Submissions by mjs211 (MikeTheEngineer)
POEMS AND SHORT STORIES
Poet Introduction
Oh, Mike the Engineer can build your brand-new hip, or synth your pills. But engineers left unfulfilled poor Mike's creative writing skills.
OBSERVATIONAL POEM
Published
2nd Apr 2012 2:09am
2nd Apr 2012 2:09am
hooked
some hardened poets speak straight shots to the gut—
left hook, right cross, choked up and clenched,
while others strum chords on the heartstrings,
transform their eulogies into epic love ballads.
and some resonate in empty stomachs
with the ragged rumble of want.
an army of voyeurs writes in curves to the hands
to touch, caress, fantasize, idealize...
still others place the wrists upon pedestals
worshiping them as the front doors to and from life.
the scholars propose postulations to the brain
elaborately weaving...
left hook, right cross, choked up and clenched,
while others strum chords on the heartstrings,
transform their eulogies into epic love ballads.
and some resonate in empty stomachs
with the ragged rumble of want.
an army of voyeurs writes in curves to the hands
to touch, caress, fantasize, idealize...
still others place the wrists upon pedestals
worshiping them as the front doors to and from life.
the scholars propose postulations to the brain
elaborately weaving...
1037 reads
8 Comments
OBSERVATIONAL POEM
Published
11th Mar 2012 5:28am
11th Mar 2012 5:28am
Rebirth
There's something vaguely infantile
about the way I love the contrast when I step outside:
warm, stale, exhale-heavy air, caving in with the door
opening to give way to the crisp wall of chill rushing in
to revitalize the dark heavy space. The old woman
at the guard's desk stirs her bones, shifts. She's past
the era where she'd welcome the smack to her cheeks,
long forgotten the newborn's love of sharp divides.
I step out of the wooden womb into the afternoon sun.
There's something somewhat neonate
about the way I love the...
about the way I love the contrast when I step outside:
warm, stale, exhale-heavy air, caving in with the door
opening to give way to the crisp wall of chill rushing in
to revitalize the dark heavy space. The old woman
at the guard's desk stirs her bones, shifts. She's past
the era where she'd welcome the smack to her cheeks,
long forgotten the newborn's love of sharp divides.
I step out of the wooden womb into the afternoon sun.
There's something somewhat neonate
about the way I love the...
899 reads
12 Comments
STORY POEM
Published
13th Feb 2012 10:51pm
13th Feb 2012 10:51pm
At the edge of worlds
It was never supposed to happen.
It was never meant to come
to that crashing nexus in time
where everything was so sprawled
and scattered and exploded
and spilling out of our arms
as we desperately tried to contain it
and carry it with grace,
and so human, and alive
and at the same time so very
crystalline in its perfection,
its clarity,
ten thousand scattered muddy pixels
(wretched slippery parcels)
but a sharp, crisp picture
on the whole.
It was never meant to come to that.
But here we are, that crossroads...
It was never meant to come
to that crashing nexus in time
where everything was so sprawled
and scattered and exploded
and spilling out of our arms
as we desperately tried to contain it
and carry it with grace,
and so human, and alive
and at the same time so very
crystalline in its perfection,
its clarity,
ten thousand scattered muddy pixels
(wretched slippery parcels)
but a sharp, crisp picture
on the whole.
It was never meant to come to that.
But here we are, that crossroads...
1047 reads
10 Comments
SELF POEM
Published
9th Feb 2012 11:26pm
9th Feb 2012 11:26pm
Sick
Stuck in the corner of this bare room,
nauseous and trying to breathe without moving.
Sick with my own disease,
too much of me
and not enough of anyone else.
My head pounds,
I've been staring at this screen
for too God-damned long—
and only He knows when I'll quit.
Quit what? Take your pick...
Self-sabotaging? Leaving her?
Dosing myself with this disease?
One thing's for sure. I'm beginning to lose
the line between whether I should stop
dropping myself to the concrete
or stop picking myself up after.
nauseous and trying to breathe without moving.
Sick with my own disease,
too much of me
and not enough of anyone else.
My head pounds,
I've been staring at this screen
for too God-damned long—
and only He knows when I'll quit.
Quit what? Take your pick...
Self-sabotaging? Leaving her?
Dosing myself with this disease?
One thing's for sure. I'm beginning to lose
the line between whether I should stop
dropping myself to the concrete
or stop picking myself up after.
853 reads
9 Comments
OBSERVATIONAL POEM
Published
7th Feb 2012 4:52am
7th Feb 2012 4:52am
Stockholm Syndrome
3:42am is the worst time of night.
Long since the world has gone to sleep,
sufficiently removed from the last words and actions of the day
that the mind settles down to equilibrium.
Can't bring yourself to go to bed
despite counting on one hand
the hours until waking.
It is the purest-feeling emotion of all,
that smooth relentless ache.
All other sensations are intense but fleeting,
naught but reaction to stimuli.
3:42am is the baseline of your mind.
And, being wholly immersed in
(and enamored of—for who doesn't love
a good...
Long since the world has gone to sleep,
sufficiently removed from the last words and actions of the day
that the mind settles down to equilibrium.
Can't bring yourself to go to bed
despite counting on one hand
the hours until waking.
It is the purest-feeling emotion of all,
that smooth relentless ache.
All other sensations are intense but fleeting,
naught but reaction to stimuli.
3:42am is the baseline of your mind.
And, being wholly immersed in
(and enamored of—for who doesn't love
a good...
936 reads
6 Comments
LOVE POEM
Published
25th Jan 2012 3:45am
25th Jan 2012 3:45am
For Mary, Princess of the River
You can't chronicle a dream 'til it's done.
When you're smack in the center
of a frog-prince fantasy
there's nothing to do but look around,
take it in, bury your face in her hair,
breathe deep the scents of lavender and curry
(she was always so particular about covering one with the other),
the earthy bite filling your senses;
whisper into her soul
the beauty you feel beside you—
those dark, bright eyes, full of intellect, of life,
of all that you wish most to be,
her gaze speaking all the truths you need
yet leaving you desperate for...
When you're smack in the center
of a frog-prince fantasy
there's nothing to do but look around,
take it in, bury your face in her hair,
breathe deep the scents of lavender and curry
(she was always so particular about covering one with the other),
the earthy bite filling your senses;
whisper into her soul
the beauty you feel beside you—
those dark, bright eyes, full of intellect, of life,
of all that you wish most to be,
her gaze speaking all the truths you need
yet leaving you desperate for...
1252 reads
6 Comments
DARK POEM
Published
23rd Jan 2012 6:20am
23rd Jan 2012 6:20am
The Maelstrom
Suicide is not a joyous release.
It's not beautiful or relaxed.
It's not poetic, red teardrops
falling in slow motion,
rolling rosy down waxy cheeks
all ready for the open-casket close-ups.
Juliet does not eulogize, audience captive.
it's a hundred
ragged breaths
screaming, gasping
holding your life
in your hands
begging yourself
not to do it
(not to do it!)
blood spattering dirty tile
running random
down arms
sliding fingers
slick with red
and shaking fierce
with adrenaline...
It's not beautiful or relaxed.
It's not poetic, red teardrops
falling in slow motion,
rolling rosy down waxy cheeks
all ready for the open-casket close-ups.
Juliet does not eulogize, audience captive.
it's a hundred
ragged breaths
screaming, gasping
holding your life
in your hands
begging yourself
not to do it
(not to do it!)
blood spattering dirty tile
running random
down arms
sliding fingers
slick with red
and shaking fierce
with adrenaline...
949 reads
6 Comments
DARK POEM
Published
22nd Jan 2012 9:13am
22nd Jan 2012 9:13am
Four cracked walls
I miss the words
swallowing up the night.
Eating away the empty hours
between shut door
and shut eyes,
that indeterminate span
from being left to my own devices
to wrenching myself free of them,
the nightly era of solipsist proofs
when the songs that did the great ones in
shine through in cold, stark clarity
and start to hold that sharp metal sheen to them.
I wish you were here
because, you know
I'm not bothered by the dark
but by the dearth of light.
swallowing up the night.
Eating away the empty hours
between shut door
and shut eyes,
that indeterminate span
from being left to my own devices
to wrenching myself free of them,
the nightly era of solipsist proofs
when the songs that did the great ones in
shine through in cold, stark clarity
and start to hold that sharp metal sheen to them.
I wish you were here
because, you know
I'm not bothered by the dark
but by the dearth of light.
785 reads
8 Comments
OBSERVATIONAL POEM
Published
15th Jan 2012 8:35am
15th Jan 2012 8:35am
Congratulations Joe
In life they'd never have looked his way again.
Two years removed from high school, most moved on,
knew him when they'd known him, and that was that.
Now, sitting pretty and serene in his lacquered pine box,
they flocked to him. The only thing his parents heard
was two thousand versions of the same
fifteen-second pithy one-and-dones they'd all prepared in advance.
If he hadn't been dead, if that drunken fool
had chosen two seconds earlier to notice the red light,
they'd all be blissfully ignorant that Joe still existed.
But because he plowed into a...
Two years removed from high school, most moved on,
knew him when they'd known him, and that was that.
Now, sitting pretty and serene in his lacquered pine box,
they flocked to him. The only thing his parents heard
was two thousand versions of the same
fifteen-second pithy one-and-dones they'd all prepared in advance.
If he hadn't been dead, if that drunken fool
had chosen two seconds earlier to notice the red light,
they'd all be blissfully ignorant that Joe still existed.
But because he plowed into a...
825 reads
11 Comments
SONG LYRICS
Published
10th Jan 2012 8:38am
10th Jan 2012 8:38am
Mortality, Immortalized
Well Skrew and Avoid screeched to a stop last night
to find themselves caught up in the heat
It took a firefight to break back into the cool
but then man, South Street echoed with receding feet
And by the time the blood hit the storm drain
the usual chill was back in the air
And I couldn't help but wonder, baby
what we were really spared
And Prozak caught Sleaz one on the jaw—
or through it to be precise
Not to be outdone, Sleaz put one in his gut
to remind him that no one around here plays nice
But I had to...
to find themselves caught up in the heat
It took a firefight to break back into the cool
but then man, South Street echoed with receding feet
And by the time the blood hit the storm drain
the usual chill was back in the air
And I couldn't help but wonder, baby
what we were really spared
And Prozak caught Sleaz one on the jaw—
or through it to be precise
Not to be outdone, Sleaz put one in his gut
to remind him that no one around here plays nice
But I had to...
759 reads
1 Comment
OBSERVATIONAL POEM
Published
9th Dec 2011 5:48am
9th Dec 2011 5:48am
they f**k harder
got an old friend little eddie
good barmate
got enough stories to keep our minds off things we'd rather forget
til the alcohol kicks in and takes care of that
tells me when he gets close to a girl
(by his standards fucks her regular)
he tests her
starts treating her rough
everything's a problem
it's not just her fault he has to pick her up when her tire went flat
it's her fault the nail is in the tire
if she sticks by him and rides it out
he says she's gone in a week
but if she tells him to fuck off
boots him...
good barmate
got enough stories to keep our minds off things we'd rather forget
til the alcohol kicks in and takes care of that
tells me when he gets close to a girl
(by his standards fucks her regular)
he tests her
starts treating her rough
everything's a problem
it's not just her fault he has to pick her up when her tire went flat
it's her fault the nail is in the tire
if she sticks by him and rides it out
he says she's gone in a week
but if she tells him to fuck off
boots him...
1043 reads
9 Comments
OBSERVATIONAL POEM
Published
25th Nov 2011 8:41am
25th Nov 2011 8:41am
Requiem for a Cut Thread
"You and me, man. Everything we are,
it’s everything the world will be.
We’re the future before it’s even happened!"
Those words of his never were more poignant
than when they closed his casket
and prepared to relegate him to their past.
it’s everything the world will be.
We’re the future before it’s even happened!"
Those words of his never were more poignant
than when they closed his casket
and prepared to relegate him to their past.
840 reads
7 Comments
DU Poetry : Submissions by mjs211 (MikeTheEngineer)
