargazing to shoot one your way
but you haven’t seen one yet but you know it will and when you do you’ll move with it til its still
but the star shooters don’t aim for landfills of broken feels
now your light that was once held still is casting shadows of an image you want to feel
tell me how it feels, the time that kills, is the love still real, or is everything you felt like a shattered vase filled with crushed daffodils
Mar 16, 2019
Mar 16, 2019 at 3:16 AM UTC
Perhaps it took too long
To realize how far this has gone on
All I can remember
Is this
The Lifeline Exercise Card
Fear & Love
A hundred opportunities for both
But always, the middle
Loneliness for which I subscribed
Companion, oh companion
Myself, I
The Lone Wanderer unwilling to try
For the rare occasion
As the sunlight in your hair
A moment in outer space
Willingness to care
Till lone fire permits me to do
The bonding question
Of those like I
"Show me your scars and I'll show you mine"
Each instance hoping
This, "Hello" for the last time
Nov 3, 2016
Nov 3, 2016 at 3:22 AM UTC
I wondered once while still a curious child
of who I was before I was, because
I listened to those people on T.V.
speak wondrously of who they were before.
They'd found a way to cause remembrance,
under hypnosis, where by regressing
back and farther past their very birth,
and nine months farther back beyond the meet
of ***** and egg, and years more farther back,
they could describe the people that they were.
I wondered who I was before I was,
until one day I read a certain news,
a scientific study done to see
the people who some people truly were.
One hundred people hypnotized did see
their lives before the lives which they now lived.
And forty-eight were Abraham Lincoln.
I closed the newspaper and took a walk,
and never more subscribed to idle talk.
(C)2014, Christos Rigakos
Apr 20, 2014
Apr 20, 2014 at 1:55 PM UTC
Oh, I should be in a church tonight
On my knees.
I want to cry at god's feet
And I don't even
Understand
Why.
I wish I thought there was someone to tell
That I am afraid
That I hold this sea of grief in me
So deep and black,
So rich and full.
It is the grief of worship,
Always has been
And I have never subscribed to any religion.
I wander the streets
So hungry-
Soul hungry.
This is no state
For a warm bedroom and a cup of tea.
This is kneeling on a marble floor
By the light of one candle
In a room so pregnant with silence it seems that you
Are the only thing that ever has been or will be.
This is I want to feel cold, smooth stone beneath my palms
Beneath my cheek.
I want to close my eyes and press into the floor and become cold like it, and surrender.
This is the feeling that crushes tears from me when I hear a choir sing,
Or when I read a beautiful book.
This is god
And I sit here
So still
Full of this impossible, excruciating need
For something that doesn't even have a word because it is too old and too private and too vast.
It rages within me, it presses out and I am so small, just skin and bones
How do I hold this
Within me
Like tears?
I feel like a candle set adrift in the middle of a cold sea at night
That tiny and that fragile.
At my fingertips I can feel the waves
And although I am a flame they are inside of me
And that
Is what I have to face and fear-
Drowning inside out in love, in grief, in joy, in anger-
It makes
Little difference in the end,
Shockingly little.
They all grow like the sea, swell like the sea, crash like it,
All hold their vicious undertows and their satiny surfaces all catch light when I am lucky enough to be in the sun.
I wish I knew
What I would say
If I really could cry at god's feet tonight.
Maybe I would say,
*Put me on this earth,
Let, for once, this ground tether me more than my passions.
Let gravity hold me instead of this ache,
Just for a second
Just to remind me
That I am human.*
Because it's as if all of my feelings have been drawn up through my skin like ink
All at once
And I am the color of shadows and lonesome murmurs,
I am the taste of winter on the wind,
I am the voice of the trees as they try to sing to the moon in the darkness.
Let me go, please, I can't bear this longing, I can't hold it...
And yet I am in no church,
No soaring hall that echoes with quiet,
And my skin is unmarred
And I am still
As stone
And I will likely remain so
Unable to find any feet
To fall at.
Sep 24, 2015
Sep 24, 2015 at 6:49 PM UTC
I can fool anyone with the line "I'm fine" because no one cares to find the truth that lies behind,
I'm haunted with words in my mind that no one will hear because I'm the only one subscribed,
I'm alone in my own darkness that I've created with a spine twisted by a past that wasn't even mine,
I was told to be brave, to be strong, to be kind,
to live a life that was unreal because there's unlimited time,
but now the voices in my head
they're telling me to stop
they're warning me you were wrong and I should just give up.
I tell myself "I'm fine." but other problems arise
and the truth gets barricaded with bars of disguise--
I'm fine.
Jan 24, 2015
Jan 24, 2015 at 9:37 PM UTC
A lady asked me today if I could give her a discount
On the **** she was buying
Because she had already spent so much at my establishment.
And I just nodded my head and ******* agreed
Even though inside I was screaming.
Because, ***** I didn't ask to save all those lives I did,
I didn't originally
Feel the need to talk the world out of suicide.
But I subscribed for the long run
And ******* myself over
Because I've got men grovelling at my feet
But they're all doped up on Xanax.
So take your ******* discount and
Shove it up your ***
Because you earned it.
But somehow I still haven't
Earned my day of peace.
Imagine if he was better at timing
And jumping?
Jul 17, 2014
Jul 17, 2014 at 5:28 AM UTC
In the safety
Of sanctity
I deride and derail
Snort derisive
Sweet Jesus and me
Laughing at everyone
Especially you.
All that image
All that you planned
Sure and He's everywhere
Watching the water rise
Estimating your worth
Cashing in on you.
Your van and your force-fed crew
Nobody ever wanted to out and out **** you
But I think Jesus has had enough
And He's going to lose you in the rough
The rough, rough rain
Like a hurricane
Gonna call your number up.
This pigeon on my shoulder
You call Jesus and He strolls on over
Say your piece and He shrugs nonchalant
I don't believe you have anything He wants.
You're just a stupid ****
With ten times the luck
And Jesus sees you
You better believe it, Bro, you are seen
Jesus snorts derisively
Jesus snorted all the coke outta me.
He attempts to reiterate
Love thy brother and grant fresh starts
But chokes on the dust
And laughing hysterically
Points meaningless fingers
At what He thinks might matter.
Jesus is as Jesus does
A man subscribed to most of this mess
Having a good ol' time
His direction is half the crime.
It could be
It could be, Bro
You been walked down some line
Told this, this, that, and have a good time
Lied to and trialled, smiled at and lied to
Eating some man-made celestial ****
Yep, that's you.
Bible says it's true
So true
Bible says a lot of ****
Lots of ****
Yeah
That's you.
Apr 26, 2014
Apr 26, 2014 at 3:19 PM UTC
Regression parading as tradition
Modernity rejected in culture at the end of history.
Echoes of innovation only linger in the technology
Of subscribed self-adulation,
Quench the thirst trap.
Drink until you drown in the sound of static.
The revolution won’t be televised
Everything’s a repeat, an omnibus of Section 25;
They’re gunning after the enemies of hegemony;
Fight it, resist it; the truth will be twisted
In the teeth of lobbied grins
So sing the populist nationalism anthem -
The only hit in the charts
That sustains the sycophancy of sentimentality.
Everything old, nothing new
To sedate the disenfranchised
Who can’t wait to see the day
Asylum seekers never know sanctuary.
Dec 26, 2023
Dec 26, 2023 at 3:24 PM UTC
You...
Are still in a relationship.
I have never been in one.
You... are travelling to Costa Rica.
I went to France a million years ago.
With..
YOU...
Are still subscribed to my YouTube channel.
And I have no idea why.
For all I know, you're only subscribed because you don't go on YouTube all that often...
Therefore... you've forgotten.
I don't blame you.
I'd like to forget me too.
I... am lonely.
You.. not so much or at least it seems that way..
I... am blind to my own pain.
You... are probably the same way.
You... still keep certain people as friends on social media despite how things ended.
I... don't even have Facebook.
Or Twitter.
Or Snapchat.
Or anything that would make me any "Friend" of yours.
You have no idea what's happened to me.
And vice versa.
You... have changed your hair for the hundredth time.
I have cut my hair for the first time in months.
I... have no idea what I'm doing.
And you are going to be set to be a history buff.
Funny thing... history huh?
How you will go on to study world history.
While I fall apart over our history.
What a mystery, the inconsistency of our lives right?
Because we weren't supposed to be friends.
I was never supposed to send you songs.
I haven't in 7 months give or take.
I cannot bare the weight of an unwanted conversation.
I have been told not to worry about hurting people.
But I don't worry about things I have already done.
So congratulations, you got out while you could.
And I deserve it.
On any other day, I would asked you to be alone with me.
But tonight.
I'll just be here.
And yet...
I wish we could talk about something else...
Like music.
I'm no longer one of your favourite artists.
Okay.
I'm glad we still have something in common.
Sep 18, 2017
Sep 18, 2017 at 3:45 AM UTC
They will take all of the credit
If we ever win this war
But they don't share in the suffering
That rests on the shoulders of the poor
We elected them to lead us
Because we believed in their ideals
But the machine that we've subscribed to
Needs blood to grease the wheels
There's a conflict of interests here
No matter what they say
Our politicians made the purchase
It's not their children that will pay
They try so hard to justify it
They said there was no other way
This isn't a game to win or lose
Because young men die when rich men play
Jan 29, 2013
Jan 29, 2013 at 9:42 AM UTC