"tincan" poems
'All glory and honor', to You, bathed me with yellowed fingers. Father.
Whips me across each molar for penance, offers me glue in the morning- the kind he uses on letters when saliva won't seal the deal.
I, the cliché, trim my fingernails with a knife and mostly miss target. Slide into various seas, daily, with tincan pupils.
Knock,
knock, its time again
Dec 28, 2016
Dec 28, 2016 at 5:44 PM UTC
Robot
Tincan man.
Input, circuit, overdrive.
Shadow of the future and past.
Movement hidden, you are not alive.
Programs still running fast.
What else can you do?
Wake up by morning not able to read the news.
Passing a breeze God gave to you.
Barely feeling the I love you's.
Your data has been set to self destruct.
Walking around all confused.
While your memory is set on stuck.
A heart not made to rust.
Hanging laundry out in the rain.
Lazy technician you can not trust.
Look what hes made out of you.
Ready to blow your ******
Compute- abort- system to self destroy.
Restoring the joy ****** out of you.
Input: input: information .
Wipe out the old, store in new.
Delete all files to recycle bin.
System reboot to life again.
With a new program that reads:
Feeling like a human once again.
(This robot is on)
.(self shut down!)
Apr 5, 2010
Apr 5, 2010 at 3:56 PM UTC
Rocket red robots and tincan screws
Light up the night with sparks,
Which I love.
The workers work and the sleepers,
They sleep forever.
Making rye for the breadwinners,
Making toasty socks for the children,
Making copper caps and wee brass booties,
But won't let them take a wee stroll,
Not in contrary Mary's garden.
The kettleheads squeal and the bronze bucket chests,
They hum with drums in their stomachs,
Candygloss paint trickles onto
The sprockets below with their sharp teeth,
Teeth that creep over the outmodes and candy red.
Jul 9, 2012
Jul 9, 2012 at 1:06 PM UTC
it's morning, you know
we could
paint a still life with our impotent fingers
or cook eggs with every
spice in the drawer
we could
dig holes in the front yard,
bury treasures in front of
button-down commuters get
smashingly drunk forget
where we put them dig
them up and be convincingly surprised.
we could pretend our hands are
****** hands our
eyes new canvases and record
like **** Rembrandts
the embarassing details
we could make a creek of
pillows from one
side of the house to another
roll the entire length of it naked and
end up tangled in each other when they
run out
There is a whole day ahead of us, a whole world ahead of us -
a world of misery separated from us by
firecracker smoke, by cannonsmoke.
We have the house to ourselves
we could duct tape cardboard to the
exterior and pretend its one big
refrigerator box we could
jettison old ball mice and fat computer monitors
into the driveway *****
a campfire in the living room and
imagine that we have rebelled against something
fittingly awful, the modern world scowling at
our rusticity we could
make a tincan telephone that connects the entire
cul-de-sac and dress up smart and
sell it as charmingly as Ma Bell door-to-door
But our refined brains think two things:
*** again, handcuffed to maturity, or sleep.
What a world. What a longing.
What our age must suggest.
What an excuse: your starched reputation.
What courage could come from your bleached conscience.
How lovely to be trapped.
Feb 23, 2010
Feb 23, 2010 at 10:42 AM UTC
In the scale of A or B
I come in at number three and
my time's caught short like an
incontinent man, so
you **** your pants, but you carry the can?
obviously,
if you have a tin to **** in that's what you do.
The tincan, **** poor man now there's a moniker to tinker with.
At fifty nine,
I've had some time to ponder on and pontificate, to moan about the state we're in, to carry the can and one spare tin and yet no time at all in the scheme of things which brings me back to A or B, I wonder which and where the number three came in.
I build a maze to amuse and it confuses my sense of direction, here over there, do a right back to where and my time's caught up with me,
I need a ***
Dec 9, 2015
Dec 9, 2015 at 4:21 PM UTC