"unmonitored" poems
an unpardonable aberration
in possession of an adrenalized
dynamism of energy
which emerges
like that of the dirt on my face
but cannot hide
the strangulation of my hair
nor the red that fires my fingers
nor the desire or physical location
of my marvellous sexuality
or the ink that bleeds from my nose
when the excitement of creation
reaches its unmonitored theft
of psychophysical ************
of writing upon the page
those elusive words that once written
become an imagined ****** fantasy
blurred but cannot be retained
for the words must be free
free to be the poem, to be themselves
to be ourselves
Jun 12, 2013
Jun 12, 2013 at 11:29 PM UTC
My breath feels empty
My throat is constantly chocking the screams I long to release
The idea of something so permanent makes me feel stuck in the present
This is not a distant vacation,
This is an emptiness in my heart that will last for the rest of my life
I am constantly apologizing to an unmonitored Facebook account
Forever is a long time to deal with this emptiness
Jul 14, 2014
Jul 14, 2014 at 4:13 AM UTC
cookies & cachéd data,
digitally-programmed privacy paraphernalia
are carefully collecting information
following your confirmation
to allow the invasion
of all forms of personal communication
((( it’s hard to ignore the intimidation
of the internet’s alluring intoxication )))
but between you&me
life beyond a screen
never felt so free,
an anti-digital reality,
life in an unmonitored galaxy
is something only the mind can dream
# # # # #
Oct 18, 2017
Oct 18, 2017 at 12:15 PM UTC
Appetizing morsels of snack food leftovers, jammed down the throats of the gathering’s well-meaning occupants, trapped in place, paralyzed by purchasing power, co-mingling amongst a gossamer of plague ridden staff, exercising their right to a paltry sum, at the cost of worldly dignity.
Tupperware auctioned off at a silent word, while women with crow’s feet crevices compile layers of expensive, foundry concealer, birthing a new, more melancholic Pagliacci, only to be outdone by the next in line.
Sound equipment, purchased over market value, placed on the showroom floor, mechanically regurgitating a playlist of old hits as broken hips slaughter the concept of rhythm and cadence, dancing for their youth, embarrassed by their age.
Late husband’s life insurance, blown on a new make-up line tested on Lassie, bought for the sake of a cost-free gift, which would have the woman’s palm eaten out by a monetarily starved charlatan, rented out on an hourly basis.
Sprayed odors, mixing and merging as they meet on the undersides of veiny wrists, fumigating the stale air, weakening the legs of the participants, dropping them to the floor as sequenced lights illuminate in time with an ancient billboard tune.
Eight o’clock bedtime, difficult to impose, when giddy patrons stay drunk on the bliss of over-spending, knocking off to a land of nod in unmonitored broom closets, clutching at their purchases with the vigor of a lowly man in pursuit of his bottle.
The night slows, crawling in turn with a dead clock as it ticks in place, stalemated, flinching, but not forward, only in place.
Lights leave the room, and silence ensues, the visitors leave, weighted down to a lifeless crawl by their numerous, unnecessary purchases in overfilled, non-recyclable shopping bags.
Nov 22, 2014
Nov 22, 2014 at 6:13 PM UTC
My mother is a password,
my father is a desk.
I am a pen that moves across
the blue lines of this page
or
the clatter of the keyboard
on which these words are typed,
transmitting their collective zeros
and ones into the blue-black light of
the text that appears unabashedly unmonitored
on the monitor, the screen, the scene
of this machine
that wages wars on my melancholy,
destroys the depressive states,
guerilla tactics,
computer-guided, cruise missile
ordinance.
Ordinary?
No.
A one-man Civil War.
An opinion-piece, op-ed
megaphone manifesto.
Rights?
Rites?
Writes?
I’ve got ‘em all,
down the the most
microscopic minutia,
a miasma of Most-Holy
**** or Shinola.
My mother is a password
my father is a desk.
I am a pen,
the mightiest of swords,
a war within a warrior,
no better
or
worse,
just different
from the
rest.
***
-JBClaywell
© P&Z Publications 2019
May 24, 2019
May 24, 2019 at 12:17 PM UTC
"Eli, Eli, lama sabachthani?"
So He said in despair.
Son of The Father, you call him?
Now, He is so unfair.
Why did A Father abandon His child?
A wrong number.
Do you all believe in falsehood?
Unmonitored childcare.
Even Eli's Son found His faith unsure.
Then how can you be so sure?
The Son thought that The Father abandoned Him.
Is such a
Father
trustworthy of your human faith?
I'd have such a Father under probation,
And His Child under human protection.
Find your faith in Rámà and Křšņà
Because they are both the same.
He is Vìšņù,
The Conserver.
He is without any sin,
The Faithful Protector.
He will never betray you.
Wait for the Kalki to reveal,
As for the Devil's faith, Kalki will dismantle.
Oct 27, 2019
Oct 27, 2019 at 6:40 AM UTC
I am disaster
With killing cuts in my face
For the drool when it rolls down
From a face held in place with staples and tension cables
My laugh lines are chuckles at best
Like a pity laugh at a joke that went one step too far
A mouth that settles down, literally
And strains to bend upward
Its so god **** heavy and I cant bare it
Pulling open my ribs to operate I can see this dark heart
Crusting over, hardening over with hate
Being petrified by all the things I distrust from happiness
Im pulling off those bits and pieces too necrotic to save
It hurts but it has to be done
Theres no other way to do it
Unmonitored positivism will dull my perception
While absorbed in this placebo state
I know that this heart will turn to stone
And buried beneath scar tissue, Ill change
Thats why a smile is the worst vitamin
The muscles used to form a cartoonish frown
Are not real, you have to try real hard to make that ****
But when your face is aimed downward
When your eyes are built for crying
And filling in the cracks with gold only makes your wounds visible
The weight of a smile is
A clown mask, over flesh burned from the inside out
Feeling like youre digesting a cannonball every hour of the day
Wanting to grab someone and hold them because the floor is falling out from under you
Feeling the size of your own thoughts crushing down on lungs too asthmatic to breath
Being acutely aware of every second of the day
The dying sun inside your chest feeling like it's going super nova
Being connected to a hundred different points, and seeing no change in distance
Slaying a sentence before it leaves your mind because you think no one cares
Being okay for everyone else because you cant be for yourself anymore
Mar 25, 2016
Mar 25, 2016 at 1:09 AM UTC