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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.”

standalone
on your merits own
the only way to stand
upright
JS CARIE Nov 2018
At his face it got harder to stare
But in his truth he would glower
Into this looking glass
That looks right back
At the years of age
That washed his face
Over that disgraced fortnight
and it’s dragging scrape

What was his counted,
that ruffling came natural
In a sentiment of the innate
and the inner mechanics of his climate
Co-Walkers, he thought viewed him a cynics ornate
From then on, became perpetually discounted

Though his face got harder to look at
by its contents,
Optics inflamed
and wrinkles elongated
to his whiskers growing skyward
a striking true spruce in essence to become
Nevertheless a bedraggled authentic
Just before a flooding pooled his lids
or the dawning of his tears
Until this vanish to enhance
These characters took on relevance
Apropos of what he saw looking back
The girl, his love, the spirit inside his drive
She could see all directions, like hands on a clock,
Every hour the dialed sun would tower
Giving her all his angles,
She could anticipate all of this,
including all opposites
She could see all that
To her,
His face was not hard to stare
Still chiseled but shaved,
like polished marble glare
Her love was true for years
Opposing claims would be intercepted when asked if during she dabbled in deception
Then immediately accepted their quiz, taking near comfort as she’s done for years  placing her lips closer to his eyes,
she kissed his cheek and licked his tears
SJG Mar 2019
I do the folk art.
I do the folk art on Wednesdays.
I do the "roughly made".
I do the "sundry implements".
I do what I do for daily use.
I do what I do for less acclaim.
I am still like you.
I do what I do.

I am built for your common setting.
I am inexpensive.
I am produced in bulk at discounted rates.
I am still like you, still like you.

Do-do-do-do.

But you are not you.
You are "vis-a-vie" fine art craft.
You are "rococo" in "motion".
You are "shoaled" by the "ocean".
You are not you, not you, not you.
duck Jun 2019
xvi
the window at the store shows me with you
reflected back next to one another
but you're on the other side
maybe as a radio behind the glass
but even discounted i'm a little short
know that even that your voice
can be crackly and break
it can also be soft and smooth
and i'd bet all the money i have
that you purr like an old cat.
i know exactly where i'd put you
right next to the green teapot
where tunes would always play
until i stop you right after supper
and your hands run through
your black fire in concentration
until i can't help but marvel
at the expression your face displays
when i talk to you, the one
where the corners of your mouth
curl up like the spark of me
removing the plug from
the wall socket
by my bed.
[I wrote this when I was 16, nearly 17]
Jim Sep 2019
We were born never to die
Never to meet our mortal demise
Torn from the glint of a reflective disguise
Surprises to come from discounted thoughts
Taken from those who give all they got
Who know that it's not about verbiage spoken
About acts come and gone
It's all in the person

Respect to the one
The individual in silence
Retching for glory of incompetence
Completed with the figure of prejudice
Happenstance says he said she said
Developmental flaws in mystic palms read
To entice the spender and reassure all glory
That everyone's trial fit to their story
That every man's journey leads to success
But reality is only a few pass the test
They get to basque in triumph while all of the rest
Never reach their subjective goals
They have no glory to hang their beliefs and morals
No stability to prove that the choices given were executed correctly
Left to question their short lived history
Then swiftly shifting any blame to unavoidable chance
And continue on as before in blissful ignorance
J R Cramer Nov 2018
I remember sitting
On the tiny porch
Of my dad’s home
Offended by the sun
That continued to sink and set
Without pausing to acknowledge
My dad’s passing.
Offended by the cars
That continued on the highway;
Callous indifference, it seemed to me.
Even the birds at their feeder
Greedily fed and failed to look up
To mark the loss of their benefactor.

I found myself
Silently demanding condolences
In every encounter.
Not for the sympathy,
Or worse, pity,
But for the acknowledgement
That he was here
And now he’s gone,
And something,
However infinitesimally small
In the scopeless universe,
Has changed.

I have two cousins.
The first called my dad
Every month.
His regular call came
During the last days.
The decline surprised him.
He took a deep breath
And asked for speakerphone
Near my dad.
He told my dad
How much my dad had
Influenced his life;
How as a child,
he anticipated a visit from my dad
Like kids stay up to see Santa;
How my dad made my cousin feel
Like he was the most important kid
In the wide world;

How my dad gave my cousin
The otherwise unavailable
Sustenance of heart
Young boys need;
How my cousin had strived to be
Like my dad
And how he hoped
His own children see in him
What he saw in my dad.

That was acknowledgement,
Profound acknowledgement.

My second cousin called
Shortly after the first.
He had heard
That my dad was dying.
He did not ask
To speak with my dad.
He wanted to tell me
To call him
As soon as memorial
Arrangements were made
So that he could purchase
Discounted airline tickets,
To include a subsequent visit
To his son who lives
In the southern part of the state.

My dad was still living.

That, too, acknowledged something,
And served to impel my pending decision.
So I opted for
A less conventional
Memorial ritual
That required neither
Plane tickets nor attendance
Nor a frozen smile reception.

I would not suffer
Insincere acknowledgement.

I am sure I scandalized
Many acquaintances of my dad
Who enjoyed the social conventions of
The anticipated gathering
If only to point out the deficiencies
Of the event and the host.

I am sure I offended
And frustrated
And embittered
One of my cousins.

The other cousin thought
My dad would have preferred
Sincerity
Over a pantomime.

I would suffer
The disfavor and distaste
Of the discontented
With no difficulty.
ostra Dec 2018
i'd buy the ticket
if i didn't know where it led
the fuel of desire
adventure, lust, pain
heartbreak lasts until

the
last
train
left

weekends have never been so dismal. gray, gray skies, gray lights, my eyes blink and blink again but the haze that grips on tight will not let go! i think it drips down my cheeks sometimes but only when the lights are off. my silence is a skill, not a talent- i used to be louder when i'd

shhh.

i am socks in the shower

headphones broken in one ear


i am an ebay sweetheart

please buy me!!!!!
discounted
almost what
you'd expect
but
not
quite

.return me!!!!!
refunds
but you will
never get as much
as
you
spent

404.....
              error .....
.  .page not found..
        ...time to..
shut .
               . down

:-)
weewoo weewoo weewoo

red and blue red and blue

blue bruises red pens

blue sky red

red

read

don't leave me on read :(
Julian Delia Jul 2019
Interloping through your fields,
Hoping you’ve lowered your shields.
I hope I’ll get my point across.
Trepidation, nausea in my soul;
The revolution’s my only goal.
There’s no other point,
No other gig, no other role.

And yet, all you see is Utopian, impossible ideas.
Folded neatly, packed in boxes, and stowed away,
Like a discounted cabinet from IKEA.
My brain bubbles like a *** of stew;
Plenty of ideas, more than a few.
There’s my cue;
The room goes quiet.
Anxious like my rent is due,
Angry enough to start a riot.

Every time I speak about what could be,
I can hear brows furrowing, disbelief developing,
All in doubt as to what we would see.
It’s so frustrating, being dismissed;
I’m sorry, is there something I’ve missed?

They call people like me idealistic;
They say alternatives are unrealistic.
Idealism is what keeps us evolving,
What keeps us from dissolving,
From melting in a vat of redundancy,
From getting suffocated by incumbency.


Visionaries are what separates a living culture from a graveyard.
Stationary nation states, overseeing like unforgiving vultures -
But hey, at least you’ve got your promos and your saver cards.


If capitalism is the best we can do,
Then we really are ******* *******.
You might think I’m being rude,
But, you know that I’m just being shrewd,
That I’m spitting out the uncut truth.
You’re in my brain’s building complex now;
This poem’s going to be a rare beauty,
A collector’s item, get your cheques out.

Call me whatever you want.
I’ve got no riches to flaunt,
For the revolution requires empty hands.
Let go of the designers and the brands;
It’s time to face the music and fetch the popcorn,
For the end of the world is going to be grand.
'So what's your solution, then?'
'*******, that's my solution.'
cmp Nov 2019
life ones only vested holiday
as per second via your longing experience life discounted so low ones era left cheated

any moment afterwards via less martyr encounter life hype so crazy your soul in vain situation
stash-hole
they walked together

having never kissed

having never confessed

in a Friday night fug

of second-hand smoke

and discounted *****

that one loved the other

a deep love with many roots


they held hands when crying

as if another’s warm palms

would stem the flow somehow

but it never went further

never tiptoed past the threshold

no dates in restaurants

with pricy wine and staggered chat

no letters professing  

a long-gestated love


they watched movies

recited lines for a hundredth time

laughter rebounding from the walls

uttered secrets in whispers

said they’d be friends forever

knowing they would be

because sometimes that happens
Written: January 2020.
Explanation: A poem written in my own time. Feedback welcome. A link to my Facebook writing page can be found on my HP home page.

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