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Carlo C Gomez Aug 2022
tonight the sky.

dark palette.

the stars are projectors.
the paintings of them are in
perpetual motion,
carry the zero.

conflicted still life.
of spathodea.
of pomegranate.
of her own folded-up *****.

it's all in how you interpret
the brushwork.
girls can tell.

a reassuringly dull sunday
turns to intrigue.
the busy girl buys beauty.

people are places and things.
lost affections in a room
in need of images
or at least explanations.

she looks for it.
she listens for them.

the sound of existing.
the sound of a quiet room.
a rainstorm or possibly the sound
of someone taking a shower.

blind little rain.

autosleeper lowers her head.
the economy of sleep patterns.
and little else celsius.

tonight the sky.

tomorrow a place where
one can ruin oneself,
go mad, or commit a crime
with paint.
Pedro Tejada Apr 2012
You make my body burn slow,
like a stricken match in a film noir;
our legs intertwine
like muscular vine,
chests pressed so close
we can synchronize
our heartbeats, every artery
and vein pumping
like speed-of-light projectors.

You bend my senses, make them
forfeit heir coherences, force
my limbs to misplace
their native tongue
within a simmering puddle
of submissive bliss.

Your tongue sliding up my back?
Fosse was never so graceful.

I want to play back your moans
on speakers the size
of monoliths.

I need to pleasure you
until the wave
becomes a tsunami,
one ready to swallow all doubt
and shame and apprehension
until all that septic negativity
is trapped within our jaws,
drowning in our slithering tongues
until it dissolves as quickly
as sugar in a boiling cauldron
and there is nothing left
but our sweat and our panting
and the excitement
that these dunes of ecstasy
will repeat themselves indefinitely.
Ersatz orange shadows
cast on urban streets at night.
Lost in disassociation,
There's a tunnel at the end of the light.

Her eyes gaze far into the horizon,
To meet the glare of a storm arising.
The quiet before it's thunder is chilling,
As the energy is distilling.
Shivers dance
on the nape of her neck.
I can hear the contemplation,
Her rumination.

Dark doors echo on a glass plane.
She dwells here,
Transfixed by fluorescent stains.
Black-light projectors
and vibrancy injectors
illuminate this neon dimension;
Trance angel held in suspension.

So many will never experience the sensations we have known,
I trust you will keep our venturous exploits ongoing.
Hal Loyd Denton May 2013
Not ornate just ordinary screen wire but as you passed through it you entered the perfect world
Of the fifties the grocery aisles were short and compact because it was just a neighborhood
Grocery but it had everything you needed bread aisle the aisle with fruit cans vegetables paper
Towels a small shelf for hardware items and in the back the meat and dairy department back
Up to the front of the store behind the counter was the cereal boxes stacked high where the
Grocer had to use the first grabber to easily lift boxes from the top shelf then the bakery goods
In the glass counter under the cash register every doughnut you could ever want and over by
The door a barrel of kites and string on the shelf to fly them this was the provision and under
Writing of the fifties you stood in this insulated haven without regard to time and place the
Great locomotives rambled and roared just down the hill filling some with fear others with
Undying gratitude when they heard that lonesome whistle blow as it approached and receded
The haunting night sounds that best establishes the fifties echo and emotional content the old
Grey grocer created the mood of trust and stability keeping greater truths and dangers at great
Lengths mother and dad’s voices made up more of the vintage life known at that time peace
And restraint held you at the edges of small towns and their boundaries and the family barber
Whistled like Andy on Mayberry and had the same family and social beliefs it further carried you Forth into the sweet life that was the fifties the small hardware stores had that feel of small
Wonder the whole nation to a degree was on display within these walls all items that were small and needed were here in great supply it was cozy it delighted it made a small town larger by its
Connections to the rest of the country and where it fell short JC Penny across the street and
Montgomery Ward down the street made up the difference where they left off Murrays
Jeffrey’s television completed the hook up that great symbol of RCA at Murrays the dog and the
Phonograph and the wonderful team of Jack and his lovely wife made up the team at Jeffrey’s
They were between Woolworths and Ben Franklins dime store and for good measure Pop
Sinnard’s malt shop was next door across the street the Roseland Theater no it’s not the fifties
anymore the movie house is threatened by projectors all going digital the fight is on to save this
one special place where you lined up for Elvis down the block and around the corner Saturday
Matinees nothing better than the Bowery boys with Uncle Lou Sach and Slip rounded off by
Lewis and Martin the rings keep flowing outward if you don’t return in real time you do in mind
and heart from now on and the fifties are the greatest part of that reunion it was rock & roll
cool and so much more as Bob would say thanks for the memories
Daniel Samuelson Sep 2017
Imagine yourself
a linear expression of experience,
a long strip of film like
the kind in old projectors with the
sepiatic sputters and flickers--
yes! Imagine yourself a strip of film but
rolled up messily like
the earbuds in your pocket or
folding fitted bedsheets.
You are a movie and the filmstrip endpiece lies at your feet,
you are knots and coils and tangles and
if you were to lie down at the top of this mountain for a moment--just a moment!--perhaps
the wind would catch the loops of film and
you would feel yourself
unravel.
The screen lights up
Pupils dilate
Increase in heart rate

Fixation on old memories
Breath quickens
Loss of common sense

Instant regret of feelings
Useless romance
Lose sense of balance

Selfishness and inconsideration
Cling to fiction
Refuse to question

Attempt an apology
Voice cracks
Sincerity lacks

Imagination floods my thoughts
Everything you have read
Might be in my head

Please let it stay there
Recently reunited with an old...friend maybe... a couple of days ago. This is me trying to be simple with my thoughts since then.
Dear dream girl,

Before I let the words unfurl
Let me thank you for meeting me there.
It's a place I know but have never been,
It's ground soft, like a nostalgic sin,
And I wait,
Wait for a sound or a feeling,
Sortof sitting, sortof kneeling,
You are there.
How you found the lair,
Or why we started talking were questions
I would not far,
to ask or know
Your face would change in your tone,
I had my bottle and you had your phone,
But neither of us would let go of them.
You didn't like talking unless I said something first,
And I was always left with a thirst.
There were walls like we were somewhere artificial,
Manufactured for a short use time;
I didn't reply, but you said "it will be fine".

The walls have reel to reel projectors,
With a hum of ghostly patriotic defectors,
With a weird blue tint,
Memories of terrible heartache stints,
My demons playing on the left
Every time I yelled or was jealous,
And zooming in it shows your smile
Or the sadness on the other end of the phone,
Or the craving to be with me at home,
And on the right was you putting walls up,
Fighting on things that now really don't matter,
Zooming in on me smiling,
Or the me just getting sadder.

I asked you to meet me here tomorrow,
Because I'll take all the time I can borrow,
The door closes,
And I'm awake.

From toes still in the water,
With love.
Arcassin B May 2018
By Arcassin Burnham


The heavens could not see the poverty stricters.
The Heavens could not see the one percenters.
The heavens could not see the astral projectors.
A man has to be what he is and go through this ******* with
geo storm weather,
where does your purpose come from?
Do you have a future goal on what you wanna be , something that you elevate from?
easy to be ridiculed for the passion of ignorance,
the negative wins thats why the world preferenced,
especially in race,
I love every race just as much as you do, If its hate in your mind,
then you can do you,
A man has to be what he is,
a God fearing man with more or less to give,
even all the weight he can lift,
There's not enough men in this world to make a woman feel like she
needed to live,
but must never ever ever forsake our gift , curious  to know
and wondering if,
wondering if,
  The heavens could not see the poverty stricters.
The Heavens could not see the one percenters.
The heavens could not see the astral projectors.
A man has to be what he is , better get it together.
©abpoetry2018

http://abpvalley.blogspot.com/2018/05/no-guns-in-valley-lp.html
dont get weirded out
this is safe for work
you see im entertaining tomorrow
a thorough cleaning is in order
through and through
first things first
a proper dusting
right after the coveted sharpie box
shelf comes "first"
books records bric-a-brac and all
****
ive been meaning to listen to this album
signed and everything
lets put that on for some dusting music
table turns
check
the needles effective
i can hear the shallow resonance
hmm no audio
lets unplug all the cables
check the power supply
and the pre-amp
turn it all off then on again
****
let me take this apart real quick
****
i need some parts
i need to call stanton
OPERATOR! OPERATOR!
30 minutes later im told they dont have it
WHELP
back to dusting
stepping over stanton parts
I THOUGHT I LOST THIS MOVIE
i can play it in the background
whilst im cleaning
THE PROJECTORS BROKEN
let me take that apart real quick
hope i dont get the parts
of the two aberrations crossed
that mustnt happen
wink
and then the re-framing project
and then organizing my music collection
and then just one poem
color code my closet
rewrite my resume
clip my toenails
and my nose hair
four more poems
annnnnnnnnnd
mess

"oh hey welcome, drinks are over there
just dont step on my record player"

and heres where it gets crazy smart
i tear EVERYTHING off the walls
draw all over all the stuffs
with those ****** sharpies that started it all
turn the whole ******* place
into a performance art piece
i call it
"fix it: I DARE YOU!"
the party title is a work in progress. but seriously, i should clean my room(s)
Sven Stears Sep 2013
With Witnessess as our God's,
Our love was meant to be forever.
But we spent to long, straining,
heart shrapnel, from lukewarm coffee.

Celestial fire due to write super novellas
in the spaces we shared,
instead blinded us,
with bright lights,and stardust.

I'm still burning the fire that started when we met.
I feed that fire, like I fought the depression, when you left.
But I tell you now, as much as it scared me.
*******. It was warming.

I never meant for us to be the spark
that died before the flint.
Two damp squibs
choking as the air left the room.

Leaving projectors to play monochrome fantasies
in the smokescreen of your absence,
as the acrid plastic nasal tumours,
grew inside of our silent movie.

The coughing had lost it's soul.
Revealing a struggle for air.
All the dance routines had died
life saving became life,

I am so sorry, I spent my time,
kissing gifthorses on the mouth,
while looking for Trojans
instead of just enjoying your presence.

They say if you love something, set it free,
but bluebirds sing in cages
better than any canary
when fed on tidbits and tall stories.

So forgive me my dramas
Let me soap up in my failures
my ritual clean begins at the home
we built from borrowed time

I hope heaven loves you as hard as have.
Lewis R. Mar 2010
May be I missed something…
Sitting lonely by the fireplace, in the rocking chair, just like the one he always wanted to have since childhood, and to sit just like that with such a serious face… thinking really widely and broadly about own… like Sherlock or Epicur… and with a glass of Merlot..
In the whole house just crackling of the fire and hissing of the conditioner… May be I missed something.. Said he, but now out loud to himself…
Something started vibrating, flashing with an idle melody through the dark silence of the house…
- Да.. answered he, in hope that it is some of the “close” people that remembered him in the New Years Eve..
- Hola! Puedo hablar a Sr. Miguel. Esta en el casa ahora?
- -Discúlpeme, está equivocado el número, señiorita…
- -Lo siento…

And she hang up the phone… wrong number… She needed somebody called Miguel…

hmm.. I should’ve said that I was Miguel. Then, shoud've reserved the table in a restaurant and asked her out… And when she woudn’t meet Miguel there, just before she starts leaving, accost her and tell:

-Hola, Senioritta. Me llamo Roberto. Esta muy bonita y estoy solo esta noche. Quiere beber algo comigo?
You don’t have to wonder that people treat a woman with such beauty like that. You’re not first, you’re not the last…
And she responded:
-Gracias y Mucho gusto Roberto. Me encantaria…
And then with projectors and street lights through bars and clubs until the dawn… and then it’s not lonely and very hot in your bed… and in the morning, a little bit ill and tired you ask her:
-Como te llamas?
-Maria…
That would be the last word you would hear from her.. and she gets dressed and gone, gone…
You’re lonely again.. inside just the fantasies and at front of you their reflections on the burning down fire…
CharlesC Feb 2013
each of us
in those sometimes
seem as projectors..
not unlike those
old movie projectors
filtering the light
telling the stories
moldings on screen..
in our sometimes
we depart our
many contradictions
fly to a widening
vantage in stillness
surveying the multiples
and traumas below..
our own light
projects and selects
finding stories in
swirls most complex..
we might wish
to declare:
we are creator
of the story we
now see...
Connor Oct 2015
Flowers grow tired in the morning,
as people disrupt their sleep with car horns
blaring the industrial alarm clock to mountains and
whispering gods who smooth the leaves with their voices.

The architecture students have created a rat maze lecture hall
for students to stress in when fog rolls through the campus.

Now is the time for sentiments, anyone who has told you different
is too dull to carry any or too cold to care.
People pray for commodity.

Why have the Dutch left Asia? (less than 24 hours)
The absurdity of things is a white white sun worshiping itself
indefinitely.
Poems are autobiographies as autobiographies are poems.

Philosophers do not accommodate false prophets.
Philistines stray from therapy in paintings.
The depressed don't wake to traffic jazz but rather the silence of sleeping birds.
The sociopath will not make love without a motive.
Pacifists will not even battle their own sadness.

Autumn arrives with a few wraps on the door of an old folks home
(again)
Priests have daydreams and then suffer from a terrible insomnia.
A cigarette can last as long as the lungs that feed them.

Hospitals contain their own life cycle, I was born in 1996 and a few floors below my infancy
corpses lay in the cool sterility of a morgue.
People I would never met
(Except for 19 years later as I pass them in my local cemetery)

Projectors contain all the information needed for countless hives of youth to swarm around another thing to bury under the weight of narcissistic culture,
who's reliance on materialism is a growing fruit gone rotten.

The diverse architecture of Tokyo is really quite fascinating
(a city I would pay to get lost in)
Taiwan has existed as a single airport that reeks of tiger perfume
and sells cheap coffee in February.
(our reality is our perception of it)
Vancouver's train system is a rattling electric crib.

.......People count sheep, sheep count factories (?)

Psychic tea readers have fallen to the poor habit of leaving one's china out in the open for anyone to stumble across and become the next doomsday microphone.

Here comes the martyr on a carved wagon of moonlight.
Observing the bathroom flamingo called youth
perching upon a grenade.
******* google plus.

I spent days deleting pictures of them off my phone.
Click update profile picture, and suddenly,
There's a beautiful girl standing at an ATM through a window covered in raindrops.
a little girl with smile wider han galaxies pulls the last jenga peice
Maybe I don't want to look at the three of us snuggled cozy smiling.
Maybe i don't want to see my old phones wallpaper.
That i changed to forget this happiness.
Maybe the hearth of that home burned ob these photographs.
On barbie doll soap opera ******
On match box car roller derbie.
On film strands ripped from the winding projectors of playground games and princess dresses and faces covered in cake.

******* google plus.
you didn't even ask if I wanted to save those memories.
or at least when you did, I had a different answer.
kbww Jan 2019
Falling over this
made up line
one way or the other has our truth covered
and smothers
the humans we were meant to be
the intelligent
the artists
the teachers and preachers
all run from the projectors
in our brains showing features
subliminally telling us we need to change
we have to fit in
normally some way
while the universe keeps sending us signals
telling us to stay the exact same way
that your cells made you
they were made to create you
the you that comes through
when you let peace preside
over your abnormal life
Society is an oblivious liar
Normal is simply
a setting on a dryer

~kb
Ink Jan 2014
The glasses in front of my eyes
Help me see a different way
A way you may find cruel and dark
But it opens my eyes a little more each day

My glasses are merely tears that I see through
But refuse to let them pass
For they help me see everyone's pain and suffering
My glasses are projectors of the past
Steve Page Oct 2022
Before projectors
Before screens
Before Wi-Fi and cabling became a thing
Before keyboards and strings
Before the first drum tried drumming
I am.
And I will be forever,
says our faultless Lord.

While the power may fail,
while signals may drop,
while cables will inevitably come loose,
my love levels will never need a boost.

I will never forsake you or fail you.
I'll never go on mute
and that’s the truth,
says our Father-God.
Sundays can seem tech dependant - but it's not.
Harmony Sapphire Feb 2015
The lens of the camera shutters.
Paparazzi mutters & shouts, camera crews clutter.
Screaming your name.
In awe of your presence.
To get a piece of your famed essence.
Magazine photo shoots you for the cover.
Photographers stare & hover.
Fashion photography or obscene *******.
Best eyes, best hair, best clothes or best bare.
Best lips or best hips.
Fashion victims & icon vixens.
Dressing room trailers for hair, makeup, & wardrobe.
Traveling for pictures circling the globe.
From actresses to recording artists, producers & directors.
From television & big screen projectors.
Velvet, lace, silk, or satin?
For divas white, black, or latin.
A flowing gown with fans all around.
A populated town with limos surround.
Hands, feet, & autographs splash with rain.
Thee walk of fame on it has your name.
Your aura has potential & appeal.
To worship, adore & kneel.
A red carpets beneath your heels.
Life,  fame, success, wealth is unreal.
Happiness & joy you can feel.
© Harmony Sapphire . All rights reserved
Judgson blessing Mar 2015
Then ye appeared !you , only that my eyes contemplated .my eyes were settled upon thee,you were deep and fresh.i seen thee and i knew that my life changed a great deal.i believed in thee dearly.i have accepted the best and the worst ,and im ready for whatever ! my soul ,my spirit , the virtue within me i dedicated it to thee.i found confidence in thee . and my heart started smiling . i fear not of anything again . cause i believed that for anything that could happen me by thy side , i feel security.though anytime when the ending was approaching , i grew wild with melancholy and felt that gaps of lapse separation as an eternal torment . i could not without thee.i had the nightmares of gloomy dismal nights , indebted out from the lost of dear sweetheart that i regretted . i just wished we were melted , into one same entity  . simply i loved you . but more than a real love , baby ! and that love burning within me i would make anything possible that you know it , to its very extend . in the pew by thee it was complete grand happiness . i could only be contented and felt good . the happiest girl in the World! yes indeed by thee im ! i felt thy warmth . thy soul that was rolling in my breathing and thy eyes that turned on me . as projectors light they allured me from within  . intense happiness and eternal glory . you are the 'man' ! the supremest , well look out and needed , unique , sage , genuine and ideal . and more what gloom  me , thick and deep . yet there was not one or another that attired me to thee . but it was something rather strong than me that i did fail to perceive . that caught hold of me and dragged me , inward thee . that weakness was dominant my soul when i faced thee . as petrified and abashed , nevertheless , im electrocuted when thy hand . that hand touched me , touched the least particle of my body ; i became as found at mortuary . my common appeal is revery . but i could only smile whenever thou art awkward . cause it was in thy eyes . perhaps it was one of thy aspect : a boy so deeply engaged in the quest of lore . mostly when i tried to find out the reason of thy submission , why this life of thine toward me ? as an apocalypse , i received the hammered blow against my head . as your ambition is deep ocean plain of action and suspense , what a sacerdotal for only a boy . now it was clear that thou art the coldest monster of my nightmares , the dreadful one . but i wanted to be told . but thou , dost only speak of present . and i understood then you only accepted me for experimental purpose . somehow lurking desire to use my cast of mind and our conversations as stereotype , to be rushed down right into your mind . and jammed down among other kind mental analyst granted by thy shadowy writers . so much to add a grain of mustard seed to your sage titan anyway ! what i could not understand was the use of my parley in your alembic tube for study that was extended as generalization . when i felt love for you ! you abused me  ! dreadful mean ******* !  so i seen that your mind had no limit . so i drew myself hard nearer instead ! truly for instance i seen you just tried to make me happy . not that you felt for me properly . tried to feel the same thing with me . how you kidded me . gush, Heaven ! im the more betrayed and deceived emotionally . your heart , your life were not destined to me im horrified . you really knew that i noticed it but kept the mum . i wanted to talk about it . but always you blanketed the topic . sinisterly feigned not to understand the message out my reaction . and when i copped with the reality that you loved me by pity and intent to narrow my conscience and sap away my mind . that is why you shared partially my mirth and some of my aspirations . what a slaughtering about my heart ad my hole existence ! honey my heart how i loved you its harp and lute praise . now i said a word did you understand that word? but i reckoned that 'love' is story among diverse other tales for you and all those notions were so shallow for you . how i was deceived ! how much i yelled and stomped down and ****** myself into the thin air of agony . im simply forlorn degraded down into company of horror . how much time i dangled down the abyss of desolation . you assassinated my heart . the happiness i felt grasp within my fingers just only eclipsed . vanished for absurdity , a tottering blank , reeled down ****** dream of grand . as the days passed on , i asked myself why? what dealt thee out from having ordinary life ? none was to tell  , so i blamed cursed the one that drove thee to this destiny . i wanted to know and explain him . always you were beaming with knowledge and running only for fame and legend . you had forgot thyself ! you are living only for the world and that gloomy empire of sages and learned . foul of fantasy and frivolity . ethereal beauty ! and thee suddenly became a sinister ocean of hulks . you know the nohow . ah! a river of hot tear ripped and drowned my heart grilled ! now let say the truth : you exchanged thy soul against sage and fame . and the gods of lore had subdued thee . yet , nothing but its chain hanging down thy neck . and anytime more when i saw thee , thy face was deepening to the extreme so i now felt that  you would be back no more for me . i could understand nothing again : you were lost in mist of terror . so any while i met with thee i drew closer my head at the beating pace of thy heart so to feel how much its speed jammed on more again . when i felt the deference , i reckoned you were nearer to hell . though i packed up and left up my luggage and heeled it away far . i rushed as more speedy as a train . and on the route i took out thy photo and contemplated thy beauty and envied thy freshness and thy innocent humbled face . though beaming from inward with hell . then my heart stopped bleeding . i rummaged your visage through ! thy charm ,thy frankness and thy humor told me that it was another Jack i was  fleeing . and thou art an angel and God called thee back . and the other was a demon coming out of hell . so i wiped my tear and raced afar from thee . as i reached the other side i gave thy picture so that they painted it the way i described it , cause it had become the other of thee . that got around out of hell . and within thy face i filled it with pins . and anytime i caressed it as i used before , the stinking of the pins made me believed that thy hatred had become an incurable decease . poor Jack thy life had become obscure , what done that to thee ? poor innocent soul . couldnt thee see ? no i guessed thou art ****** cursed .thy head into books and thy soul settled on fame . tell me why ? although i was more than woman by thy side . my joy , my happiness grand ! but thee , thee wanted not . why tell me . from the deep i could not forget thee . thou art there ! living , _ obscure deep , _sun beaming , _ and also far away . _ _ _ God ; i would never be woman again ! love ,  i understood no more the meaning and i knew not how to love anymore ... . and you _ i cursed you vehemently to thy books so to assume its consequence ...
LaDi OyediRAn Dec 2013
Oh - They will Josh -
Hear that rumble in the ground and that rattle of the podium when it begins your shift  -
They're coming
To Rattle your Walls,
They're coming
To shatter your calls and stampede through your halls
They're coming
to get entertained
They're coming
to get wined and waned,
So Gear up your projectors, Dust your seats, ready your tastes
and make Haste
The feast of eyes begins soon
brandon nagley May 2015
Holiday cheers, the spirits now here to up the downpit moods! Where *******'s go singers, and companionship is far beyond due!

Stringed up longing, stuffed feathered innocent pleasures where the gravy spells of finer of many dinings!!

Bring good tidings you attitude bringer, you dope sick slinger, thine gun has drawn itself to fast!!!! Parties awake the deadened vines, where ghastly projectors contract the powers of unearthly glass!!!

The world moves to slow!, STOP, look ahead fantasizer, the escalated wheels to fast!!!

Sodomatic beauty, input newbie, your thistles are spreading the fences, where trashcans and benches distinguish flawful fate!!!

A fulfillment of vows, a timeless volgate. Proverbial collection's detest the furnaced crucible, where Loophole's are bound and bagged to be stench!!!!

Glider of turbulance, father of remembrance, forget what thine holy teacher has taught you to be???
Irina BBota Nov 2018
A little bit of reality and a little bit of chimera,
I'm sitting at the table of silence, lonely in this era.
My eyes are fixed on the ceiling like some projectors
towards sweet memories, listening some lectures.

It's a little bit early and it's a little bit late.
About yesterday or about tomorrow should I say?
Anyway, I'm not anything I seemed to be,
I'm not a brave Cupid of hearts that sets you free.

I feel a little bit cold and I feel a little bit warm,
like after the wine that makes everything have a form
which catches fire quickly both in love and anger,
motivated by infinite agony, searching for an answer.

Is that a little bit important, or is it a little bit trivial?
As a sparkle, a living heart of a strange ritual,
in which it seems for her of love to be unworthy,
then she looked in the mirror and learned about mercy.

My words have a little bit of sun and a little bit of storm.
Even if they're telling the ugly truth that wants to inform
that I want to hear enchanted songs of the waves again
but then I think, is my soul lying to me? It's going to drain?

The soul separates all and puts everything together,
even if it's a healed heart, or light as a feather.
Makes a little bit of damage, then something useful,
if it was sad sometimes, it was always truthful.

Doesn't matter if it's on Mondays or Sundays,
we all are an amalgam of tears and smiles in this maze.
Smiles that are hiding, then show up again and again
sometimes as a rough illusion that drives you insane.

Yes, it's a little bit absurd, but it's a little bit ordinary.
Not everything in this world is a cake with a cherry.
We all have inside a little bit of love, a little bit of hate,
as tough as it is, we accept that this is our fate.
Mark McIntosh Jul 2016
outside the window, blowing smoke
ash falls blind
a phone signal
never before that graphic
lack of conversation
when asking to use a chord
you said no.
worried about sense. that was
never my concern. the bill was yours.

merry pranksters drove by, hurling
invisible paint bombs, superimposed
oil slicks on overhead projectors

even then nothing was even
it was all odd. ticking off drinks
your pad averaging numbers.
then you wanted to talk again
telling you I was leaving as
nothing about that was mine.
there was no gold in that pan
nothing resembling dust
just the echo of boots
No gypsy whispers to me
Not secrets of the night
The sound of bangles are silent
Bandanas are folded alway
Her magic was broken
More trick than treat
Too easily fooled
The ball is not cloudy
It's hollow and clear
A mirror under the table
Modern projectors so small
Bright lights make marks trust magic
Confuse logic and sense
A basic trick, keep them off balance
Offer correction, a touch
Then the magic in words
So nice, lovely, impressed
Maybe a favor, a lady's delight
Never too much, nothing too big
Just a small favor, not too much
A smile and a compliment
Make them give action to words
Create loyalty, but test waters
Just to be sure
The game's afoot, a hand now in hand
So well you do, the gypsy exclaims
For sure the best, not just here but there
Establish authority, decide who's to role
Let words become actions
But at a role that's controlled
Ever the magician, the magi
The sorceress, wizard and role
The victim is willing
To believe the unknown
Worse if they know
The truth of the words
Building that trust
To the deceiver, the bold
The gypsy is slick, the gypsy is bold
A hand in the pocket, distractions all told
You came for surprise, entertainment
The reaction is slow, days and months go by
Piece by piece you are taken
Often willing to be broken
Standing in line, smiling
But inside you're crying
Asking, pleading to stop
Can't even say the words
Don't want to be rude
It's just the gypsy, you know
Nothing mean, vile or dread
Just a trick in your head
Evan Stephens Jun 2019
I'm a few feet
under the city,
in the cemetery
of the streetcars.
Images celebrating
Stonewall convex
from projectors onto
chilled chamber
of gypsum cement.

I'm here for yoga,
an absolute beginner
with my purple mat,
taking off my shoes
and feeling the rough
floor where the
streetcars were
severed from their
electric milk.
The hour of my
longest spine
is saturated, voices
fed only to me.
My hands slip...
My bones are
symphony.

When the hour's done
I have a new face of salt.
I fold my street of
discovery and shake
the stairs. I climb out
to supermassive clouds,
I feel my shape move,
I'm grateful for you.
Whos the man with the master plan
With a wand in his hand
Understand divisions stands
Over unison they be the devils son
Mad the blueprint on Jekyll Island
1910 fews years later
Catastrophe struck in
Feds was created birth date were initiated
Recorded on scriptures
See the picture
Cloned us and loaned us
As slaves to the corporate field
Cant make cuz my endz break
But say just wait
Great things will come if
You put in your mind state
But that **** dont work
Everyday hustling
Only to be left struggling
Times is juggling
Disaster structuring
Over our very lives
And the run to church for lies
When they all apart of the
The american pie
Keep you dumb down and head to the ground all around
You see satellites taking pictures
Of a false heaven
Nothing but projectors images
World is a hologram
And reality is an illusion
Tactics made for confusion
People arguing over
Whos wrong whos right
When the rich folks set the sight
Following man made institutions
I couldn't take it
So i let the pistols began shooting
Intellect lootin'
We in deep need of a substitution
Cuz this world aint my home
I wasnt born to pay bills s
And die
P
Lift my hands to the sky
And God will multiply?
But thats lie
Ya just caught in a spiritual tie
Emotions vs logic Americans so **** lethargic
Regarldess
If truth is in the front of the  battlefield
Most will run behind the lines of lie
And be a defense shield
Instead of using conscious mind
Free will????????
Never believe all you see
or all that you've seen
It's just images on a corporate screen
placed behind your eyes
and as you look out
all you see are the lies
that they feed you.
But believe this,
they read you
like a print hot off the press
they mess with your mind
in the end you won't find
reality.

What is it you see
what programs are showing
what are they snowing us with
today?

Lies all lies
the business screen dies as the lights fly away
who pulled the plug and do we really care?
There's a real world out there
somewhere.

In a something of nothing where nothing wins out.
A shout from the sidelines
forwards to better times.
And in a field far away technicians at play
rebuilding projectors
connecting connectors
and we'll all be collected
as directed
by the
protectorate,
the welfare state
which never gave a ****.

A real man wouldn't stand for it
would never get bogged down
by the fantasies
in the screens he sees
behind the pale blue of his eyes.
But that's more lies we're being fed
and we're fed
'til we're dead and then it doesn't matter any more.

The door that's marked exit and toilets to the left
is the one we will leave by
and by and by we'll all believe
in the magic
of the lying screen
and nothing that's out there will ever be seen
by the likes of us.
Sam Lincoln May 2014
Uncomfortably, in the room of my best friend
while he nuzzles with his lover in bed
while I wait in my thoughts like,
a cold glacier below the veneer of the sea.
My back hurts.
I try counting down from one hundred and clearing it out.
But old projectors play from behind my eyelids
playing mirror images of horror films I wish I hadn't seen
I lost someone that I loved to sickness and I couldn't accept it.
It didn't feel like I thought it would.
I feel this numbness crawling me, and it's getting colder
Freezing over

There is a song whispering on the stereo,
that’s on the blank tile a few feet from me
Full of so much joy and life,
that seems to elude me
I wish I could rip the benevolent sound from the air
And consume it, and let it fill up every void
That is left in this soul in which I believe in,
Less and less
Day by day
As fate sunders me slowly
Like the song is lulling me now into darkness
Second by second
Dave Hardin Oct 2016
Our Science Film

Autumn colors leave me
Pining for black and white
Grammar school reel to reel
Science films snaking through
Rackety Cold War projectors
Chalk motes swarming
Cones of gibbering light
Can-do voice-overs
Always a hiccup off
Read by radio men
Sporting pale miens
Pie plate headphones
Brylcreem slick
Perhaps a Scholastic
Short featuring winsome
Child actors playing
You and me
Button noses
Wrinkled in stricken
Joy at a baby bunny
Wide eyed and stock still
In an apple crate
Beneath an apple tree
Leaves schooling in binary
Shimmer on the summer
Breeze blowing through our film
An introduction to photosynthesis
Or the metamorphosis of caterpillars
It matters little to you
Beribboned in gingham
Or me flying flapping
Dungarees
Platinum hair
Whipping our faces
Sky a china white
Behind ivory billows
Framed forever
Dimpled and laughing
Milkweed exploding
From our fingers like secrets
Shared in alabaster
Sign language.

— The End —