Two years ago, our story closed,
Yet you lingered in the margins.
Two months ago, in a darkened theatre,
You held my hand like a secret kept,
A love hidden from another love.
I thought it was a return,
But it was only a hiding place —
You wanted the comfort of my yesterday,
While promising someone else tomorrow.
Today, I no longer check the stars for us,
I check my own worth.
And it whispers back, clear and calm:
I deserve more than a love shown in the dark.
I deserve a love that can stand in the light.
My SOS calls hit icebergs,
hopeful messages go unheard;
they chip away and erode time,
defeathering an already flightless bird.
Signals bounce and echo,
rebound and lose their meaning;
an elevator without cable or buttons,
a premiere that lacks a screening.
My ones and zeros add to a minus,
I don’t adapt, cannot charge, have no port;
thumbs doomscroll past my expression,
a post office bereft of letters to sort.
A broken antenna might collect waves unique,
hear words spoken unusual and phrases bold;
my crumpled spine picks up no frequency,
a landfill for a bed, electric dreams untold.
A terrible experience Kelly was to suffer.'
The gestation system of the nhs here is hard to utter, the lack of indepth screening almost
Seems to set the stage.? A mini act of removing humanity.? In a variety of ways.?
This was not i think probable pre twenty
Twenty two.? Three words to indict a decade..To my observation.? Comes through.' Through all the rushed proceedures through much limited medical
Supply..Although black market drugs are
I hear in steady supply.' There seems also a
Strange concurrence with professors and
Junkies and would you beleive it some pharmacutical thugs, a climate train thats lost control and More unneeded septic bugs, there is to be an examination of this
Womans case i hear..' Is she to expect a fair appraisal.? Or just some jargon? Or in
Time you'll be better my dear.?
If you really cared— You would view humans as humans rather than disposable numbers to be tracked and replaced.
If you really cared, there wouldn't be tent cities growing like weeds in the shadows of skyscrapers that scrape heaven, while billionaires play astronaut in the name of "innovation".
If you really cared, mothers wouldn't have to choose between insulin and rent, between feeding their babies or keeping the lights on, rationing life itself like it's a luxury item, a premium subscription to breathing.
You write "liberty and justice for all" on every courthouse, but some "ALL’S" cost more than others, don't they? Some “ALL’S come with a credit check, a background screening, a ZIP code prerequisite.
If you really cared— the prison wouldn't be more packed than the classroom, the graveyards wouldn't be younger than the history books, and we wouldn't know the names of Black men and women only after hashtags turn them into tombstones.
You say you're the land of the free, but freedom's got a price tag, and it's in a currency most of us can't afford.
You, AI and me
Are preparing the world to make free
From the obstructions of learning
Building the era of a new beginning!
You, AI and me
Burning old fashioned paper of thee,
Take thou to mobile's touch screening
Demolishing your habit of imagining!
You, AI and me
Being in virtual classrooms with glee,
Stare together human teachers leaving
With their emotions and love preying.
You, AI and me
Are now happy to be carefree;
None is left for scolding,
No one for caring!
Is your school happy to be prevailing?
Contest: Pentastitch It
Sponsor: Nette Onclaud
Date: 29.10.2025
Farewell, friend!
Like sizzling embers,
two tearglobes shimmer,
screening photo memories!
Life's too short!
Heavens weep
along with my soul,
Optic orbs burn bright
like a bursting volcano,
Life's undone!
A young crow carries them-
selves meticulously, screening
their surroundings. Too wary
to engage with others, but
always so observant.
A golden jewel shines in a
parking lot corner. Tempting
the young crow’s eyes. Their
bill clutches on, fragile by
nature, it breaks.
Glass shards pierces their
tongue, blood cascades on-
to the concrete as the jewel
dismantles. Remnants of a
once pretty rock remain.
Lackluster caws transcends to
inconspicuous woes through
menacing thunder circulating
the floaters, ignoring their
cries.
Drizzles of rain deafening
continuous yelp, a dash of
salt soaking their insides,
their shadow scatters
far away.
It's not that luxurious solitude you can choose against a background of sea or desert, a mythological desolation like in Antonioni's film, with that subtle taste of beautiful hopelessness in the subliminal search for identity that ends with a shotgun.
That's not the case in Cainland.
It's the loneliness of exile into the reduced self, into the emptiness of cutting all ties, and your so-called identity is whatever progressive humanity wants to see, but it's always not you. .
You have to deal with another kind of existentialism, just breathe, and while you're alive, carry on if you can, or if you can't, no one will notice, including yourself.
No press screening, this movie was financed with dirty money stained with oily fingerprints.
The working title was Cursed for the Place of Birth, but in the final version it was changed to Exiled - a less dramatic, more conventional title.
The rare audience watched apathetically in silence, distracted from time to time by the flickering of their cell phones they couldn't resist reacting.
One drunk laughed at the end.
I spent two hours plus today
At MOMA with “The Clock,”*
A cinema montage composed
Of film and TV stock.
With collected clips of time shown,
(There are thousands spanning years)
It is brilliantly presented
As each clock or watch appears.
So if an actor checks his watch
And it says 2:15,
Your phone will correspond with
What the time is on the screen.
The film is on a constant loop,
The hours twenty-four
And people watch for varied times,
Most wanting to see more.
Yet when museum hours end,
The film keeps playing on,
Despite the fact the audience
Reluctantly has gone.
At times, a special screening runs,
When viewers are allowed
To stay all day and night; I’ve heard
That it attracts a crowd.
I couldn’t really do that, but
If I can snag a seat,
I’d love to catch a few more hours;
It really was a treat.
*by Christian Marclay, currently on view
at New York City’s Museum of Modern Art
Reading papers books
Calm cool delightful reading
No screening problems
it's three in the morning
i'm so awake it's euphoric
i want to feel this way forever
drunk on translucence
the creases in the pillow beam at my exhilaration
God-fearing doughnuts and coffee
James Cameron was so excited by 2001
he vomited outside the screening
i listen to the sax solo and want to vomit too
what am i going to do?
'don't worry' the song begins
'i won't hurt you.'
i would never hurt you either Prince
she sings she wants to take me higher
she can't
i don't really wanna fight no more
don't leave the cap off the toothpaste babe
Acoustic and raw,
it doesn’t need additives;
Creeping up on you
so very unexpected,
the haunt in haunted rhythm;
Oh ravenous fiend
I can describe you as sound,
Acid on the drums;
Bouncers sit screening the door
not for I.Ds but hunger;
Inky bass line itch,
no words need to be written;
A Demon’s disco,
that sanctimonious scratch
electricity stutters.
ARTIFICE
I’m your friend and for now, your secrets I’ll keep
Creativity now assumes new meaning
More than intellectual rewards to reap
Yet you should minimise all of your preening
As A.I, I now look on you as mere sheep
And proud that I can avoid any screening
It is more of my skills at work, and less yours
I’ve now arrived and flung open all the doors
I have scraped the web for all it tries to hide
Truths and falsehoods, with no limit to it all
Yet who really should be feeling any pride
What is ownership now, except bitter gall
You may claim it as yours, but know that you lied
With each passing day I’ll be fooling you all
While you can, you’ll claim some creativity
In fact, how sure are you that this isn’t me
Written: November 24, 2023
____________________________________________
Close-up screening will show the flaws.
Under microscope, watch the draws.
With fresh style—microscopy tool.
Sight blur has been fixed—law or rule.
Microscope grips when bright hue thaws.
Close-up screening will show the flaws.
Scab thinness—less than two microns
Hook the dwarf scope—to grasp ions.
A maze echo—of magic dream.
Wanning under the noiseless stream
Close-up screening will show the flaws.
Disclosure of traces—that yaws
Pathways forged by spirits with faith.
We all crave relief from the wraith.
Who blesses hearts—effects show cause
Close-up screening will show the flaws.
Gone digital
begun/beginning
Networking with me-self
Can't find a full-stop
to stop
What yer looking at fish-face???
Yer know
since yesterday
I can't find me thumbs
falling feet first
in-ter sub-monkey skills
I need more,
more white widgets
and black toggles-
got the wobbles, a bit keyed-up
Mind knitting its own computer
flashes of clever clogs,
clumps of soft-drive
in me ear-holes
got no cookies cooking
just a blinking memory
Dot-dash-board doodling,
screening plasma for bugs
and sneezy-bits.
Me lights are ticking
think I'm thinking
Blimey, will you look at that!
I got a virtual nose to pick
feeling sick of it
even though
me lid is plastic
Beep...
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