"typeset" poems
Insomnia makes strange bed fellows of us all
as sleep replaced by poetic sense of irony
as when we are alone we find good company
within the spirit box of demonic technology
there beneath the glass rise unspoken words
seemingly writ by modern day planchette
as disembodied heads with rictus smiles
beckon us with whispered promises typeset
fingers fearing rheumatism fumble with keys
unlocking neuron pathway to answer their call
to find peaceful rest beneath ink stained sheets
as insomnia makes strange bed fellows of us all
Feb 19, 2013
Feb 19, 2013 at 9:17 PM UTC
Alcatragedy, aesthetics, and a
Bubbly feeling beneath our feet. Let's
Cruise between channels; there's no need to meet. Re-
Doxx on Galaxy's
Extremeties typeset whatever is
Faked, overridden, and
Glistening in chic.
Hybristophilionic puressure
Infracts upon the fourth wall we seek,
Jicking, ticking, trickling in.
(Kickstarted convection)
Life is beyond a stream...
Minuet attraction
Null, neo, and novelty
0.0
Pulse or minus me.
Quantitative lacerations, fantasy and a fascination
Recreations masking
Softsations
Taint my rose and wildest dreams!
Unphasing
Vermillion reasons to like it.
Wordless, grinding sonar screams; Isle,
Xana, et tu. Rumble a shy oasis in
Yeses, twos, and please
Zzz
May 30, 2015
May 30, 2015 at 7:01 PM UTC
There's a road far away from here, beyond the nurturing couch that has always lain behind the living room door.
eyelids open and close but body is frozen, you're a man made of fire trying not to break the ice
it's not a pain it's a fear
Legs are warmed from the wireless furnaces that heat up in your lap.
Fingers have traveled hundreds of miles on that typeset but toes none
You can't be the only one
technological systematical hazes in which we bury all our gazes
Suddenly every friendship ever born seems to have its own wi-fi password
Bill Gates, a god and jesus a fraud
Autotuned presidential speeches leeching into ears
are there actually words that we're hearing. Is this a state of mind that we are being herded into
That phonix toy that taught me how to read is replaced by angry birds on some mothers iphones
We are all so plugged in, you can update where you are on a single whim
But it takes so much whining to get the mangled limbs off the couch.
Every youth is living in two worlds one in which they binge and one in which they purge
But i have a question,
Do you even realize there's a lesson here, in all of this?
May 11, 2013
May 11, 2013 at 2:56 AM UTC
typeset soul
page to fill
graphite smear
wings on walls
spinning verse
ink black sky
etched ardour
wordless voice
Dec 17, 2015
Dec 17, 2015 at 8:19 AM UTC
sitting underneath her knee was a lent book of entymology
something about butterflies being caught and pinned
preserved in stasis for the sake of beautiful things
cold crisp leaf wings smoked behind the glass
of a cyanide bottomed killing jar
and in that half read book all she could glean
amongst the bones of writing so lean
was the feeling that you could lie flat and cold
and be a redolent beauty despite the lack of life-
days earlier
the talking therapy had been all right.
*hey, there's a ton of treatment these days
medication and conversation and there's no need
to burrow yourself away.*
so they talked about feelings
as if they were quietly observing the to and fro
independent little embryos growing opinions of their own-
the indignant insistence that these things,
these emotions have names, signs, triggers
and they begin and they end and curve again-
rising up from the flat of a typeset page.
Apr 13, 2016
Apr 13, 2016 at 4:46 PM UTC
Go on then and type type type away
into the gloom of a dying Eastern seaboard,
waiting and watching for a glimpse of that
rotting corpse you call a messiah,
yes the prophet of power reeking of
stale cigarette butts and old ******
Type type type the day away
buying your worthless flowers
and plastic ******* palm trees
as you shed pieces of your soul
like flakes of aluminum shavings
metal snowflakes trailing behind
your beat up industrial exterior.
Type type type through the sickle cell night
wallowing in the animal urge to
go dance naked round a roaring fire
and make sweet love to Anglo-Saxon girls
lost in moonlight on a bed of pine needles
only to realize that those dreams are just as
sallow and jaundiced as the *** on the
rusty iron corner that you know you
will someday be sacrificed to.
Type type type till the pink lips of sunrise
claw their way out of another shuddering dawn
to find you red eyed and drunk
screaming obscenities at the computer screen
and wondering how the dead certainty that
filled you with passion and verse the night before
could wither away into the hollow crevices
that forever wink up at you out of the
gangrenous ******* chest wound of American Dreams.
Nov 10, 2014
Nov 10, 2014 at 7:52 PM UTC
There are no words today
The shopkeeper told his patrons.
They gathered bereft seeking sublime phrases
Poems of love and loss
But he could offer them none.
There are no words today
He told them.
No typeset letters upon the page
No phrases crafted of sinew and strength
Or of weakness and failing.
They pressed on with their day then
Without their fix of crafted words
To scribble waxen-colour inside their lines
They were left to contour their own imagery
And look about them for hue and tone and rhyme.
Lost then in clichés and quotations
For day after subsequent day
Used words were read over and again
Off ***** or torn sheets
Or passed hand-to-hand on gritty streets
And stapled and taped
To telephone poles and fences.
There were no words for the patrons
On that day and since
And their unspent coins
Brought them no respite
For the disquiet in their hearts.
May 8, 2015
May 8, 2015 at 11:06 PM UTC
-x-
You heard the man
He was telling a lie
But it felt harmless;
so you had let it fly
Into the web
of nameless, faceless arachnids
who chewed it up
and spewed out in typeset
With no recourse,
it spread across the threads
As they kept on spinning
their yarn of hate
It grew with ancient tales
of temples broken, villages burned
And threats of history repeating itself
unless all debate was adjourned
Till a house of cards it was no more -
but a fortress you couldn't move
For you had by then forgotten
what used to be the truth
-x-
Feb 27, 2021
Feb 27, 2021 at 4:48 PM UTC
my stylus on the keyboard
is...
a vulture venturing from q to m, scavenging the whole way
spelling not a kind word, leaving a cyber trail of blood
mockingbirds rarely roost; when they do, they typeset self loathing, for what it's worth
mostly mourning doves make nest there, pecking keys, punctuating words with their sad songs
deaf as I am, I still hear them,
see their blue tales
not yet has an owl visited with its mythic wisdom, but I know one day it will call my name...
not a minute too soon, amidst this fluttering digital madness
Sep 17, 2017
Sep 17, 2017 at 2:18 AM UTC
the tangle of lines or wires or web,
tangible visibility matters not,
a thought, a typeset, a thread,
a voice, a tweet, a time,
all of these spent,
in one place
from the heart from the mind,
and all the space that is just
beyond fingertips,
and a keyboard.
May 17, 2014
May 17, 2014 at 2:43 AM UTC