"commodified" poems
A duality of elan vital, two people
Spectres of emotion
Intertwined by a fuselage of bruised skin & tendon
Tissues become orbital, gushing towards grafts
Helixes of snot, **** and lymph
Boy & girl
As they embrace the animating principle and eachother, they fuse
A one piece tapestry adorned seamless with no hem, beginning or end
Always was, always is
Patiently turning to liquid as their being unzips
Lying figures of runny makeup and genetic *****
Quintessence, a texture of synaptic potential
Corpus Callosum
An entirety of self, lost in imbued disintegration
Theory of mind, looped & bound
I will water the thought
Roots envisaged in dystopian amygdala
Piercing data packets with a frost-like intensity
Forgetting our obsolescence moments ago
A neuron dipped in nylon
Theta waves and the non-euclidean crux of dissociation
Ghosts in the machine, your macro god
The sympathies of fractional distillation
Digitised/assimilated unto the nanosphere
Cold hands and brass backs galvanised in oscillated tears
Commodified, sold out and bought
Stretching, from purple, white and black
slowly losing its colour, amorphous in shape
brushed across a smudge, ambiguously chromatic
Monetised flesh god
An eternity bathed in starlight
Cutting an incision in the sky to allow entropy
Divided dimensions of energy
Fleeting and intangible
No longer a delirium of seperation
All semantics become light
As a rusted vehicle passes overhead
And all the worlds questions fade out of existence
Flutters of red tape and foregone growth of practice
Sinew flayed, integrated towards information
Our minds shared
In circuits and resistors
Photons and electrons
We radiate
Apr 1, 2014
Apr 1, 2014 at 10:49 AM UTC
My ****** is tired.
Tired of having to explain why she wants to be left alone,
Tired of men thinking they are entitled to her simply because they buy her things,
Tired of women who shame and police her,
Tired of being commodified,
My ****** is just...tired.
My ****** does not owe anyone ***
She will take up arms to protect her agency and have it recognised,
She will let whomever she chooses inside her,
She will most certainly not explain her decisions to a soul,
My ****** does not owe anyone ***
My ****** will not alter herself for a man's pleasure.
She defines beauty and serves other worldly aesthetics,
She is a queen who possesses the ability to make you see God with her warmth,
My ****** will not alter herself for a man's pleasure.
Jan 3, 2018
Jan 3, 2018 at 5:36 PM UTC
Passing through mid-century
these jazz oneironauts reached Apollonian heights
while society drifted into Dionysian drunkenness
the merchants caught on too soon
The most beautiful parts of humanity
enamored to serve the ugliest:
The merchant class, the bourgeoisie
Buddha’s undeserving in charge
If only in past centuries
those noble princesses embraced
even more lowly patronages
all this potential today could be staved off
Saved from the drive to be commodified
People stopped buying jazz as it reached its height
No more smiles to appease the whites
Jazz for the few
the noble, the individual in the know
Until this too becomes the simulacrum
The Ornette Coleman on the bookshelf
to signify your snootiness
your refinement from wealth
Aging Dads in thousand dollar sweaters
kicking out their 22 year old kids
for being ****** addled hipsters
meanwhile Bird on Verve is nodding out
and Dad’s girlfriend pops a Percocet
to deal with all the stress
Jan 15, 2022
Jan 15, 2022 at 10:50 AM UTC
As culled from an arts magazine, 13 March 2019
Socialist Realism - The official doctrine in Soviet art and literature after 1932 that evolved from the traditional commitment to social and civic concerns into an all-pervasive general ideological mandate.
-Yevgeny Yevtushenko, 20th Century Russian Poetry
collective exhibition space vibe community
interactive narrative brown neighborhood
defined commodified Indigenous
identity tone-deaf decolonial
narratives populist intertwined
exhibition curatorial vision
culture local artists arts district small galleries
DIY spaces speaking out against
gentrification displacing shelter
studio space elsewhere late stage capitalism
collective mantra underdog art savior
corporate entity partnering insensitive
ignorant collective brown people art
contemporary work that may not fit
into establishment art galleries
media advisory venture collaborate
creative community authentic
local statement of expression excitement
creative energy arts district project
many levels collaborate local
creative important creative
community what that collaboration
looks like ongoing local artists going
to be engaged in planning commissioned
project community buy-in consulted members of the creative community Indigenous artists curators museum
directors professors burgeoning landscape
cultural framework critique talk individuals
entities inclusivity open
dialogue opportunities project
conversations collaboration discuss
your projects share our work with you
common ground work together healthy sustainable
accountable decolonization
Mar 16, 2019
Mar 16, 2019 at 5:41 PM UTC
The light quit working in the jukebox,
the melodies' surrender,
a commonplace extinction,
against the salt and the breeze
of your false Mediterranean.
The burden of your rational soul
in a world of extremes
has torn your spirit to tatters-
tatters littered across
your Toronto abode.
Divided amongst the heirlooms
and emptied bottles.
This desolation you
sought to translate
for the harmonious pulse
of the dial tone.
Hazy,
is this ancient mind,
a smoking fallout of
yesterday's parties
to be discussed over
lukewarm coffee
and cigarette butts,
while the shivering streams
and green plains become
commodified for a higher power.
Dan, my dearest friend,
I loved you
ferocious and freely,
fanged and supremely,
and as your mind coagulated
on a couch,
microphone in-hand,
I felt nostalgic for
your clumsy alcoholism,
and clumsier guitar strumming.
The white fog descends,
the city is hungry--
no longer can it expand.
Toronto eats itself
with you inside,
shall I write you a postcard?
Shall I kick down your door?
Shall I let you join the bones
you so beautifully alluded to?
Whisper, my friend,
amidst the soft croon of
the saxophone,
whisper, my friend,
of a Europe gone defective,
whisper, my friend,
for an apocalypse of sun
to release us all from
the white fog slowly burying
our Toronto.
Feb 9, 2011
Feb 9, 2011 at 7:18 PM UTC
I did not die in the country I was born in.
I died much, much later;
had my American ashes
scattered all over Bangladesh;
traversed it's many vessels of water.
I swam the Brahmaputra River,
floated upon the skin
of The Ganga; the half-naked
children waved and I couldn't tell
if they were saying hello
or goodbye; but those
waves spread until
I was far out into the sea.
I was forgotten
as swiftly as I was welcomed;
and was loved as easily
as was I avoided.
I looked back on my American
life with discontent. I saw nothing
but tangled knots of thought
laced with consumption,
and accumulation; self-interest
and seclusion; even
sadness was commodified.
The discontent was the push
and pull of a rope
tied to my soul.
I died before I ever left;
but discovered another self
on foreign soil
It wasn't till I had aged
beyond the average life
span for someone like
me in America; did I realize,
I wasted all this time,
dependent on what others
thought of me; what they
expected of me; and what
they considered was best for me.
I was forever exiled from darkness;
but at least I got a little sun
in Bangladesh.
May 8, 2016
May 8, 2016 at 2:40 AM UTC
What Education?
they Want To Triple The Fees
Truth Commodified
Jan 2, 2011
Jan 2, 2011 at 1:37 PM UTC
There are a lot misconceptions
When it comes to ***
And connecting ourselves in intimate
And healing ways
Enjoying and reveling in the pleasure
Being able to be in the moment
Truly awake and feeling ourselves
Feeling our bodies
And connecting with each other
*** has the ability to be a very powerful thing
It can transform two hearts
It can be a very powerful and uplifting thing
But unfortunately we have repressed ourselves
Even though we have a hyper sexualized society
We still repress ourselves in a lot of ways
We have commodified ourselves
And our bodies
And commodified *** as well
We need to be able to open ourselves up
To the possibility that there might be better
More whole ways to connect
Connecting with ourselves fully
Connecting with others fully
In healing and intimate ways
Because the way things are
It's Only propagate loathing of yourself
Loathing of your body
Even loathing of the feminine
And anything sensual
We need to break free of this
Because if we don't
We will continue to have people
That are lost and disconnected
From themselves
You will continue to have ****
And you will continue to propagate
The separation between the masculine and feminine
Not allowing ourselves to connect
In healing and sensual ways
Apr 21, 2012
Apr 21, 2012 at 1:20 PM UTC
There aren’t beings, just bodies.
Just skin
and parts to be conscientiously coded
as we are packed into boxes
like commodified corpses.
Carcasses eroded. When will we learn?
Can we still learn?
Learn to look at all beyond the body.
Or are we doomed to linger, these living corpses?
Oh, if only we had greying skin,
broken out of wooden boxes
and, in doing so, break into the Code.
**** the Code!
Yet, no mind is bold enough to learn.
To unpack brains overflowing with long forgotten boxes.
After all, it is your body.
In the end, it is your skin.
And it’s you who dwells in this corpse.
But please, oh please, do not pity the corpses!
Empty shells enslaved only by a code
of laws as pliable as skin.
And despite lessons past, they never learn
to take hold of horns hitched upon the bull’s body.
But, instead, cower and corrode in the comfort of an illusory box.
A cadaver’s box
fashioned by corpses.
Bodies led by bodies
no more fit than the next to conjure an unquestionable code.
But they never learn.
Where is the sanity beneath that skin
so telling? The different skins
in color-coded boxes
with the definition of difference never truly learned.
There are only corpses.
Existing encoded
as senseless, sightless, and soul-less bodies.
Let us skin the corpses!
Trade the boxed remains for lessons learned:
The mind and the soul, beyond the body. We are the Code.
Feb 5, 2015
Feb 5, 2015 at 1:59 AM UTC
how often do you see the students actually watching the teacher
Teacher outta focus Eyes are on the screen
the notes are in the mainframe,
the words have been recorded
on a mic and uploaded to cloud
outta sight on a site to humans
not loading.
credits are commodified, computers offered on sale,
upgraded technology further modified
so that students can come in and not fail by
bringing their phones and tablets, pen and paper so ratchet
code the information, and procreate like rabbits.
that external source stored with our teachings and
now all that we really teach is that our children do that same.
I used to joke about printers printing printers.
Now reality is the joke.
These metal rectangles are now filled with the vast sea of knowledge
we were meant to live with. They learned through our sacrifices
of time, effort, and focus, unto the techno gods who will replace us.
lets hope we taught them worthwhile values.
Apr 20, 2016
Apr 20, 2016 at 1:48 PM UTC
A resonant gratitude streams through my veins,
Consecrated to my middle school heroines, deflecting
The whispers of shame.
But they taught me that I do not have the luxury of shame;
I have a voice, and I must amplify it––that’s what my mother said.
Elles m’ont protégée, blossoming my oneness.
I am here now because of them, I harness their divine feminine
Strength.
Standing on the bones of my aunties, their anguish travels up,
Their histories following suit.
Beneath my feet, to my knuckles; charging my inner being
My spine is rigid, fortified with the duty––
To liberate, to reform, and to love.
“But my love,” she tells me earnestly, “this love, has been assumed,
Taken for granted, blended into the background of the White man’s portrait.”
My dun skin lives in the ambiguity of praise and prejudice,
And my sisters are dead. Exploited, first––then dead.
As were my mother’s grandmothers, when the Britons drew the line.
The assembly line, however, was an American invention––
Where the American Dream came to fruition. Commodified neatly,
‘Cheaply’ produced, and easy to swallow: fine [Black*] American craftmanship!
Her tomb
Stone, will be mined by her brothers.
He is unearthing the buried history, but forced to push coal into the fire,
Cremating the legacies of his own kin.
“So what are you going to say at my funeral now that you’ve killed me?”
Her lasts words, found amongst the ashes.
Dec 5, 2023
Dec 5, 2023 at 1:28 PM UTC
What's to be said about
A culture that commands us
To get rid of our love
handles?
Jun 13, 2011
Jun 13, 2011 at 10:19 AM UTC
I’ve
seen love
In movies, viewed parting
lips, glances
through a glass—
To know:
I’ve never felt
the heartbeat of another
sync alongside
mine
But my
mind, it holds
Skin, salt, of sea
waves who may feel the scratch
ofthe sand for-half
A second, to then
be dragged
away,
how many,
I ponder, are alike? It must
be an ocean wide,
those
For whom this
ache is commodified. I fear—I am
A blossom, bearing
fruit, which knows
it will fall
soon;
It is but a
matter of time before
I am crushed
underfoot... .
Apr 13, 2018
Apr 13, 2018 at 8:10 PM UTC
it has always been funny to me
that they call it
sin city
because it follows that
sins are commodified, justified, or monetized
speaking for myself here
if my sins were contained to
a place, or given a context
a simple time and place
they would lose meaning
if there is any in the first place
my sins are old
my sins are new
my sins are whatever
Feb 18, 2014
Feb 18, 2014 at 1:52 PM UTC
The anger does not fit
the cage in which you sit
when with a quick
flick of your thin wrists
you throw ****
and hit more often
then you miss.
You claim to be bereft,
that by some strange theft
your dignity was stolen,
but your religious devotion
pushes you right on your back
as it attempts to enslave,
takes the feminism you once praised
and burns all that progress we’ve made
away;
And your political affiliations
set you in a binary conflict
of liberal against conservative
as the wealthy puppeteers
put their hands up
both party’s ****** derriere
with campaign contributions
and other bribes.
While the pursuit of status
from the materials you lack,
like your Iphone ******
your sports car crack,
and your commodified
individuality
which comes in
three different colors
a personalized
perfectly designed
clothing line,
makes you an addict
who has to pay
way past closing time
with soul sapping debt.
Jan 8, 2018
Jan 8, 2018 at 9:36 AM UTC
We ran out of places to colonize, so
Now the capitalist are after our time
Though your mind might not realize yet, our
Attention has been commodified
All these fans around me but only you, see
That eyes are as good as gold nowadays, please
Check out the newest subscription released
So I can feed my kids and escape the freeze
****** and incels fighting over bucks and *****
But free videos take advantage of ***** and
Strippers prefer cold polls to ***** cause we
All gotta clock in sucker, ***** to **** so
We scam each other hoping to get ahead
Scheming over the same table we broke bread
Together in public we feed on street cred, but the
He said she said won't put a roof over your head
So better get famous ***** let everyone know
Your business is going swell, gonna buy some blow
Gonna sell some **** make a scene, then go
Do anything you can to keep them eyes on you.
Dec 15, 2022
Dec 15, 2022 at 12:09 PM UTC