"synth" poems
It's not just music, it's a vibe
And when that bass drops, we come alive
With the synth and the snare
We are all transported there
Our minds are in the DJ's hands
Our bodies are slave to his beats demands
This is our one true escape
And it's entwined with his soul into a mixtape.
Apr 21, 2016
Apr 21, 2016 at 1:26 PM UTC
when the sweethearts left,
we took off our token smiles
and overly-kind eyes.
my roommate grabbed a beer,
quickly ****** it off,
i put on "beat connection" by lcd,
and the derailment of the night
began with some synth and burps.
i made a *** of coffee,
went outside,
the neighbors were having a party,
making a stew,
grilling chicken,
drinking,
drinking,
drinking,
and exhaling enough smoke to signal the natives.
"are you drinkin' coffee muthafucka?"
"hi, i'm josh, and yes."
"the name's chase."
"nice to meet you." *******
before i knew it chase, our neighbors,
and about three people i didn't know
were in my apartment.
chase looked at a picture of lennon in
our living room.
asked me my favorite beatles album.
"probably sgt.peppers."
"you like that gay ****
"if that's gay **** yes i like gay ****
he grunted with rednecker royalty.
"the white album is probably my second favorite,"
i offered.
"man, the white album is the ****
there is nothing else."
someone said they had some fire, if anyone was interested.
everyone was.
there was a dark-skinned boy, with snow white teeth and a fake afro, rapping as i clumsily played an acoustic.
there was a 26-year-old ***** and his 43-year-old wife
smoking a bowl in my bedroom,
there was my roommate vomiting on the carpet,
there was everyone
and
there was
me.
there was everyone
and
there was
me.
Jun 13, 2010
Jun 13, 2010 at 3:33 PM UTC
High synth notes
Japanese thunder
you amaze yourself
Walk with headphones
through grass patches
and brightly lit streets
heavy petroleum clouds
nigerian gutter feast
of trash and telephones
prepaid cards
litter homes floors
in cardboard sandals
shuffling past pubs
London clenched ribs
teeth breathe heart beats
Kick old orchestras
through instrumental mixes
modernity insanity
kinyopoetry.com
Jun 27, 2013
Jun 27, 2013 at 11:55 AM UTC
Becky turns on her radio
It’s 4’oclock you see
Says she’s got a date with just me
Her Keds dazzled in red
With thoughts of Psychedelic Furs in her head
Thomas headin home
On the floor of ole truck lies his 80s comb
Hasn’t seen old school in years
The thought brings him to tears
Michael’s on a break
Wants to take time by the lake
Thinkin about Sarah
And that iconic leg warmer era
When she hadn’t worn waterproof mascara
Sarah walkin thru the old store
Hears em say, vintage is a good score
Records musty smell
Makes her feel swell
Polaroid on a shelf
Drifts back to a time of her younger self
Instant prints
Memory hints
Friends together
In spring weather
High school dance
Parachute pants
Puffy sleeve print
Tubular and mint
Neon color
Teenage pustalar
This much is true
With a Converse shoe
Glares, stares and dares
Waves in their hair
Synth-pop
They bop
First crush
They blush
Friendship pins
Shy grins
Floppy disks
The unsaved risks
Laughs enter
In present time
Fallen purse
Fate or curse
Hand holds out a dime
Blank look
Like a old good book
Mumble jumble
Who do you see
lookin back at me
In a flash
It all goes past
Familiar face
Of time & place
If you leave
No one would believe
Together again
It was then
When they remembered when
Apr 3, 2019
Apr 3, 2019 at 10:20 PM UTC
there you stand
on the bridge above rio grande—
miles of rock hungry and unfulfilled,
the spring snow chasing your name
into my mouth,
the synth of sunrise tucked
behind moon-cut mountains.
I pull off on the side and see
this is how I will be without you,
my bright girl
Mar 29, 2018
Mar 29, 2018 at 9:17 AM UTC
Whatever happened to the ambition
The youthful enthusiasm of dancing in the wild
As the synth rhythm guides each limb
In accordance to the sentiment given by the DJ
We were nothing more than broke kids
There was something beautiful about the way our spirits
Would float like wisps in the wind
Freefalling past the worries that held us back
From seeing the 5am sun
Oct 20, 2021
Oct 20, 2021 at 3:18 AM UTC
Wittled stuck One
to Coyote Dingus
wind talks money all day and night
from all directions
but am allowed only to listen
Emotional cocooning
addictive sweet synth sup
as ready as can be
Reshaping wounded amazons
Is no easy task.
Thank you.
Now please pull your head out
before we all starve to death
from this confusing lack of true love
a swan, perhaps?
no, a turtle, one of nine
i see
Jul 3, 2013
Jul 3, 2013 at 1:34 PM UTC
I meekly rummage through my purse
Looking for my tangled earpHones
The sweet sounds of guitar and synth fill my ear
As we pass Eglinton West
I wait for the last minute of the song
Where I maximize the volume
Just to hear the faint bass in the ocean of noise
Like my pastel jelly fish amongst navy blue
Stinging my tearducts with poison
Is your bass
That romantic tune forever ringing in my ears
Like your breathe down my back
Like your eyelash on my cheek
Like your fingers in my hair
The same that pluck that bass
Cascading ******** sound waves through my tired mind, romantic heart
I put your bass away, back in my purse
And walk the streets of my city
Where I see you everywhere
You can't be put away neatly in my subconscious
You're their bassist,
But most of all,
You're my front man.
Jan 22, 2013
Jan 22, 2013 at 3:12 AM UTC
My whiskey habit is complimented then insulted by the ever temperamental voice of Jim Morrison,
I listen to Alabama Song by The Doors
I throw my pen and page
In an anger induced rage
As my mind recites the wrong words
To his poems and songs
His voice plays on repeat
All i can do is blame myself as the primitive synth dances it's oscillating tunes through one of my depleted senses.
My hearing
Mojo Rising's face crudely made into pop art painting by a fan, an idoliser's image
Suddenly the fender telecaster takes over the smokey airways
Hypnotising, mesmerising
as it fills the space between the barely conscious being and the walls that surround
The tempo of the snare, tom and high hat slows
I now have time to gather my ever harsh and bitter thoughts
Harsh like the whiskey, bitter like me
Mar 18, 2014
Mar 18, 2014 at 9:33 AM UTC
jumping into a pool of yellow glowing liquid while rich, deep, full synth chords play. time has slowed down and i am in the middle of a cannonball and i can see bats flying over my head in the almost-darkness. friends surround me and are laughing in slow motion as i fly through the air. the sun has changed the whole scene to a tinted and washed dark orange and purple color. it’s like i put on a filter but it’s real life. the liquid is lukewarm, sort of like someone didn’t put a bowl of soup in the microwave long enough. there is no word in the human dictionary to describe this feeling. i’m done pretending that nothing matters all the time. i wish there was some way i could hook up my brain to a screen so you could see what i'm picturing right now. there’s no way that can happen though, so i will just continue trying to explain through words.
May 22, 2015
May 22, 2015 at 8:19 PM UTC
There is a note that lives between thought and slumber,
That’s when I thought of you today
A harmonica lay in my hand, the reeds looking at me silly,
Play, I imagined it say, and imagined it was really there.
In my mind we are still walking a dusty bluesy road, our jeans torn and worn
In this midday dream the blues is red and wore a hat; I let out:
This, is not the blues from which my hippie son was born.
I sigh, at the sight of a synthesizer kissing a harmonica, the synth in your head, the harmonica pregnant with my heart.
Our blues drove us to momentary madness, because Syd Barrett was always jealous
Like fights that happened on Sundays and when we choose to mock, then cruelness.
Come midnight someone awakes and someone is being wakened,
And outside, nothing is lit, But she's not afraid, just letting you know she was waking.
Your bedside was colored, certainly psychedelic, but was almost always red
I lay there, like a pregnant harmonica making love to a trusty guitar, the guitar thrusting, the harmonica trusting.
I confront salvation with a straight face, a cigarette now intruding
No, I yell, the harmonica sounds the same, still on the key of C,
But by a synthesizer you sat, the harmonica lay there, heavy with child, looking at me,
And as I stare back, I've seen: indeed you have chosen the synth.
A note creeps in between the high and dry of low, I insist that kismet needs a little shove
Just a push, a new pair of eyes, another heart and a memory that knows only love,
Spiralling in Syd's Milky Way, me drowning, me begging in exchange for you,
I tried moaning a tune but the blues have discolored and turned simply blue.
I face the devil now, I try to bargain, but he sings, 'the blues trusts no one, no longer.'
The devil makes a face, sings to me then says, 'you've forgotten that I'll always remember.”
Nov 30, 2010
Nov 30, 2010 at 10:10 PM UTC
Two
Bodies caressing each other,
Complimenting the skin tones,
As they touch one another.
Perfectly synchronised,
The same but different.
A song so perfect,
It stays on repeat.
A melody so divine,
The dance is locked in your feet.
Their voice adds a sultry bass to your ear,
The rhythm of your heart,
Skips a beat.
The highs meet the lows,
And the ears begin to ***** up,
A love making duet you suppose.
To taste the sound of sweetness
to hear the emotion of love,
To see the chords of heat
To feel the harmonies of passion.
Mixes and blends
of the tongue-twisted music.
The emotions profound,
felt from tap and synth.
An audience of two
Hear the touch of rhythmic blues,
As the piano keys play,
And a guitar riff ensues.
Mar 18, 2013
Mar 18, 2013 at 5:50 PM UTC
A synth is all wires, metal and acrylic.
Alone it sits upon a keyboard stand motionless.
It is plugged into a valve amplifier, all valves and solder and metal.
The synth is motionless.
And the world it lives in is silent.
The electricity dwells through the wires in the gyprock walls,
through the voltage and the conduction.
Two hundred and forty volts to be exact.
Yet it is contained within the walls. Dark and unfamiliar.
And the world it lives in is empty.
A switch is switched. The electricity is conducted.
In the blink of an eye it powers the synth and the amplifier.
The synth springs to life.
A melody filled with intervals,
ascension and harmony blasts through the amplifier,
with clarity, distorted grit and frequency.
A beautiful sound fills the air.
The synth and the electricity together at last.
And the world that the two live in together is beautiful.
JAW 29/01/11
For Marie.
May 17, 2012
May 17, 2012 at 2:59 AM UTC
My classy *** ragtime notes
Can pound yo dub step trippin’ beats any day.
You’re techno,
I’m folk.
You gotta wear neon to be seen.
Man, they can see me from the moon.
You spend two hours getting dressed
I roll out of bed and still look this fly.
Your hat points in a different direction than your nose.
Mine is the same one my grandfather wore.
Your pants are falling off your ***
Mine are held up with suspenders.
You try so hard.
I kind of feel bad for you.
Girl, you a fraud.
And I’m the real deal.
You tried to hide you’re in love with my guy.
I kind of wanted to **** you.
You kind of did me a favor.
He was just as bad as you.
Thanks for showing me
That I can do better than Dub Step.
Jun 28, 2012
Jun 28, 2012 at 10:35 AM UTC
the calm synth exhales.
i close my eyes as the rumble of the wheels turn.
palms face up on my lap, i pray.
señor, cuídame en este viaje.
estás conmigo.
inhala; exhala.
my stomach dips with the beat,
the bass picks up & so do we,
right on cue in perfect harmony.
i’m not scared of flying.
i found a peace in that moment
where the song, the sky & my soul
snapped into sync so smoothly
that i sighed in serenity.
i’m not scared of flying,
but sometimes of where i’m going,
& of what lies ahead.
but let me have this moment,
where daniel & kali
soar through the clouds with me,
where everything seems to click.
let me breathe,
despite the lack of oxygen outside.
& save a seat for Him.
~ pilot of life, perfect attendant & guiding wind.
Jul 10, 2019
Jul 10, 2019 at 1:58 PM UTC
Stay away from that victory gin that causes rebel rouses, but no elections
Go join the 99 percent and never graduate your fafsa dreams don’t intimidate me
**** your mace brand justice
and your senior citizen abuse.
join the merchant sailors like the greats. be some one who can change,
******* it what we need right now is someone who can wright this right of passage.
we need another Kerouac
we need another Ginsberg
cause all i ever did in Dallas was die
all i ever did in Dallas was die.
set me free from this pretentious tyranny of name brand sweaters, and lemon bars,
your art house cinema fulhouse applause can’t match the street grit grime of my soul.
too much vermouth with much rancid brine has made me a bitter soul of conquest.
the tomorrow is wasted youth on main street on a wave of ***** and appletini ********
sugar sweet synth pop and black liquorice hip hop spewing out of every show off trendy water hole.
the sixth street, fry street, main street, bourbon street of our fathers will swill down the drain
to make room for the next
for the next
for the next.........
after all we ever we wanted to do was last.
where do we go from here?
Aug 21, 2012
Aug 21, 2012 at 11:44 AM UTC
I stalk through the dark hallways
Drifting through remnants of a sun.
Spirals into vortexes, cascading shafts of light on
Brief transits inward, where time falters.
Forces push & pull and all around
The tide of the cosmos envelopes me,
Wading through the static sea
Waves come in crashing-
Laughter, screams
And yet, no sound escapes the vacuum
Jun 17, 2024
Jun 17, 2024 at 10:57 AM UTC
unstill life with a peach pit.
//
i paint you in every colour before you leave my field of vision.
i spit out words i don’t understand like i love you, i need you.
you dance with me in my bedroom, spin me around until i’m blue
in the face, you say you love my glow in the dark, i say but you
shine brighter.
maybe we could sip on the cyanide in our peach pit smoothies
while i carefully contemplate? i don’t quite understand this but i dream
anyway because there’s nothing better than our flashlights.
i’ll make you a thousand mixtapes and we can dance to modern
day synth pop and we’ll feel like we’re in the eighties. i’m a nineties
baby i just made it there. syncopated words, and clever cacophony
spill out of my mouth, you’ve got my lip gloss on the corner of yours.
stay careful, i don’t know what any of this will mean in two weeks.
but, we’ll go out singing,
*baby, we’re golden,
baby, i’m holding
on to you.
baby we’re golden,
baby i’m holding
on.
baby, we’re golden
baby, we are,
we are,
we are...*
Mar 3, 2017
Mar 3, 2017 at 9:45 PM UTC
Playing to the heartbeat
Tub thumping Drumbeat
Overwhelming Synth wave
Channelling the Bass slave
Guitar jams, room shaking
Screaming voices, larynx aching
Cello in the background
Violins make mellow sound
The Snare an unholy snap
A Tambourine a mighty slap
The Cymbals crash
A Tom Tom smash
Chord change impending
Middle eight unending
Digital and analogue
Recording in its final slog
Final verse is looming
With the Bass Drum booming
The soloist’s precision
Fulfils the final vision
Aduain
Nov 15, 2018
Nov 15, 2018 at 10:01 AM UTC
echoing in my head
i am compelled
my knee begins
to pulse up and down
my head
weaves back and forth
my shoulders
they slide
side to side
the synth is the hot sand
warming my feet
compelling me
to rest my face upon it
like warm paper
hot from the printer
i lay my whole body
in the sand
the bass
is an amtrak train
from washington
to new york
flashing the swampy green
and beautiful lakes
across your eyes
faster than a movie
it is real
the drums are a tiny room
and i am a small red ball
elated, uncontrollable
i ricochet off every wall
faster and faster
the walls appear hard
but are soft
to the touch
i close my eyes
my hands are stretched
out close to my sides,
i see the world in
four quadrants
one is the beach...
the sun now sets
and an orange glow
blinds me for a moment,
through squinting eyes
the majesty of the
waves, rolling in orange,
shocks me
in a single orange beam
straight through my heart
and out into the other quadrants
i turn my hips
to reveal the second quadrant
and i am suddenly on a train
shooting through the air in front
from metal tracks on the ground
around me are trees
climbing and sliding upwards
their trunks rotating in slow circles
the green grows
and grows
in moments it fills the world
consuming my sight
all is green for a moment
and then the green shrinks
forming corners as it disappears
becoming a cube
then the cube grows
and in front of me
grows a red door
and it opens
and again
i am a bouncing
red ball
and for a moment
i am fully present
in bouncing
then i fall, gravity ceasing
and i am back standing
with my hands to my sides
and i see the fourth quadrant
i see myself
grinning and shaking
swinging my whole body
in random patterns
in my chair, at my desk
typing a poem on my computer
Jan 27, 2015
Jan 27, 2015 at 10:50 PM UTC
Bein' out in lake
Catchin' bass
A piece of cake
Don't take eyes
Off the candy
Randy
Catchin' sucker'd
Be dandy
Sweet-tooth'd scaring night
Rollin' hard
High kite
Lounging in floaty ecstatic
Roll still
Admire the galactic
Traverse through waters
I heard mutters
Hashish-bier thoughts unclear
In hand
A welcome of dry land
Pulsation of bass I hear
Naked timid music
Synth-like rave
Mystical Acoustic
Land so dry had drag'd me in
With cold sweating fear
She whisper'd
'trek 'r treat mm' dear'
Dec 8, 2013
Dec 8, 2013 at 11:12 PM UTC
Create me.
With your synth-organic rhythms
and beats from the heart,
make the body electronic.
Sustain me.
Keep the pace,
pumping the force of life
like a peacemaker in my chest.
Enlighten me.
Loops of cascading beats
synthesizing blood music
circulate through the passages of my soul,
Filling every corner
of what I am:
Organic matter in symbiosis
with undulating cadence.
Nov 6, 2013
Nov 6, 2013 at 7:36 PM UTC
She walks in starlight
Coming of age
In a riptide.
Her lone synth chords
Reminiscent of an
Open mic motel.
Burning multi-layered sound
We don’t fear the dark now.
There’s room enough for two
And Technicolor in a
Hot air balloon.
I can taste the comfort
On another world with you.
Delicate piano dodging
Missiles from the ground and
Candy playing on the radio
Can’t sing like we can hum
And feel the undertow.
© Ben Ditmars 2014
Jul 17, 2014
Jul 17, 2014 at 5:58 PM UTC
friday morning,
we wake up hungover
from last night's binge drinking,
because even though we love our jobs,
no one really wants to work for their entire lives,
when so many things are unanswered,
perverted, and misconstrued.
hashtag all of those millennial catchphrases,
to garner hearts from your friends
who you haven't seen in years,
friends who work in San Fran,
Chicago, Greenwich Village.
crank up your laptop speakers,
as Neon Indian's Polish Girl
plays that **** synth,
and take a drag from a P-Funk,
before your Grandma hits your
shoulder with the newspaper daily—
right after she speaks in Vietnamese,
asking you what is your name,
because she has Alzheimer’s.
but in these social media days,
isn't everything that is worth mentioning to your sister,
everything that is worth fighting for,
everything that is ****** in this world,
on the internet (maybe, just Twitter tbh).
screenshot the cat meme you like,
save it,
share it,
move on.
if only she wasn't allergic to cats,
maybe it could have worked out.
that was 7 years ago.
*** ova it. Then, mix your red bull with your coffee,
because the next 10 hours of your life,
will be revolving around caring about people
other than your ungrateful and ingratiating ***
don't cry,
when I say good-bye.
stay for a while, under the shade of the rooftop
where the deejay spins Frank Ocean
and Frank Sinatra records,
as everyone is drinking scotch, or Yuengling,
and ashing over the veranda bansister,
; the bad boys try to open their souls
to the good girls. and the bad girls,
reveal too much to the good boys.
we devoured those drugs, as though
they were jelly beans from a convenience store,
and then we broke into the store
and ate some more.
break the coals on top of the hookah,
puff, puff, pass—
inhale, exhale,
fit the deformed piece
back into the Dinosaur puzzle,
and crawl back into bed,
pull the covers over
your trembling body,
shut your eyes,
and reflect,
for the day is heavy with regret
and unsaid things.
Apr 4, 2017
Apr 4, 2017 at 2:43 PM UTC