"technical" poems
Love is like serving your customers,
Leave them with good service and experiences,
and they'll give you trust and loyalty like no other.
Get the technical know-hows.
Meet the demands and know the points and marks,
To truly satisfy your customer's needs and wants.
Like loving a person,
You need to go ahead and seek for innovation.
for competitors are just around, making their observations.
Loving is satisfying,
what's the point of begging your demands,
If one should not adjust, or else better disband.
And I am a loyal customer.
I am a patron of her love and care,
she gives me more than enough of what she shares.
And I am a lucky customer.
For she makes me feel most important,
Everywhere we go and everything as applied.
She leaves every experiences,
with glitters and stars in my eyes.
That's why I love her much, and I cannot deny.
The joy of contentment,
Lies in this constant ever changing quest,
where we are moving, for each one's true happiness.
Feb 21, 2011
Feb 21, 2011 at 5:58 PM UTC
what is this mind that was given to me that is able to see things i print on screen with my digital zip drive of a brain that is stuck inside a laptop main frame, ******* server uploading and crashing sending pings and things to hackers who perform doss attacks and web cracks and serial cracks while eating cereal going over javascript material program landslide juno got bit by emails and other technical software jargin computer guy got the blue screen of death corruption on the web the spider metacrawling and setting it on angelfire i google the facebook twitter and hot wire my car on the trader the wall street journal and the white house, **** sites and white owls, getting arrested and being hired by the government, the money's spent, criminal punishment, in cells locked up no breakfast but lunch under the crack of a door inside ur naked *** on irc chat, the warez rat, pirates on bays and whispers from kittens, brown paper packages exploding a smidgeon, binary, metamorphosis, code program gold, warning anti virus and spywares, baghdad to china, spy on private, eyes on cameras, cell phones like trackers, global position mappers, predator drones, video games, nfl madden, mad men, and happy wal marts, hacking wal mart, with social engineers, traveling the silk road with a cloak ip address revoked
May 26, 2013
May 26, 2013 at 4:15 AM UTC
Babies, babies everywhere
Usually it's your opinion I share
We're too old, too tired, too busy
But the babies all around me are making me dizzy
I'm rational, realistic and levelheaded
It would be enough for me if we were just wedded
Barely in our forties, but our youth in the past
But I feel that the baby window is closing fast
We each have our own and have been down this road a time or two
But they're all growing up so fast, and I've never gotten to have one with you
Robbed of that chance, I feel like we missed out on what should've been our life, our destiny
But I feel blessed for the boys we have and I will be happy if that's all that's meant to be
Babies are loud and they're too expensive
And, truthfully, I really do like the way we live
So many obstacles stand in the way
A vasectomy, decreased fertility, how to pay
It all gets so technical and sterile and void of romance
I wonder if there is even the slightest chance
All the procedures we'd need to endure
So with this decision, we both must be sure
Will we regret it and wish we had chosen a different path
I don't want to end up in the poor house for not doing the math
I'm so busy, would a surrogate be the way to go
A nanny is fine for after, but with a surrogate, can a bond grow
Then there's the smell of their hair
That special bond that only you two share
The way they hold onto you as if you hold the key to their heart
The look of total terror in their eyes whenever you must part
A small piece of me and a small piece of you
Someone we create together, something we chose to do
The one we were supposed to have years ago
The dream that neither of us quite let go
Here we are, decades later, together again
Has too much time passed, too much life been
Or was it always meant to be this way, We're older and wiser and more ready today
It may never work and I need you to know, that I'm happy with just us if that's God's plan
But if this is possible and my last chance, then I know you are the perfect man
They'll all talk about us and say we're too old and crazy
But this is how I chose to tell you, I'd like to try to have your baby
Aug 8, 2018
Aug 8, 2018 at 1:52 AM UTC
I will contemplate my boredom today, it's terrible,
I must dedicate my actions to something ethical,
So I'll go agitate all the photo chemicals,
It won't automate, it's not a technical miracle,
I will be the chaser of an adventure to set out,
To steal a stack of photo paper someone had left out,
Took it from "The Enticing Taylor", stole his photo clout,
I'm no hater but you better remember to take out,
Your **** when you are done in the dark room...
Nov 28, 2018
Nov 28, 2018 at 11:27 AM UTC
Gone are the days when teachers
Came to school on cycles
Now every teacher owns a motor cycle
No teacher wants to ride a cycle
I am one of the few teachers
Who now and then use cycles
Riding a cycle is considered mean
Even my daughters regard it as mere fun
The cycle runs on human power
The motor cycle on electrical power
If it runs out of petrol
Somebody comes to console
If it develops a technical problem
It keeps mum like a tar drum
Human power is more reliable
Electrical power is always unpredictable
Bicycle is very easy to ride
It is a poor man’s pride
Riding a cycle is good for our health
It even saves some of our wealth
It saves environmental pollution
And releases our mental tension
Feb 24, 2011
Feb 24, 2011 at 6:13 AM UTC
Wimbledon’s playing on the TV in the living room. Dad and I are watching on the sofa.
In the kitchen, Mom cuts carrots and cucumbers with a long blade. She slices the vegetables one by one. Orange pieces. Green pieces.
I glance over Mom chops up the carrots and cucumbers without a cutting board, taking each long carrot and cucumber and slices it with precision, as though she’s a professional like the film with Natalie Portman and Jean Reno.
But she’s not a little girl and she’s not a Frenchman. She’s like a mix-in-between, like the asphalt in our driveway and the grass sprouting in between the cracks.
Dad is a computer engineer. He used to be an artist. Used to study technical drawing in a university in Saigon.
He met mom when he was working on a play. She was the lead actress. Shakespeare had said, “All the world’s a stage, and all the men and women merely players: they have their exits and their entrances; and one man in his time plays many parts, his acts being seven ages.”
He’s right, but right now I can’t tell what act I’m in. Dad focuses on the TV. Watches Federer and Djokovic, his eyes, darting from left to right like the mood of a young boy that crosses back and forth from light to dark, and back again.
Blade in hand, Mom makes longer and deeper cuts across the cucumber, cutting away the skin, leaving deep cuts in the vegetable. Dad turns his head towards her, his neck cracking like the forehand swung by Federer.
He clears his throat, softly, soft as gas leaking out from a stovetop from a studio apartment, like the scene in Fight Club, a match about to be struck.
Mom sets the blade down on the table, and bites her lip. Her nostrils flare. I press down on the couch arm, and stand up, my head bent, my eyes wandering to the doorway.
Apr 28, 2016
Apr 28, 2016 at 11:29 PM UTC
HaHA, I've done it! I've created a device
That can tap into my subconscious
and translate it for all to hear.
I will win the Nobel Prize!
I will be rich beyond my wildest dreams!
People will LIKE me!
So let's see here....I put on the cap, set the throttobombulator to 8.
Adjust for fuzzy dialation...set the circuit threshold to .79, make
sure the lucid translation synapses are firing...and yes. The next
words you hear will surely be written in History books one day,
much like Thomas Edison's first phonograph recording, or the
first telephone call!
Neural connection is active. Transmitting
**TRANSGENDERED KANGAROOS FORNICATE IN THE
PURPLE SHADE OF BETTE MIDLER'S THIGHS. PLEASE
PERFORM ******** AT THE BEHEST OF BUDDHIST
MONKS WITH LISPS. COUNT TO TEN AND BECOME
A BUXOM BLONDE ***** WITH BOUNCY *******
WHEN THE CLOCK STRIKES TWELVE, CINDARELLA IS
ON HER KNEES AND ELBOWS BECAUSE IT'S ******
HARD TO GET LOW ENOUGH TO PLEASURE A DWARF**
Oh dear. This can't be right....now where's that 'off' switch?
**JACK AND JILL WENT OFF THE PILL SO JACK COULD
BE A FATHER. JACK WENT DOWN TO LONDON TOWN
AND PUNCHED THE DALAI LAMA. EDIBLE *******
GIVE YOU INDIGESTION. DO YOU KISS YOUR MOTHER
WITH THAT MOUTH, BECAUSE YOU SHOULD. (AND USE
SOME TONGUE THIS TIME)**
Oh My...Ladies and Gentlemen, It's clear that my invention
is experiencing technical difficulties. If you would please be patient---
**SATIN BRAS DON'T CHAFE. NONE OF THE SMURFS
HAD BLUE ***** THANKS TO SMURFETTE. I WONDER
WHAT MARY MAGDELINE WAS LIKE IN THE SACK? **
STUPIDSmashPieceSmashof GARBAGESMASH
DoNT LikE iT? tucK iT bAcK!!
Connection Lost
I...erm...clearly have some more work to do before it is ready
for the pubic--er..public. I have run into some...translation
errors...and need to re lubricate--CALIBRATE a few things.
Please don't tell my mother.
Feb 8, 2012
Feb 8, 2012 at 12:12 AM UTC
Sometimes you just have to accept the things that you cannot change.
Like, you can compulsive lie your *** off but it still cannot change what is true.
They say that the truth is the
hardest pill to swallow,
so instead I crush it up and I snort it.
Even if there were things that I could change I fear I'll just make it even worse,
so I mission abort ****
I lack the ability to actually change me,
and my courage is cowardly.
I'm hopeless, but I really do hope
that things will hurt less.
I'm useless, but I don't think that
I'll ever use less.
If not this, then it would be that.
It's all relative Nonsense where overall
you were just another substance.
But who am I to deprive misery of
its love for company,
honestly how could I possibly
maintain stability and be granted
any serenity, when all that is
surrounding me and inside of me is constant insanity ?..
Yeah, it's called Drug Abuse,
but is the term "Drug Abuse"
and the overall meaning behind it
really that simple ?..
In which being limited to the technical bottom line meaning and stating that by doing drugs you are abusing those drugs.
Where in other words the users
are apparently the abusers of the drugs that they use,
but isn't it possible that the drugs
actually abuse us too ?..
Nov 30, 2018
Nov 30, 2018 at 4:38 PM UTC
Sunday night is a dull hum
constantly buzzing in my ear
Sunday night is a broken clock
hands stuck at five to five
Sunday night is experiencing technical difficulties
bars of black, white, and other colors
Sunday is so high it can't get off the couch
was that somebody knocking at the door?
Sunday night is so drunk
it fell asleep in the closet
only to wake up thinking
this doesn't look like my bed
Sunday night is trying out for varsity
only to make the practice squad
Sunday night is a suburban strip mall
at five AM on a Monday
I took my Sunday nights
and poured them in a glass
downed it in one gulp
and projectile vomited
all over my Monday through Saturdays
I took my Sunday nights
and put them on a page for you
Oct 4, 2013
Oct 4, 2013 at 4:16 PM UTC
Oh Eliot, Poor Eliot, Your Fans Hung You in the Closet and I'm Feelin' So Sad^
<>
we tithed thee with donations plenty,
here a dollar, there a fiver, a coupon for free chips,
worthy of somebody’s eternal gratitude,
that would be you,
da Duke, Duke of York
the largest online free poetry site,
a million visitors a day, why you must be
the richest poet online billionaire, right?
you,
da Duke, Duke of York and
occasional poet...
in return, all we occasional poets demand
steady on instant access, immediate satisfaction,
after all, a part time job deserves your bestus-best,
just like every other large online site, that never crashes,
we’re not like just the rest, we are
p o e t s,
occasionally
so keep the servers engines, well stoked with Newcastle coal,
keep them up and running round the clock,
using only alternative energy,
of the unceasing sun light of merry old England!
quit that other job, you must,
instead of giving up on us,
give in to us,
a poetry break, a writing recharge,
though please add a limited liability
clause to the FAQ’s,
that poets’ lives must deal with the hiccup
occasional
you, da Duke, Duke of York,
newly now, an appointment royale as Major General,^^
you, the very model of a modern major general
possessing information vegetable, animal, mineral and
technical,
who knows the Queens of England, who,
maybe even now is telling tales of your heroics with the hordes of
hysterical
occasional
poetical
globalists
demanding
light brigadests
charging the redoubt
and
when you have a moment spare,
a haircut, please.
no, that is not a request,
naturally
<>
10/19/19
Noontime NYC
natalino
Oct 19, 2019
Oct 19, 2019 at 12:21 PM UTC
Load Steam and select old nostalgic pre-purchased game
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Please wait for technical assistance ...
Aug 21, 2014
Aug 21, 2014 at 7:38 AM UTC
*The error is
somewhere between
the keyboard
and the chair*
Mar 9, 2015
Mar 9, 2015 at 7:36 PM UTC
I'm not superman
And way too slow to be the flash
I'm definitely not batman
As I don't have Bruce Wayne's cash
Can't swim good enough
To be aquaman
And I'm too chubby by far
To wear the tights of Peter Pan
I can't be the hulk
I just don't look right in green
Ironman? forget it
That suits way too technical a machine
I'm not your typical superhero
You've never heard of me
But should we ever be attacked by bacon
My super power you would see
I can't leap over a tall building
In a single bound
But I can eat bacon non-stop
Pound after pound
You know it's only a matter of time
Bacon will attack sooner or later
But have no fear dear citizens
For I am, BACONATER!
May 13, 2015
May 13, 2015 at 2:59 PM UTC
The truth is easy to prove
for it’s right in front of you,
it doesn’t hide or keep secrets.
I am probably the most honest
person you will meet,
for I am an autistic person.
I will tell you as it is
no sweetness or sugar daddy
involved.
You want to know how
to be true? Learn how to
think like cats do. Don’t
worry about how others
feel, instead question
their motives but with
respect for their uniqueness
and views.
Don’t try to look through
someone else’s eyes without
asking them what they see
and then try to imagine what
it would be like.
You could also change
the way you view yourself,
stop seeing just yourself,
imagine what it would be like
to see like a blind mouse,
imagine the possibilities
are limitless, try to look
beyond the normal.
For normal is Technical:
(of a line, ray, or other linear
feature) intersecting a given
line or surface at right angles.
My autistic love is
normal for me. My love
is unconditional
because I love with
an autistic view,
you can trust I will
never lie to you.
We who have an autistic view
see life for what it is
and we will tell the truth
doesn’t matter if you wanted
it.
When I say I love you,
that’s the truth.
That’s autistic love
for you. We love like
cats do.
© 2019 By Amanda Shelton
May 16, 2019
May 16, 2019 at 3:26 PM UTC
While I return and slow down
to the classics;
the film analog cameras,
vinyl records,
typewriters,
silent movies,
worn-out pocketbooks,
and other novelties
of the old world charm...
I also enjoy the convenience
of the contemporary;
my phone's one-click camera,
spotify premium,
notes app,
netflix,
kindle,
and other niceties
that the here and now has to offer...
And while I rev back
to the retro and vintage,
I also race forward
to the excitement and danger
brought about by the internet,
of chatting with a familiar stranger.
of exchanging laughters in electronic.
of feeling emotions from a vague, distant, technical, difficult source.
Oh, the thrill and tragedy of technology!
May 7, 2022
May 7, 2022 at 8:22 AM UTC
Why do we do better
To make things only worse
We make our houses big
Our kids are grown
Telecommunication
New yard, technical phones.
Staring out of our window
Lost, lonely in a thoughtful watch
Wondering will someone make it
To our door or stop on our block
Or leave us in our house alone
As the quiet loner's we are.
Oct 16, 2015
Oct 16, 2015 at 6:54 AM UTC
“What were things like when you were young, What were people like”
“Let me tell you my young friend,
Things were different when I grew up,
Men were men, women were women,
There were a few gays but no one cared one way or the other,
It was about how you were not who you were,
People should remember that nowadays,
People were different when I grew up,
We’d never seen anyone that wasn’t white,
It was exciting and different when we started to see new people,
Not what we were used to,
I think it’s amazing that people want to be who they are,
They should be free to be themselves,
Things were just different when I grew up,
We didn’t care for fancy names and new things,
We were happy to have shoes on our feet and food in our bellies,
I heard someone was killed for their sports shoes,
I don’t get it,
Shoes ?
Things really were different when I grew up,
We’d leave our doors unlocked without a care,
I think we were so grateful for what we did have that we didn’t stop to think about what we didn’t have,
We would wait for things to come,
Not like today where everyone wants things yesterday,
So busy thinking of what they want I think they’ve forgotten what they have,
No one seems to live in the present,
They don’t want to talk to me,
They’d rather talk to a stranger in another country,
I suppose I’m the same,
Living in the past,
But things were different in the past,
We were never prejudiced,
Why would we of been,
We had not much to offer and not much to lose,
It’s a new thing,
The fear and the bullying,
The greed and the violence,
I think a lot of people have gone mad,
If you keep showing people nice shiny things they’ll want them,
Then if you tell them it’s not shiny anymore,
They’ll want a new one,
And if they can’t afford a new one ,
Well,
We were better off without all the new shiny things,
Things weren’t so shiny back then,
Maybe it made it easier for us,
Too much choice isn’t always a good thing,
Most of us were good people though but we did have our bad,
But there was enough good to deal with it,
I think the balance has shifted somewhat,
Then there’s this social media your all obsessed with,
Giving the bad people a mask to hide behind,
It’s a shame,
Things were more honest back then,
All these technical media things are amazing but it’s changed people,
I think it gives them power to control a lot more stuff,
It’s a lot of pressure,
I wouldn’t want all that responsibility,
I think that’s why i struggle now,
Because I remember a better time,
When people were generally better,
The world was so different back then,
This isn’t my world anymore,
I often wish I was back then.
I've not long left though then I can rest,
Maybe go back the and see my friends,
Thanks for asking and listening though,
It doesn’t happen much at my age,
I hope you do well,
Good luck my young friend.”
Mar 4, 2019
Mar 4, 2019 at 7:25 AM UTC
White girls can get stuck too,
the same way that no money
sandwiches you between two
slices of dreams you cannot bite
into, because we cannot pay for that
school—stuck like peanut butter.
I want things, but mostly
I want to be able to stay at the
university and learn so, someday,
I can teach others too.
Teach them to love good and
truth and not care that they are
not the businessman or engineer
with a steady job.
All they—all we—have to do
is be willing to clean the bathrooms or
flip the greasy burgers if we have to.
Hands that are working and honest
are always good hands, no matter
what they do.
When I tell people I love English
and writing, the man or woman instructs me
to pick something more practical—be a
technical writer, a reporter, an advertiser.
But I love my poetry, and no one can
ask me to sell my happiness
and design for a nice house and a
maid who cleans because hubris
has rusted my joints.
I am not a hero or a martyr
for words, but I am a woman
who would humbly scrub toilets to
feed her children, write poems at
night, and be happy.
Feb 22, 2012
Feb 22, 2012 at 4:32 AM UTC
her face a bold echo of all she left behind
a slow symphony of nasty things that linger in her mind
she lives them over and over
in the off color technical vision
of an artist trying on her own guises for a adventure
the night crawls over her thigh
lodges in the warm wet of her fingers
and spreads into the windows
grey fades into black
the slow devolution
into the jaundiced eye
into the nicotine stained tapping fingers as she impatiently
waits for words that can never be spoken aloud
the slow desire for tears
so deep and immediate that its a bible to the lonely soul
and her senses deny you
even as you touch the door
even as you evaporate down the hall
melt yourself into the humid night
so fair is her face that you live each of thouse seconds in dire regret
so fair is her touch that you must lean on your last breath
to let go
the night crawls
in her bed clothes
laying its fetid eggs
like a stain of pollution tender and sickly sweet
its insect face bitter staring from her soul
now i see you
you escape over and over
door
hall
humid night
door
hall
humid night
but you never leave
narrow her eye jaundiced and rancid
lay open for the world to see and be seen by
and she molds him to the stain of her hurt
deep impressions over the years leaves him little room to
wiggle wiggle worm, wiggle wiggle worm
Sep 7, 2013
Sep 7, 2013 at 10:02 PM UTC
Is there a doctor in the house?
I think I'm having southern withdrawl symptoms
shakes and such
brain a blubbering mess
why give one so much feeling
if they can't get rid of it healthily?
Too much for one body to handle
maybe throw in another personality
nothing bad ever happend
just a technical problem during manufacturing
a wire connected wrong
or not connected at all
amygdala super sensitive
looking for comfort in wrong places
stupid faces
blazing aces
therapists are kind but really need a map
words only convey so much
can't help if they can't understand
whose fault is that?
Probably the broken robot
me
doesn't speak in proper vernacular
accustomed to being freakish and safe
greasing joints with *****
circuit boards of tofu scramble
electric feed back every once in a while
when I cough
perhaps new meds will calm overactive internal reactions
or maybe being all vulnerable to candy hearted young men
spilling secrets and insecurities to friends
but they'll all leave
right?
Europeans had no problem taking over lands
staying with natives
eating their foods
but if the natives had shared their deepest secrets and feelings
pilgrims would have gladly returned home for persecution
than to put up with an emotional Squanto.
Jun 12, 2012
Jun 12, 2012 at 1:16 PM UTC
YADA TASHY ( "Originator Stone" )
Outside the first snow falls.
Her wounds are photographed.
Spoken of.
Described in detail.
Technical.
The overhead microphone
takes it all in.
Being dead she is
more naked
than she ever was.
Stripped of her
humanity.
She had ceased to be
who she used to be.
She is now
merely a cadaver.
The autopsy can not tell
her name.
She is Kuzuku.
Her mother called her
KuKu.
She had been born
with a caul.
KuKu was pregnant.
She was going to call
the child if it was a girl
. . .Yuki.
She couldn't conceive what
she would call it if a boy?
It was always going to be
a girl.
She liked candyfloss
and her hair up.
Now her hair is down.
It touches her shoulders.
As if her hair were
still alive.
The autopsy
wound by wound
tells of the hell
of her dying.
The voice is
deadpan.
Mechanical.
The coroner
breaks for coffee.
Bitter. Black.
"Ya da!"
as the Turks say.
"...with nothing..."
***
Kuzuku was named after the flowering plant/rampant **** Her mother always drank a tea made from it. Only her mother called her her pet name; "Kuku!" Her blacker than black hair always seemed like a living entity in itself as it danced upon her shoulders or splashed over her clavicles. She always wore off the shoulder dresses or tops even in winter cold. I once told her she had the cutest clavicles( "rekishi no naka de kawaī sakotsu" )in history which....always made her laugh. I told her she had well tempered clavicles and she laughed even more when the pun was explained to her. She had been born with a caul...a red caul. She it was who told me the Turkish tale or the Yada Daşı and of the Yadachy.
She had just met the man who would eventually stab her to death and she was greatly in love with him and his culture.
All these little scraps of humanity could not be disclosed by the autopsy which could never tell of how beautiful she was and what a joy she was to be around.
Her death was a horror tale told by a friend of a friend of a friend and hard to comprehend or believe.
Aug 27, 2016
Aug 27, 2016 at 6:12 AM UTC