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"copied" poems
From Alan Lomax to the commercial art and now the money machine. At the turn of the century; when sound recording 1st became available to the masses, recording a song was an opportunity for folk to reach out; and tell the world something up front and personal. It meant that people were able to put themselves on “The record” A way of leaving a permanent audio statement, an epitaph, an audio sound bite immortalising ~ life, mood, emotion captured and bottled for all eternity. (A medium that conveyed messages from artists and storytellers of all kinds) A recording was also a great addition to "The family album" something more tangible, a window to a real person, with a real life, a message and a point of view; a legacy, a blast from the past. Few people expected sound prints to be re-designed, homogenised, formulated, copied, repackaged and that art and the message would be played over and over again by new artists in the form of "cover music" or that the style of the messages would become secularized, seperated into distinctive groups, or constrained by an elite clique or commercial genre. Labelling and streamlining art & music mostly benefits the commercial art & music industry; and no longer the artists and creators. I've no problem with good business, or the multi-billion pound industrys that have gained commercial success. However the process of mass homogenisation, product synthesis, marketing, streamlining and then packaging fashion, sound and synthetic culture to sell a product, leaves very little room for creative people to just be creative. A medium originally open to many for self expression, a historical record, an archive, a voice, a personal message; Is now just a vehicle for advertising and perpetuating a genre of nonsense, so much so that there is now more white noise immortalised than messages. To re-cap ~ I Think that creativity and expressionism; like story telling conveys moods and messages from the present and past! Artists and musicians should have the opportunity to create and produce more information than they copy; thus creating a richer more colourful tapestry, whilst not devaluing the message of their predecessors! Purcy Flaherty.
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Jan 9, 2018
Jan 9, 2018 at 10:38 AM UTC
The media machine and its lack of authenticity
From Alan Lomax to the commercial art and now the money machine. At the turn of the century; when sound recording 1st became available to the masses, recording a song was an opportunity for folk to reach out; and tell the world something up front and personal. It meant that people were able to put themselves on “The record” A way of leaving a permanent audio statement, an epitaph, an audio sound bite immortalising ~ life, mood, emotion captured and bottled for all eternity. (A medium that conveyed messages from artists and storytellers of all kinds) A recording was also a great addition to "The family album" something more tangible, a window to a real person, with a real life, a message and a point of view; a legacy, a blast from the past. Few people expected sound prints to be re-designed, homogenised, formulated, copied, repackaged and that art and the message would be played over and over again by new artists in the form of "cover music" or that the style of the messages would become secularized, seperated into distinctive groups, or constrained by an elite clique or commercial genre. Labelling and streamlining art & music mostly benefits the commercial art & music industry; and no longer the artists and creators. I've no problem with good business, or the multi-billion pound industrys that have gained commercial success. However the process of mass homogenisation, product synthesis, marketing, streamlining and then packaging fashion, sound and synthetic culture to sell a product, leaves very little room for creative people to just be creative. A medium originally open to many for self expression, a historical record, an archive, a voice, a personal message; Is now just a vehicle for advertising and perpetuating a genre of nonsense, so much so that there is now more white noise immortalised than messages. To re-cap ~ I Think that creativity and expressionism; like story telling conveys moods and messages from the present and past! Artists and musicians should have the opportunity to create and produce more information than they copy; thus creating a richer more colourful tapestry, whilst not devaluing the message of their predecessors! Purcy Flaherty.
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14
Roses are red, Violets are blue, I copied your exam, And I failed too.
0
Nov 16, 2014
Nov 16, 2014 at 12:00 PM UTC
Exam Day
To the man who made me who I am Being with you was like learning without a textbook I just watched and copied and made it my own From gardening to maths You made me my own genius I didn't have to speak for you to know what was wrong You didn't judge me for the silly things I said Or how I never learnt at school You taught me to teach my self You were my Mr Miyagi With less riddles more jokes I learnt that laughter can flood rooms like tidal waves And we were leaves to float in it And now you're gone I wont mourn You would tell me to stop crying and cut my hair I will use laughter to put a smile on raggedy dolls And the stories to keep the dark days down Thank you for being the Godfather of giggles Making Sunday dinners not the day to fear Mondays Having gardening not be a chore but a way to think Rest well Granddad.
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May 13, 2015
May 13, 2015 at 8:05 PM UTC
Godfather Of Giggles
I get genuinely psychotic in the morning when the sun creeps out to see If I slept last night I would want to put a gun in my mouth (breakfast with coffee, black) just you and me. I get depressed long and hard, and often feel like the cream cheese that you scrape off your bagel. As the hour goes on everyone's two dimensional (photo-copy of photo-copied, of photo-copy) and you are scraping your bagel of the unwanted (but served anyway) cream cheese, "You," (probably the plastic knife in this analogy) "drive me..." Spat! in the trash as your upturned nose tells me how much our days together are measured in inches, not yards.
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Nov 7, 2012
Nov 7, 2012 at 3:36 PM UTC
How I love our mourning talks
skyscraper man on seattle time looms in the corner of swan lake and fry untouchable denim untouchable blueblack plaid jacket he's put together with clothespins he's put together with stipends he's crammed between taxi cab book ends skyscraper man on seattle time stoic as the jet engines roar by all his friends are magazines all his friends currentbrief he's got a little future he's got a few dimes he's got no father to call out the lies skyscraper man on seattle time watches smog children kick ***** on concrete vulnerable under trees writes his novels in purpleink he's married once before he's read crucifixion lore he's returned his money to the store skyscraper man on seattle time looking through spectacles of ***** and brine the rain falls hard the breeze sweet on the leaves he's emptying the soul of modern rock n' roll he's emptying the tray of ashed thought he's emptying the bank account cold skyscraper man on seattle time sheds crinkled skinmemory like the cicada a twin-sized deathbed deathbed in apt. 203 he's nothing. he's ever. he's happened. skyscraper man on seattle time carbon copied and eternal as saltwater as rust invisible and tapping at the runrain window he's nothing. he's ever. he's happened. skyscraper man on seattle time climbs himself to the cosmos lightheaded perfection ethereal visions of fullbloom love and legacy with measure he's nothing. he's ever. he's happened.
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Nov 20, 2012
Nov 20, 2012 at 11:04 AM UTC
nothingeverhappened
I have been treated like a game and people ask me why. I just want to sit on the sidelines. Do you know what it’s like to be looked at as a number, As flesh, as something that can fulfill someone’s temporary Needs when all you want is so to be wanted as a person? You start to believe it. You start to believe you can only Be beautiful in the context of one night, one picture. You start to believe you are as shallow as the compliments That are copied to you and several other people. You start to believe you have to fight for someone’s Attention when you should never have to do that. You start to believe that only certain clothes make you attractive because when you’re wearing them, they notice you. You start to believe your opinions don’t matter because they don’t want to hear them. You start to believe you will have to settle for an empty day or week of flirting just so you can feel something. You start to believe that there isn’t such a thing as love because no one seems to be looking for it. At least that’s what I started to believe. I have lost sleep over people who didn’t even consider me a loss. I have waited for texts and phone calls that were never coming. I have romanticized words and gestures that were far from romantic. I have fallen for people only to realize it was because they pushed me. I have broken my own heart on the behalf of other people. I have laid right next to people who might as well have been 100 miles away. I have believed words that were empty. I have let all of this happen in an attempt to find love, and I have found the opposite.    Maybe there are people who don’t need or want something that lasts, something that’s real, something that you want to share in the morning light and not hide in the night. Maybe there are people who don’t realize the games they play have losers. Maybe there are people need nothing more than a night or a weekend or repeated words. And I guess all of that is okay. But I am not like that, and that’s okay. I want someone that I can fall asleep next to with a smile on my face. I want someone who doesn’t make me wait and wonder. I want words that are spoken just for me. I want to fall for someone with the promise that they will catch me. I want someone who tries not to hurt me and cares if they do. I want someone who feels like they’re right next to me even when they are 100 miles away. I want to feel something that even scratches the surface of what love is. No matter where I go or what I do, you'll always be the one person I hope I can one day come home to.
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Nov 7, 2015
Nov 7, 2015 at 2:34 PM UTC
''I''
I have been treated like a game and people ask me why. I just want to sit on the sidelines. Do you know what it’s like to be looked at as a number, As flesh, as something that can fulfill someone’s temporary Needs when all you want is so to be wanted as a person? You start to believe it. You start to believe you can only Be beautiful in the context of one night, one picture. You start to believe you are as shallow as the compliments That are copied to you and several other people. You start to believe you have to fight for someone’s Attention when you should never have to do that. You start to believe that only certain clothes make you attractive because when you’re wearing them, they notice you. You start to believe your opinions don’t matter because they don’t want to hear them. You start to believe you will have to settle for an empty day or week of flirting just so you can feel something. You start to believe that there isn’t such a thing as love because no one seems to be looking for it. At least that’s what I started to believe. I have lost sleep over people who didn’t even consider me a loss. I have waited for texts and phone calls that were never coming. I have romanticized words and gestures that were far from romantic. I have fallen for people only to realize it was because they pushed me. I have broken my own heart on the behalf of other people. I have laid right next to people who might as well have been 100 miles away. I have believed words that were empty. I have let all of this happen in an attempt to find love, and I have found the opposite.    Maybe there are people who don’t need or want something that lasts, something that’s real, something that you want to share in the morning light and not hide in the night. Maybe there are people who don’t realize the games they play have losers. Maybe there are people need nothing more than a night or a weekend or repeated words. And I guess all of that is okay. But I am not like that, and that’s okay. I want someone that I can fall asleep next to with a smile on my face. I want someone who doesn’t make me wait and wonder. I want words that are spoken just for me. I want to fall for someone with the promise that they will catch me. I want someone who tries not to hurt me and cares if they do. I want someone who feels like they’re right next to me even when they are 100 miles away. I want to feel something that even scratches the surface of what love is. No matter where I go or what I do, you'll always be the one person I hope I can one day come home to.
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51
As the days go by my frustration grows. Frustration so neglected it has taken over my life. The want and need to write something so powerful, so visionary that everyone will be able to relate to it on all levels. Something so outstanding and unique it cant be copied, or even ignored. Not to please everyone just to relate to everyone and all things. Living and non living. Too much to ask for? Most likely. Can it be done. Im counting on it.
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Nov 13, 2012
Nov 13, 2012 at 11:09 AM UTC
Frustration.
the phone rang at 1:30 a.m. and it was a man from Denver: "Chinaski, you got a following in Denver..." "yeah?" "yeah, I got a magazine and I want some poems from you..." "FUCK YOU, CHINASKI!" I heard a voice in the background... "I see you have a friend," I said. "yeah," he answered, "now, I want six poems..." "CHINASKI ***** CHINASKI'S A ***** I heard the other voice. "you fellows been drinking?" I asked. "so what?" he answered. "you drink." "that's true..." "CHINASKI'S AN ******* then the editor of the magazine gave me the address and I copied it down on the back of an envelope. "send us some poems now..." "I'll see what I can do..." "CHINASKI WRITES **** "goodbye," I said. "goodbye," said the editor. I hung up. there are certainly any number of lonely people without much to do with their nights.
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A Following
I am a timeline of everything I've ever known. It's copied onto thirty-five pieces of blank paper and revealed to you in that mundane history course that everyone naps through. I can't deny that among the black waves, I've seen a sea star or two. But I seem to be devoutly colorblind to the silver linings that outline what I've gone through. You can't disguise your drowning, nor can you swim to shore. You just have to hope that no one knows what to look for.
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Dec 21, 2014
Dec 21, 2014 at 5:16 PM UTC
treading water.
I slept with her, my rapacious pen, took me in quiet vengeance in full on conjugation raken and taken, me, her overlording me now, her authorship, so long held in my maledom abeyance, a kept imprisonment, unleashing at last, a tongue lashing~leashing, de-spite my un-desirous craven lying supplications, excuses of innocence and accident, coincidence and conflation, ashes, ashes, denials incinerated, all fall down she wrote/stabbed upon my heartless chest, in the cheap crudités colors of a prisoner’s inking, “user of words mine, all mine” gathered up my innards of loose words, speculative notes & titles yet to be, born and kept hid in password protected silent back labor files, now hers, leaving me sputtering, unable to create, a homeless mute citizen, possession-less, helplessly hoping her hovering harlequin might relent, without any shelter, even a glimmering, a single aleph or bet she celebratory cackled and clawed, professed her reclamation ownership of all my poems predecessors, zola j’accusing that I, ripped from her forcibly, with no granted permission, her womanly touché of my scribing, warning of no more global warming for my unprivileged hands, daren’t try for pretenses of stolen legal guardianship, warning of a new, forced caining inscription, a tattooing of  “thief” upon my 5 knuckled right ****** “plagiarist” boldly inked in back & blue upon my left palm I, predator, she, victim, of my now self-professed, admitted confess, she, my single victim, of a decade long serializing criminal coverup her parting poem a threatening, herein issued in this very verse, damning all who would falsely credit themselves, to suffer shame and an unimaginable curse, this, the newborn eleventh of ten commandments parting, she kissing my lips, even my emptied apertures, with warning bitings, she knew all my my numerous noms de guerre, no dead scrolls caves to hid in, and to be discovered some future day, and if ever marked as copyrighted, ’twas no tunneling escape, the exposed truth to be over-stamped upon all, upon each, in every language, ”copied right from the tongue of a woman!” and she would be wright...
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May 23, 2019
May 23, 2019 at 10:10 AM UTC
slept with my rapacious pen (she, full on conjugation)
I slept with her, my rapacious pen, took me in quiet vengeance in full on conjugation raken and taken, me, her overlording me now, her authorship, so long held in my maledom abeyance, a kept imprisonment, unleashing at last, a tongue lashing~leashing, de-spite my un-desirous craven lying supplications, excuses of innocence and accident, coincidence and conflation, ashes, ashes, denials incinerated, all fall down she wrote/stabbed upon my heartless chest, in the cheap crudités colors of a prisoner’s inking, “user of words mine, all mine” gathered up my innards of loose words, speculative notes & titles yet to be, born and kept hid in password protected silent back labor files, now hers, leaving me sputtering, unable to create, a homeless mute citizen, possession-less, helplessly hoping her hovering harlequin might relent, without any shelter, even a glimmering, a single aleph or bet she celebratory cackled and clawed, professed her reclamation ownership of all my poems predecessors, zola j’accusing that I, ripped from her forcibly, with no granted permission, her womanly touché of my scribing, warning of no more global warming for my unprivileged hands, daren’t try for pretenses of stolen legal guardianship, warning of a new, forced caining inscription, a tattooing of  “thief” upon my 5 knuckled right ****** “plagiarist” boldly inked in back & blue upon my left palm I, predator, she, victim, of my now self-professed, admitted confess, she, my single victim, of a decade long serializing criminal coverup her parting poem a threatening, herein issued in this very verse, damning all who would falsely credit themselves, to suffer shame and an unimaginable curse, this, the newborn eleventh of ten commandments parting, she kissing my lips, even my emptied apertures, with warning bitings, she knew all my my numerous noms de guerre, no dead scrolls caves to hid in, and to be discovered some future day, and if ever marked as copyrighted, ’twas no tunneling escape, the exposed truth to be over-stamped upon all, upon each, in every language, ”copied right from the tongue of a woman!” and she would be wright...
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49
Screaming What's the use----?? Flower of the Graces "The Tenth Muse" "Everyday Use It" The earth revolves Around the sun Minerals Love it Drink it vitamin C Mass of energy A-B-C The gravity every day We cannot use it_ Became the play money Copied tainted not the Bee's honey here's The everyday economy One lick of hope the envelope not much company Everyday- Einsteins Big profit scope The brainstorm Reign All signs detour cabin Choo Choo train caboose You nailed it the moose One footloose The one-man show Two women know The odds to their advantage Someone is the traitor Mom is the Tailor The zigzag lines Crazy cat felines  "That's It"  punctuality, Use your capability "Technet Technology" take a walk favorite park Shiba Inu rollover The bad ones the Millionaires homes flip over the do or dare We cannot pay NYC token fare Words are our power For Sale quick sales Being sold Too hot whats cold Those emails trying to delete (More casualties Tombstone mummies Democracy leading us like dummies chewing Bear Valentine gummies) Like the "Elephant Stampede" New Orleans parade Every day please donate We never know about our fate too early or late Every day new Providence Demon computer virus Love comes with confidence Love yourself and Venus Apples and oranges minus Use it You have a voice!!! City clean up cockroaches Swap your fake Rolex Watchtower index Trump tower complex "Eiffel Tower Use It" to be kissed Every day we need to cleanse The "Godly Shower" be blessed Practical Everday Use It Magical write poetically Precisely the right piece puzzle You are the one World it's you to dazzle*
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Feb 2, 2019
Feb 2, 2019 at 9:54 AM UTC
Everyday Use IT
Screaming What's the use----?? Flower of the Graces "The Tenth Muse" "Everyday Use It" The earth revolves Around the sun Minerals Love it Drink it vitamin C Mass of energy A-B-C The gravity every day We cannot use it_ Became the play money Copied tainted not the Bee's honey here's The everyday economy One lick of hope the envelope not much company Everyday- Einsteins Big profit scope The brainstorm Reign All signs detour cabin Choo Choo train caboose You nailed it the moose One footloose The one-man show Two women know The odds to their advantage Someone is the traitor Mom is the Tailor The zigzag lines Crazy cat felines  "That's It"  punctuality, Use your capability "Technet Technology" take a walk favorite park Shiba Inu rollover The bad ones the Millionaires homes flip over the do or dare We cannot pay NYC token fare Words are our power For Sale quick sales Being sold Too hot whats cold Those emails trying to delete (More casualties Tombstone mummies Democracy leading us like dummies chewing Bear Valentine gummies) Like the "Elephant Stampede" New Orleans parade Every day please donate We never know about our fate too early or late Every day new Providence Demon computer virus Love comes with confidence Love yourself and Venus Apples and oranges minus Use it You have a voice!!! City clean up cockroaches Swap your fake Rolex Watchtower index Trump tower complex "Eiffel Tower Use It" to be kissed Every day we need to cleanse The "Godly Shower" be blessed Practical Everday Use It Magical write poetically Precisely the right piece puzzle You are the one World it's you to dazzle*
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79
am i just another girl photo-copied into your life, like the last one that still begs for you? please talk to me anyway please kiss me anyway please let me believe that you won't lie to me when you say you don't think of her anymore sometimes I hope you break my heart you'd never fade (but give us a while, I'm hoping you're more than a few pages in my life)
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Mar 22, 2014
Mar 22, 2014 at 2:19 AM UTC
you'll break my heart, i can feel it
Do you ever feel frustrated? I'm overcome with a million words                                                                 that I know I'll never say. Time stops around me, But my brain is  a l i v e. Thoughts gather,                                                and                                                jmup                                                                   aornud Until I can't make sense of what I'm feeling. E v e r y t h i n g  becomes me. I'm a deep, wide river                                 dried up in the sun. Somehow barren,                               yet                                       drowning. I'm walking along this road,                                                      not going anywhere. I'm living each day of the year, But it's routine, copied,                                             routine, copied,                                                                             routine, copied The same    t i c k,                                         t o c k,                          t i c k,                                       t o c k, Until I can't make sense,                                           Of where I'm going. I am nowhere. I'm spinning in every direction, Standing on top of the world.                                                                                                                                        L O S T But here All the same.
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Mar 12, 2016
Mar 12, 2016 at 2:32 PM UTC
(1) Is It Just Me?
Do you ever feel frustrated? I'm overcome with a million words                                                                 that I know I'll never say. Time stops around me, But my brain is  a l i v e. Thoughts gather,                                                and                                                jmup                                                                   aornud Until I can't make sense of what I'm feeling. E v e r y t h i n g  becomes me. I'm a deep, wide river                                 dried up in the sun. Somehow barren,                               yet                                       drowning. I'm walking along this road,                                                      not going anywhere. I'm living each day of the year, But it's routine, copied,                                             routine, copied,                                                                             routine, copied The same    t i c k,                                         t o c k,                          t i c k,                                       t o c k, Until I can't make sense,                                           Of where I'm going. I am nowhere. I'm spinning in every direction, Standing on top of the world.                                                                                                                                        L O S T But here All the same.
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34
519 ’Twas warm—at first—like Us— Until there crept upon A Chill—like frost upon a Glass— Till all the scene—be gone. The Forehead copied Stone— The Fingers grew too cold To ache—and like a Skater’s Brook— The busy eyes—congealed— It straightened—that was all— It crowded Cold to Cold— It multiplied indifference— As Pride were all it could— And even when with Cords— ’Twas lowered, like a Weight— It made no Signal, nor demurred, But dropped like Adamant.
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3.1k
Twas warm—at first—like Us
Caves of Altamira on the northern coast of Spain paleolithic drawings can be found the old stone age of cavemen in a cave high above the ground in Mount Vispieres high above the plain the name Altamira given for high views that prehistoric man could paint was such confusing news it was assumed they were not bright they had no artistic skills then came that discovery high up in those hills bison horse deer and boar painted plainly on the wall 18 thousand years ago painted oils copied in the museum hall even the Dan wrote a tune to praise these artists skills they were stars before Hollywood high on those Spanish hills Gomer Lepoet...
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May 9, 2013
May 9, 2013 at 1:21 PM UTC
Caves of Altamira
I always wanted to be that random style of writer Writing about things which have no connection In reality but they are connective only by the ingenuity Of his genuflection; the circumvention of his Circuitous routing, his plaintive perturbing petulance Which insists on stacking things of different orders Flying birds together of different species If I could write something of the ticking of clocks Not as though the ticking were of premeditated duration Embedded in metal tracks around perimeters Of prevaricated die-cast hours; but as though the ticking Were only a random fixture of a theoretical day In which random clocks ticking played a minor role During the still life of which a poet happened along And copied it all down dutifully, not caring if Ticking clocks were related to pitchers of Forsythia Or falling off of cliffs into the Aegean; The only task of the poet to capture it all And let the reader sort it out later In the random tracks of his circuitous brain: Whether the pitcher was full of sea Or the sea was stealing into the pitcher One blue, serendipitous drop at a time And where no clocks were keeping time.
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Mar 7, 2010
Mar 7, 2010 at 5:36 PM UTC
Painting of a Drop of Seawater
O WHAT has made that sudden noise? What on the threshold stands? It never crossed the sea because John Bull and the sea are friends; But this is not the old sea Nor this the old seashore. What gave that roar of mockery, That roar in the sea's roar? The ghost of Roger Casement Is beating on the door. John Bull has stood for Parliament, A dog must have his day, The country thinks no end of him, For he knows how to say, At a beanfeast or a banquet, That all must hang their trust Upon the British Empire, Upon the Church of Christ. The ghost of Roger Casement Is beating on the door. John Bull has gone to India And all must pay him heed, For histories are there to prove That none of another breed Has had a like inheritance, Or ****** such milk as he, And there's no luck about a house If it lack honesty. The ghost of Roger Casement Is beating on the door. I poked about a village church And found his family tomb And copied out what I could read In that religious gloom; Found many a famous man there; But fame and virtue rot. Draw round, beloved and bitter men, Draw round and raise a shout; The ghost of Roger Casement Is beating on the door.
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2.6k
The Ghost Of Roger Casement
I looked into the mirror To see A terrifying monster Staring back at me I took a step back And the monster did the same Perfect timing Perfect time frame I made a confused face And the monster copied me A reflection of my actions Oh what a sight it was to see To test this beast I smiled The monster smiled back And I realized I'm afraid of it And it's afraid of me Neither of us would hurt the other you see And I learned That the so called beast Wasn't looking for a feast Only someone who could love it So I became friends With the monster in the mirror And I discovered What love really is
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Apr 18, 2015
Apr 18, 2015 at 4:29 PM UTC
Monster In The Mirror
It was well said of him, “The clothes bespoke the man”. Yes, he stumbled in the mud. Yes, his reputation soon was stuck within the stinking sludge and, granted, it was all of his own making. But surely you remember how he'd been so impressive. Once I said, “You're spotless as a manikin” and shared a hearty laugh with him. Be we also had some serious conversations, discussing what he meant by “loveliness”. That was all before the storm that hit us with the force of filth from continents and generations. It reminded us, again: not every love is innocent; the finest gentlemen are capable of (some say inclined to) monstrous crimes. After, no one spoke of him. He tried to hide behind his usual accoutrements: the matching tie and handkerchief; silk shirts; his feathered hat and crimson mackintosh; the smell of musk. But he was tainted, spotted once the news was out. As the headlines had it: “Gilded Lily Withers – Roots Exposed”; “If clothes have made this man, they're now irreparably torn.” “Patent leather ******* now well scuffed.” God knows what his publishers had to put upon his jacket to sell off the remainders. Yet even from the darkness of his prison, he seemed to think he could rely upon the persuasiveness of beautiful adornments - “Always envied; often copied; never matched” (his line) - trusting it would make him seem attractive once again, even clean. He died the 23rd of May, 2007. They say that night he'd tied his shirt a special way, with a feminine flamboyance, but it failed to impress as he intended. In some dark hall (we don't know how) they caught him, stripped him to the bare essentials, leaving him undressed and cut, an ochre ugliness. What were his final thoughts, when all that he had left was soiled and bleeding? What we he really needing? Still, I'm glad I knew him, Still call him friend, and miss him.
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Oct 8, 2012
Oct 8, 2012 at 5:26 PM UTC
Soiled
It was well said of him, “The clothes bespoke the man”. Yes, he stumbled in the mud. Yes, his reputation soon was stuck within the stinking sludge and, granted, it was all of his own making. But surely you remember how he'd been so impressive. Once I said, “You're spotless as a manikin” and shared a hearty laugh with him. Be we also had some serious conversations, discussing what he meant by “loveliness”. That was all before the storm that hit us with the force of filth from continents and generations. It reminded us, again: not every love is innocent; the finest gentlemen are capable of (some say inclined to) monstrous crimes. After, no one spoke of him. He tried to hide behind his usual accoutrements: the matching tie and handkerchief; silk shirts; his feathered hat and crimson mackintosh; the smell of musk. But he was tainted, spotted once the news was out. As the headlines had it: “Gilded Lily Withers – Roots Exposed”; “If clothes have made this man, they're now irreparably torn.” “Patent leather ******* now well scuffed.” God knows what his publishers had to put upon his jacket to sell off the remainders. Yet even from the darkness of his prison, he seemed to think he could rely upon the persuasiveness of beautiful adornments - “Always envied; often copied; never matched” (his line) - trusting it would make him seem attractive once again, even clean. He died the 23rd of May, 2007. They say that night he'd tied his shirt a special way, with a feminine flamboyance, but it failed to impress as he intended. In some dark hall (we don't know how) they caught him, stripped him to the bare essentials, leaving him undressed and cut, an ochre ugliness. What were his final thoughts, when all that he had left was soiled and bleeding? What we he really needing? Still, I'm glad I knew him, Still call him friend, and miss him.
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46
When beechen buds begin to swell, And woods the blue-bird's warble know, The yellow violet's modest bell Peeps from the last year's leaves below. Ere russet fields their green resume, Sweet flower, I love, in forest bare, To meet thee, when thy faint perfume Alone is in the ****** air. Of all her train, the hands of Spring First plant thee in the watery mould, And I have seen thee blossoming Beside the snow-bank's edges cold. Thy parent sun, who bade thee view Pale skies, and chilling moisture sip, Has bathed thee in his own bright hue, And streaked with jet thy glowing lip. Yet slight thy form, and low thy seat, And earthward bent thy gentle eye, Unapt the passing view to meet, When loftier flowers are flaunting nigh. Oft, in the sunless April day, Thy early smile has stayed my walk; But midst the gorgeous blooms of May, I passed thee on thy humble stalk. So they, who climb to wealth, forget The friends in darker fortunes tried. I copied them--but I regret That I should ape the ways of pride. And when again the genial hour Awakes the painted tribes of light, I'll not o'erlook the modest flower That made the woods of April bright.
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The Yellow Violet
Oh I wonder if I mean pounding Or maybe it's pondering Hell what do I know, spelling isn't my strong point I've always been envious of all those brainy lot To see me you'll know why I can never be an alfa male So its better I hide behind a keyboard and troll I can't help feeling inadequate when I read the good poems All I do is steal words and ideas then twist them around I pownd and pownd and pownd till I drive them away I am a  Pownder that pownd and get a pound for every pownding I am a little person with a little mind and something else bothers me so much it leaves me with a Napoleonic complex But I hope other men don't know about it but anytime I see a hot dog, wish I could just disappear and die cause I know that's one pownding That leaves me unpownded. Excuse me I got a job to do There's a poet here, I've got to drive him away from here He's Benson or something like that and I just feel so small Can never write like him and being a stinking bully and a Hater I feel so inadequate and it's stressing me out, how good he is He leaves me feeling so carri gibbanoius and useless pownding about My job and aim is to oppose anything positive and good I was born to destroy cause I can't do better guess that's why I can't even spell an ordinary word like POUNDING.... That benson fellow will soon leave and coward inadequate me will rule with my mediocre drivel again or go copy from someone and pretend its my work like I did at Junior High and college. My good friend below wrote this to me: Karijinbba › In His Grace.............. I hear the pownding waves of God in every day or written silences. I hear Gods loving waves in everyday's life's harships and struggles; even when God in his silence blessess, me in imagined lovers arms, and in dreams, when my breath away.....is taken. He copied a poem written by me and improved on it and then posted it back to me to show me how to improve on my work. So I must learn from him and be a better writer And stop feeling bad and envious about other people's poems And writing privately to them to intimidate them and making them quitting this site.
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Sep 10, 2018
Sep 10, 2018 at 6:25 PM UTC
POWNDING those I envy.....
Oh I wonder if I mean pounding Or maybe it's pondering Hell what do I know, spelling isn't my strong point I've always been envious of all those brainy lot To see me you'll know why I can never be an alfa male So its better I hide behind a keyboard and troll I can't help feeling inadequate when I read the good poems All I do is steal words and ideas then twist them around I pownd and pownd and pownd till I drive them away I am a  Pownder that pownd and get a pound for every pownding I am a little person with a little mind and something else bothers me so much it leaves me with a Napoleonic complex But I hope other men don't know about it but anytime I see a hot dog, wish I could just disappear and die cause I know that's one pownding That leaves me unpownded. Excuse me I got a job to do There's a poet here, I've got to drive him away from here He's Benson or something like that and I just feel so small Can never write like him and being a stinking bully and a Hater I feel so inadequate and it's stressing me out, how good he is He leaves me feeling so carri gibbanoius and useless pownding about My job and aim is to oppose anything positive and good I was born to destroy cause I can't do better guess that's why I can't even spell an ordinary word like POUNDING.... That benson fellow will soon leave and coward inadequate me will rule with my mediocre drivel again or go copy from someone and pretend its my work like I did at Junior High and college. My good friend below wrote this to me: Karijinbba › In His Grace.............. I hear the pownding waves of God in every day or written silences. I hear Gods loving waves in everyday's life's harships and struggles; even when God in his silence blessess, me in imagined lovers arms, and in dreams, when my breath away.....is taken. He copied a poem written by me and improved on it and then posted it back to me to show me how to improve on my work. So I must learn from him and be a better writer And stop feeling bad and envious about other people's poems And writing privately to them to intimidate them and making them quitting this site.
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34
Fish heads for dessert Confetti-saltwater taffy for lunch Canned laughter for snack And peptide bonds for a well balanced breakfast "But whats for dinner?" says The Windbag "But whats for dinner?!" screeches The Mimick Hmm, well we have a choice between the sociocultural criteria and a toxic relationship "Can't we have popsicles with answer-less riddles on the sticks?" asked the Windbag "Can't we have popsicles with answer-less riddles on the sticks?!" copied The Mimick "Leeme alone!" cried the Windbag "Leeme alone!!" yelled The Mimick In the end the decided to eat the pockmarks of bird feeding cohorts They picked their teeth with proven points Then watched The Windbag play the glockenspiel Followed by The Mimick on the xylophone As I put the leftover scraps in Tupperware, making sure to burp it before I put it away -Tommy Johnson
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Sep 28, 2014
Sep 28, 2014 at 5:14 PM UTC
A Puerile Repast
Death-song War garbles a tune, spits up blood. Bodies, empty pits of eyes and entrails break like a birch branch. White waste flits down like snow. An archetype, copied, laboured forever melts into a meticulous concoction. The apocalypse sets in with a daze, drawing drunken curtains over the survivor soul. The crow is a warrior, with his black machine gun eyes. Easy. God coughs, the countryside, elegiac to start hacks with a demon. The smoke pulls, harsh, and takes the tab. It's all a waste of white ash.
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Mar 25, 2013
Mar 25, 2013 at 11:08 AM UTC
Death song
I'm troubled by a broken tune, that can't keep time and loops too soon. Like Christmas in the heart of June, each summer's heat a curdled moon.  It's not that I keep glancing back,  or wander down well-trodden tracks, I've raged against a wall of facts, interrogating every crack.  Yet still I feel its tender bass and scrawl each lyric on my face. I've copied out each line to trace  the meaning of this groundhog chase.  No matter which new route I choose, this labyrinth seems short of clues. There are no shields or string to use, just an ageing bard that strums the blues. And now begins another dance, the waltz of sighs and askew glance. It's orchestra tuned up by chance, with instruments of circumstance. And so returns the song's refrain. Its endless echo back again, to score my steps while I remain,  a different man, who's still the same.
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Jan 15, 2014
Jan 15, 2014 at 4:50 AM UTC
Moondance
A few renditions are nothing at all But if I copied their strife Would you notice my fall
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Feb 24, 2019
Feb 24, 2019 at 6:10 PM UTC
Imitating Essence