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False Poets Jan 2015
like yours
if you'll reciprocate

follow you
if you'll follow me

repost mine
repost yours

pump up those
double discount
quantitative adulations

making everything here,
cheapened and discounted

“Oh, what a tangled web we weave...
when first we practice to deceive.”

on your merits own
the only way to stand
Ira Aug 2018
Surprise *****, what it be,
It’s ******* me!

That guy Alucard,
From Hellsing!

I see you’re some ******* vampire,
Hoping to finally get some demonic prower!

Also you killed a lot of people,
But ****’em,
You’re ******* lust for power is very offensive to me and my singular steeple.

You’re not a vampire,
Just some **** I call “Unpeople.”

Can’t regenerate your body,
Can’t sire demon Shouty's,
Bet you can’t even out run a ******* ******* Autti.

You’re just discount me!

So say hello to a gun of mine,
It’s quite a fantasy for people who want to remove others spine!

I call it the Casull 009,
And it has a friend called the Jackal,
Using both end up in a good ol’ time!

So ******* AND DIE!!
Ahhh... Alucard is always fun to write about. Love that crazy sociopathic *******
But when we try to Seek what has been Sought
Of so many Globes those White Hats confound
And Paradox bears its own Hard-Deal, fought
That Tripe Sanity so many will count
A Useless Journey, I say; You Agree
Since Fifteen Thousand Miles we are apart
No Threatened Worries; And then you are Free
To Tally my Charges and Tear me Apart
As what your Kinsman calls the Chicken-Hawk,
A Heresy Grave I will sure Attack
As my Film's intent is never to Gawk
But revive the Toddler's Fresh Friendship back.
If so, then the Informant says he lies
That, by Discount, our Age by Time soon dies.
#tomdaleytv #tomdaley1994
Nat Lipstadt Jan 2017
Yom Kippur this year was celebrated on Oct. 12th 2016.
Leonard Cohen passed away on November 7, 2016.


faint knocking at the door to the Tower of Song

the ministering angels, hearing a rhythmic, lyrical rapping,
sigh, thinking the atonement day,
the holiday/holy days, are supposedly over,
the human balancing act, the rush to judgement period,
all tallies totaled, the busy sale season for souls,
at last completed, each fate inscribed & sealed,
in the book of life^

but, always one,
the itinerant straggler, the last reluctant sinner, a judgment resister,
flaunting an expired coupon, trumpeting demands for a recount,
waving it, claiming it, the bearer, entitled to a mercy discount and
an extra 30 days

"who shall we say is calling?"

the Angels are stunned to hear,
a familiar raspy, growling, almost indescribable,
yet, stammeringly, beautiful voice enchanting,
equally asking and answering,  how both,
with a strident humility, "a man in search of answers"

this voice, instantaneous recognizable,
the asking superfluous,
all beating wings now, all in vast excitement,
this psalmist, long awaited, one of His best,
a chosen one, a courtly singer in the Temple of his people,
blessed with the curse of seeing and believing,
the comprehension of beauty of the human superior interior,
never being quiet or quite satisfied,
in capturing, its multifarious variations,
in every language spoken

this is the man who took ten years
to compose just
one song,
one poem,
one word,
whose faith was strong,
but still needed proofs,
whose every breath of oxygen inhalation,
brought more questions,
every exhalation, only releasing partial answers,
and yet, still, yes, yes! finding hidden verses inside

a simple, everlasting

the hubbub subsides, the man sings~speaks:
how came I here,
was I one, who by fire?
that fire afeared,  that my finality was spirit consumer?

one voice, answers,
in one voice, the swaying back-up singers answer,
not by fire, not by water, not by stoning or
even drowning
in tea that came from all the way from China

when sing we Angels, the Judgement Day poem,
we alone, on high and above,
we, keepers of the books and records of everyone,
are permitted this to query:

Who by Sufficiency?

you, the sidekick of the creator,
special commissioned by him, anointed to live a life of research,
record in word and song the mysteries of musical gene strings,
that intertwine the skin cells of man and woman,
man and his fellow us-human,
your soul commandeered, ordered, delve deeper,
into the consolable chasm tween divine and mortals,
all those who are poorly constructed
in his image

he, who has earned his place, his best rest,
his works adjudged sufficient,
he, who best answered
this judging, this calling out, callig in

Who by Sufficiency?

now forward on, write only of answers,
wade in the troubled waters no more,
no more passports, or borders to cross,
no more measuring the days,
the last road trip finale
finished & feted,
fate meted

no more changing thy name, changeling priest,^^
sing songs of solution, salvation,
for the questioning hours of confusion,
the urgency of revolution,
no longer need a hallelujah resolution

                                                    ­| | |
Who By Fire                             Who By Fire, Who By Water:^
(lyrics by Leonard Cohen)     (A Yom Kippur Hebrew Prayer)

who by fire                             How many shall die and      

who by water,                                how many shall born,
Who in the sunshine,                 Who shall live      
who in the night time,                   who shall die,                      
Who by high                                Who at the measure of days,
who by common trial,                    and who before,
Who in your merry                            
                                                          Who by fire
month of May,                                 and who by water
Who by very                                 Who by sword,
slow decay,                                       and who by wild beasts,
And who shall I                      Who by hunger,
say is calling?                              and who by thirst,

And who in her,                           Who by earthquake
lonely slip,                                         and who by plague
who by barbiturate,                      Who by strangling,
Who in these                                    and who by stoning
realms of love,                               Who shall have rest,

who by,                                             and who shall go wandering,
something blunt,                            Who will be tranquil,
And who by avalanche,                  and who shall be harassed,
who by powder,                            Who shall be at ease,
Who for his greed,                           and who shall be afflicted,
who for his hunger,                      Who shall become rich,
And who shall I,                             and who shall become poor,
say is calling?                                Who will be raised high,
                                                         ­     and who will be brought low
And who by brave assent,                  
who by accident,
Who in solitude,
who in this mirror,
Who by,
his lady's command,
who by his own hand,
Who in mortal chains,
who in power,
And who shall I,
say is calling?

^From the liturgy of Rosh Hasanah, the Jewish New Year and Yom Kippur, the  Day of Atonement, there is this truly stunning prayer ( in the Jewish liturgy. The Book of Life contents the fate of every sinner. From the first day of the new year, until ten days later, on Yom Kippur, depending on whether the sinner repents or not, his fate is sealed.
Yom Kippur this year was celebrated on Oct. 12th 2016.

Leonard Cohen passed away on November 7, 2016.

^^"A Kohens ancestors were priests in the Temple of Jerusalem. A single such priest was known as a Kohen, and the hereditary caste descending from these priests is collectively known as the Kohanim.[2] As multiple languages were acquired through the Jewish diaspora, the surname acquired many variations." Today, with no temple, the limited role of the Kohanim is to bless the Jewish people on the high holy days with a  special prayer with abeloved tune,  instantly evocative (see The Kohanim are still revered, honored, and always called up first to the Sabbath reading of the weekly portion of the Old Testament

A thank you to Bex for proofing and encouragement.
Part I of a trilogy
For a  more detailed analysis of the roots of the song, "Who By Fire," and its origins, see:

He worked on the song Hallelujah, arguably his most famous composition, for ten years.
Waynepatrick May 2018
I said I'd never lose hope,
At  least that's what I thought until now.
I'm sullen with discomfort that all this I allow,

And I try to stem this tide without success,
A strange blend of heightened consciousness and dramatic
I can never plumb it's depth fully,
The steady drumrolls of stress I discount,hoping it goes away .
But I'm sure of one thing,
My hope is just but a lonely sentinel,
Keeping watch over the vast stretch of sterile land that it once
Thus I've found myself here,
I wouldn't wish for anyone to be there.
Dan Beyer Sep 2018
I'll be who you want me to be,
if you give me what I desire.
I'll wear the mask.
I'll do the dance.
Powder my rotting face.
This corpse will be your puppet.
I want a new life.
This one was on discount...
Tired of being a second hand man.
How I feel going into job interviews...
Hasan Maruf Apr 2017
The last kiss from you
Lasted like a huddle in
The snow blitz
Rocking my anatomy
In the frosty glitz

The last words from you
That barged in my eardrum
You were in a hurry
To smell a new leaf
Draped in a diamond dew

The last gifts from you
Was an instrument
Which still I use
To recognize people
Or to refuse!

The last time
You said I love you
I remember I was laughing
Hysterically as if I was watching
Jared Leto’s jaded mimicry of Joker in YouTube

Intriguingly, when the last time I saw you ****
It felt like pretty Ivanka’s embarrassment
Noticing her dad is a lewd

The last time I was chatting
With you on Facebook
I was wondering why
I shouldn't hack your account?
To check your inbox

Yea, it was filled with the message of *******
F- Bombs, **** shaming and tagging you as harlot
All they were asking was your service of escort
Either in full discount or in hefty cash drops!

The last time I wrote
A letter of love to you
I discovered my Keyboard
Began to blurt out
No more, No more, No more…

The last time I had a chit-chat
With you in the Burger King or Pizza Hut
I listened to your hissing clack-clack
That someone else has become your puppy cat…

The last time I became sick
When I was with you
I heard you threw a party
Where you were whispering
To your besties, how
I become your double whammy!

The last time I was
With you in the bed
I felt like I was indentured
To **** a dummy toy
Sans spirit and flesh!

Loving you was like
Santa Claus gifted me
With a Pandora’s Box
As soon as I opened it
You decided to release
Our *** tape of your having ******
In pornhub’s forum of interracial!

The last time I heard of you
Is that you were giving an interview
To The Cosmopolitan’s board of review

Facing the barrage of inquisitions
You calmly joked, the series
Of latest uproar about you
In the social media or Internet
Is because certain people always
Love to rave about Women’s body
Shoving in and out of their pigeonhole
With their one night stand queen trophy
To flavor your form in their fantasmic mouth

You also smirked in a raspy voice
Defiantly declaring “we (women)
Have been locked indoors
With no air, no food, no water”
My last boyfriend is also no exception
He certainly thinks I came this far
Through ******* and deception
Slightly anti feminist but a poem representing contemporaneity in our life in a balanced manner of looking into male female relationship.
Jack L Martin Aug 2018

Thank you for stopping
How may I help you?

I would like
two items
from the value menu
to feed my children

Nothing for me
I will go hungry
A few dollars
is all we have

The kids are in the back
of our rusty car
our home on wheels
In need of repair

Rent was late
the electric was turned off
their father left us
we were evicted

no support from
our family
our "friends"
or the government

we are alone

By the way
may I please use
my employee discount?
Based on a true story
J Feb 6
Sniff me disapprovingly.
Shower me with your irrational disdain.

Stare cruelly into my eyes
And challenge me -
Then wordlessly walk away.

Discount my time.
Carol me at midnight -
Your selfish song sapping  me
Of sacred slumber.

Do your worst.

And yet..
When you carefully
Curl up
Purring prettily for pets...

I can’t resist.
Lawrence Hall Apr 20
All Souls’ and All Saints’ were made to disappear
Easter is bad enough with rabbit eggs
And Christmas was appropriated by The People
As a tribute to (belch) Glorious Excess

But no one has taken Good Friday away
With gifts and treats and two-for-one specials
Down at Chez Bubba’s Discount Liquor and Smokes,
And Colonial Auto Parts stays open - why not?

But while the world spins along on its way
A few eccentrics remember Him this day
I'm late with this. I hope the Holy Saturday Hamster (who hides omelettes for good little girls and boys) isn't miffed.
BJ Donovan Nov 2018
Homeless Veteran

  Brick piled on brick in my life 'til
  I had no choice. I joined. I trained.
  I killed. I saw my brothers killed.
  I found a piece of heaven in ******.
  A respite from the hell I lived.
  I served 3 tours and landed home.
  I hugged my parents, but not real
  like. I felt nothing. I needed drugs
  and found a dealer who welcomed me
  home with a souldier's discount.
  I was numb and saw the horror just
  beyond my ****** vision. I lost
  hope long ago and will live a slight
  life until I find the courage to die.
Eleanor Sinclair Dec 2018
Do I dare say that I wish I was invisible
That people didn’t look at me and on the streets I could walk peacefully
No shady eyes or stares
Perhaps it’s my paranoia and perhaps nobody cares
The thing that gets me the most about life
Is the insurmountable amount of hype
I get it’s a gift and believe me, I’m grateful
But this distasteful existence I lead is starting to get to my head
Like the smell of cigarettes in my mothers car
No matter how far the drive I would hold my breath and hope to survive
I kind of feel like life is this way
Because despite my actions day to day I still wonder why I’m here and what is it that I walk on the street and fear
Is it the people and their perceptions
Or is it me and how I view myself
Fearful of astral projecting it onto everybody else
If they thought of me the way I think of me then holy hell what a different world this would be
I can’t understand why I float about here in space
But in case you were wondering I’m here for love and it doesn’t matter if you call me a disgrace
I think the man I’m in love with is from heaven above
And yes it’s unconventional, after all we live in to separate worlds
But he sees me for me and not my childish comments as a girl
For a second can you think what it would be like to not exist?
That’s a crisis all in itself and scientists are always ****** when you ask them what comes next in life for the dead
They can’t wrap their head around not being here
So they discount the new studies that come out every year
I don’t know what to believe and I really don’t care
Just get me away from this place so I can leave and be fine
I want to disappear like an erased pencil line
e fields Mar 21
They are all the Stonehenge slabs waiting
to topple over, granite foundation
of the cosmic cardhouse.
Expressionless: blank stares
Like the ceiling of the sky with
wall-to-wall cloudless gray
Warmed over with a vague upset -
The sun still tries its damnedest
Underneath the folds somewhere

Some of the grim flock re-picturing
bedspreads they snuck under with
lovers passed on long-since
(Stop, dash, as good as dead
Dash, stop, resume again)
They felt trapped,
they motioned Your Honor for bust-out.
New apartments, new partners,
new town centers eventually
seemed all the same and they
were stricken apathetic:
dead end

New installations of municipal plotting
erected in a Cold War mindframe,
Brutalism put to shame.
Rising above an alma mater
Those who stayed pass by,
Itinerants late-stage en-route
To spiritual tent cities to remain.
Rising above the rest of town
Squinting producing the pitched
Concrete walls, the barbed wire vein
Circulating among borders
Teeth of ******* razorblades.

Another life they’d never graduate
Now all that’s left is ponzi schemes,
billiard hellscapes accented with
deep-discount tobacco flames,
greasy spoons caddy-cornering
shuttered gas stations with their
mummified attendants left
moaning with desire from
beneath the boards:
Broken glass glints on felled horizons
of the ever-present post-industrial plains
What a waste slog on what a waste
What a waste slog on what a waste
Your Honor we request another stay
Your Honor we request another stay
I was born
And I was flattened
It's my culture I think

Girls should be quiet and pretty
God forbid they should think

I should be lady-like
And despite all this

I should take all the abuse
Of these men who just drink

So I'm a doormat
I grow up
People walking all over me

I keep my mouth sealed shut
And don't tell them what you see

But I will scream today
I will stop them now

I've been punished enough
You're being mean right now

And I am learning to unlearn
Everything that I've seen

But your white skin means
That you don't understand me

You weren't born fighting things
that can't be unseen

You are workplace
argument free

Im not discounting your struggles
I'm sure your life has been hard

I'm just saying
that certain phrases
You say
Hit me hard

Like a slap across the face
You discount my existence

You think your opinion is the only thing
That should be considered

I won't apologise
Because I EXIST.

I'm not a doormat today
But I can learn to forgive

If you apologise
And stop making me feel like this

There's no victims
In this victimless

There is no poorer or worse off
Don't even think

I can't compare myself to you
at the kitchen sink

It's not quantifiable
I don't want to hear about your life

Because we will never have seen life
Through the same eyes

In life there's suffering
Otherwise what's the point

Just get over yourself
Let's both apologise.
Kristaps Sep 2018
Broccoli in a white lamp shade
cast shadowy face tattoos
to mark the unjoustly.
The festival in background
is throbbing in directly contrasting sound, to the art nouveau it's sleeping with.

Each vegan burger stand vomits exquisite neon. However
the collage itself
is apologetically brown.
Theatre masks and DJs, VR and a Just Dance floor set,
a sprint before midnight, a sprint after discount ethanol;
so I gaze and perhaps ponder for a friend.

And yet when counting the heads,
I find I needn’t more than my own to hands
for the few middle-aged supermarket clerks
The bills you get from an ATM located in a Headshop called the Refinery in the Valley are not going to be the same that you cash out of your local Wells Fargo.
They've been used before.
You can almost imagine the staff feeding the all-cash green you give them back into the machine (once a day when things are slow).
These are just facts.
When you say you don't want a 3:1 you want a 3:0... They show you a 3:1 anyways.

You know, the marketing system has really changed.
I get a discount for bringing in two newcomers.
My coworker keeps saying we are buying 'drugs'.
I tell her 'it's not "drugs";
even before the legislation passed, all you needed to say is that you had cancer and they would drive away ashamed for asking'.

I tell the staff I want something that will get me through the day,
nothing too crazy and I don't want to fall asleep.
I end up with a 3:1 CBD hybrid again.
I pay my 101.00 for the hybrid and a bit of gummy 50/50 Sativa and indica hybrid 'for the road'.
She giggles.
I remind her we have a whole department dedicated to this **** now,
she should act more professional as she selects her joints.
My other coworker gets a salve because his joints have their own problems.

Just another day with the work-family.

Minds break apart at midnight,
piece together in dreamless sleep.

Robert Lowell poaches pen-and-ink
drawings for Life Studies.
Sylvia Plath dons Ariel’s red dress,
but loses Ariadne’s thread.  

Lowell raises For the Union Dead,
mythic monument to his family’s best.
Pigeons decorate it with their ***** mess.
Plath pins a ******* to her chest —  
shockingly pink —
and stands beside the kitchen sink,

Stirring a *** of poet’s gruel.
Madness and death the golden rule
no artistry can break. Not even the careless
reader can take leave of these senses

Once they’re rendered on the page.
Confession doesn’t age well,
as Lowell knows oh so well,

unless it suggests more substantial fare,
say, a flannel bathrobe for him to wear
in a Boston psychiatric ward — if he dares.

There’s something wrong with his head.
Crown him Caligula; his lineage has fled.

“What does that have to do with me, Daddy?” Plath artfully whines.
“Fill the tulip jars with red water, not wine,” he replies.
“The bridegroom cometh. Turn off the oven.”
But it is too late. She has met her fate before it predeceases her.

Like a teacher’s pet, she bets her life on a recitation
of Daddy, a term of endearment,
a term of interment in a stark, loveless miscarriage,
a dark, masculine disparagement of her freedom. O Daddy dearest.

Lowell shoots up to salute the younger poet, guessing
she has given the year’s best reading by a girl in red dresses.

At this stage, what does it matter that his “mind’s not right”?
What can he do but give up his right to pray, as every insight
       slips away?

But no Our Father for Plath. For her, the Kingdom comes too late.
Colossal poetry cannot save; the poet raves and raves and raves
       into that dark night.
Turn off the oven, turn out the lights. Daddy, too, is not right.


Blake fired his Proverbs of Hell
in the dull, damning kilns
of England’s Industrial Age.

A poet’s no sage, but Lowell earned
his wings when he doctored Blake’s phrase:
“I myself am hell.”

A stone angel directs his descent:

Fortune favors the bold.

Never discount the power of chance.

Affliction of the senses is a gift.

Invisible seeks invisible.

Darkness obscures our limits.

We carry darkness within us.

Anarchy breeds spirit.

Artistry breeds no merit.

Appropriate beauty, at all costs,
whether, man, beast or angel


Poetry births an artifact of words; we unearth them, and they adhere.
We bury them, and they fall flat — hollow sounds, futile splats,
       prehistoric grunts ground into the ground.

Bathed in lithium and alcohol, here bobs your calling, Robert:
Everything matters; nothing coheres.
Build a shell of a soul on this maxim, a notebook of negation.  
       Grind your axes.

Sanctuaries may crumble, gates may close. Press on. Press on.
Corkscrew your identity into the iambic line; rouse the reader to find
the misleading promise of Eternity in the sonnet, the sonnet,
       the endless sonnet.

For minds lost in madness, tree limbs dangle like kite tails in the wind. No one flies here anymore. Gather reddened kindling while ye may.

What exiles you from the ancients — Homer, Virgil and Horace —
springs from vision, not technique: You lack the requisite blindness.

Absence absents the soul. Here, now, forever, shimmers only presence,
only the present, only Presence: divine, human, animal, marmoreal.
       Skunks, sails, cars and pails. Sing on, O son of New England!

Day by day, failing all, fill your void with fiery
hieroglyphs of verse. Then call your duty done.


Behold: You are not the favorite, after all, but Camus’ stranger,
trapped in the blinding sun, stumbling on the burning sand.

Only what dies in you endures.

“Is getting well ever an art,
or art a way to get well?”

The skunks scurry, scavenge and survive far too long for you to answer.

You lie down beside orange fishnets, facing the shore.
At midnight, you will dream of dreamless sleep.
To follow the development of this poem, it's important to know the works and lives of the confessional poets Robert Lowell and Sylvia Plath. If you are unfamiliar with them, I suggest you first read "Skunk Hour" by Lowell and then "Daddy" by Plath. Short biographies would help, too.
SJG May 30
Where's the common law?
Where's the common law?
Where's the common law which says
I can't park my car on urchins?

I said, where's the common law?
I said, where's the common law?
I said, where's the common law which says
I can't park my car on urchins?

Where's my synagogue?
Where's my synagogue?
Where's my Basilica of Santa Maria?
I was born in a town with a corn exchange and nothing.

Where's my synagogue?
Where's my synagogue?
Where's my Louvre to use?
I was born in a town with a corn exchange and nothing.

Oh, what can books do?
Oh, what can books do?
Aside from explaining to you,
What is and isn't true,
Books do nothing.

Where's my God? Why's he in the loft?
Where's my God? Why's he in the loft?
Well, get him down from the loft.
Me and my associates have questions.

Oh, we have questions, Lord.

Why am I not a **** star?
Why is my dog senile?
Why alligators and crocodiles?
It's all a tautology, Lord.
Did you know this?

Oh, did you know this?

I avoid diseases like the plague.
I avoid diseases like the plague.
I avoid diseases every day,
But like three buses at once, they tend to catch you.

Oh, they always catch you, Lord.

Why did my prince change into a frog?
Why did my prince change into a frog?
Why does my prince lay on the settee
Like a fat dumb log?

Oh, he's dead? I didn't notice.

Where's a Hare Krishna when you need one?
Where's a Hare Krishna when you need one?
Why are there so many discount TVs?
And where has my love gone?

Where's my love gone?
Where has my love gone?
Why has my love gone to Newley-on-Trent with my ex-friend John?

John, you *******.
You're a *******, John.
Oh, John.
Lawrence Hall Oct 2018
De-Colonize This Space

Drum circle protests genderplop demands
Indigenous discount store camouflage
We demand persistent stereotypes
Solidarity initiative project

Take back the people’s cultural statues
Ethnographic curatorial practices
Red spray paint fire imperialism
Repatriate the Iphone Starbuck’s cups

And don’t forget the “Hey! Hey! **! **!’
Because we’re, like, artists and stuff, you know?

2. De-Colonize This Space Too

Guns and cholesterol made America great
Fat white boys in discount store camouflage
Duct-tape the Bible and the border wall
We won our freedom with our Kalashnikovs

Fake news back-stabber not a war hero
Lock her up get ‘em outta here yuge deal
You RINO losers can grab my MAGA

You snowflakes are sissies, you millennials too
But ouch! my heel spurs hurt, oh boo-hoo-hoo!
Your ‘umble scrivener’s site is:
It’s not at all reactionary, tho’ it might be drivel.

— The End —