poetry, Uncategorized

beginning

his feet pump
with the weight of words
muscles in his voice
ignite and imbue
the asphalt

his face fidgets
in the creases of the wind
yet his eyes
remain resolute
through the old fog

his mischief wades
down the street
a scarf embraces him
like the soft pulse
of a mothers arm
whose embryo voice
whispers and says

– today you’ll be the
gentleman that
echoes empathy from
the folds of his heart

 

 

PhilosopherPoet

Standard
Technology

Look after

One of the first signs of being passionate something is when you begin to feel. I used to live with someone who told me that you have to see a motorbike as a person. I bought one end of last year and he told me that I need to get a better exhaust so she can breathe better. I need to service this and that, occasionally give her a good clean.

At first the mention of seeing this piece of steel as a person, made me wrinkle my nose in confusion. As he went on I began to see the relevance. Your important possessions you need to maintain and nurture. I’m no master of the motorbike, however put me behind a computer and my eyes light up much the same.

When I left school my parents bought me a computer as a good-luck-out-there present. That same motherboard lasted me four years. That’s an eternity in the PC world. Think of owning a pair of shoes for 5 years (i.e. ones you use everyday) and you’re on the right track. My mother used to utter a phrase to me, every time something more valuable came into my reach. She simply said, “Look after.” I used to roll my teenage eyes back in angst, when that phrase came out. Now I look at it I can see EXACTLY the meaning behind it. I no longer look like I’m having a small seizure either.

I’ve seen so many people throw down there laptops, or just leave it running down to the last morsels of cache. Here’s a better example… Ever owned a laptop and left it plugged into the charger over night? That’s bad. Very baaaad. If you’re nodding your head it’s time to repent and allow the lithium cycles in your battery to themselves. Every battery (in an ideal world) will run from a vibrant 100% charged to a pitiful 0-10%, every day. For arguments sake a battery comes with 1500 cycles. That means fifteen hundred chances at holding charge for you, while you scamper off to meetings.

The idea is to have as much of that as possible. If you leave your laptop plugged in all the time, you’re hurtling current at the dear battery when none is required, and more importantly you’re stunting its ability to be a battery (slowly lose charge over time). Think of it this way. Do you leave the stove on when you’re done cooking? Nope. It draws power, and keeping it on will burn the shit out of your stove plates. Same idea. Charge when needed, otherwise allow it to sleep like the rest of us (pun duly intended).

Now think of the computer as a human. You paid a couple of grand to get it, so for fuck’s sake give it some TLC. Go and get a comfortable bag for it, and research how to take care of it. This is not a rant at stupid people, but more a reminder at the end of the day all our equipments asks is that we “Look after [it].”

Treat your gadgets tenderly as you would a lover. Chances are they may even help to get you laid, at the end of the day.

PhilosopherPoet

Standard
poetry

pump

he clasps the handle
a thin sliver of soupy fuel
surges

background murmurs plague
his consciousness like sharp tendrils
crying through the clear face
a fallen wine
glass once had

there are no veins in his head
a usual pulsing area
pallid grave
potent humor
pungent sweat
playing ditties into
the velvet dress of the atmosphere
arrives by chance in the ochre hue
she calls melody

he wishes for water
or even the simple allure of nectar
which might free the puerile spirits
stalking petroleum
vigor locked
clasped
engaged with the duty to point
his nozzle to another garrulous motor
sucking in the sunlight
perforated people
fuel injected five year olds
and a simple silver barrel
gleaming in his hands.

 

PhilosopherPoet

Standard
poetry

the man in the hat

the man in the hat
rummages through our lives
his hungry hands wade into
crying milk cartons and
our frugal egg shells

this morning i leave the house
my modest motorcycle carries me
towards the gate
i brake softly
still wrapped in plastic feelings
a cloudy face jumps up and watches
like a brazen rodent who
stumbles towards stale morsels
and parched containers

the man in the hat
hopes to find enough
charred doorknobs
soft match boxes
tender cardboard
chipped picture frames
to build his rusted thoughts
and carve copper dreams
into the moldy fingerprint
of todayโ€™s wreckage

next week he will
come with another
stubborn trolley of
tainted trinkets and the
same furtive glance
that steals the
liquid pathos
painting my face

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