"knockoff" poems
And the fish swim in the lake
and do not even own clothing.
– Ezra Pound
How would they style themselves for the net,
the little fishes of the lake?
Not robes of purity, Ezra,
but sequins cut from trash,
brands bright as lures,
fashioned to catch the eye, a glint of sun.
Would the big ones strap on knockoff fins
to flex in shark cosplay near the shore,
snapping reels in the reeds,
captioned #greatwhitevibes #apexpredator?
Would carp veil themselves in algae,
funeral couture,
posting stories of their grief in green?
Would they admire the fishery tags:
industrial piercings they can’t remove,
or the hook-slit scars from catch-and-release,
each one a verified badge,
proof they were trending once, briefly,
before sinking out of frame?
Would they tilt to the water’s glass,
checking which gill looks slimmer,
tails arched like influencers at golden hour,
the shimmer hiding shame,
the shame we taught them to wear?
Sep 14, 2025
Sep 14, 2025 at 2:34 PM UTC
Floodlights.
They’re ghosts right?
From our memories,
Have been seized, we
From the perfect dream?
Drip drop drip drop
Turning tricks, dropped the jack
***** when you coming back?
It’s off it’s off
Seldom silence serves as sight’s severance.
**** chop **** chop OW!
******* pistol clock
Whip glock whipping ****
How many names can you think of for a knockoff
Of soda pop?
I’m sorry sir you’ve got the wrong Ryan,
I haven’t starred in any movies that cryin’
Old seniles, and sensitive females, so honestly claim
Was the way life should have been for them.
Oh in that case I’ll show you the brain,
Then kick you in the *** for being so gay.
Hold on there, wrong Ryan.
I ain’t waiting tables, or banefully fryin’
Up **** that I spit in for women with tips worth less
Than my two cents.
Oh I apologize, celebrity lookalike.
Must be the weather or the windshield is cracked
Or the antennae are bent or the cables are jacked
But I can’t seem to figure out just who you are
When I’m watching the TV pimped into my car,
Let’s try a few shall we
Not a cook…Not a lover boi…Silence of the…Birds, if you’re a bird I’m a…Bat…Batman! Batman and Robin! Red Robin! No not a waiter…
Red hearse, Fred Durst, Paris Hilton, Ryan Milton
Wrong Ryan, Wrong Ryan!
Oh my god, silly me
I seem to have gone on a tangent you see.
Tandem bicycles, all of them for free.
If you would only come visit. Agreed?
Of course I know that you’re THE Ryan B.
Jan 23, 2012
Jan 23, 2012 at 9:04 PM UTC
He has etch-a-sketch lines around his eyes
Sitting, leaning, portraying some sort of brash confidence. That he would perhaps get lucky on this
Tuesday
Where the wind blew silently and dew drops slid down the car windows like
silk gliding in the air or petals
splashing, expanding as they thud to the
ground was worn down, perhaps it was the time, or perhaps it was the lack thereof.
She is twirling her hair. I want to
scream WOMAN grow some ***** Sit up straight you
are letting him
Win with your Gucci-knockoff handbag and
blonde blonde hair you are
just like all of the other ****** looking for their
first and last love. Could you please explain
Why you chose to wear THAT on your
first date?
What a Typical
Tu
es
da
y
Dec 13, 2011
Dec 13, 2011 at 8:52 PM UTC
Her dreams are packed suitcases,
sitting on the driveway,
a piece of cloth sticking out,
ready to be unfolded and opened,
and then carried around.
I miss her
like how Americans
will miss the Obama family.
Touching her lips with my fingertips
is like rubbing healing ointment
onto an open scab.
Mom says, “You will always regret it,
if you don’t send her a text back.”
I dump my phone into the fire,
watch the plastic and metal burn,
the embers and ash piling up.
A black hand reaches for my shoulder,
before I wake up in a cold sweat.
I open up her suitcases:
a blue Grand Canyon blanket,
a laminated receipt
from a Sushi Restaurant,
a deflated basketball,
her knockoff Gucci glasses,
a worn piece of my heart.
I touch my chest.
and I feel nothing there.
Dec 22, 2016
Dec 22, 2016 at 8:12 AM UTC
Never he was an honest man
Who prides himself
On wanton expeditions
In a field of truth
He lies, entangled in conceit
To win that which he desires –
It is only but a game.
Mind not his mental means, nor manner –
Be he sane or psychopath –
But the strategy by which he plays:
Cheat, deceive, manipulate,
Overcome, and conquer your carnal estate.
Twisted tales, spun with golden thread
Crafted by careful practice and confidence
The master of charisma in his own head
Is no Eros, in any sense – Erosive, yes –
He is only what you want but for a brief moment
Be suspicious and expect this ever-real Narcissus.
A lecher he is
A Greek God in wish –
Nay, he only lives in the fantastic,
Though he roams about us
In a surreal bubble,
Where love comes to pass,
He is ever-so subtle
He markets himself as a Rembrandt,
Although more a moke* than baroque,
Something which he could never see
Staring into his reflection so blindly.
At a cost, worth more than his fee,
This cheap knockoff of Sal Dali,
Would sell you his love
For a buck forty-three.
Beware the lecher.
Dec 6, 2016
Dec 6, 2016 at 3:01 AM UTC
dark lung coughs
up all the reasons he should cease
going on with the charade of normality
its mental noodling fools few
and only confirms for everyone
that his nervous smile
contains more than just dark thoughts
he waits the morning out and with a
greasy eye watches clean woman smile
her full figure form fit lie
suits her fly by night nature
but to him she is the perfection
of absolute imperfections
she is practiced in thouse airs
shes follows Hollywood's nightmare's
and how they have become so accessible and acceptable
the movie starlet high on coke shoplifts
so the faithful flock in tears to the courthouse gate
and weep for their martyr princess
dark lung and his near perfect
knockoff Gucci bag girlfriend
are shopping tonight online
with backwards glances they will go on
survive this day
and look back on this summer with rose color glasses
giving casual nods to to
the ease in which they survived
the struggle
the are expecting a baby
dark lung and near perfect
are expecting a baby
gonna name him Elijah
Sep 18, 2013
Sep 18, 2013 at 6:10 AM UTC
All these roads lead somewhere
Our dismembered beings will never see it all until we're dead
But we can die and make it back alright
And if we died, would we even want to come back inside?
There's something real out there and it'll always be there and all it takes is to pay perfect attention
Chance favors the prepared mind as we can see for ourselves
When we traverse this abyss
Learn to pay attention
Learn to dance with the patterns you perceive
The sonic tapestry is a music piece
It never stops , and it covers everything
Everywhere is always everywhere else
Music never stops
Listen to it beat you away
Is there a difference between me and the music?
I am you, after all, this poem is me
And yet it is you because I'm not the only one
And we'll never be apart until we die, but even then we'll be together, each as nothing
So beautiful, so absurd
Feel that breeze blowing your hair?
You are its breath
It escapes your lungs and you ride around a vibrating
Symbol, your thoughts swimming and crystallizing but never blinding
Swirling around you in coagulating meaning
The grass grows, it is your beard
Lying there in the field
Can you feel it any different?
The grass brought you here to lie down on it
The grass inhales you as you light it,
And fully grokked, your ghost breathes itself out in rings
Snap the rhythm and it ripples with the cymbal
Into love,
The path through remains you, it's full of stars and eternal youth
The gray dawn on the beach is a constant truth
Our dreamtime dreams of being awake
I woke up and thought I could fly
How wrong I was
Spying over the shoulder of God
I told him, "You're a character in my story
I am you,
I am more.
What can you do to me?"
And God looks back, knowing that what I say is true
For I perceive him and even as he marvels me with illusions he can never erase my mind
I don't even capitalize his pronouns
God and his carpenters joined the dancing eternal parade
Like the end of an Animal House knockoff
Where we send off parts of ourselves to new times and places we've never conceived of
Populating the universe
Which gets bigger the more detail we observe
An optical contradiction
For you are the greater resonance of both your
Self and your Opposite
Feb 6, 2013
Feb 6, 2013 at 11:31 PM UTC
Set the mood: Can you feel the bitter? Taste it, drink it, **** it, love him. That is life and if these are the best years of it…then I’m not sure we want to see the worst. It’s called an epiphany…a warm rush of ice, slitting my lips. ****** as they are, these lips are open for you. So speak. I am here for your assumptions, so assume. Please, good friend, assume. Right here, write this down:
I need a voice to speak into. Ears to teach me to listen, because either I'm deaf or God's mute. Cause I've spent too many hours branding paper with my pen in these half-hearted prayers they call poems.
I need true empathy, not the GreatValue knockoff from a dimly lit aisle or Made-in-China substitutes worn around my friends' necks. Empathize with our loss. The traditions you and I will never know. The traditions we both know we’re going to miss.
I need a way into your mind, a shortcut through the jokes and labels. Ask your heart to crack its wary shell open just enough for me to slip my secrets inside, cause I know you're just as lonely as I pretend not to be. And I know you have secrets, too. Whispers are like questions begging not to be known, but I'll whisper to you anyways and beg you have the answers.
I need someone to talk to, someone who thinks about the skies at night. Stares off into the nothingness, screams into the emptiness his whispers. Someone who can blink away all the light. I know I am young but I am a witness to the symptoms of true thought. And you? You are infected, as well. You think. You are a liar, like me, and a natural-born beauty, as we all are. I see what this world has to offer today, and it’s you.
So how much time must we take? I think about you thinking about how much world there is. Or how little there is. How little all the people are. How the people look like flowers.
But not us as we sit on the roof of some ****** car. Its walls are ridden with messages from us to God, and he wrote back in dyslexic lettering, “I lvoed yuo all alnog.” I may seem more shallow and less a witness. You may seem like little but a confused sadist, desperate for an experience. But behind your perjury, you are scared.
You need a voice to speak into. To feel your words, molested in the dark. You know more than you say. Speak to me what you speak to your mind. Watch the flowers sway as we sit, immaculate. Slip your secrets inside my heart. Speak to me. Just speak.
I don’t need to love. I need to speak. So whisper #1: Why is the sky so ******* blue?
Mar 4, 2012
Mar 4, 2012 at 3:10 AM UTC
Have I become her?
that untouchable sultry lady
whose dress flows in the wind
wisps of blue that match the
color of the sun in her hair.
Flyaways are held in place
a sprayed on gentle hold,
if you stand closer maybe you'll
breathe in the scent of Dior,
or a knockoff, it's your call.
Not to mention, the taste of
ash on my lips and kiss.
But she and I, we're, oh, so different.
She is always
unsure
insecure
lost.
And I've found myself
and I'd never try to be cute
and with you.
I respect myself too much.
Sep 27, 2012
Sep 27, 2012 at 8:24 PM UTC
Igor & TT were the hit of the new wave
film circuit, reviving thoughts
of vintage Auteur cinéma vérité;
MOTHERWELL [formerly banned]
on a double-bill with _A Star Is ****
American film makers hitting a
glass wall rush to sign the least
talented; shooting on a billion-
dollar shoestring knockoff ****
films about artists & faux art films
about **** stars; Eli could never
breathe the air of LA or the USA;
wanted as he was for the ******
of an unnamed drifter; the actress
at his door, crying it was her dad;
Eli pours her a whisky & having one,
sits & watches her bawl her eyes out;
& picking her eyes from the floor,
handed them back to her, & blind
she thanks him, before putting
the red orbs back in her empty head;
rushing to his arms & missing completely, she hits the wall;
"u'd better go back to America," he said,
"Stay there & send ur mother over here."
"Are u going to **** my mother?"
the echo of the question rang out through the ages;
how many girls had asked how many men
[stepfathers & strangers] [on the way out,
the realization] under how many clouds of doubt,
suspicion & threat, 'are u going to ****
my mother?' inevitably, the answer
was yes, confirmed by Oracles of yore;
Mighty Delphi itself proclaiming
that her mother will be ****** by the man
she desires for herself; yes, always &
for all time in the eternal recurrence
of lust, love & separation; moms always give better head
Aug 18, 2018
Aug 18, 2018 at 10:53 PM UTC
Infatuation
Is not a joyful sensation
Because it's a cheap knockoff of love
Love, teenaged or not,
Is similar to being shot
Because it sometimes leads to death
Jun 14, 2013
Jun 14, 2013 at 10:42 PM UTC
36 hours...
Hanna called out to her friend Jory at
8:00am
She walked ther ten year-old brother to school at
9:30am
Afterschool, she hung out with her multiple friends and rode the train to Central Park,
She arrived home at
12:00 am
and her father soundly beat her.
Understandably.
24 hours...
Hanna skipped the first two classes and arrived at school at
11:49 am
She made out with her first boyfriend, Marcus, behind the dark school stairs during lunch.
Than, at
1:46 pm
during Calculus, Angela, her best friend, subtly slipped
some **** into her knockoff bag.
At
10:35 pm
Hanna fell asleep reading Hamlet.
12 hours...
Hanna found out Angela was in a serious street accident yesterday, but she had made it.
Yet, she decided no to visit and go to school
solving Angela's problems for her.
30 minutes...
Hanna broke up with Marcus and went back to those same stairs to think.
15 minutes...
She picked herself up, but left behind her knockoff.
2 minutes...
She decided not to pickup her brother.
Almost...
There...
Instantaneously.
Now Hanna exists only in our minds,
only to really live through my mouth.
Where she was last, her toes were bare,
her knees bent.
A classic diver's pose;
arms out.
A perfect splash, barely caused a ripple.
The audience, a monarch, flitting through and quiet.
May 8, 2015
May 8, 2015 at 6:35 AM UTC
.
I remember that old electric guitar,
no name brand, a Fender knockoff,
stripped and painted
to look like an American flag
because Peter Fonda made it cool
That Silvertone amp, volume cranked
reverb, two inputs, tubes, bass, treble,
when Sears was the place where
music dreams came alive
because Dad had a credit card
Out in my parent’s garage,
Skippy on drums and John on bass
Wearing shades in the dark like John Kay
A tape recorder mike hanging from the ceiling
Playing “The Pusher” at all hours
Until the neighbors called my mom
and we had to shut the door
or turn it down, we shut the door
Black light posters, an old couch,
power saws and Christmas decorations
We were gonna be stars, rock stars
Chicks would dig us and guys would envy us
Our hair down to our shoulders
Incense to hide certain smells
Bad *** wasn’t even a term yet, but we were
Patch covered jeans, zig zag
and faded denim jackets,
peace signs and headbands,
Santana and Arlo, “Alice’s Restaurant”
Nothing could stop us
I remember that old electric guitar,
the guys are gone now, not dead, just gone
I can still hear Alvin Lee rocking “I’m coming home”
But somewhere along the line I got old (grew up)
when I wasn’t paying attention I guess
I still wear my hair a little long, a little
and I have nice collection of guitars
But that “Rock Star” dream faded long ago
Now I carry a different instrument,
I carry a pen...
and it’s a name brand pen
Sep 20, 2016
Sep 20, 2016 at 3:24 PM UTC
I went around handing pieces of myself out like Halloween candy.
I was sweet as I could be, a cheap knockoff brand, with a sour punch but the best of intentions.
But candy is not filling or satisfying and nobody wants a knockoff.
What you'll remember most is the not so sweet kick and the belly ache full of regret you were left with afterwards because you bit off more than you could chew.
Now I'm left with nothing but giant holes, shaped like cavities
And no hope of being whole again.
May 19, 2015
May 19, 2015 at 11:13 PM UTC
on the Earth, some need a heaven and hell above,
which suits the powered up reigning status quo rulers,
promising that by being just and docile,
one will earn frequent flyer life miles
to a destination ticketed & named,
but not by actual visitation,
a return confirmation, never
some take your self-love as their own idea,
reselling it over and over again back to you
but know that when you sing your own song,
the discoverable truth is we all
get to go to sort of a sanctuary,
especially if you record-keep your flaws,
in order to constantly reinvent yourself
in order to
reach some kind of agreement with yourself
human gravity is hard enough to escape so travel light,
shed those skins over and over again,
each a modest improvement sequentially,
leave your exited charred speech behind,
knockoff the blackened flaking edges, a discarded cutaway,
this way to transcend phony notion redemption requirements,
redemption
is a toxic emblem, a symbol unrequited and a sucker’s play
I am the spirit of another’s name, who, here to teach,
this being today’s lesson;
how to reach your unique
truth sanctuary,
where the stronghold of who you yet-to-be, can-be awaits,
the reinventing ones, successful, some call poets,
they do not confuse redemption requests
with sanctuary
only provisioned
by yourself,
for yourself
Jun 21, 2019
Jun 21, 2019 at 3:46 PM UTC
scared is not
a good enough
word for how
i'm feeling
peeking through
a crack in the
curtain of who
i am as a person
*(like a dumb
teenage boy
hoping to see
some girl's skin)*
and being
surprised to find
the lights on and
no one home
*(not that i should
find that surprising
when i haven't seen
myself around town)*
like i moved onto
the back porch of
a stranger and never
went back home
*(sleeping in the weather
and knowing that i've
chosen to be homeless
in pursuit of a feeling)*
trapped in a
small town
by small mentalities
of who i should be
getting drunk and
laid while wishing
i was burning trash
alone in the woods
*(the long
and short
of it is
i lost myself
or that i never really
had myself at all)*
**we hold onto
things and places
people and faces
that feel like home
even if we don't love them
even if they don't love us
because we want security
while growing up**
*(can't shake the memories
from dresses hanging
in the backs of closets
clinging like that knockoff
pink perfume that took
last shreds of innocence)*
and i'm scared
i'm ******* scared
of being
okay
because i've hung
onto my sadness
like i hung onto
an old hoodie
*(walked hand in
hand with darkness
the only thing i've
always had to fall on)*
and now i'm standing
tapping on the window
trying to figure out if
the person i'm looking
for is hiding behind the
stacked moving boxes
if they were ever here
in the first place
i don't see her
but i have to find her
and i can't escape
i can only drag
myself up with a
questionable safety harness
determination and
broken fingernails
**this is ativan up
not ativan out**
Oct 11, 2016
Oct 11, 2016 at 11:07 PM UTC
I walked into the party
Looked as if there was a hundred people eating calamari
As I scan the room
I see a man and my head went kaboom
I couldn't take my eyes off
I keep checking him out up and down and all around he definitely wasn't a knockoff
He was so **** mouthwatering delicious
At that point I knew I had no conscientious
As my eyes slowly go up his perfect body
Only stopping visually taking it all in his body was smoother than Bacardi
My eyes finally are on his neck
Then those **** lips was like a beautiful landing strip
As I got to his eyes
I realized he was staring right at my supplies
I walked slowly never taking my eyes off his eyes
He never took his eyes off me either oh what a prize
I reach to the corner of the bar
He holds out his big **** hand took ahold of my hand and planted a soft kiss on my scar
I wasn't much into one night stands
But I knew I was all in 100 percent with no demands
As we talked and had a few drinks
Enjoying soft kisses and giving winks
This **** perfect man
Had my whole body melting like quicksand
We decided to leave the party
Went to my room hale and hearty
I was so infatuated with this man
When he touched my body I just melted like pecans
Oh his soft kisses
Made my body quiver and gushed
Oh it wasn't love at first site
It was lust with such delight
It was the best one night stand I ever had
With a man I never knew anything about but was highly ranked
Maybe that's what made it so memorable
That's why it was so sensual and incredible
Jan 28, 2017
Jan 28, 2017 at 10:50 AM UTC
I don't think I'm capable of love,
Not the real thing at least .
What I can give is a knockoff, and never the real thing.
So I'm sorry if I make you cry, I'm sorry if I've wasted your time.
I'm sorry that I'm scared of giving my love out, and not receiving a reply.
I'm sorry that I am only human and being scared to love in a world of hate, is self preservation for me.
Not Loving keeps me from feeling pain, keeps me from hate, it keeps me alive.
I'm sorry.
Jul 15, 2013
Jul 15, 2013 at 10:52 PM UTC
There is a boy at work with laughter that feels like October. Kind eyes hidden behind shy smiles and butterfly wings for eyelashes. He makes early mornings feel like Christmas, I can’t be sad when I’m around him. When he’s beside me I forget everything that has ever hurt me. But there’s a girl with blonde hair and green eyes, a girl that radiates positivity and beauty. We’re almost the same but she’s so much better. I didn’t know it was possible to be a knockoff of yourself before I met her. She holds his heart and it stings to know that I’ll never be the one to see him smile in moonlight or hear him sing in the shower. Autumn boy you make me feel alive again, but your beautiful girl makes you feel immortal and I could never compete.
Sep 22, 2019
Sep 22, 2019 at 10:54 AM UTC
SENTENCING
I understand a thief picking my pocket
Or sneaking in at night to burglarize
I understand prestidigitation tricks
Seeming miracles before my eyes.
It is easy to understand a robber
The holdup of some passerby.
They don’t have a conscience so
They don’t even have to try.
I understand the bullies in schools
The ones who disrespect the rules.
Probably their parents were creeps
Abused them while they would sleep.
The kids can become nasty, and mean.
It’s high on the list of evil I’ve seen.
Because to abuse a child is a sin
And it ruins the child before it begins.
It makes sense for bad butchers
To carve off a bit from the customers
Especially if they never get caught;
It is very much the way they were taught.
It’s so much like those confidence men
Take money their marks won’t see again.
And creeps sell phony knockoff goods.
All kinds of bastardy comes out of the woods.
But, I can’t understand the people who
Make huge money off all that they do
To sell their fellow countrymen out.
That is a very special kind of lout.
The kind that get elected to high office
And behave in a way that is lawless.
These people stole everything they got.
They deserve to be taken out and shot.
Brent Kincaid
3/16/2015
Mar 17, 2015
Mar 17, 2015 at 12:24 AM UTC
Why would anyone
Want the knockoff
When they could have
Something better
They ignore me
Only noticing when
They want something
Being a knockoff *****
You're alway compared
To the original
Jan 23, 2015
Jan 23, 2015 at 10:06 PM UTC
I woke up this morning
joyfully happily
The only though that runs through
My mind is you
Let be naught
Let get drunk and play stupid
Let feel the intoxication
No communication
Let screen till both knockoff
Let be naught
I wanna do everything with you
The **** of love is burning down my throat
Blow me off
Pant off
boxer off
and braless
Let be naught serious for once
It feels good
Jan 19, 2019
Jan 19, 2019 at 9:12 PM UTC
When love is in the air,
check first,
it might be a
knockoff
deodorant.
Dec 15, 2016
Dec 15, 2016 at 2:08 PM UTC