A Poem for 21st Century Paranoics
- added June 13, 2008
- 3 responses
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- beedee
- channelled this
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by beedee
the camera is my lover
it's clarity is my vision
it haunts my dreams
it holds me back
the camera needs me
my constant attention
it scorns my affection
but never looks away
but for all its sway
the camera doesn't know
my heart
my mind
the truth
. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
This poem was inspired by David Brin's prescient book "The Transparent Society" and dedicated to all of the cameras I see in every grocery store and every building lobby. To those two luscious jugs that hang below the NYPD Security Boxes on every other street light on every major street.
Please feel free to comment below with your own love letters to the cameras that are springing up in your hometown. You know where they are, don't you?
the camera is my lover
it's clarity is my vision
it haunts my dreams
it holds me back
the camera needs me
my constant attention
it scorns my affection
but never looks away
but for all its sway
the camera doesn't know
my heart
my mind
the truth
. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
This poem was inspired by David Brin's prescient book "The Transparent Society" and dedicated to all of the cameras I see in every grocery store and every building lobby. To those two luscious jugs that hang below the NYPD Security Boxes on every other street light on every major street.
Please feel free to comment below with your own love letters to the cameras that are springing up in your hometown. You know where they are, don't you?
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By Amberlynne (circa 1981)~
Is It the Way of the Edge?
Need to find that place. The place where it all began. The place of development.
Camera to my eye ... the cricket still chirps ... I'm waiting to shoot ... I want something good ... something worthwhile ... a thing to share. And somehow this wait, this warm darkness seems to never end ... on and on.
I recall the swirling of my mother's womb ... warm ... viewed seemingly through a viewfinder ... long exposure ... nothing else will do.
Still there is the cricket's chirp ... like a clock on a wall ... on and on.
That voice I hear in my head is hers ... my mother's echo ... the words of long ago rippling into the vast ribbon of future.
And still the cricket's chirp ... I wait to shoot.
I find the edge ... and I push the trigger.
(what can I say, I was only 15)-
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- Amber_LaStrega
- 3 months ago
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what if there were no madmen
except the ones in charge
what do you do
when everyone believes a lie
how do you cry
what can i say
is there any real hope
for the sane to be free
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