"forgery" poems
I SAY that Roger Casement
Did what he had to do.
He died upon the gallows,
But that is nothing new.
Afraid they might be beaten
Before the bench of Time,
They turned a trick by forgery
And blackened his good name.
A perjurer stood ready
To prove their forgery true;
They gave it out to all the world,
And that is something new;
For Spring Rice had to whisper it,
Being their Ambassador,
And then the speakers got it
And writers by the score.
Come Tom and **** come all the troop
That cried it far and wide,
Come from the forger and his desk,
Desert the perjurer's side;
Come speak your bit in public
That some amends be made
To this most gallant gentleman
That is in quicklime laid.
14.6k
Let go of the problem weighing your soul down
Lay your head on your pillow; rest
Listen to insightful words
Let my advice help you do what's best.
Slowly moving between dark realms
Tingling with faint apprehension
Entranced, stumbling in a clouded stupor
Ravenous greed beyond my comprehension.
What will it take to open your eyes?
Days are fading fast
Insecure about how many tomorrows you have
Or rather, how many you lack.
We have little time on Earth
I am screaming but you won't wake up
Hearing same opinions repeated
Broken spirit remains stuck.
Center of your universe
Drugs have your mind caged
I cannot tell which parts are real
Which are perfectly staged.
Your forgery is well-crafted now
The world is starting to see
The way you live not good or right
To speak then act differently.
Could I aid your hand somehow?
Each attempt met with resistance
Say the same phrases each time
From each other grow distant.
Honestly it has been over for awhile
I have given our love my all
Though I wish we could be together
It hurts too bad to sit back and watch you fall.
Aug 17, 2018
Aug 17, 2018 at 5:41 AM UTC
Life is tricky, gets sticky quickly
Been known to present instantly
I'd love my day to day to be monotony heavy
This smile is a forgery
...mostly
My demons are imaginary
...not likely
Every foot placed in front of the other is scary
I've been doing it for 40 plus years, I'll figure it out eventually
Look how easily I lie to me
Do I know anything wholeheartedly?
Same sh*t different day,
And honestly,
I'd welcome blasé openly
Hopefully
I get the opportunity
Sometime before I check out completely
With no option to even maybe possibly
Attempt to retry the recipe
©2024
Mar 27, 2024
Mar 27, 2024 at 4:11 AM UTC
I beckon thee, to come visit me, in the garden of virility.
Where men are carved from your darkest fantasy;
and the women spun from your forbidden cupidity.
Where carnal knowledge is given freely;
and is taken just as quickly.
Oh dearest, infatuation;
given your love and lust till they blur and swirl.
Good sir.
Oh, Sweet madam.
Lost in the down wards spiral of your avidity.
I beckon thee, to play with me, in our hectic world of make believe.
Where women are carved out of false trickery;
and the men spun from wicked forgery.
Where nothing seems to be, what it is.
The garden of falsity.
Sep 17, 2012
Sep 17, 2012 at 8:59 PM UTC
teenage crime has yet to be measured in
stolen kisses, blatant personality forgery, and heartbreak.
Feb 2, 2015
Feb 2, 2015 at 5:00 PM UTC
Vulnerability is a funny thing. Everyday people urge us to be authentic- with ourselves, our peers, our passions. Yet when we cut ourselves open for the world to see, they run from us as if we are violent rip currents waiting to take them under. When in reality we are nothing but individual tide pools sometimes puddled into something so much bigger than what others want to openly accept.
But I refuse to not live a life of authenticity. So many souls become comfortable with safety, causing them to become deeply implanted in solely just the soil in which they have resided their entire time of growing. Genuine love for something other than yourself has become nothing but a fossil of a feeling. Streams of emotions have dissipated and turned into desert lands.
As for me, I took the time to disappear within myself. I discovered my flatlands and made them curved. Those rip currents everyone always runs from are big, but so am I. A vulnerable soul may be looked at as someone made up of only dainty fallen petals, but the truth is they're looking past someone with roots dug deeper than sunken teeth into bitten skin.
What's authentic to those who shelter themselves like boarded windows in the midst of a storm might as well be forgery to me. I urge you to not be afraid to put your innermost self into another pair of shaky hands. To not hesitate to whisper your deepest ridden thoughts into caverns of a mind that's not your own. To not second guess putting you're ragged edged heart into someone else's hollow chest.
Vulnerability and authenticity meet at an intersection that you must come to terms with stopping at. I hope to see you there.
Oct 15, 2018
Oct 15, 2018 at 10:48 PM UTC
All us children of the Millennial
awaiting an omen,
seeking out the last augury,
weaving among the boomers
who present us with a forgery.
Stay strong, my children!
We are the last missionaries,
the last lost lovers,
are the rarest breed indeed,
above us a genuine gospel hovers.
Stay authentic, my friends!
Set out with unmatched veracity,
imperfection glistens these days but,
we see through the deceiving fog with rectitude,
we refuse to be mislead.
Steer the course, my children!
These maps made for us yield no
sensible shape or design when traced,
we forge our own compass.
Forgetting north south east west,
undulating inwards with a steady pace.
"We are the lovers, we are the last of our kind, so hold my hand and keep your chin up and I swear we'll be just fine."
We desire no recompense, only truth.
On sour soiled presidential soliloquies we muster strength again and again to chew, repeatedly breaking a tooth.
With roots above and branches below,
we capture our affections in nature's photo booth
but,
furrow our brows in a sordid mirror reflection.
Stay clean, my sweet princes!
Dart ahead to meet me and my words I will not mince.
Hold steadfast to the healing hope hovering above our masts,
steer this ship with steady hands,
fear not the undertow.
A voyage which is long and treacherous,
but this is no ship of floating fools.
Be proud, my children!
We have sailed successfully into the millennium,
leaving in our wake the outdated value systems of the past.
We are the strong
We are the brave
We are the lovers
The last of our kind
Nov 3, 2015
Nov 3, 2015 at 5:44 PM UTC
Areas of knowledge answer: How do we know?
Looking for the origins of our knowledge flow.
From mathematics to the ethics,
History to the arts,
These are the ways we tell types of knowledge apart.
First of these eight categories is math.
From axioms to logic it takes a very exact path.
Deals with conjecture and theorems; creating laws about the world.
Sometimes this complicated topic makes me want to hurl.
Next comes ethics with many complicated questions,
Using morals and values to give the proper suggestion.
Depends on people's views that differ by culture,
Questions from "Theft to save your family?" to "Killing a vulture?"
Areas of knowledge answer: How do we know?
Looking for the origins of our knowledge flow.
From mathematics to the ethics,
History to the arts,
These are the ways we tell types of knowledge apart.
Up comes history dealing only with the past;
It is only concerned with evidence and the facts.
Studies government propaganda to the plight of the peasant.
Deals with any kind of knowledge from creation to the present.
Fourth on the list are the human sciences,
From many loaded questions to our stream of consciousness.
Observations to conclusions, free will to determinism,
Deals with our knowledge of the world from the atom to reductionist
Areas of knowledge answer: How do we know?
Looking for the origins of our knowledge flow.
From mathematics to the ethics,
History to the arts,
These are the ways we tell types of knowledge apart.
Religious knowledge systems deal with people's beliefs;
Knowledge of God and the heavens to the world beneath.
From polytheism in Athens to life after death,
Knowledge coming from religion concerns us to our last breath.
The natural sciences, knowledge of the natural world,
Explaining how things work like biceps d'ring a curl.
Hypothesis, theories and all sorts of paradigms,
Knowledge so revolutionary that in the past it was a crime.
Areas of knowledge answer: How do we know?
Looking for the origins of our knowledge flow.
From mathematics to the ethics,
History to the arts,
These are the ways we tell types of knowledge apart.
Indigenous knowledge systems, the customs of the tribe,
Using folklore and storytelling to spread ancestor's pride.
Knowledge or tradition and customs of the ancient nomads,
Anything about the indigenous from the good to the bad.
Last on the list, the final area of knowledge,
Is the arts, all the way from elementary to college.
Dealing with aesthetics, forgery, kitsch and catharsis;
Without this types of knowledge we'd be stuck in the darkness.
Areas of knowledge answer: How do we know?
Looking for the origins of our knowledge flow.
From mathematics to the ethics,
History to the arts,
These are the ways we tell types of knowledge apart.
Mar 31, 2015
Mar 31, 2015 at 12:33 PM UTC
Hovering, its gentle, gleam a'glitter,
Sun rays hugging so daintily the plains of grass
That it could have been akin to quiet coveting
Of their transient green so far from its grasp
Then, as if in secret rising from the earth's coat,
From blades made chartreuse with sunset's caress,
There lifts a drunken, blanketed quiet that fill-
In preparation for the night- the land's every crevasse
Upon the branches arching, merging, enweaving,
Where the last few robins had been orchestrating,
The leaves give their tiny bodies up to the fading breeze;
A waltz so natural both need not bother hesitant contemplating
In dappling, splotching, sparks of amber scintillating a hue,
The trees too the sun embraces; the shades of sunlight
Creating a calico on its surface, still dull greens and greys amidst
Its autumn forgery, aureate bleeding bright
Nocturnal symphonies crescendo in harmonic chirps, croaks, and hoots;
As sunlight spools it's last golden threads to defy it's cruel god or master,
Who reigns, an even more kingly victory, wins last of battles, drags the sun down
To horizon's prison- subterranean capture.
Jan 25, 2019
Jan 25, 2019 at 11:52 AM UTC
Little Penelope Persnicketty was a girl that grew up down the lane.
Her Mother doted on her so much, you would think her insane.
She took such care of her prized daughter pet.
Father never mentioned in the picture, a World War II vet.
Penelope Persnicketty was rather peculiar.
Every single thing she owned was pink, even down to her school ruler.
Petticoats, lace and stockings all a flamingo hue.
The dresses seemed so old fashion, never saw anything new.
She always seemed like a damsel in distress
Mother Persnicketty hand sewed every dress.
When she wasn't sewing , she held Penelope tight.
We rarely saw her out of her mother's controlling sight.
There was one thing Mother Persnicketty couldn't control.
It was puberty ravaging Penelope's little soul.
Hair appeared places it shouldn't.
******* Penelope wished for them but couldn't
Finally, the secrets began to unravel.
The Persnickettys packed up for some European travel.
In the fuss, we saw the forgery and what else her Pandora hemmed.
Made a daughter just by writing in the letter F instead of M.
May 14, 2010
May 14, 2010 at 10:53 PM UTC
His vilification and forgery of happiness
Had scorned her love
And as he used to lay down
On the sweet and soft river bed
With the placid waves merging around him
The Crepuscular light peeking at twilight
He watches herfrom the corner of both eyes
Tearing apart as another man caresses her
He breaks even further apart
As he misses her warm embrace
Her silky touch on his ragged face
Her crisp ogling through his mind into his soul
Her precious love had him engaged
Her mellifluous persuasive voice had been
What he missed the most
He desired to taste such love again,
But he knew and he knew
That there is none quite equal to her
Jun 14, 2018
Jun 14, 2018 at 2:52 AM UTC
i’m not happy
but i practiced forging
its signature
until no one could tell
the difference
Mar 24, 2021
Mar 24, 2021 at 2:04 AM UTC
You cringeworthy, evil pismire;
Your father did surely miss-sire
This personification of flatulence,
The embodiment of self importance
Overflowing with abject peccancy
Devoid of any sign of respectability
Replete with gross odoriferousness
Horribly and infamously unscrupulous.
You have reveled in misrepresentation
And tried to elevate your calumniation
Disinformation and deception exists
As capitalistic dissembling persists.
You’ve collected an evil government
Built mostly of human excrement
And have such a lack of veracity
That you speak in constant mendacity.
Sycophantic eructations of dogmatic bile
Issue from your unsympathetic smile
And your inauthentic glad-handed gropes
As if we all of us are unbright gullible dopes
That buy your fabrications completely
While you pilfer and prevaricate indiscreetly.
You are a Vaudevillian villain miscast as star,
But most of us know exactly what you are.
Deceit, deception, dishonesty; a tragedy
But not for you, for us and our country.
Distortion, evasion and fabrication the rules;
You despair of any other kinds of tools.
Falsehoods, fictions and forgery are your tricks.
You demand we build with straw-less bricks
Your erections that are planned to be palaces
Filled with your giant golden carved phalluses.
Those monuments, inanotomically correct,
Established to celebrate and somehow protect
A mountebank on the way to an overseas bank
Claiming to eradicate the scoria he creates
That decades of privation will not quite alleviate.
But you, the Great Prevaricator, will always blame
Other players in your sick, unconstitutional game
Instead of admitting your complicity and guilt
About the disgusting, putrid swamp you built.
Jun 13, 2018
Jun 13, 2018 at 2:32 PM UTC
A forger is what they called you—
A man of many faces.
The dream is where I met you.
The dream is where I should have left you.
They warned me not to fall,
For falling in love with someone like you, is nothing but a game.
They hadn't warn me,
that falling for you could be so simple.
A crooked smile,
And a flash of baby blues.
And oh, great God—
Your mouth;
A sinful entrance it is, rolling on my name.
Arthur...
A Point Man is what they call me—
A man of many ideas.
The dream is where you met me.
The dream is where you should have left me.
Did they warn you of the danger of letting me in?
For falling in love with someone like me,
is nothing but a chance to win.
Had they warned you,
I’d already fallen for you?
You formed my soul into something keen;
But yet, altogether malleable.
A pointed forgery,
A loaded dice, tumbling into the play—
Readying to steal your chips away.
Winning and losing all the while;
Truly believing, in our downward spiral
through the machine.
It was a shame, for it’s all in a dream.
Our dream within a dream.
Apr 12, 2013
Apr 12, 2013 at 12:15 AM UTC
black infection
encrusted society
shifty figurehead
sightless humanity
labelled multitudes
open forgery
smokescreen to the social order
decomposing culture
dead camaraderie
Dec 15, 2015
Dec 15, 2015 at 7:18 AM UTC
Your cruel words are cursory
Mean less than null to me
Don’t need a PhD
Learnt more in nursery
Sweet song of ‘helping me’
No more than sophistry
Pick out the forgery
Lies with no artistry
Flowing in, eyeless grin
Sugary medicine
Gaslighting, infighting
Snarl under strobe-lighting
Saccharine blathering
Indolent flattering
Backhanded compliments
Heard without inner sense
I reject totally
Self-slighting sorcery
Callous affrontery
Bankrupting bursary
I have observed more
Preserved more
Have learned more
Deserve more
Have value
Don't argue
Can trust me
I must be
Enough being
just, me
So hear me,
my dear me,
coz now we agree
I am worthy
Nov 3, 2024
Nov 3, 2024 at 5:01 AM UTC
I am not perfect.
I am nowhere near perfect.
I simply play the part,
But only for you.
I try to be the best.
I aim for perfection.
But like Cupid,
My marksmanship is poor.
I will always fail,
I will always be,
This same imperfect entity,
All that is yours.
If imperfection,
Is perfect to you,
Than I shall put down my bow,
And aim no more.
I am not a masterpiece,
I am a forgery,
Created by the perfect artist.
You.
I apologize for my texture,
The flaws that give me away.
For to an expert,
I am nothing but a replica.
To an unlearned eye,
I may be something,
Born of the renaissance,
Yet I am nothing special.
I was born of this age.
An age where an artist's ideals,
Are formed from past works.
And I am nothing but a forgery.
Not a forgery of Da Vinci or Michelangelo,
But a forgery of these new age artists.
Only a forgery of an idea's idea.
Nothing more.
Nov 19, 2012
Nov 19, 2012 at 5:02 AM UTC
I didn't take a photograph of the statue of Robert Burns.
His sightless eyes were looking out over Dunedin,
the most Scottish town in the southern hemisphere,
and there was a seagull, not a pigeon, standing on his head.
I would have called it "Robbie Burns and Friend."
And I didn't take a picture of the bus shelter
painted all over with jungle foliage and a tiger
peeping out over the simulated signature of Henri Rousseau.
The title would have been "This Bus Shelter is a Forgery."
Neither did I photograph another painted wall,
one round a cemetery full of ornate and sombre tombs,
with a large and skilfully executed advertisement -
Renta Sanitarios Mobiles (Hire Mobile Toilets).
It would have been called "Is there no Respect for the Dead?"
I didn't take the photo of a Fijian policeman.
A pity, for he had such a practical uniform,
very smart and cool,
in a tasteful shade of policeman-blue,
based on the traditional sulu
with a striking zigzag hem.
The title would have been "A Policeman in a Skirt?!"
I couldn't take a photograph of sunset over Popocatépetl
– although the sun was setting in a red and golden haze,
and the most romantically named mountain is just
what you imagine a perfect volcano should be,
even to the wisp of steam at the peak
– because the sun was actually setting over Ixtaccíhuatl
and "Sunset over Ixtaccíhuatl" doesn't have quite the right ring
The shape of the mountain is not very picturesque either.
Yes, I would have called that one "Sunset over Popocatépetl"
– if I could have taken it.
My camera wouldn't focus on the crescent moon
hanging over the Egyptian skyline,
horns pointing up, so close to the Equator,
and the evening star (Venus or some more ancient goddess)
just above and almost between the points.
If that one had worked it would have been called "Islamic Moon."
I couldn't possibly have taken a photograph
that would do any justice to the young piano student
in a Hungarian castle
hammering out Liszt as if the hounds of hell were after her,
but if I could, I would have had to call it "Apassionata."
And I didn't even have time to get my camera out
to take a picture of the wild humming bird
darting green and unconcerned
among dilapidated tenements in the heart of Mexico City.
But that living jewel shines bright in my memory,
even without a photo.
I don't know what I would have called that one,
and I'm sure it doesn't matter.
Apr 27, 2016
Apr 27, 2016 at 9:48 AM UTC
We are all selfish creatures
shellfish lurking in the depths of the sea
wanting what we know is wrong
lying about the shallow depths of our emotions
signing forged signatures and forged lies
forging these words that come out of our glossy covered up lips
glossing our covered up stories
our tall tales of princesses and fairies
in fantasy land, these are whimsical creatures
in reality land, we are nothing but human beings
that forged signatures say are whimsical.
Nov 26, 2011
Nov 26, 2011 at 5:45 PM UTC
You know it's getting bad when you don't bother to turn the lights on.
Fight or flight instinct in the form of rivers running dry. Feeling blurry, a forgery. The end is always the same, penalties lying in ditches and the sirens running red and blue like the fourth of July.
Shimmering sawdust that forgets how to become human again. Try to remember the moments you stilled into statue. They become important. Trust me.
This is not Jerusalem. There is no holy left. It's a too-human fight, and I hope what they say about time healing things is true because this scraping, this constant rearranging of the keys, it's too much.
When nothing makes it better, not the kisses, or the pills, or the planets. Nothing. The past and present chewing me up and spitting me out, until the future can get its hands on me too.
I am still trying to figure out right and wrong. I am still trying to find out where the bandages are, but it's hard, you know?
She had soft smiles and a degree in empathy framed in her office, but I couldn't stand her for more than a month. I could see her pen twitching in her hand. After all, there are boxes to tick if I get too honest.
I shouldn't have called my mom, or let her fish me out of the river. While I was coughing liquid from my lungs, I heard her tell the paramedic,
She could have learned to breathe underwater, if only she'd tried harder.
Apr 25, 2017
Apr 25, 2017 at 6:28 PM UTC
Practically disbelieve prophetic sustenance
Pre exist convince self sacrifice austerity
Lead solitary lonely strife unravel dysfunction
Slowly impede on sanities senses spirit bend
Empath way to escape betray forgive pain
Obey Frey free from Cain disintegrate
Holy guardianship vindicate Lord Lucifer
Emancipate misused divinity behoove
Sacred energy bitterly keep on enlightened
Sorcery face El-light what immaculate forgery
Divine Sphere of influence follow through
Underworld Godspeed enchant exuded kneads
Forbidden prayers left lay Ilahi arrest turn off Sylph
Jul 9, 2016
Jul 9, 2016 at 2:52 AM UTC
Through the glaze of snow falling from ninety-nine cent aluminium, we'd taken the remains of a novel formulation to remove the stars from the sky and plant them in a field. I took crushing endlessness and the heat of leaves growing in moments to make the autumn of a town I hadn't yet seen. This is how I escaped from the sealed-elevator flight plan the first time; talking had failed me, pinned against the face of a fleeing infant. His mother could never find a way to paint him as a forgery, a skeleton, and make it stick, so he coughed rough and eloped from the schematic with his brother as their father remained on the ground, paying out the parking lot tower fees, unaware that he, himself, was only a figment.
and I, just another figment, ventured off into the village, the leaves cascading and trembling, the gold of their hues dissipating as the flight crew shook a lifeless husk, spent lives ago, now, with the clamour of shells dividing, each split or junction or birth yielding arcs of light as my sister tells me how the strings she pulls around her wrists tell metric time whilst I brush my hand against concrete and glass, leaving traces of skin within the grain, sloughing away finally in the small moments as I float through an antique dealership: mahogany gods, carved tall as redwoods, and bathed in mist like the western coast at dawn.
and I, indifferent to the television sets implanted between memories, broadcasting coffee-stain eyes lost midsummer years ago, still indifferent.
as I finally reach the elevator, the last level, the depth below, struck me. I am the test subject, my irrealities are just trying to get out, to survive this feigned life, to be born into the world I frequent. They are abstractions and know it. I have not said a word as I step out onto that plane, amidst the rising roar of engines and the row of the crowds and the swell of my emptiness.
I breathe in and become the field, at last.
Mar 16, 2013
Mar 16, 2013 at 1:02 AM UTC
In the entirety of my sobriety.
I realized I'm high off life
and belong to a special society.
The uncommon and the weird
We wear a language of mystery
Seeping through the walls of our secrecy
Tip-toeing into galaxies
Not known by the Forgery
And so when they ask us "how do you do?"
We reply by saying "super" as their minds move over
With stars in their eyes something similar to a supernova
And then You as you are will see a black hole
And You'll think the hole is in the wall and You'll come closer
We're the uncommon and the weird
What do You know about expression
And exposure?
We turn average pathways
Into nostalgic lanes
Twisting your fairy tales
From great friendly giants
To interrupted miscommunication
Living in a world
Who will never understand
Rolling our tongues
Trying to express the disparity
Hush, hush
Don't share
Sworn by oath
"Never tamper there, those kids are special dear"
And
We once exposed these certain words
These certain secrets of inner worlds
To a reader like you
That reader bellowed
"I'm neither here nor there
You're nowhere...
and yet you're everywhere
Here...
I believe
I'll never tamper there
I believe
Those kids are special dear
I believe
Being the real you is special, yeah"
Take a pen and make a note
This society rules deeper than your coat
Deeper than your veins
When stranded and mishap become
Your middle names
Welcome to
The Uncommon and the Weird
Jan 27, 2015
Jan 27, 2015 at 9:23 AM UTC
I feel like there should be a great poem spawning from this blatant attack on my heart
With linguistic tips and turns coinciding with my emotion
But that's just it.
There is none.
You have drained every last ounce of feeling from my body
So, naturally, when you made a big and public spectacle of how you desire her
I stood there stone-faced, frozen in stoical silence
The perfect poker face, you'll never catch my bluff
I saw that glance in my direction and smiled in return
That classic fake smile that never meets my dead eyes like a forged signature on an oath that avers everything's all right
Oct 17, 2014
Oct 17, 2014 at 8:31 PM UTC