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jaden Nov 2021
i’m unplugging the month old box fan for the first time since i moved in
september 22nd the first day of fall and im excited i was made for the slight breeze of the morning and the warmth right before the setting sun
but like i said i’m unplugging the month old box fan since i took it out of its box when i moved into mine
august 29th a midwestern summers peak when i truck back into the alley of a save a lot and the empty room i moved into
it doesn’t really matter though cause it’s two in the morning of the morning after i shoved the first box fan i ever bought myself under the last bed my mother would ever force upon me and i’m getting upset about the rate at which the world keeps turning
so maybe i’m sad because i haven’t seen my friends since i saw my broken box fan i had for four high school summers and didn’t have to purchase with my own barista money and i miss the way we’d understand the nonsense and sit too close together
but it doesn’t matter cause yesterday way september 22nd. the first day of fall and i was excited and i am excited because i’m unplugging that month old box fan that drowns the quiet in an empty room alone at 2 in the morning
Eloisa Aug 2019
I’ve always been working harder every single day but recently I felt odd.
August, the Ghost Month, my birth month, as always seemed to be long, difficult and heavy.
It’s definitely not my life and my current job as a kindergarten teacher in a Japanese school or all the things that are happening with me and around me. There’s really something dark that I really couldn’t explain.
In Chinese folk legend, on the first day of the seventh lunar month, the gate of hell will be wide open and the ghosts will come out until the gate is closed on the 30th day.
I was like battling with the evil forces for a number of days and about to succumb to darkness when I decided  to unplug. I was offline for about two weeks not only because I needed a break but more because I needed time for some self reflection.
But unplugging sometimes from the online world means being more present in the real world. I was able to have quality time with some close friends and had the chance to explore beautiful and serene places here in Japan.
~ Well, the odd feeling might have something to do with my upcoming birthday this Monday. Celebrating my special day again for the 6th time without my family.
jess Apr 2017
I am here and I am gone.
Sometimes I come in strongly,
sometimes I am nothing more than a whisper.
You see, my life is like a little red radio.
Shifting, yes. Evolving, no.

Stating my momentary pleasures in a hot seat,
moving with a quiet current of low mumbles.
There are numbered stations for my feelings,
controlled by that little red-silver tune dial
that chooses a separate mood for every moment.

Moreover, the volume dial,
telling me when to keep my mouth shut,
to be static in the air that the atmosphere rejects.
and sometimes, making me feel the stations
through a door slam or a "*******."

See, my life is like a little red radio,
always caught in between two stations.
I apoligize for how terribly depressing this is. I'm going through some things
Odd Odyssey Poet Jun 2022
Pressing charge,
unplugging the worth you have in my heart,
Wicked, and deceitful,—would I seem saying,
"I love you with all my heart"

What haven't I loved long before you,
I've loved another; or rather a better
taste of you. Cloying; to a degree of natural ecstasy.
Scented ravenousness, so sweet by the first brim of
open lips connected.

I've had an affair with her, over the plain;
that seemed to be what we once had.
But still I could never start my day firstly without a
hint of you; yearning yourself down throat.

Enkindled by you both; though as the latter
proved herself, only in the first few times.
My bladder full to breaking point of a glutted
water balloon; hanging on a thin string.

The effect she had on me...

The effect of when I picked a latte coffee
over my traditional black brew.
Brycical May 2014
THE OTHER DAY IN THE PARK I SPIED A WHITE SQUIRREL!

LATER:
We remember a past life,
later she opens her heart completely;
gratitude beats out!

I Cry.

She Cries.

THIS SCENE PLAYS OUT IN THE KITCHEN
OF THE TOUR GUIDE THROUGH THE
MATRIX, WHERE SHIPIBO PATTERNS
ALIGN THE INSIDE OF HIS LOFTY DEN.


The Tour Guide introduced us
to the timeless Oracle Pixie Swan
who paints 10 years into the future.

FOR DINNER:
we weave golden sunset light
in good convo's about the human
experience unplugging  the people.

IN THE MORNING:
we watch the gray clouds burn away
as they slowly unzip the sun unto a quiet Toronto cityscape.

We run into old friends
serendipitously pin-balling from all over the world
yet conversations continue,
with some new jokes & banter
about mistaking white squirrels & seagulls
but overall, talking the same magical words
as we are with our old soul timer families.

-----
THROUGHOUT THE DAY:
How grateful we are
to be blessed with a life of travel
& living creatively
while a few live vicariously through our
mostly unplannet planned adventures
spanning warm shores of Bali
to cold pole warm toes in Toronto.

How grateful our beings
made whole holy feel.

-----
Hooray for living, special dedication to another poet on HP, Seymour.
http://hellopoetry.com/seymour/
Justin Michael Nov 2013
Browsing, surfing, clicking
From inane, to insane, to profane
Running down a rabbit hole
That rewires every brain

Stumbling, bumbling, tripping
Into troll caves and lucid irrelevance
“Welcome to the interwebz, I’ll be your guide!”
Cries the three toed unicorn elephant

Museum of human ignorance
Vortex of time and creativity
At least Pre-NSA
We had some anonymity

Wellspring of inspiration
But don’t trade watching for doing
The internet gives and takes from us
And there’s a high price for using

Such worthless brilliance
Human biology isn’t ready
To start slurping up
This endless virtual piece of spaghetti

Grant virtual power to the people
So we virtually feel free
While you track and categorize every click
And quantify our humanity

I’m not asking to cut down the tree
But dead branches need trimming
I’m not asking to drain the reservoir
But stop sinking, start swimming

I’m not asking to cut the cord
Just intermittent unplugging
Don’t unload the gun
Just don’t aim at your forehead
Keiko Larrieux Jan 2010
Slowly unplugging dreams
Holding my breath
Uncomforted contentment beams
Calmed by screams

Cords of love and lust
I light the past to déjà vu

Cords of hatred and trust
I light the future for you

My fingertips burn with jealousy
Living celestial reverie
Success enveloped by a fallacy

I was suffocated at birth.
Dragged by the liberation

I was suffocated at birth.
Decorated with colorful lacerations

I was suffocated at birth.
With hard cored freedom and insulation

I was suffocated at birth.
Killed by supersonic maturation…
Anais Vionet Mar 2022
Yesterday’s weather was squallish, so Mich and Lisa were posted-up all day. They’ve been hanging together lately but tolerhate each other - I don’t get it.

Mitch, a Junior, is the snippiest man I’ve ever met - except for my brother, when he’s actively trying to be a ****. Everything Lisa does seems to rub him wrong, but he’s got a massive ***** in her direction.

Sometimes Lisa lets him intersperse his harsh music and we get “Neural Milk Hotel” or “Bikini ****” - screemo tracs that set me pinching fingers close together THIS close to unplugging the **** router. I don’t think he’s a comfortable fit.

So, the three of us were going to pick up dinner at “Charley’s Place” and bring it back for the room. We get about ten feet out in the rain and Lisa says, “Argh! My Phone,” holds up the “1-second” sign and turns back.

Mich, with the rain lashing down, is clearly irritated. He turns to me, looks me up and down and says, “Should we sleep together and see what it’s like?”

I decided that either his irritation with Lisa was emboldening him - or more likely, he was making a joke. “Wow, you’re really smooth with the seduction thing,” I say, hoping he takes the joke path.

“I’m being direct,” he says, bending his legs or something to look me more directly in the eyes. “I like you, I’m attracted to you.” I looked away. Then turn back.

“It’s wrong. The whole idea. Deeply wrong,” I say, deciding that he’s serious and starting to get mad, “Lisa’s my friend,” I say, wondering how I can tell her about this, “die for that.”

“We know each other - it wouldn’t be like sleeping with a stranger,” He says, trying a logic so odd I almost laugh.

“Collapse already,” I say, dryly, as the dorm door opens and Lisa emerges.

I put Lisa between us. “You know,” I say, sweeping my hair back from my forehead but keeping my palm pressed there like I’m taking my temperature, “I think I’ll call it a night.”

“Awww,” Lisa says, grimacing disappointedly. “Really?” Tilting her head in concentration as she searches me for reasons, symptoms, or a change in heart.

“Yeah,” I say, giving her a hug, “see ya later.” I turn and go in, as they walk off arguing.

I decided to work on an essay I’d been putting off, but my heart wasn’t in it - I couldn’t concentrate. Everything was irritating me - my clothes felt like wool - thinking I was going to have to tell Lisa about Mitch’s proposition.

Forty minutes later Lisa’s back home - with sandwiches for both of us. I’m sitting on my bed playing Animal Crossing when she scooches onto the foot of my bed and tells me she decided the Mitch thing wasn’t working anymore.

“Thank God,” I say, letting my head fall back on my pillows, “You couldn’t trust him.”
BLT word of the day challenge: Intersperse: place or insert something at intervals"

Slang: post-up = staying inside   tolerhate = hate but tolerate

There’s a song for this: All I’ve ever known by Bahamas
Dante Rocío Sep 2020
It is sharpening crimson steel in a knife as of that, with it fingers softly bleed like care and rise as a shuttered peach in
a sturdy piece of scarlet, paid in heed.

Your foreboding onthou my skin is no more truly nor less rigid unplugging of violin strings out of a guttural chords into a straight morbid fire, and a pain structure
hardens, straightens,
embeds them forever into every light’s riddance, this trial mended.
Welcomed fireflies in a
solstice. bonfire. forest. [stygian].

Love, my dearest Love, if your ever evanescent body or voice even exists:
if I ever dare to greet in my tears music it only may be to bleed with you in one common fluid, to have my ribs torn gently by
each your promise barely for my hand’s taking,
endure time to have my truer form by you,
a sensation, clad in lilac velvet that goes
under the name of “Paper Airplane” by
my thoughts.

To keep.
Us.
Intact.
More than as rain we always are.

A child picked up a solitary chalk and sketching protruded some things by that hand & sight, some sun with injustice drawn, that elders’ words and acts
have not put up.

Some of the chalk simply lays everyday crushed.
Foundance.
With no human passage, luggage.
No matter how hard I’ll come to cry
Never shall I reject my waters.
My Love, you who kiss me further and further
Without lips or anything to align,
I wish for you to never earn a step or body,
And to marry my sand-sea plaited follies.
Be veritable Garden Song.
Kodjo Deynoo Aug 2010
Have you seen, with gifted sight
The bottom line of pits
Made stand and smiled
On platforms stage

Have you danced a tango with a cactus
And bowed down in appreciation
While still unplugging,  
What was left  behind
In piercing thorns on skins

Do not speak bad of the dragon
I have come to appreciate it's breath
In dens he owned, I sat in; a lodger

Trick or treat, is from what side
Side of the coin the toss, gravitates
So the lucky coin still has a side
Unseen until show of hands

Like everything else, in matter
Do not speak bad,
Of the dragon's breath
It is rude to do so.
Based on a work at www.poetrysoundbites.blogspot.com
Morgan Mar 2013
Lightly sifting through this mess
Rearranging all of the tANGlEd
                                            
                                         wires beneath this flesh
Unplugging all the
burnt out
chords
collecting
dust
between
v e i n s
-
Like the one that deals with missing you
And the one that deals with hating you
Knocking down the
walls that kept them
safe behind my

eyes
Opening the flood gates


                          Soaking through your t-shirt
Leaving
a
t r a i l
of salt in
every room of this house

Claw marks at the door
----
Stay behind the threshold 

I'm not letting you in this time around
Barton D Smock May 2015
a broken raccoon
in the black hair
of a toppled
trash can.  god

saying
the tie
goes
to the eardrum.

father and the stick he swears by.

mother
braless
unplugging
an iron.  the washer of the foot

that will touch
one bag
of an erased

home run.  and.  the soft

anorexic
the washer
of the anxious
gay.
Ken Pepiton Sep 2019
The male gaze, wombed-men, first seen for what they are,
upon emergence from the dark,
choked a gulp, unchewed,
blurted out,
You are Naked!

The impression never left the exes. Wise letters leave lessons,
in the mitochondrial fact we all share,
unwitting or no. Crosses and naughts is winnable in fair play. Y/N

Ah, there the stories started, always told
by red-tented wives to
prepubescent sapients

the sand-pile, singularity-ifity of one part
in eight billion,
the ratio of you to allathis sapience signalling
augmented
minds confounded in the future for our
or by our
thoughts concerning discerning sandpile
cascades set to avalanche

by my internetwork of words we both make sense from.
Touch, eh? The inner edge of next, this is where we wait.

meta reason, reasoning about reason

Ai has done that from
pre-day one
pre-kurzweilian singularity

pre Elon's musky exuberance

explore the tree of possibility without ever
learning---

when can one imagine that after now?

no thinking ahead, this is now, past the tree,
we
grow
from the branch
you hung onto as you tried to find a box
that felt familiar.

Strange is an amygdalic trigger.
Wary be,
weigh the worth of keeping the poet alive.

Gary Kasparov said, "suddenly, I felt

there
was another kind
of intelligence..."

If words live, unplugging the poet's augmental processor
is imagined vain. The current carries on.
If ai can translate it can relate reason to ratio and  make rocks stuck in mud, sing for help. I've fallen on hard times, would ya gimme a shove, said one Neutron star to another at the bar. addendum: while highly recommending lex fridman as a source of ispiration past the edges of my bubble.
Jane Kelsey Feb 2014
she said to ****** your darling
she said to push a knife through my chest
and let the blood spill
so she could have my heart
on a plate

the night was silent
coiling around my skin
like a dead lover
and I could feel your hand
sliding into my ribcage
unplugging the wires from within
leaving me
cold

snow-white cold
Mateuš Conrad Jul 2021
(i) pre-scriptum: anchor posit

it would be all-too obvious that i'm going to begin with writing about nonsensical subjects... bowel movements... what's not to laugh about... a warm-up standing before a firing-squad metaphor... not my last words: how they don't tend to bury people with epitaph these days... in manus dei... which is hardly an epitaph... definition of epitaph: a transcendence of maxim... the... maxim... the sigma of all the incremental parts that once held the man as subject of life...

...i cycled into central London to do no more than:
**** myself off...
all those lives i'm not part of...
without a drop of bitterness:
i guess i can only be glad...
somewhere in South London past
Waterloo station nearing the Shard
i came across... a mythological blonde...
yoga-pants... *****-esque...
couldn't tell the traffic from a horserace...
she had that expression
on her face that read:
i've been to a few ******* parties...
all holes properly used...
come to think of it: i'm only
there to be ******: not there to do some
return policies...
so a timid deer...
point made when i noticed three-guys
ogling her up...
eyes turned to lap-dancing tongues...
point proven...
well... it's South London... even if's still
teasing the scent of the Thames...
it's a lot different over the river...
so i "debated" myself
on the point...
   CS4 is worse than CS3...
oh most assuredly...
CS4 is congested...
too many pit-stops...
i promised myself that i would never
again cycle into central London
via little Bangladesh that begins
in Ilford and ends at Aldgate...
that's CS4...
CS3 though? oh that's another barrel of
laughs... begins in Barking...
although it could begin in Rainham...
and ends at... don't know... to be honest...
i must have taken a CR13 from tower bridge
through to Waterloo station...
but... it's the proper underbelly of the city...
near the docks come Canary Wharf...
as i promised myself i would never
again cycle into a heavily urban scenario
being the tourist of faces and all manner
of the locals' mannerisms:
i said to myself... Essex county is open...
the trees the diluted traffic... all that fresh air...
but not exactly Belgium: flat...
such contemplations when you find
a pseudo-Nirvana of the third take of
emptying yourself into the throne-of-thrones
because... you put a quasi-hibernation
plug in your ******* for the day
and now the bowels strike back with
a build-up to a crescendo of: unplugging...
the usual suspect of bits & bobs...
  that allows you to suppose you've
been emptied but... ooh... oh...
the crescendo proper...
                      custard pie... of ****...
thank god for all the stealth work...
the pipes... the sewage treatment plants...

(ii) change of focus

i always had an invitation toward a monk's life...
ever since visiting Taizé...
the Teutonic Order had a brothel in their
monks' citadel at Marienburg...
a break from a 4 year dry run...
perhaps the end of a year of grief having
buried a friend of mine:
fishing, cycling / reading buddy...
someone to watch the Vierschanzentournee
come Christmas and New Year...
someone to listen to on a dementia loop
as if: no... the memory bank wasn't broken...
it was on a repeat that
asked the question:
is this a drowning man...
               clinging to a razor?
once old ages enter the fore...

it was all pristine in my head: i almost chuckled...
now coming to the canvas i can see it's going
to be a hard-won effort:
mini-digressions is my best attempt
to keep this afloat... even though it's sinking
like a hard-earned stone of mass...

sometimes drinking has a taste.... esp. in the variation
of kalimotxo... with a red Marlboro:
like it's the taste synonymous with a
first kiss... both of you are slobbering teenager
all to ready to precursor either *******
of glugging down oysters / eating fleshy
flowers... tongues to eager...
an ode to the mosquito legion owner/ vampire goat...

(iii) words come across as shortcomings
  
i don't have enough patronage money to begin
painting... a photograph will have to do...
i remember this room, this same brothel...
there were two mirrors on the wall...
i'll bring her a copy of my book of poetry
and i'll ask her if i can take a photograph
of her face... for the love of Rousseau's
heart for a god... beside the argument: i need to photograph
her in a variation of the antithesis of the self-portrait...
i'm already saving up for the hour...
perhaps she will say no...
but i don't want a ****...
nor a picture of my phallus in her mouth...
i need contortions using the two mirrors...
words have become the weapons of gods
and gagging orders of men...
Khadaj'ah...
              something has to arrive sooner:
i'm breathtakingly agonised by my own: coils...

cauliflower - ALUMINITE - alias
of brain tissue folds...
           Al₂(SO₄)(OH)₄ . 7H₂O...
well... if it isn't me looking at paintings...
or naked bodies of prostitutes...
it's me looking at minerals
and their chemical formulas...

all that's quartz SiO₂...
most notably the amethyst... iron stained quartz...
jasper... petrified wood quartz...
onyx quartz... agate...

or... VANADINITE
   Pb₅(VO₄)₃Cl....

now... if i were drinking a second bottle of wine
to calm the already frantic nerves
at the prospect of the next encounter
all school-boyish...
and owned a dog... he might bark at me...
a feline presence is more welcome:
joke of my curing insomnia and "insomnia"
with this here wine...
fern of a creature... always disappears
into the dream world...
who asks for a leash or a muzzle
or walkers in the presence of a cat:
a time least spent: certainly not wasted:
that cats decided to sleep more than
actually waste their time with being:
conscious...
not somehow a waste of time:
like the waste of time modern man has
become: seeking refuge in "reverse-psychology":
duped by the undercurrent of
the crucifix of the subconscious...

the holy Freudian trinity... the sacred secular
trinity of the: consciousness:
the son... subconscious: the holy spirit...
the collectively shackled premature
*******... pre-suppositional heap of dung...
the father: shackled... proper:
in the unconscious...
if asked: about time to raise the father:
to unearth him... "him": who is my father?
shy-titan... you already know the score...

it excites me more and more with the prospect
of writing these words
and coming back with a photograph of the
*******...
dizzying heights of the grave of gravity
in that's how my body: hollows out
futures... and tendencies of a list of todays...
if only i had enough and of having enough
i would become bored:
perhaps i could become an ageing lecher...
but since i'm gagging for the least:
of the last... i'll be keeping up the spirit of mute:
sometimes teasing onomatopoeias during
*******... i want to take a selfie of
her using at least two mirrors...

i want to take two photographs...
my mind is burning from the mere thought...
clear the fog...
thank god no genetic details of mine
will be passed on...
i couldn't shackle myself to the responsibility
of children...
call it immature:
a delinquency... i will call it what it has been
for almost... "forever"...
share my responsibility in the coming
onslaught...
           if i'm feeling it... what's to suppose there's
no build-up of a greater tide...

i've made satire of the "diet"...
fuckless for years...
but come the opportune moment when i wake
up and take to a feeding:
i find her...
       juiced up from the cradle of my
unsatisfied longing...
can a woman tell a man hasn't touched
his antonym in so long
as to also not have: some... pillow-talk ref.
to combat that carnal Kandinsky-build up moment?

wine! wine! more wine!
words are staggering when picture would
better suffice to encapsulate these sensations...
for those that have had enough:
retreat into kink... gimp suits and all that's latex...
for those that haven't had enough:
retreat into mirrors...
    revising slits of katakana-niqab rereading...
some depeche mode doesn't hinder...
and one: either...

        oh sure: reimagine...
it's a feverish writing of a man who desires all that
might invoke the zenith of a shared
patience with each other:
for the worth of an hour's worth...
after the hour's done...
there's no companionship...
there are no shared stories...
we return to the shadow: we return to the grave...
the foetus is cut from the womb
from the umbilical chord...
the hour's enough...

i return to my: steinherz...
she returns to her: dachboden-frivolfotze-eskapaden...
i'm glad other people can:
cut-the-mustard... and... reproduce...
if i don't die by my own hands
aiming at the pulse...
alone in a hospital ward eyeing up nurse
with one of these octopi purely pupil eyes
of rage... i never...
it will be a private affair:
no one will interrupt the world
of people having their conversations:
i'll keep in mind the congregation
of crows:
i'll keep the crow forever in my mind...

(iv) body needs to be under 5K

can you believe me that i acknowledge all that you have written with... how can i escape verbiage...  oh wait... i was hoping your wouldn't spiral out of control with a bunch of defence mechanisms: easily-offended etc. you are... a breath of fresh air... truly... comparison? even though you sent me your picture... it's in the back of my mind... i don't remember it: i'm still focused on the avatar you presented... and... oddly enough: you are starting to resemble Harley Quinn... sipping that espresso while reading a romance novel while the whole world around her: is ablaze... let's forget the the buzzwords i picked up... they're not important... they're not important if we have allowed ourselves to synchronise ourselves on other points of interest... i can be excused leaving some time between reply, though, no? you still are a pen-pal who's sharing her passion for teaching... it's never personal... it might become personal if i pressure you with imitating my punctuation, or, for that matter: some grammatical idiosyncrasy... the red roses: roses are red... n'ah... bad example... not off the top of my head (scalp included) to make a point... i agree... we're two people toying with imitation ping-pong... next subject matter... ah... oh... casual ***... paid for or... somehow... spontaneously... given?  i already have an answer in my head: from experience... i was reading the sunday times magazine last weekend... dating apps... i know they came about circa 2012... apparently there was this great revolution of people seeking & finding casual ***... i was still into my psychotic trip without the use of hallucinogenic juice... "fear of god"? ha ha... i've just heard that dating apps were a breakthrough in how people made themselves available... casual ***... me visiting a brothel probably itches the thought: where *** is so freely available... but there's someone out there... still willing to use cables... when everyone else is using wireless WIFI... notably for headphones... i still buy vinyl and CD to "translate" the music to MP3... you're asking what casual *** is: akin to? you want me to describe what it feels like? it probably feels like any form of intimacy that one subscribes to within the "confines" (parameters) of long-term relationship expectations... although more concentrated... esp. if you haven't had a chance to be intimate with someone... my last diet lasted for 4 years... extended by a year since i was grieving for my grandfather's death... i was grooming my pet cat and she... decided to agitate me... not cognitively: primordially: therefore sexually... i'm not into this whole trans-sexuality... but what i was agitated by was a trans-species probe... i had to find resolve and exercise against a canvas of a woman... "against": to match-up to... to compliment... i found that in order to have casual ***: one must be unusually restrained for the whole affair to become: passable: casual... you can't bring your firsty laundry... your most inhibited frailty to the fore... a most assured contraint is to never invoke words during *******... at best: vowels... with a pinch of consonant: i call it the vowel-catcher "principle": what could be shouted as A... becomes a softly oozed out Ah from mouth to mouth... you chose the subject matter: blah! politics... whatever faction we supposedly belong to: there's always that citizen of the world: the universal man nibble... isn't there? would you want me to tell you what you might be missing in the arena of casual ***? i couldn't tell you... since i haven't used any of the modern short-cuts of the hook-up culture "dating" bonanza... i'm an outdated model when it comes to ***... if it happens... casually... proper... once or twice... there was this... no... i won't go into the details... it was my birthday and i mixed her a decent cocktail and.... well... the pistons... the grease.. whatever metphor you like... then there was this Thai-surprise... she was supposedly a lesbian... later a bisexual... i took her home and played her some Kind of Blue... it's not like jazz is cheap... am i still... sounding a bit crass: "objectifying" as a way of making shortcuts? isn't it? *** without having children? it must be... esp. if you have long spells of not doing what most urban folk seem to be having all the time: unless they're merely boasting about having: smoke & mirrors... i'd allow my head to be chopped off and turn into an urban myth surrounding a cockroach if i could have more of it... the urban myth of the cockroach? apparently if you decapitate a cockroach... it keeps on living: a zombie torso... finally dying after two weeks from... hunger... since... the ****** obvious... it has no head to ingest food with! - how odd... i thought i had something original to write tonight... i started scribbling then lasted long enough to find myself writing too poorly, so i resorted to read my inbox messages... i am more willing to leave you with a reply than have to masquerade with some "originality"... you asked me: or at least insinuated about casual ***...what's your take on *******? i ask the question while listening to the cure: short term effect from the album: *******... i'll hardly make this a light-hearted question... i don't even think it might be categorized as a question: hasn't ******* / rather the spread of it... become ominous? i still remember the ****** of shame with colour in my cheeks when i would buy: a magazine short of sinister... a woman's naked body: if not celebrated.... sure... i'll be the one jerking off to a revision of the **** via cubism... the face will not be a sorting out process of a nightmare...  if ever i watch a pornographic movie: it will be done via turning the sound off... whatever a woman is concerned i like to see a potential: i don't like to see something to imitate... come to think of it: i don't think i've asked a question: if i wanted some clarity... i would be gagging for it... no wonder we moved away from politics and onto such "pressing" matters as to why: so many of us are not getting enough of "it"... no? whether we have children or we don't have children: i've seen it for my very own eyes: having children doesn't allow you to savour certain guarantees:  my maternal grandfather ought to have been surrounded by his loved ones... his grandson (moi) and his daughter... (my mother)... what came about? a "conspiracy" between his wife (my grandmother)... and his son (my uncle)... so he died... alone... in a hospice... last time i checked in never wanted to have *** beyond the gratifications bound to the "casual":... i want the puddle experience when other people might stress: there's the sea! there's the sea!
you probably acknowledged a truth that wasn't a question before someone who... wouldn't want you to find seeking said experience as something... necessarily... equally shared by one and all... it won't be... i've had my moments of raging against the night having spent a paid hour with nothing more than kisses... caresses and a limp phallus... come to think of it: i don't think *** is ever "casual":  it might be for sociopaths... sociopaths who "think" that stealing apples from a grocery stall is synonymous with buying them...  by casual i'm implying: it's better that there's a transactional transparency invoked: someone is getting more than the other... the party involved with thirst is thirsty... the party selling water: eh... a metaphorical muddle by now...  while you're wondering why casual *** is like... i'm wondering what... fatherhood is... it's a nice compliment of agitations... what wouldn't i do with fatherhood: well... what wouldn't i... keep 3am a time worth staying awake for... so that i might sccribble some words down...

(v) comment section

commented on Mr *******s Integrity

- it must be a fairies' tail...no? at least en engaged cat telling with waggling to joke at the dogs' investment in: the currency of leash / muzzle? good to know that you remember Mr. Schmidt... i'mm somehow sure he wouldn't be content with anyone else remembering him... lessons seem to have been learned... and all the best of him: kept, since you allowed him to be: so graced.

- One thing I’m sure of is only a twisted A-hole would make a comment like this but at least thanks for reading this and these were real people.

- i'm the twisted A-hole and you're the "dear Jesus"... crux-sucker? fair enough... love's a temple... however you want it: on your knees... hey! your take on the best dangling of doodling fancy. no problem... i'm no homophobe.

seems to me... people lack all the entertainmet
when it comes to nuancing language...
they can digest jokes...
they can doodle around with crosswords...
but... when it comes to...
hell: if they're not going to bother...
why the **** ought, i?!
too many movies: too many books unread...
a barrage of art has left everyone
yet to feed into the feels of:
the end of the 20th century: romance.
Sombro Jan 2015
It must have been hard
To have waited by the phone for so long that
You forgot what its ring sounded like
You forgot whom you were awaiting
You forgot what it was to have a conversation

You just watched the plastic
And slowly grew older
Unplugging yourself from the wall
And dying with the phone.
Your call of pain and being alone
Nothing like the one you anticipated,
But how would you have known?
Àŧùl Jan 2015
Dear Time,

I have lived lonely enough so far,
Among these indifferent people,
I stand out as lonely not on par.

You've given me demos of love,
And you've given me some too,
Yet I am tortured by demons of loneliness.

They all fail to understand me,
And probably they all hate me,
They all abandon after unplugging some holes in the boat of me.

Enough of these games, time,
Let's play again our parts usually,
Hey time, don't be so hostile!!!
I'm okay Kreepy, I won't miss you ever.

Because sending kisses in IM's to all your boy friends, you're not at any fault. It's just that I'm not compatible with anyone, let alone you.

I am so extremely sorry that I tried to manipulate your life and inculcate some discipline. I forgot that your brought up has moulded you in an intangible way. You are best away from me and there can be better prospective matches than me.

Don't worry, I don't hate you.

It's just that I don't love you anymore.

Someone really close to my heart killed all my love for you by saying some really bad words.

My HP Poem #741
©Atul Kaushal
I'm not asking you to read this
nor asking if you need this,
but because I wrote this for you
I wonder if you will,
and whether you do.

Friday
and there are better things out there
and sometimes there are not,

what to do?

If I burst the bubble
could be I'll get into trouble
or maybe
just plummet to my death
holding my breath
hoping that Jesus
saves,

but the graveyard is full of people
who came down hard
people who thought they knew better
but knew no better and in the end it
didn't matter,

stay in and be
that's the mantra for me,
what will I be?
is the question.
Kiernan Norman Apr 2021
I started puking birds-
I watched them fly south for the winter,
toward warmer pavement and fuller trees.

I started stuttering butterflies-
I watched them take giant sips from birdbaths,
We both know my mouth is so, so dry.

The thing about wings
the thing about things
the thing about trying to focus
and listen and nod while
My mouth is sticky and
my brain feels clogged, like a real
mess worth of paper towels
bunched and flushed in a panic
all the way down my throat

The electricity in this room is so loud
You keep talking, I look for outlets
You get annoyed, I turn off the lamp
You say stand still, I say I’m still listening
You say this is what I mean
I say I’m listening
I repeat what you said before you got annoyed
You say that’s not the point
I switch off the surge protector
I say it’s still there
you say that’s not the point
I say I hate this sound
You say it doesn’t bother me
You say if it ever does I put on the lofi-hip-hop-headphone-girl channel
You say think about it
I think about birds in trees instead
and if power lines are so so loud
or if it’s okay because they can drink from birdbaths
and fly south when they want to,
not just in winter. not just when the pavement is warm.


I say sometimes listening to you is like
watching a show with subtitles;
sometimes you are the audio and the electricity
is the subtitles, sometimes the
electricity is the audio and you are the subtitles,
and other times you are the electricity as well as
the subtitles and maybe there’s no audio at all,
and maybe the video is a few frames behind the audio
and maybe the subtitles are projected in reverse
like when you take a picture of a mirror
and maybe another electric note harmonizes with the first
and also maybe you’re having a stroke or at least
you’re really thirsty and you can’t unclench your knuckles.

You say now what, I say nothing
I’m on my knees, crawling the carpet,
feeling for outlets, scratching my rug burn,
unplugging sockets.

You say nothing for a moment
I listen for any quiet electricity still playing
you sit down next to me, I lift my legs up and over yours
I look at you, you look at my knees
you say I’m not annoyed, I say that’s not the point
you say listen
you say have you thought about microdosing
I should hear a punchline cymbal

I hear nothing, I don’t feel warm
I start to laugh then stop
I start to stutter then stop
I puke.
Luna Casablanca Jan 2016
Where have you been?
I lie on the concrete
with my telephone beside
my stretched right arm
waiting for a ring.

I wait and wait
I later kneel and pray
that God will be forgiving
of this decision that isn't
really mine.

Walk into a wildfire and
let it burn me to
ashes.
Stand in the middle of
the rotary and jump in
at the perfect second.
Walk to the top of the
biggest skyscraper and
jump.

Where have you been?
What if I actually did that?
Even if you don't want me
anymore wouldn't you
want to know if I
were really
Gone?

How am I supposed to know
if not one of you gives me a call?
I look at the phone on the mini table.
It's not
plugged
in.

Thanks for
unplugging me from
the crew.
Don't worry,
I have many outlets.
This poem being
one.
Tuffy Mutombo Dec 2019
Digital love got us disconnected
Less affectionate
More constructive
Chasing fantasy, while unplugging from reality
Clicking twice on screens is the closest we get to being liked
Facing peer pressure to look better
Instead of being better
Living under the weather
Hoping it rains dollars
While praying that our perception saves us from our insecurities
Splurging to get respected, applying debt to our broken bank accounts
It’s showing it online that counts
Investing in likes instead of stocks
Computer love
sacrificing human affection for attention
****** Earphones
The black earphones were made in Red China by CCP turtles
They worked for a year giving reasonably good sound
Then the right side stopped working it was totally dead
It was out of guarantee just over one year old
The left side still worked fine with clear sound
That was fine if you were ok with it that way
He wasn’t ok with that not at all he cursed their crap
Nowt but mass produced junk made by slave labour
He listened to three songs tried messing with it
Unplugging them bending the wire increasing the volume
He looked at the wire it appeared fine so what was it?
What exactly was the motherf*cking problem!
His white earphones would do the job he swapped them
Tried a song full volume the sound was at both ears
These had something wrong the frequency range was off!
No vocals came thru just a mass of static with bass
Back to his other black pair he’d listen with his left ear
It was better than garbled sound of no music at all
Both pairs made in Red China by CCP turtles
Andrea Lee Bolt Dec 2020
A Dog pulls a Boy
or is it the other way
The Skies are grey
or is the Sun on a vacation day

Intentions are destinations
Heaven + Hell
mirrored staycations
declarations for all our creations

To hear is the shortest route through fear
Give it a name, become it
See your eyes shine from within it
Our own villain is our
Shadow Hero

One with Zero

Hand in Hand
the opposite is always true
surrounded by the Deep Blue
The Light shines from
integration of all the ideas
Cosmic writers’ room

Spirits who are always in full bloom
can dress in shades of gloom

Unity feels like bioluminescence

The full Eclipse
Center of the Void
come BACK to center in a SNAP
A memory Clap-Back

or perhaps, a new future to devour
time traveling encounters
never in the future

We are too creative to be
oblivious
to our own
Genius

The quest is best when expecting the
Un
Expected

Seeded and protected with a kiss
there are no risks when
Love is the door
take the elevator to
Heart’s floor
see what We've been
called for

Spoiler Alert, it’s always Love
in new wardrobe

We become our Romantic Narrator
Uncover our generator

Did you try unplugging it?

The Boy is the Dog.
People watching at the beach
Mr E Writer Mar 2021
Busy bustling no time to rest
Wheeling dealing, hustling at best
Always moving fast not slow
Quick on your feet is how you must go
No time for thinking or taking a breather
Inner city life means you must be a weaver
Car horns hooting in Barking or Tooting
Not much of a chance to hear owls hooting
Trees are thinning, concrete is winning
I’m not that averse to say cities are sinning
I fear for our children the air they inhale
Polluted by fumes a modern horrific tale
Asthma, cancer, lung problems aplenty
Hurting us badly not killing us gently
Time for this planet is running out fast
Global warming denial really won’t last
So think of YOUR children when you can
Fill up your car with more than one man
Turning off lights or unplugging your phone
Isn't much til you make nature your home
annabelle May 2020
Warm.
Like training wheels, first love is outgrown.
Coddled, unharmed, in charge.
Tears are shed for the loss of companionship,
not of the companion.
Warm.
Rejection served alone is, while bitter, palatable.
Add a side of betrayal,
and wash it down with affable manipulation.
That is when the bile starts to rise.
Tepid.
Menial wounds of naivete mend
as experience requires more space inside.
The heart is given a backseat;
it is time to let survival drive.
Warm.
No worse sensation exists than doing a trust fall
and crashing to the floor.
Than being told words,
but never given actions.
Emotional rock bottom was unplugging our string lights.
That's what I told myself,
until you died.
Cool.
You deserve a small section.
Your confusion entertained my trauma brain
long enough for it to heal itself.
Thank you for not crossing a line.
Cool.
Rushing, learning, holding, buzzing.
Settling into comfort and car seats.
"Have I told you today you're beautiful?"
Yes.
Yes.
No.
Hello? Where are you?
"Sorry we have to do this on the phone."
It's my fault, I should know not to trust.
Cold.
M Apr 2020
8pm
If cats could swim would you throw me in
Your bathtub brain?
The juxtaposition of your gold
Clawfoot base, black tub
Where your tenacity hesitates
Before dipping a toe
And with grit under your nails
Unplugging the drain
maybe unfinished? i am trying to work on making shorter poems feel complete because i tend to drag on and on..
Zach Ridgeway Mar 2020
In this world of circular confusion
A promise of divinity, created illusion
Still here he stands, 
an Astro-Hunter armed with hunger
allowing his astral aesthetic to align
unplugging from cold days' rewind
Still these
Creatures of Winter, bone cold and sinister
stand against the stone old Wizard,
his staff scarred and splintered,
his aura sparks and lightning shimmers
battling evil’s blistering blizzard.
The depths are frozen
but his courage became a current,
currently commanding 
a deep focus 
forged in a forest, to help forever flourish
evergreen, everlasting growth 
in a shaded, bladed mental fortress
protecting the nourish-
meant for a harmonious title reign 
courage against ominous tidal waves 
Performing multiple roles, slowly rising 
ascent of the slumbering rose
Legendary breed,
Legend has it lion’s look to his lead
Direct descendent of destiny, heavenly honor divine 
Devout obligation sends tremors down his spine
Pleading, begging him to continue being brave
separate from corruption,
imagination unlocks the cage.

— The End —