"copies" poems
im a self describing a self
a face on a liquid surface
a plasticity
a brain
a three pound infinity
always remodeling itself
and making new copies
a copy
of
a copy
of
a copy
a massive accumulation of copies
each a slight distortion
from it's original eminence
a history of minute alterations
all subtle deceptions
my so-called reality
a memory
of
a memory
of
a memory
a repetition pouring the self out
self corrupting the self
until it is somebody else
a fibbing shifty double-dealing soft machine
trying to remain intact
it's signature
a disjunctured awareness
my cells talk **** about each other
i'm more microbes than human
every synaptic light of the divine casting a shadowed past
a devil to the true origin
a mangled remembering
my pillar of reality
spirit from matter
not the other way around
i no longer recognize myself
am i human
or perhaps a robot
an alien
a walk in
that left the original inhabitant
disembodied
to wander perplexed in a netherworld
lost and crying
or, just a bad copy
of
a copy
of
a copy
of
a co
py
of
a
a
co
Aug 11, 2018
Aug 11, 2018 at 2:46 PM UTC
If I wrote a book,
you will be my central character.
Million copies later,
I may write through your impeccable knowledge.
If I wrote a poem,
you will be in every word.
A couple of views later,
I may speak through your poetic silence.
If I acted in a play,
you will be my audience.
A few applauses later,
I may act out a monologue of glorious affection.
Say hi,
Say hello,
Say no more,
When words stop,
I will understand,
That we are where we need to be.
If I met you in real life,
you will be my soul mate.
A few decades later,
I may seek a second life with you.
So, meet me now! :)
Nov 8, 2019
Nov 8, 2019 at 10:52 AM UTC
Snow Mountain
I walk alone these darkened hills,
can see my breath and getting chills.
My party left me long ago,
they didn't like my altered ego.
Snow blowing in my face,
they said they needed space.
Feet and hands becoming numb,
never have I felt so **** dumb.
Found a cave and there they were,
me freezing, them wearing fur.
Never has a fire felt so good,
not sure where they got the wood.
Then I noticed a very distinct odor,
they were burning our guide, Schroeder.
On the cave wall, I see four more dead,
eating the brains from their very head.
I yelled, What the **** are you doing,
couldn't believe what I was viewing.
They said, Shut up or you're next,
I got on my knees and paid my last respects.
Spinning the body just like a pig roast,
I'd be happy with just a bite of toast.
As I watched them eat the bodies,
if I had a camera, I'd make copies.
Days went by and I got hungry,
the human body tastes so chunky.
Finally something that didn't taste like chicken,
my body was getting stronger and beginning to thicken.
We never did get discovered,
ended up in hell, getting eaten by an evil buzzard.
Jan 9, 2014
Jan 9, 2014 at 1:17 AM UTC
I got different copies
for different stars
for the only Moon in the sky.
Nov 13, 2017
Nov 13, 2017 at 5:24 PM UTC
Based on a painting, "Nuclear Puppies", by Julie Nagel, 2001
You’re a mutant, you know—
got funny dog babies sprouting
out of your head like they were
ears. Those copies of your face
look up at a sky of ashy gray,
perked and tense. Are you listening
to yourself? What choir
of dog-eared deformities
sings to you? Maybe they should have
howled louder before we dropped The Bomb.
Maybe the yellow caterwaul of their
melting butter bodies would have stayed our hand.
I doubt it though.
This is what we do. We burn things.
We tinker, adding and subtracting until
what’s left is blasphemy—until what’s left is
you. A yellow almost-dog, a sagging
body with melted flesh where there should
be fur. Sad monster; beg your alms
from the atomic Frankensteins who made you.
Your skyward eyes are bright, still happy
anywhere but here. But your abominable
body lies here staring into gray space with
Alpo still sticky on your nose, wet, brown snow.
May 8, 2014
May 8, 2014 at 12:11 AM UTC
The Amazons fractured her skull
while he was busy
introducing himself, with a handshake
and a teapot:
'Good Morning!'
A tuneless whistle,
an anthem from nowhere
falls on deaf ears,
eyes faded to pastel
like a warning poster
after twenty copies
and acid rain.
Not an episode from real life
just an ivory circus,
the sport of savagery
Tired.
At an end.
It wouldn't happen in Blighty.
A dark heartbeat,
a steady drum
The pen is mightier than the spear,
blotted shapes in the rushes
Inert, unheard
No time for farewells
Nov 22, 2012
Nov 22, 2012 at 6:02 PM UTC
Society is a clay mold
Taking every newborn into its fold
Kissing each brow with insecurity, shame
Releasing it's victims, carbon-copies, all the same
Society is a line graph's slope
Plotting point ever upwards in hope
Shunning those who are different, who fight
Loving only those who are "normal", all outliers denied
Society is a disease, nipping at the soul
Filing and wearing down on the young and old
Breaking every innocent into a pessimistic, jaded mess
Rending, tearing, stomping, destroying whatever is left
Jul 25, 2013
Jul 25, 2013 at 12:07 AM UTC
These words they cannot be rewritten to bright beat the minds of pop culture fiends
Against the steel wall of the infinite Hollywood signs, dripping blood,
Until the creative mind is bled dry.
Then working the street corners to pay the corporate copies far too much for a strip tease by a fat transvestite, night after night;
But we never realize there is no end,
No end to the ***** **** being shoved down our throats —
Though we think there will be a ***** at the end;
Except there's just ***** hair stuck in our teeth,
And along the way we've forgotten what it is like to have an empty mouth,
Without **** coming out of our mouth and *******
Such that now it feels right.
Look up at the man in a suite holding the camera,
Like the attention you get from the broken world.
One man ass-fucks another then gets ass-fucked himself;
Then bumped further in by a third,
Till the world is united by **** and *******
Dec 6, 2013
Dec 6, 2013 at 4:24 PM UTC
Here at Kinkos
We have a saying, “copies of copies”
You are trained to always ask for a source file
The digital file of the picture the camera took
The negatives of digital cameras
You see because when you print a picture from that file it’s the best it will ever be
Every detail captured in that moment stored in bits and bytes ready
If you make a copy of that picture it will never be as good
And if you make a copy of that copy it’ll be even worse
And if you were to make a copy of the hundredth copy of the ninety ninth copy you might not even recognize the image
Whether it’s a speck of dust on the scanner
Or a crease in the print out
Sun stains from prolonged exposure to the elements
Or simply from time
Copies never look as good as the original
Even if you try and protect them
And even if you were to magically protect that photo from any external forces
The next copy still won’t be the same quality
A scanner can never pick up every detail from the print on the glass
Copies of copies are never the same
Sometimes the printer is calibrated different
Sometimes it’s a heavy magenta day
Sometimes it’s a saturated cyan day
Maybe you touched her face when you handed it over
And now every copy has a feint of your thumb print above her eyebrow
You had him taped to your rearview mirror for a whole year
And now every copy you make has a glare where the tape used to be
It blocks out his heart shaped hands he was making you from the bus window
Folded in your wallet and now all the copies have white spaces where her face was
I mean where the creases were
I’ve heard that when you remember something you are simply remembering the last time you remembered it
Memories of memories
So that after you’ve remembered her a thousand times you’ve forgotten all the details you forgot to remember the time before
So that the more you remember something, the faster you’ll forget
Maybe that’s why we forget exes faster than family
Maybe that’s why we forget the great parts of high school before the painful ones
I remember that you had red hair, that your eyes were kind, that your hands fit my cheek
I remember that you were bad at pool and that it felt like love, and if it wasn’t you’re the only one that knew it
And now I’m wondering after all these years what I’m forgetting to remember
What I forgot to remember last time
What did I forget this time
What won’t I remember next time
Memories of memories
Like copies of copies
Fading over time
If I never wanted to forget the best moments of my life
Should I never remember them
Is the fastest way to forget the bad ones
To remember them often
Dec 17, 2015
Dec 17, 2015 at 11:46 PM UTC
Money melting in a spoon,
let's shoot it into our veins.
Flashing Kardashian lights,
streaming into our brains.
Donald Trump! He's our man!
Mark Muslims is the plan!
All-you-can-eat-
Pile. It. The. **** High.
When you walk or
When you talk,
let the words squeak out
like they're between
Your thighs.
Thighs. American thighs,
Dreaming next to our Calvins.
Our slacktivism, our regurgitated ideas
spitballing out of our McDonald's mouths
into our peers' ears, distilled by years
And years of "almost-knowledge"
that we quasi-ascertained,
if we knew what that meant --
but we've been left behind!
No child left the **** behind!
We were left behind and there's no
possible way we slacked off, that we're dumb,
that we aren't the movie stars destined for
Lamborghini cars, five-star bars, designer bodies
for designer you and designer me:
the most special of the unique, the
Pearls that have been made in the
darkest parts of the sea, the darkest parts of
origin. Origin. ****** ****
American **** virginal ideals sliding around
the muck of a marketable **** fuckfest,
******* of the American mind, the
congratulations of the American ego,
the proud mother and father tears associated with
buying and lying, "trying" and frying our food,
our ideas, our friends, our neo-impressionistic
children in Jordans, skinny jeans, on tumblr:
the unknowing cousin of Fox News, surprised
by its own wit and wisdom: they're ******* twins.
Carbon copies, unknowing, unwilling, un-un-un.
The romanticism of mental illness.
The close-up of reality-tv emotion.
The manipulation taught to servers
from managers.
The manipulation taught to customers
from society.
All we care about is **** image, and ***
Self-preservation: **** Donald Trump
and **** you.
Apr 20, 2016
Apr 20, 2016 at 12:39 AM UTC
the mirror
divides where
the partition begins
between broken and free
i touch the glass
it imitates me
copies my every move
i must be confused
i touch the glass again
it still imitates me
showing the contour lines
of my every ****** expression
but then its gone
i must be very confused
i look hard into the glass
i see my face
i look harder
but this time its different
i first see my flaws
my imperfect perfections
what makes me whole
why should i look like a brainless doll?
i look harder once more
into the glass
and i see something
far more different
i see the girl
with the piercing
dark grey eyes
who has everything in
her life just sorted out
but then i see
the girl
with dark black
holes in her sockets
instead of eyes
this girl has
many marks on her body
signifying how many times
she has been hurting
i see a marking
on her forehead
it says LOST
it then begins to
cut a wound
into her scull
i try to forget
all these disturbing images
i have seen in this mirror
forgive and forget
hasn't it always been about forgiving and forgetting?
i'm not sure i want to forget anymore.
i want to remember.
i turn back
and look at the girl
with the deep dark eyes
i then see her mouth move
who are you?
(b.d.s.)
Apr 15, 2014
Apr 15, 2014 at 7:46 PM UTC
A mirror is never just your reflection,
My mother once said
The mind has this devilish way of
Twisting
Things around
Making then a lot more or a lot less
That what stands before me
Suddenly
My face isn't my face anymore
Instead
I stare blankly at a blueprint
Society itself has hand-sketched
For me.
Post-it's on where things had gone wrong
Scribbles on things I needed less of
Highlighters on places I needed
Brighter brights
Thinner thins
And I just stood there
Watching
As these self-proclaimed architects
Unraveled
The plans they had for a body that wasn't theirs.
Accepting
The new rooms they had drawn next to the ones that already existed,
The ones that were always there
The ones I made a home out of,
The mole on my ear
That never seemed out of place
Until,
The impact of a critical post it told me so.
The place where my thighs met
I've always ignored,
Assuming I was normal
But the scribbles that
Begged
For less of me,
Proved otherwise.
The marks of stretched skin
I considered battle scars over a few calories at a buffet table
Nullified
By society's architects
Disapproved
As if it were up to them
Invalid
Like human came in the form of overruns
But I stare at this blueprint that suggests to change me from
Floor to floor
Head to toe
And wonder
If the one who owns the lot in which I am
Wonder
If He wanted to change me anymore than them
If He liked the original rooms
More than the ones carved to fit the trends
If He wanted me to ignore the architects
And the drafts of copies
And copies
And copies
Of different versions of me
Didn't He want me to accept the mirror for who I am?
Oct 5, 2013
Oct 5, 2013 at 1:15 PM UTC
You are one of a kind.
One without equal.
Very unique and very remarkable.
There's no copies.
You're an original piece.
Highly respected.
Just one remarkable woman.
Securely protected.
Held to high degree.
Constantly deep within many man's dreams.
Because you're a remarkable woman.
Jun 2, 2015
Jun 2, 2015 at 11:50 PM UTC
I lived my half dictionary life before I could
comprehend compulsory compromises.
Collectors arise, disguises and devices beeping,
chastising my blindness.
Gather geography from Afghanistan and Myanmar
graciously growing gold gilded gift horses,
gleefully gloating about floating far away.
My hoof beats above concrete match my heart’s defeat
across borders and mountains
embroidering cardboard cut-outs
calling deserts, decorating front covers.
Exhaling handcrafted letters for my missing half,
half demanding highest caliber commanders and half commanding completion.
Jade jays joyfully lay arrays of bouquets
fragile flowers decay faraway
in jawbones and jail cells.
Begging farewells in a hotel’s lobby
began my hobby,
early morning coffee and carbon copies
concurringly cocky around his dead body.
Gang ciphers for cartels are
Christmas bells hissing at collars,
half dollars embellishing bar crawlers
godfathers hollering at car haulers.
Atrocities across cities attack,
attachable atrophies audibly ambush arthritic anthologies.
Anomalies begin apologies between apostrophes,
advancing autonomy arousing ancient animosities.
All eluding Antarctica,
giant frozen crests, multi-coloured ice
hidden in my illustrations
anxious for my distant half.
Friday cassettes and cigarettes
deliberately making bets following “M”.
Breaking bindings and finding “beta” in alphabet,
may feasibly end in debt.
Feb 17, 2013
Feb 17, 2013 at 1:51 PM UTC
I am bound to her by blood,
this madwoman of a city
with eyes that see
a comatose heart, with no feeling.
One, two, three hundred,
a thousand —
we are all carbon copies
of her silicone ******* collagen cheeks
teeth bleached whiter
than the pearls we adorn ourselves with.
I was a child
when I left this madwoman,
mother of my younger years.
I left her drinking cuba libres,
stirring ice with her finger,
her nails crimson red.
I said, “Goodbye, I am leaving you.”
She turned her face back to the barrio
and said, “Adios, Muchacha.”
Years later, I look back on my youth.
I remember her as the mother I lost
the sister I never had
the woman I was afraid to become.
If only she knew
how easy she was to leave
how difficult she was to forget.
Jul 19, 2016
Jul 19, 2016 at 9:09 AM UTC
My house will be filled with the things that I love;
Goldfish, dandelions,
Green sofas, Greek mythology,
Books of psychology.
Books. Lots of books with lots of words.
Multiple copies of the really good books too.
All stacked to the ceiling
on bookshelves adequate to
The height of the house
All equivalent to
My love of the place I’ll call home.
A sock monkey here or there,
pillows and throw blankets.
Pictures of Lake Louise, and a souvenir
If I’m ever lucky enough to go there.
I will print poetry, frame it, put it on my walls.
My walls will be yellow gray and blue,
I will have a boombox with speakers that go BOOM
(but at night it will sing me to sleep
with many sweet lullabies).
And it’s music will fade to the sound of voices
Voices of people I love and admire
Who can walk through the door,
of the place I aspire
To make my own,
To share and not waste
With the precious presence of others
And their ideas
And hopes and dreams
So if you aren't a thing I love,
You have to leave.
I’ll probably have a lot of lamps too.
Nov 23, 2012
Nov 23, 2012 at 4:24 PM UTC
Bedroom’s painted fisherman’s blue
There’s a cut out of Hayden Panettiere naked in a pink bikini with a hula-hoop on the back of the door
Copies of British Vogue desperately hidden underneath the bed accompanying an empty bottle of Glen’s
Manchester United duvet cover and matching pillows to boot
The bin’s filled with pre-packed home-made lunches from the last six months
Wardrobes a collection of ill fitting blue jeans bought for me by grandmother and football jerseys for teams that I’ve never even heard of, yet let alone see play a single game
Uniform ironed and sitting out ready for school on Monday at 8am sharp
***** clothes cover mostly all the floor smelling of Lynx’s finest even though there’s an empty laundry basket just waiting in the corner to be used
Inside one of the woolen blazer’s (that is way too big for me) pockets a single unopened ****** and an AES 256-bit encrypted USB stick
An old PlayStation 2, with a single controller; games including FIFA years through 2004 to now, Tom Clancy’s Splinter Cell, and GTA.
Blood red shoplifted lipstick that’s now melted hidden in the little secret compartment at the back, meant for network expansion.
Artemis Fowl, Alex Rider, and Harry Potter all adorn the bookcase
Physics, Maths, and IT textbooks remain firmly closed on the desk in addition to a smashed phone from me and Daddy’s last “physical altercation”
Lady Gaga’s “I Like it Rough” is playing in the background on repeat…
Aug 23, 2020
Aug 23, 2020 at 2:43 PM UTC
Cursed with consciousness
Controlled by the cosmic
**** of knowledge
Dripping wet
Drowned out
Overstimulated senses
Turned on
by some higher power
Feeling up
from chakra to chakra
Angels moan in harmony
humming divine madness
through the electric bodies
A touch of fire
forces art from fingertips
forging
copies
of copies
of copies
Created in the image
of constant grace
Burning the original
without a trace
Dec 5, 2013
Dec 5, 2013 at 8:44 PM UTC
It is a terrible thing this flesh that wears us
Being makes us
Slaves to atomic thought
Particles possessing some consciousness
Dreams stream from the undermind
To undermine
All we thought we were
From the sub-atomic to the atomic
On into the protein patterns of our thoughts
Neurotransmitters flood and fulminate
Filling our minds with strange things
Receptor receiving impressions
Leave strangers believing instincts
Animals evolved to understand but ignore
The gifts we have acquired from millions years and more
A talent for analyzing then adjusting ourselves
And after the fact constructing a model
That makes continuity out of all of the chaos
Now most take it for granted
Become carbon copies cut in granite
They give in to the impulses
And waste said potential on fulfilling the illusion
The desire to be grander is subsumed
By their fear of non-existence
Which is what they become
Not after death
But as cogs in the machine
In a factory of robotic human beings
Nov 22, 2014
Nov 22, 2014 at 4:49 PM UTC
From poem #27 of THHT3
...We all know what’s going on,
The Young & The Restless could be a list that’s forever long,
of confessions composed as a set list but not sung,
we all know They are attracted to the Innocent & Young,
because in the twisted logic, of their perverted minds’ tongue,
they think by being with children, they’ll stay Forever Young,
it’s disgusting, & I’m so ashamed of the city I’m from,
that I’m not even having kids, nope not even one,
because I already feel bad enough for those already born,
wish I could warn every daughter & ever son,
& don’t get me wrong I’m not trying to single out Hollywood,
the problems are much more widespread just ask The Vatican,
or the over 800 Boy Scouts that say they were abused,
by the hands of those that were chose to lead as captains,
yeah man not much is mentioned but lots has sure happened,
lots of names go undisclosed in the drawers of the Pedo-Files,
Roman Polanski, R. Kelly, Brian Singer, Jeffery Epstein,
& those are just the ones that have been exposed,
we all know most crimes go untold,
& no please don’t take this the wrong way,
I’m not trying to say every celeb likes kids underage,
in fact most of those that act are kind, protect & fight back,
nor am I saying I always mean attraction in a ****** way,
I’m just saying I feel confused & it seems like everyone’s gay,
or at least strange & most don’t know how to behave,
& I want to care but these days who cares anyways,
I guess I don’t anymore, I just want to get away,
just want to escape, so I’m running away,
I’m leaving Neverland, never to return again,
I’m leaving Neverland, for real & forever man...
from The Hollywood Hills Trilogy vol. 3
I'm giving away 100 copies of my new book THHT3 for FREE right now on Instagram to the first 100 people that COMMENT and TAG a friend on my latest post. So go to my Instagram right now, @aaronlalux and tag someone in the comments so I can send you a digital copy of The Hollywood Hills Trilogy Vol 3 RIGHT NOW. No joke, for real, let's go! My instagram is @aaronlalux First 100 comments with tags ONLY. If you DON'T have Instagram just go directly to the Amazon page and leave a review of the book. If you review the book I'll also send you a copy for free, so there's TWO ways to get a free copy of my new book! Here's the Amazon Link: https://www.amazon.com/dp/B07XJRBSKD
∆ LaLux ∆
Sep 11, 2019
Sep 11, 2019 at 1:50 AM UTC