The first time it is said it's with cold acceptance as she walks away,
The second with unrivaled hate as she makes his blood flood the room,
The third and final time is with a mournful cry by an enemy as she takes her final breaths,
You could have been so much better

A river of lies
Cast aside my past
Cast aside my fears
Roll the dice

Hide my own self
Drown all her dreams
Drown all her hopes
Shatter the ice

Become her again
When fires dance lively
When frost walks free
Remember their price

None by all and all by none
I tripped into a cage
That held me back and hidden
From the world unclosing gate
I raged against it’s iron walls
I wedged against it’s *****
I tried to break, to faint, to brawl
But ended on it’s *****

Until a hundred years of seconds
Had flashed past before my eyes
When silently, an echo halled
Down from the other side
It pierced my shell and yanked me
It dragged me through the dark
And nearly teared completely
My endmost hope apart

But after all and none
I breached a new surface
That left me breathe and choking
In a long forgotten space
I catched a glimpse of fire scars
And touched a new domain
That fetched and mesmerized my heart
Into a another kind of chains

You look like a wolf
in sheep’s clothing

And yet, you say you
are the dragon

Yet, you make us believe
in your story

You breathe no fire

You only wanted the
castle walls
to protect you
from our glances

If you had opened up
Put away your wolf hide

All could see
how lonely you are

And how wrong our story is

---------------------------------------------------------
Ann­e H. Bakke  |  02:09  @   29.05.2016

he sits in that diner and he is
two point five decades' worth of emotion
compressed into a single, nervous point:
the relentless tapping
of keratin kissing linoleum.

he hears everything:
fingers curled round coffee cups
money whispering out of wallets
his thoughts clattering around like ice cubes
in the lemonade he asked for.

(his glass sweats, and so does he.)

one down. there's ice on his tongue, melting, and
he's feeling the weight of it
like the boxes crammed into his rattle-trap car,
like a pin pressed into a corkboard map,
like his signature at the bottom of a new lease.

(like a warning, and a hand on his wrist:
"you ain't gonna like it there, anto.")

last sour, pulpy sip as he decides
to pay it no mind and to play it
by ear. even now the distant city bustles
and he'll do ninety on the highway to catch it,
metamorphic in his fragile metal chrysalis.

[PART ONE]
xeroxed, RT'd and plagiarized
so many times on so many blogs
tween blogs to republican blogs
to blogs in Russia and
blogs no one ever scrolls though...
original content is prey
but I have a warning for they:

overrated, over-shared
content aggregators beware
the lines you swap can
rot and ware
the World Wide Web
does not care.

[PART TWO]
original content
original contests
original continent
original controversy
original coordination between strangers
original calvary riding their connection into the battlefield of internet memes; creating nothing and sharing everything

[COMMENTARY]
original nothing, nowhere, nobody except facebook "Funny Vidoes!" & "Cool Quotes!". 'Like' pages whose sole originality lies within their own existence but nothing they share. They steal from the rest of the web and re-post what they find for out-of-the-loop troglodytes; often done so in inferior context and with no perspective. The 'refried beans' phenomenon, I call it. I find it fitting because 'refried beans' are a double misnomer. The name comes from 'frijoles refritos' - which means 'well-fried' not 'refried'. They are also never traditionally fried more than once. Yet the name sticks, it gets repeated, it gets re-shared and now that's what they are: refried beans. This phenomenon is why I believe art and all original content eventually become so over-shared and overrated that it's no longer interesting but irritating. These three parts of the poem "Original Content" are separated in abstract authorial presentation. The author has clearly expressed his dislike for the disjunct un-imagination of the internet and presents it as such.

[PART THREE]
original authors losing control of their audiences who believe they are the creators and the artist's art is somewhat shareable
original miscommunication between web 1.0 and web 2.0 reality
original alphabet they use to type on their keyboards
original grammar they learned in school
original money their gov't printed
original content they re-post
original refried beans
original content
orginal contet
ogrinal cotent
ognal ctt
oc
.

No similes
No metaphors
No allegories
No alliteration
No irony
No paradox
No rhythm, and no rhyme
No more stanzas
No more verses
Only
truth:
I miss you.

**2 8 . 0 7 . 1 4