"disjunct" poems - Hello Poetry

[PART ONE] xeroxed, RT'd and plagiarized so many times on so many blogs tween blogs to republican blogs to blogs in Russia and blogs no one ever scrolls though... original content is prey but I have a warning for they: overrated, over-shared content aggregators beware the lines you swap can rot and ware the World Wide Web does not care. [PART TWO] original content original contests original continent original controversy original coordination between strangers original calvary riding their connection into the battlefield of internet memes; creating nothing and sharing everything [COMMENTARY] original nothing, nowhere, nobody except facebook "Funny Vidoes!" & "Cool Quotes!". 'Like' pages whose sole originality lies within their own existence but nothing they share. They steal from the rest of the web and re-post what they find for out-of-the-loop troglodytes; often done so in inferior context and with no perspective. The 'refried beans' phenomenon, I call it. I find it fitting because 'refried beans' are a double misnomer. The name comes from 'frijoles refritos' - which means 'well-fried' not 'refried'. They are also never traditionally fried more than once. Yet the name sticks, it gets repeated, it gets re-shared and now that's what they are: refried beans. This phenomenon is why I believe art and all original content eventually become so over-shared and overrated that it's no longer interesting but irritating. These three parts of the poem "Original Content" are separated in abstract authorial presentation. The author has clearly expressed his dislike for the disjunct un-imagination of the internet and presents it as such. [PART THREE] original authors losing control of their audiences who believe they are the creators and the artist's art is somewhat shareable original miscommunication between web 1.0 and web 2.0 reality original alphabet they use to type on their keyboards original grammar they learned in school original money their gov't printed original content they re-post original refried beans original content orginal contet ogrinal cotent ognal ctt oc .

0

Mar 9, 2014

Mar 9, 2014 at 10:01 PM UTC

dev

Original Content (Pt. 1, 2 & 3 With Commentary)

[PART ONE] xeroxed, RT'd and plagiarized so many times on so many blogs tween blogs to republican blogs to blogs in Russia and blogs no one ever scrolls though... original content is prey but I have a warning for they: overrated, over-shared content aggregators beware the lines you swap can rot and ware the World Wide Web does not care. [PART TWO] original content original contests original continent original controversy original coordination between strangers original calvary riding their connection into the battlefield of internet memes; creating nothing and sharing everything [COMMENTARY] original nothing, nowhere, nobody except facebook "Funny Vidoes!" & "Cool Quotes!". 'Like' pages whose sole originality lies within their own existence but nothing they share. They steal from the rest of the web and re-post what they find for out-of-the-loop troglodytes; often done so in inferior context and with no perspective. The 'refried beans' phenomenon, I call it. I find it fitting because 'refried beans' are a double misnomer. The name comes from 'frijoles refritos' - which means 'well-fried' not 'refried'. They are also never traditionally fried more than once. Yet the name sticks, it gets repeated, it gets re-shared and now that's what they are: refried beans. This phenomenon is why I believe art and all original content eventually become so over-shared and overrated that it's no longer interesting but irritating. These three parts of the poem "Original Content" are separated in abstract authorial presentation. The author has clearly expressed his dislike for the disjunct un-imagination of the internet and presents it as such. [PART THREE] original authors losing control of their audiences who believe they are the creators and the artist's art is somewhat shareable original miscommunication between web 1.0 and web 2.0 reality original alphabet they use to type on their keyboards original grammar they learned in school original money their gov't printed original content they re-post original refried beans original content orginal contet ogrinal cotent ognal ctt oc .

37

[PART ONE] xeroxed, RT'd and plagiarized so many times on so many blogs tween blogs to republican blogs to blogs in Russia and blogs no one ever scrolls though... original content is prey but I have a warning for they: overrated, over-shared content aggregators beware the lines you swap can rot and ware the World Wide Web does not care. [PART TWO] original content original contests original continent original controversy original coordination between strangers original calvary riding their connection into the battlefield of internet memes; creating nothing and sharing everything [COMMENTARY] original nothing, nowhere, nobody except facebook "Funny Vidoes!" & "Cool Quotes!". 'Like' pages whose sole originality lies within their own existence but nothing they share. They steal from the rest of the web and re-post what they find for out-of-the-loop troglodytes; often done so in inferior context and with no perspective. The 'refried beans' phenomenon, I call it. I find it fitting because 'refried beans' are a double misnomer. The name comes from 'frijoles refritos' - which means 'well-fried' not 'refried'. They are also never traditionally fried more than once. Yet the name sticks, it gets repeated, it gets re-shared and now that's what they are: refried beans. This phenomenon is why I believe art and all original content eventually become so over-shared and overrated that it's no longer interesting but irritating. These three parts of the poem "Original Content" are separated in abstract authorial presentation. The author has clearly expressed his dislike for the disjunct un-imagination of the internet and presents it as such. [PART THREE] original authors losing control of their audiences who believe they are the creators and the artist's art is somewhat shareable original miscommunication between web 1.0 and web 2.0 reality original alphabet they use to type on their keyboards original grammar they learned in school original money their gov't printed original content they re-post original refried beans original content orginal contet ogrinal cotent ognal ctt oc .

0

Apr 7, 2015

Apr 7, 2015 at 12:42 PM UTC

steve-jong-un

Original Content (Pt. 1, 2 & 3 With Commentary)

[PART ONE] xeroxed, RT'd and plagiarized so many times on so many blogs tween blogs to republican blogs to blogs in Russia and blogs no one ever scrolls though... original content is prey but I have a warning for they: overrated, over-shared content aggregators beware the lines you swap can rot and ware the World Wide Web does not care. [PART TWO] original content original contests original continent original controversy original coordination between strangers original calvary riding their connection into the battlefield of internet memes; creating nothing and sharing everything [COMMENTARY] original nothing, nowhere, nobody except facebook "Funny Vidoes!" & "Cool Quotes!". 'Like' pages whose sole originality lies within their own existence but nothing they share. They steal from the rest of the web and re-post what they find for out-of-the-loop troglodytes; often done so in inferior context and with no perspective. The 'refried beans' phenomenon, I call it. I find it fitting because 'refried beans' are a double misnomer. The name comes from 'frijoles refritos' - which means 'well-fried' not 'refried'. They are also never traditionally fried more than once. Yet the name sticks, it gets repeated, it gets re-shared and now that's what they are: refried beans. This phenomenon is why I believe art and all original content eventually become so over-shared and overrated that it's no longer interesting but irritating. These three parts of the poem "Original Content" are separated in abstract authorial presentation. The author has clearly expressed his dislike for the disjunct un-imagination of the internet and presents it as such. [PART THREE] original authors losing control of their audiences who believe they are the creators and the artist's art is somewhat shareable original miscommunication between web 1.0 and web 2.0 reality original alphabet they use to type on their keyboards original grammar they learned in school original money their gov't printed original content they re-post original refried beans original content orginal contet ogrinal cotent ognal ctt oc .

37

Turning all of the lights off and pretending like there's nothing due. Conditionals, conjuncts, and disjuncts to name a few. The condition is that my naked body has been revealed to you, uncomfortably in the light and confidently in the dark. The conjunct is musky, old-timey undertones of Sam Beam's voice. Dr. Pepper, eventually, convinced me to be reckless and rot my teeth, and give myself a stomach ache for the sake of making out upstairs, in a chair, next to home-ade sound absorbers, made of fiber glass. The disjunct: deciding between two and a half hours of utter hell, driving a broken down dust buster van in the middle of hell's ******* half acre, chugging up frosty hills and into a town, a foreign town, to be greeted with, "Hel-low," Versus, not having to do that. The biconditional is that I will be with you if and only if I can be with myself first.

0

Nov 15, 2013

Nov 15, 2013 at 1:00 AM UTC

madeleine-toerne

Logic and Reasoning

Turning all of the lights off and pretending like there's nothing due. Conditionals, conjuncts, and disjuncts to name a few. The condition is that my naked body has been revealed to you, uncomfortably in the light and confidently in the dark. The conjunct is musky, old-timey undertones of Sam Beam's voice. Dr. Pepper, eventually, convinced me to be reckless and rot my teeth, and give myself a stomach ache for the sake of making out upstairs, in a chair, next to home-ade sound absorbers, made of fiber glass. The disjunct: deciding between two and a half hours of utter hell, driving a broken down dust buster van in the middle of hell's ******* half acre, chugging up frosty hills and into a town, a foreign town, to be greeted with, "Hel-low," Versus, not having to do that. The biconditional is that I will be with you if and only if I can be with myself first.

20

Imagine, We are now in a labyrinth. A big labyrinth, and we have to find the way out together. Yeah, We can give it up, and just walk out from the labyrinth without finish it. (break the wall or ask for someone's help.) But, Would we? Right from the start, we don't make a really good team. We fight too much, We cry to each other too often. But we both know what we really want, We want to fight and finish it together. as a team. But, then.. We both tired. and We disjunct. We are apart, I don't know exactly where I am, and I don't know where you are. We just scream out each other name. We run in a circle. We don't know anything. I'm tired, You either. We sit separately somewhere in a labyrinth. Well, maybe We are too tired to find the way out. Well, maybe We should give it up. but, Would we?

0

Sep 18, 2013

Sep 18, 2013 at 12:28 AM UTC

philia-stef

Labyrinth.

Imagine, We are now in a labyrinth. A big labyrinth, and we have to find the way out together. Yeah, We can give it up, and just walk out from the labyrinth without finish it. (break the wall or ask for someone's help.) But, Would we? Right from the start, we don't make a really good team. We fight too much, We cry to each other too often. But we both know what we really want, We want to fight and finish it together. as a team. But, then.. We both tired. and We disjunct. We are apart, I don't know exactly where I am, and I don't know where you are. We just scream out each other name. We run in a circle. We don't know anything. I'm tired, You either. We sit separately somewhere in a labyrinth. Well, maybe We are too tired to find the way out. Well, maybe We should give it up. but, Would we?

22

"Can I have this dance?" I take your hand and follow you to the dance floor. We begin. Moving gracefully at first, Every twist and turn comes with ease. A turn and suddenly, a misstep. I turn back to you, confused. We're on the same dance floor, only now I can't hear the music. But you can. I try to lock eyes with you, attempting to feel your next moves. But you aren't looking at me, and your hands feel like air in mine. I am completely at your mercy. I plead with my eyes to make you understand that I'm lost. I ask for clarity, but the words get lost between my lips. You push and pull me from side to side, No warning, no clue as to where I'll go next. In between dips and turns, we go back to a simple pattern. Flawless, fluid, in sync. Then the music changes and you adjust I stumble and feel your arms steady me, then spin me around. My head pounds from the whiplash. Now we're clumsy, awkward, disjunct. I look up to see an empty dance floor. With you still leading me through a blind dance. I go along with the back and forth, the fluid and clumsy. Because what can I do on an endless floor with no music and no direction.

0

Feb 5, 2021

Feb 5, 2021 at 10:06 AM UTC

chelsea-molin

Whiplash

"Can I have this dance?" I take your hand and follow you to the dance floor. We begin. Moving gracefully at first, Every twist and turn comes with ease. A turn and suddenly, a misstep. I turn back to you, confused. We're on the same dance floor, only now I can't hear the music. But you can. I try to lock eyes with you, attempting to feel your next moves. But you aren't looking at me, and your hands feel like air in mine. I am completely at your mercy. I plead with my eyes to make you understand that I'm lost. I ask for clarity, but the words get lost between my lips. You push and pull me from side to side, No warning, no clue as to where I'll go next. In between dips and turns, we go back to a simple pattern. Flawless, fluid, in sync. Then the music changes and you adjust I stumble and feel your arms steady me, then spin me around. My head pounds from the whiplash. Now we're clumsy, awkward, disjunct. I look up to see an empty dance floor. With you still leading me through a blind dance. I go along with the back and forth, the fluid and clumsy. Because what can I do on an endless floor with no music and no direction.

25

A scribe would have to conjure his own language To tell of such a vicious emptiness Thoughts set ablaze and burning a path of destruction Through the forest maze behind my eyes The only touch is the air, so dry A frame floating in a scenery with no story So lost in the disjunct field of worries Where the sun is a myth And the moon shines as god Lighting the night of the wandering souls Roaming a familiar city where one is always lost Any turn is a guess at your fate But you continue Breath in the sustenance you can extract Exhale all the trouble and angst Go forth Never cower to the monsters As all around you seems to crumble to the dirt Can anything grow?

0

Feb 28, 2016

Feb 28, 2016 at 5:09 PM UTC

waleed-khalidi

Go Forth

A scribe would have to conjure his own language To tell of such a vicious emptiness Thoughts set ablaze and burning a path of destruction Through the forest maze behind my eyes The only touch is the air, so dry A frame floating in a scenery with no story So lost in the disjunct field of worries Where the sun is a myth And the moon shines as god Lighting the night of the wandering souls Roaming a familiar city where one is always lost Any turn is a guess at your fate But you continue Breath in the sustenance you can extract Exhale all the trouble and angst Go forth Never cower to the monsters As all around you seems to crumble to the dirt Can anything grow?

19

I write so many silent poems about you The words swirl and mix and create their own life As quick as they come, they leave also To make room for the next line The next paragraph Of a kiss or a whispered word A tear welling up or freely falling Fingertips on my back, water droplets running down to the floor with gravity The words feel like a river, breathing in Flowing down and around the bend Gallons of water and pages of thoughts Feelings rushing in warm and swift and pooling Before they rush to the next basin And on and on and on and on You can never stand in the same river twice And I can never remember the exact words I want to write about you Because I just live in them in that moment They pool around me. Your fingertips like little water droplets on my back Running down with gravity And this is a very disjunct poem because after-the-fact I just can’t pull the exact words I felt Because you can never stand in the same river twice.

0

May 1, 2022

May 1, 2022 at 5:59 PM UTC

lillianmay

Rivers and unwritten poems

I write so many silent poems about you The words swirl and mix and create their own life As quick as they come, they leave also To make room for the next line The next paragraph Of a kiss or a whispered word A tear welling up or freely falling Fingertips on my back, water droplets running down to the floor with gravity The words feel like a river, breathing in Flowing down and around the bend Gallons of water and pages of thoughts Feelings rushing in warm and swift and pooling Before they rush to the next basin And on and on and on and on You can never stand in the same river twice And I can never remember the exact words I want to write about you Because I just live in them in that moment They pool around me. Your fingertips like little water droplets on my back Running down with gravity And this is a very disjunct poem because after-the-fact I just can’t pull the exact words I felt Because you can never stand in the same river twice.

21

the state of mind you trapped me in when you locked me inside my own body, confining me to perceive the natural motions of life as if I’m falling from a twenty-story building and perpetually climbing back up the stairs I have fallen on this same pavement so many times before that I can mutter every name of its frequent passerby’s, i can mentally trace every skid-mark, every link to your DNA from your musky scent to your bristled hair follicles How you’ve managed to follow me everywhere I go though I haven’t laid eyes on you in two years, how those around me sigh with hopeless exhaust when they countlessly attempt to rescue me from another inevitable fall onto the cold concrete, How you breathe fresh air that holds your feet up from the ground, saving you the trouble of having to empathize with Mother Earth’s raw flesh beneath you Yet, I am still heaving through corrupted lungs, still swelling the epithelial tissue lining my throat, still expectorating old memories just to swallow them again and again, each time forcing me to upchuck ****** acid from a place inside of me that implies no medical explanation I have become so sick and fractured that i can no longer see, I cannot hear, I cannot speak But somehow when I touch, all of my delusional senses return as a shadowy figure that resembles the monster of whom I fear most My vision funnels in, and out until I feel nothing but the same cold pavement cushioning my bones like a disjunct lullaby And as my mind melts into a dissociative puddle of nothingness, I plant my feet on Mother Earth’s raw flesh, and her magnetic waves of energy wrap around my nimble toes, bringing me back to the staircase upward

0

Nov 11, 2019

Nov 11, 2019 at 10:08 PM UTC

stacie

pulmonary manifestations

the state of mind you trapped me in when you locked me inside my own body, confining me to perceive the natural motions of life as if I’m falling from a twenty-story building and perpetually climbing back up the stairs I have fallen on this same pavement so many times before that I can mutter every name of its frequent passerby’s, i can mentally trace every skid-mark, every link to your DNA from your musky scent to your bristled hair follicles How you’ve managed to follow me everywhere I go though I haven’t laid eyes on you in two years, how those around me sigh with hopeless exhaust when they countlessly attempt to rescue me from another inevitable fall onto the cold concrete, How you breathe fresh air that holds your feet up from the ground, saving you the trouble of having to empathize with Mother Earth’s raw flesh beneath you Yet, I am still heaving through corrupted lungs, still swelling the epithelial tissue lining my throat, still expectorating old memories just to swallow them again and again, each time forcing me to upchuck ****** acid from a place inside of me that implies no medical explanation I have become so sick and fractured that i can no longer see, I cannot hear, I cannot speak But somehow when I touch, all of my delusional senses return as a shadowy figure that resembles the monster of whom I fear most My vision funnels in, and out until I feel nothing but the same cold pavement cushioning my bones like a disjunct lullaby And as my mind melts into a dissociative puddle of nothingness, I plant my feet on Mother Earth’s raw flesh, and her magnetic waves of energy wrap around my nimble toes, bringing me back to the staircase upward

14

If I rhyme, Maybe you would find my words beautiful, Finding something profoundly disturbing more chewable, Washed down with wine and cuticle, Your fingernails scraping down my throat Don't. I don't. I don't need that **** Maybe you would find my words beautiful. But ugly and disjunct, sitting, freely thinking I feel as though my train of thought has retrained it's tracks Let's go to a place I don't want to go to.

0

Apr 20, 2019

Apr 20, 2019 at 3:48 AM UTC

AlbertRhodes

Ugly. Disjunct.

If I rhyme, Maybe you would find my words beautiful, Finding something profoundly disturbing more chewable, Washed down with wine and cuticle, Your fingernails scraping down my throat Don't. I don't. I don't need that **** Maybe you would find my words beautiful. But ugly and disjunct, sitting, freely thinking I feel as though my train of thought has retrained it's tracks Let's go to a place I don't want to go to.

12