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Norman Crane Aug 31
Every poet is a fake
eyewitness, peddler of make-believe hearsay,
A conveyor of love he never knew
in a city he never saw in a way to make you
feel the passion as if it were true,
He is an air-brusher of reality,
Thus a proselytizer of the Absurd:
That you can paint pictures with words;
That you can travel by verbs;
That you can conjure nouns by saying them;
That you can lead several lives within your only one.

Every poet is a fake
taxidermist, seller of second-hand stuffings
of souls that were never alive

Every poet is a fake
imperialist, would be explorer-***-colonizer
of the terra incognita of your mind

Every poet is a fake
poet
Graff1980 Jul 13
Church services will resume shortly,
so, get ready to crowd the rectory.
Confessions are in session
cause these are concessions to con men
plying their moral dissent
to compliment other idiots.

Success, cause intellectual blindness
and devotion to a deity who
doesn’t give two *****
about all of you who
are not rich republican men.

We win, my gullible friends.
Come on in.
Kenneth Copeland
and Cresflow dollar
will be taking your money
to support their private jet
go out and get
more stuff while the poor
struggle in debt.

Why care for those who despair?
Why share what we have
instead of bailing out
big businessmen?
We got to open the country again
and we can start with religion
cause they already believe
that science is fake
and magic is reality.

So, lets get them out and about
who cares if grandma get the disease.

We need to please these rich dudes,
these fox news
red hat attitude
gotta get a clue
red state race bating
confederate flag wearing
NRA make America great…

Wait……

Yeah, go to church
your pearly gates await
just please stay in
for at least two weeks
when you get back from
hearing your preacher speak.
Lyn-Purcell Jul 2

I seem to be deaf to the moon.
So pure yet cold,
it's soft light whispering deep
into my soul, lulling me to a peaceful
rest and yet, I turn away
Various seconds, minutes, hours, days,
months, years blow by like the wind;
fleeting and colourless
Am I not just a speck of dust,
a dancing vapour,
a grain of sand that will
crumble and be forgotten?
How I yearn to be more,
transcend through this mortal coil
to be free of any burdens
to not let my emotions gnaw and drink
from the pools of my sense
my securities
my dreams
and turn a woodland meadows
of light, life and birdsongs
into a blackened forest with raining
ash, brimstone sky
My quill and ink are there
but my hand turns to
that of golden stone, beautiful
but stiff
Still lost I am...
Where is the girl I thought I was?
I fear that all I've cloaked
I will one day become...
I know it's all obscure
But I plan to overcome


Imposter syndrome, a demon that is so hard to **** at times.
yousuf Jun 4
with this pen i scribble-
artistic dishonesty.
i am not a poet-
nor am i blessed in prose.
Song from Ælla: Under the Willow Tree, or, Minstrel's Song
by Thomas Chatterton, age 17 or younger
Modernization/Translation by Michael R. Burch

MYNSTRELLES SONGE ("MINSTREL'S SONG")

O! sing unto my roundelay,
O! drop the briny tear with me,
Dance no more at holy-day,
Like a running river be:
My love is dead,
Gone to his death-bed
All under the willow-tree.

Black his crown as the winter night,
White his flesh as the summer snow
Red his face as the morning light,
Cold he lies in the grave below:
My love is dead,  
Gone to his death-bed
All under the willow-tree.
      
Sweet his tongue as the throstle's note,
Quick in dance as thought can be,                      
Deft his tabor, cudgel stout;
O! he lies by the willow-tree!
My love is dead,
Gone to his death-bed
All under the willow-tree.

Hark! the raven ***** his wing
In the briar'd dell below;
Hark! the death-owl loud doth sing
To the nightmares, as they go:
My love is dead,
Gone to his death-bed
All under the willow-tree.

See! the white moon shines on high;
Whiter is my true-love's shroud:
Whiter than the morning sky,
Whiter than the evening cloud:
My love is dead,  
Gone to his death-bed          
All under the willow-tree.

Here upon my true-love's grave      
Shall the barren flowers be laid;
Not one holy saint to save
All the coldness of a maid:
My love is dead,  
Gone to his death-bed          
All under the willow-tree.

With my hands I'll frame the briars
Round his holy corpse to grow:
Elf and fairy, light your fires,
Here my body, stilled, shall go:
My love is dead,
Gone to his death-bed          
All under the willow-tree.

Come, with acorn-cup and thorn,
Drain my heart's red blood away;
Life and all its good I scorn,
Dance by night, or feast by day:
My love is dead,  
Gone to his death-bed          
All under the willow-tree.
          
Water witches, crowned with plaits,
Bear me to your lethal tide.
I die; I come; my true love waits.
Thus the damsel spoke, and died.

The song above is, in my opinion, competitive with Shakespeare's songs in his plays, and may be the best of Thomas Chatterton's Rowley poems. It seems rather obvious that this song was written in modern English, then "backdated." One wonders whether Chatterton wrote it in response to Shakespeare's "Under the Greenwood Tree." The greenwood tree or evergreen is a symbol of immortality. The "weeping willow" is a symbol of sorrow, and the greatest human sorrow is that of mortality and the separations caused by death. If Chatterton wrote his song as a refutation of Shakespeare's, I think he did a **** good job. But it's a splendid song in its own right.

William Blake is often considered to be the first English Romantic. Blake is the elder of the so-called “big six” of Blake, William Wordsworth, Samuel Taylor Coleridge, Lord Byron, Percy Bysshe Shelley and John Keats. I would add the great Scottish poet Robert Burns, making it a big seven. However, I believe Wordsworth, Coleridge, Shelley and Keats actually nominated an earlier poet as the first of their tribe: Thomas Chatterton. Unfortunately, Chatterton committed suicide in his teens, after being accused of literary fraud. What he did as a boy was astounding.

On this page, I prove that Thomas Chatterton could not possibly be guilty of the crime he was accused of:
(http://www.thehypertexts.com/Thomas%20Chatterton%20Modern%20English%20Translations%20Moderniza­tions%20Burch.htm)

Keywords/Tags: Chatterton, Romantic, Rowley, fraud, forger, forgery, roundelay, minstrel, song, Aella, willow
nance May 12
You soothed my raw skin with lotion,
but I know underneath your heart meant war;
so here's to the selfish, demimonde ******-
to the ones who'd **** up their own lives,
including yours.
They can talk all they want,
but at the end of the day, face-to-face,
they would kiss my *** and greet me with praise.

N.A.L
they talk behind your back until you come face-to-face.
quite sad.
rig f laurel Mar 31
unable to reach
incredible imageries
and be innocent.
fraudelle Feb 21
Last year
I created a sea
By my tears

Dryness
Turn my sea
Not into dessert
But Into salt

That is why
I am so  attractive

Vengeance...
M Solav Dec 2019
So we may be taken — there
without further adieu,
As the morning sun — shines
on the morning dew.

Irremediably
connecting two dots,
In immediacy,
what we have lost!

Among the lunatic — and
the natural fraud,
We stand unprepared — so
ready to applaud.

Irremediably
connecting two dots,
In immediacy,
what we have lost!
Written in July 2017.


— Copyright © M. Solav —
This work may not be used in entirety or in part without the prior approval of its author. Please contact marsolav@outlook.com for usage requests. Thank you.
__________
jake aller Oct 2019
The Deep fake era is upon us


Every thing is fake these days

Everything is a fraud 
Prepare for the deep fake world
Fakery, fraud, and falsehoods abound
All artfully done
Killing the last shred of human decency left
Everything is a deep fake
these days
from my fake things poems see my web page for more fake poems https://theworldaccordingtocosmos.com
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