"counterfeiting" poems
I am the abyss.
That great gaping whole in the sky.
In the Earth. When you peer into me,
the dark threatens to swallow you whole.
A cold, calculating, Nietzschean monster.
I am the perfect predator, walking amongst you.
Aggressive mimicry, I dance, and I laugh, and I cry.
Counterfeiting emotions so well, that sometimes
I even convince myself I am but a sheep among the sheep.
Nov 15, 2012
Nov 15, 2012 at 4:08 PM UTC
#
There are thrones that are not thrones;
but instead,
are ones built on the counterfeiting of substance,
where hands grasp at weightless scepters,
mistaking empty air for authority.
There are crowns that are not crowns,
forged not in fire, but in absence;
polished not in wisdom, but in hunger;
worn by those who mistake imitation for inheritance.
This is the kingdom of voided substance—
a palace where the Wellspring does not flow,
where no roots drink deeply,
where no walls hum with the resonance of truth.
And yet, they gather.
They gather in circles of shadow--
parched tongues speaking of rivers they have never touched,
fingertips tracing the echoes of power
but never the power itself.
They weave words like veils over their thirst,
drawing others into the orbit of their illusion,
stealing what little water remains
in the ones who have not yet fully entered the Source.
They feed—not from the Well,
but from the moisture of the lost,
sustained by the remnants of those
who still carry the trace of what is real.
And they call it life.
And they call it wisdom.
And they call it love.
But the crown they wear is hollow.
The weight is an illusion.
The throne beneath them—an image, projected;
a structure that exists only so long
as no one leans too hard upon it.
They fear those who see.
They mock those who refuse to kneel.
They rage against the ones
who have touched the living water
and now speak of its taste..
of its cooling replenishment.
Because they know.
Somewhere, beneath the gilded artifice,
beneath the hollow performance,
beneath the empty sound of their own voices,
they know.
They were never given entry.
In fear, they ran from the cost of true substance.
They hold no access, only illusion.
And so, they take,
and take,
and take—
Until the weight of their own emptiness
crushes them beneath the throne
they have built from rust.
But rust does not hold..
it deteriorates.
And when the kingdom crumbles,
when the crown slips from their grasp,
when the illusion cracks beneath the weight
of what is,
what will remain of them then?
For the hollow cannot stand
against the gravity of the Real.
#
Mar 13, 2025
Mar 13, 2025 at 9:35 PM UTC
Counterfeit CDs
Drugs, clothes, handbags
One ma paints counterfeit Van Gohs
Fake drugs are the worst
Because fake medicines don't help people
It's big business
Especially in China
Golf companies hire a Chinese manager
The manager copies the business model
Starts making counterfeit clubs
Begins his own counterfeit industry
Modern Fakes trade
Cialis, ****** Levitra
The packaging professionally done
The investigator seems quite concerned
That it is almost impossible to tell these products from the orignals
190,000 Chinese people have died because of fake medicines
The Chinese government is powerless to stop the faking syndicates
Capitalism unrestrained
By decency, morality, or law
According to the investigator
Feb 7, 2015
Feb 7, 2015 at 1:16 AM UTC
*when i was in St. Petersburg i must have picked up a Rasputin virus, a Siberian gnat bite... **** you not; the only misery i have is that my counterfeiting assailants were, at best, middle class, and not aristocratic.*
no, honestly, after reading the style magazine
with all its smooch bravado of resentment and care...
i hash-tagged myself: yep it's trending...
i've just about finished a 70cl bottle of whiskey *******
around with Dylan Thomas and St. George... draco ex cymru.
but still it hits me, encoding sounds was never so hard...
those clouds of sunset look so much better
and multi-coloured when they do with sunglasses... i don't
know what's in these sunglasses but i'm picking out pinks
and purples... which i can't make out without
the sunglasses... an L.S.D. trip or what?
i wrote this faster than you'll read it, given the skim- aspect
of literature, immediate journalistic recycling...
they still love Shakespeare, don't know why,
don't ask me why, it's an affair of the english
education system... well... ploy...
conspiracies are welcome posthumously
and adequate intellectual material....
was it Marlowe or John Dee the Elizabethan era
double O 7 alchemist to blame? never seen oxygen
paired up like that! must be a crucifix miracle!
desecrate christ subsequently desecrate all
remnants of royal authority, **** into the crown
of the governor of Liechtenstein: what?
i need the loo! the idea of you teaching me manners
is like you teaching me Hadrian's is synonymous
with qin shi Huang's rattle; rattle meaning
the broken spines of the bricklayers who levelled
the ground around them with cement...
and still the Mongol horde came!
Scots looked at Hadrian's accomplishment and laughed
drunk with a lullaby. the Mongols stretched their
tongues saying: if Europe and Iraq to be ours,
we have to climb that, no arrow will crumble it
even if shot at the cracks! i love walls, esp. if they're
like Malbork castle of red brick... once owned by
Teutonic knights... i end up playing abstract chess with
their brickwork, a strange arithmetic...
girlfriend? what for? have you heard of the aces movement?
May 15, 2016
May 15, 2016 at 3:41 PM UTC
**Hide the matches
Hide the gasoline
Hide all of the caches
Of guns and magazines
Bring about the fiction
Hide away the facts
Of where it is we're going
Of where it is we're at
Hiding in the neighborhoods
Hiding in the hills
Keeping up with the Jone's
Counterfeiting bills
Terror in the cities
Terror in the towns
Down to the nitty gritty
Living underground
Sealing off the borders
Feeling safe at home
Not sure if your aware of this
But home is where we're grown**
Nov 24, 2014
Nov 24, 2014 at 2:50 PM UTC
Fallacious masks embodied with despondency and pessimism;
Darkened notions of subconciousness painted with an agglomeration of colours and shapes.
We are too naïve.
A plinth of porcelain holds an emptiness full of blasphemy,
As if it were an ornament of the prodigal son.
Our insides turn from white to crimson,
And the outside world maintains its tarnished brass colour,
Counterfeiting gold.
We are all covered in the inordinate dirt of our sins.
Wash your body well and let the blue lead you home.
Jan 21, 2017
Jan 21, 2017 at 6:37 PM UTC
"Here's a challenge for you,"
He told me one afternoon.
We were finished studying
And boredom wasn't an option.
"Fire away," I answered,
Mind and pen already craving the task.
"Describe the colors black
And grey without saying the words."
I had an answer ready.
"A perfect villain."
He smirked. "You're a poet.
I know you can better."
I had another answer.
"Let me tell you a story.
But, be warned,
It isn't a happy one."
He rocked his chair
Back on two legs and
Folded his ink stained
Hands behind his head, waiting.
"He'd never killed anyone before.
The occasional art forgery, sure.
Dabbling in counterfeiting, guilty.
But he had never hurt anyone.
Now, as he looked at the man lying
Lifeless at his feet,
A part of his heart joined
The victim in the grave.
His life was over.
Twenty years later.
He didn't really keep track of time.
What was the point?
After all, we were all destined for the grave.
Might as well not count down the days to it.
He and death were old friends,
Well acquainted from many meetings.
He was Charon,
He ferried the dead.
Neither good nor evil,
He just was.
One day,
He wouldn't be."
My friend gave me one
Of his favored smirks.
"See? I told you
That you cold do better."
Feb 21, 2016
Feb 21, 2016 at 11:18 AM UTC
Demonstrate your aptitude
In counterfeiting crimes of passion
Lest we waver to the winds
Of mending trouble when in fashion
Little movements
Rising action
Burst the bubble
Sharp reaction
Tends to tilt the clever scales
Towards dull accord or thinning ration
Best we bide the time and hide
Slow lament, magenta tide
Dance a spell
Your mind’s at ease
Skippers faring distant seas
Appearing softly in the breeze
Clouds all whipped and whirled together
Quickly scripting subtle pleas
Damaged strings all strum in threes
Defeat
Defend
Repeat the senseless killing spree
Best we bide the time and hide
Slow lament, magenta tide
Testament in vestments
Checkered patterns flow and flee
The body to its heart of hearts
The home of disconnected dreams
Rip the buttons from the seams
Fronds of dripping tendrils scream
Within the mountain’s pitch
Beyond a pond of wild magic teems
Whispering in reverence
Rolling in reproach’s steam
Fill yourself in patchwork fables
Piece together narratives
Now represent the winning team
Best we bide the time and hide
Slow lament, magenta cried
Aug 10, 2024
Aug 10, 2024 at 12:37 PM UTC