"marketable" poems
Money melting in a spoon,
let's shoot it into our veins.
Flashing Kardashian lights,
streaming into our brains.
Donald Trump! He's our man!
Mark Muslims is the plan!
All-you-can-eat-
Pile. It. The. **** High.
When you walk or
When you talk,
let the words squeak out
like they're between
Your thighs.
Thighs. American thighs,
Dreaming next to our Calvins.
Our slacktivism, our regurgitated ideas
spitballing out of our McDonald's mouths
into our peers' ears, distilled by years
And years of "almost-knowledge"
that we quasi-ascertained,
if we knew what that meant --
but we've been left behind!
No child left the **** behind!
We were left behind and there's no
possible way we slacked off, that we're dumb,
that we aren't the movie stars destined for
Lamborghini cars, five-star bars, designer bodies
for designer you and designer me:
the most special of the unique, the
Pearls that have been made in the
darkest parts of the sea, the darkest parts of
origin. Origin. ****** ****
American **** virginal ideals sliding around
the muck of a marketable **** fuckfest,
******* of the American mind, the
congratulations of the American ego,
the proud mother and father tears associated with
buying and lying, "trying" and frying our food,
our ideas, our friends, our neo-impressionistic
children in Jordans, skinny jeans, on tumblr:
the unknowing cousin of Fox News, surprised
by its own wit and wisdom: they're ******* twins.
Carbon copies, unknowing, unwilling, un-un-un.
The romanticism of mental illness.
The close-up of reality-tv emotion.
The manipulation taught to servers
from managers.
The manipulation taught to customers
from society.
All we care about is **** image, and ***
Self-preservation: **** Donald Trump
and **** you.
Apr 20, 2016
Apr 20, 2016 at 12:39 AM UTC
Homelessness can strike anyone at any given time
It could be due to any situation that is combined
No one wants to live on the streets
It is often written about within tweets
Mental illness a sickness that most homeless have
It was not some gift
Don’t look down on homeless like they are a drift
We are not far away
There are many words I could say
Homelessness from city to city that has spread all around
We are all just seconds from being homeless bound
One day noises being unknown, but continuous echoes not having any sounds
Scenery being nothing more than subway rides
Walking and talking to one’s self being strides
Having no place with a home to eat
Movement after continuous movement being a retreat
Homeless living in cardboard boxes being home
Having no family, but feeling alone
Homeless are citizens too
Solutions to homeless problems is what is truly due
Forcing homeless into shelters is not the action to take
No one has an answer because they can’t relate
A more marketable approach would be the motivation needed
It’s the only way to proceed
Homelessness is dark ages of dungeons of the unknown
An open heart that needs to be shown
Remember homeless didn’t put this act on themselves
They were rejected by means of somebody else
Society has labeled them having no social place
My thoughts this needs to be erased
Also added that homeless are a waste
But society must have compassion and not be haste
A homeless town being still around
What would it take to hear the homeless voices justice sounds?
Jan 9, 2016
Jan 9, 2016 at 2:48 PM UTC
Solo, like Star Wars or women's soccer
I sit on a ***** chair with pure liquor
sealed from the rest of the world
Numb, like Linkin Park or lithium
they hold my wallet like it's a gun;
want to use it to gauge my meaning.
If you want a dollar, babe, then
you gotta work to separate
yourself from everything sane
or how else can you gain
the feelings you see on t.v.,
what E! says is reality--
because you're told that's
what matters, entirely.
Identity; conform to be something
marketable -- or, at the very least,
conventional. I want my insides
to be considered pretty, but
I'd have to hope someone
would give the effort to
cut me open and ignore the joy
that my bleeding out would bring.
May 11, 2017
May 11, 2017 at 9:28 PM UTC
Image based, and
position placed,
to keep society spaced,
image of peace erased.
Individuals put in groups,
separated by bodies,
as Congress lobbies,
preparing forbidden fruits.
People told to turn a blind eye.
Focused on the one atop the pyramid.
"Spend greenbacks, don't sigh!"
These are government truths!
Not a marketable lie!
Human soul for sale;
morals thrown out to no avail.
Industry infiltrates and states:
Conformity: You'll win, not fail.
Sep 29, 2012
Sep 29, 2012 at 3:34 PM UTC
My fingers cannot scale a melody
or take a rule across lands, to the sea
and back again. My fingers have never
pressed these strings into sounds worthwhile,
nor have they ever held a person's hand
and not felt utterly incapable of human touch.
These fingers know only strength in binding;
in fidget and rhyme, as I try to structure confusion
into something marketable. If nothing else though,
these fingers can roll a mean joint, and hold a
beer bottle so precisely to these lips.
Apr 2, 2014
Apr 2, 2014 at 1:18 PM UTC
Don't "take" action...it doesn't belong to you.
Don't "take" action..."make" it instead.
Radioactive Reaction...I, Radio Re-Active
We make, Radioaction.
Iconoclashing against a faction Hell bent on Heaven sentiment.
Fictional filament tethered to the Town Hall Square Circular non-secular content.
Stitching Supra-stitious suspicion.
Weaving away, in the name of good faith.
Imperial pillows to suffocate un-resting heads
blankets of banners-it's story time to go to bed.
Yet here i sit...reaction-ing in script.
Creating activity...through creativity.
Cre-activity.
Recreational reaction.
Revolutionary open-caption inking passion with a digital pen.
"Make me"...such a passive statement with such a threatening proposal...a posing promise...a convenient conviction to tend.
A submissive request to influence choice over chance.
Change over circumstance...situational aggressive targets
subjectively objectifying a marketable stance.
"Make" action...don't just take it
Only then will it be yours to keep.
Jun 18, 2010
Jun 18, 2010 at 9:08 AM UTC
Took a trip on the Belafonte,
Bound with Cuba to forgotten Sanz.
Dinning on tin canned Del Monte,
A glass of Suntory always in hands.
Lloyd Faversham gifted salacious devices by John Cleese.
Used as props in Mike’s next gin stained showpiece.
The drum-line seemed irksome to J. Jonah.
He’d heard Zach Hill before.
Given limited time, despite the persona.
Interstellar fault found in a **** metaphor.
A swift change to an even more marketable sound.
Sparks didn’t fly when trying to appear profound.
Tiny teen dreams tending to tiny skirts.
Fidgeting with the hem-line.
Their just unintelligible flirts.
Stripping to avoid the breadline.
Dystopian fiction led to dissolution of fact
Can’t seem to see their world isn’t intact.
Atwood to Collins, Collins to a stupid ******* maze.
Alternate choice being a criminal thrill.
Simplistic fantasy whose only benefit is praise.
Popular opinion seems to be well over the hill.
May 14, 2015
May 14, 2015 at 5:52 PM UTC
Somedays I don't feel like writing
and it worries me because
'Writers write everday --
real ones, at least.'
I fear being ordinary,
which is tasteless because
maybe being ordinary
is what I need.
The appeal of snapbacks
and hipster haircuts
is starting to make more sense.
Blending into a crowd
might suit me better;
to be invisible but
to no longer be insecure.
Rap lyrics make more sense,
even though I can't relate;
these words are my sedation,
these clothes aren't armor
but marketable camouflage.
My words have been said before,
but that might be okay because
I'd hate to torment myself
wondering about my relevance.
So, to move on, I write,
and I write, and I write
to pander and to conform.
Substituting thought for
appealing diction and
strong imagery, afraid
to show myself because
maybe you're too much
like me, which, surely,
would eat me alive.
Jul 22, 2016
Jul 22, 2016 at 10:49 PM UTC
When I was a little girl, I wanted to be a veterinarian in Australia.
It wasn't long until I realized I was horrible at science.
Then, I wanted to be a ballerina and twirl around just like the girl in my music box.
I then discovered that gravity had too much of a pull on me. The only twirling I did was face first towards the ground.
So what would my new dream be?
A carpenter?
A garbage person?
...a baker?
An actor? Yes. An actor.
...
Someone once told me, "if you have a fall back plan, you'll always fall back on it."
But I'm starting to believe what they said is true.
...
Your dreams are what you use to tuck yourself in at night after you've spent your entire day living in "the real world" surrounded by people who have lost the ability to dream.
...
But it's hard to know which dreams are yours when everyone is telling you what you should be.
...
Someone whispering, "you'll be unhappy. You only think this is what you want. Be a doctor. Or be a lawyer."
What if you fail?
What if you fail?
What if you fail?
What if you fail?
What if you fail?
What if I don't?
...
I started caring more about how many figures I would make a year and less about how many sounds I could put in my times step.
More about what would make me more marketable to be hired and less about How much of my vocal range I could showcase in 16 bars.
These are the dreams I have lost.
These are the dreams I have traded.
I have traded my dandelion wishes and my butterfly kisses for nothing more than a nine to five job.
And I have traded my wish upon a star and my Neverland for a house in the suburbs where everyone shares the same dream.
I became so consumed with fitting myself into this box that I forgot how big the box could be.
It doesn't matter WHAT you're supposed to be. It matters who you were MEANT to be.
...
When I was this high...
I no longer had a star in my night sky to wish upon.
I no longer had a million dandelion wishes.
Only a million weeds.
....
Someone once told me, "if you have a fall back plan..."
I won't trade my fairytales, childhood wishes, butterfly kisses, and dreams for everything else.
I will trade everything else for the chance to dream.
Nov 6, 2013
Nov 6, 2013 at 10:49 AM UTC
There was a time when I was worried about the future.
It seemed all my plans I had spent years making were gone.
I had so many ideas of what would be, decided.
With great thought and consideration, I chose to abandon it all.
I chose to take the present as an indication that the future I had planned
Would not be the future I would meet in time passing.
So I burned it to the ground.
I found myself in a place of uncertainty.
Where would I go?
What would I do?
Now nothing was set in stone.
So I took to the present.
I took to working on me; in hopes to bring a future worth living.
I chose to work on my body,
For a healthier, stronger, better me
I chose to focus on school,
For a smarter, more marketable self
I chose to get lost in composing,
For my soul, my emotions, my creativity
I chose to be with you,
For my happiness,
For a better everything.
My future hasn't become more certain.
I didn't make better plans.
I’m making a better man.
So that no matter where I find myself
I can be the best I can.
Jun 17, 2013
Jun 17, 2013 at 2:05 PM UTC
Ask me what kind of **** I am into
And I will take you on a magical journey
To fanfiction dot com backslash Harry Potter backslash NC17
What turns me on is Ginny Weasely in the restricted section
With her skirt hiked up;
Sirius Black in a secret passage way,
Solemnly swearing that he is up to no good;
And Draco Malfoy in the room of requirement slithering in to my Chamber of Secrets;
I am an unapologetic consumer of all things Potterotica,
And the sexiest part
Is not the way Cho Chang rides that broomstick
Or the sounds of Myrtle moaning,
The sexiest part is knowing
That they are part of a bigger story;
That they exist beyond eight minutes in ***** ***** Gang Bang,
That their kegels are not the strongest thing about them,
And still I am told
That my **** is ‘unrealistic’.
Not quite as ****** as flashing ads saying 'just turned 18’
So you can fantasize about ******* the youngest girl you won’t go to jail for.
I’m told that my **** isn’t quite as lifelike
As a room full of lesbians begging for ****
Told that this is what is supposed to turn me on.
Don’t you give me raw meat
And tell me it is nourishment,
I know a slaughterhouse when I see one.
It looks like 24/7 live streaming
Reminding me that men are going to **** me whether I like it or not,
That there is one use for my mouth and it is not speaking,
That a man is at his most powerful when he’s got a woman by the hair.
The first time a man I loved held me by the wrists
And called me a *****
I did not think 'run’,
I thought 'this is just like the movies’
I know a slaughterhouse when I see one.
It looks like websites and seminars teaching you how to **** more *******
Looks like fifteen-year-old boys bullied for being virgins,
It looks like the man who did not flinch
When I said stop and he heard 'try harder’.
If you play-act at butchery long enough
You grow used to the sounds of screaming,
It is just a side effect of industry;
Everything gets cut into small, marketable pieces.
I will not practice ****** hands
I will not make believe dissected women,
My *** cannot be packaged
My *** is magic
It is part of a bigger story
I am whole
I exist when you are not ******* me
And I will not be cut into pieces any more.
Apr 4, 2018
Apr 4, 2018 at 5:42 PM UTC
No late fees.
Low interest.
Borrowed money,
on loan, on their time.
Credit to the blue collar
workers who pays their bills
on time.
Save minimum wage or
incur a fine.
To keep big business profitable,
they must nickel and dime.
People are in the practice
of pinching pennies,
with hopes of avoiding
suited enemies.
Prosperity and posterity
is now a foreign concept,
or spoken in a different language.
The idea of it is sent overseas,
as third world countries
receive a taste of a marketable life.
Some assembly required.
Passivity admired.
Independence goes in the vault.
Lock and key.
Land of the fee.
Well, free with an
additional purchase
or the start of a new account.
Better to have you accounted for.
Better to put all of their eggs in one basket.
A basket that is fashioned
in another country.
For a country
that is going to hell,
and can't afford
the casket.
Apr 23, 2013
Apr 23, 2013 at 6:16 PM UTC
black chile o' mine...
the unfulfilled dream of slaves
and martyrs
the envy of restiviks
and refugees worldwide
who'd risk life and limb
for a slice of your pie
and your choice of a
learning tree to climb
or pepperoni
a marketable skill
with cheese
or a street hustle
on the side
black chile o' mine...
on line since yesterday
for new kicks by mj
and kanye
blowing stacks on grills
and transient thrills
to impress
quoting 2 chainz
and ti
like scripture
twiddling thumbs stuck
on virtual play
deep into school nights
classroom eyes
sleep-deprived
dotting "t's" and crossing "i's"
and you wonder why
black chile o' mine
ain't on spelling bees
like kumar khan
and lisa lee
why the pen
not the pullitzer prize
fits the hidden script
written in cursive
between typed lines
black chile o' mine...
flashing gang signs
and guns
on facebook
tweeting
net lingo typos
on twitter
while the good books
with master keys
to unlock unlimited potential
and fulfill
the dream of slaves
gather dust...
you betta get your act right!
back chile o' mine...
~ P
(7/19/2013)
Jul 20, 2013
Jul 20, 2013 at 5:46 PM UTC
In youth, I bathed in television glow,
literature but some passing fragment
of old humanity; irrelevant
cries from sad-eyed, androgynous poets.
Yet, birthed from a collective klaxon of
marketable, modern joy, I found my
voice unremarkable when out of text.
Lacking magnificence; I turn to words.
Dec 27, 2013
Dec 27, 2013 at 3:22 PM UTC
Wake up and I swallow
Instagram reels and dry pills
to help feel less hollow
Bite into tender flesh
sip on my blood coffee
their pain is still so fresh
New phone every new year
six marketable colors
screams fall on a deaf ear
My hair begins, thins out
checking all the labels
ingredients I do doubt
All we do is consume
no matter what the cost
dead families, no tomb
Wake up and listen in
They don't care about us
Money hungry eat skin
Nov 21, 2023
Nov 21, 2023 at 12:48 AM UTC
So lamentable,
poetry is not marketable.
Not worth making haste
to conform to public taste.
In the final analysis,
path to financial paralysis,
is the poet's life
No worldly gains, only strife.
Jul 16, 2019
Jul 16, 2019 at 9:37 PM UTC
The years have passed
I thought they mattered
In sleeping so long
I come disappointed
Hip leading foot
Perpetually faster
Downhill
The fads have passed
I thought they would end
Well,
in sleeping so long
I come disappointed
Kicking up trash
Plastered in faces
Pretty in package
Marketable mouths
Dripping lips
Told what to say before
they understand a thing.
The years have passed
I thought they mattered
In sleeping so long
I come disappointed
Hip leading foot
Perpetually faster
Downhill
Your best friend sells sugar for pennies
and you say it's dirt cheap when you
know full well that you can find
sweetness herself in leaves.
In the near distance fires light
the violent sky, violet-black
in the orange-red we see
when we shut our
open eyes.
We always saw this coming
as our masters asked it
from us, but the
master never
was there
when
we
c
r
i
e
d
Take my money take my soul
give me level ups lest I
cry again.
.number crunch.
.number cruncher.
.number crunch.
The new human condition
took weakness as a sign.
We are marked better dead
than alive
by
The World Above
May 14, 2018
May 14, 2018 at 6:57 PM UTC
What stands guaranteed?
The moon's drifting away, oh
inconstant cosmos.
Gravity fights us,
taxes come due, boys will ******
some things are certain.
What about love? We
need extended warranties
for consumer faith.
Permanent pressed
love - no crumpled hopes
- investor safety.
“Love bonds”, or "emo-
care?” No worry, we’ll find a
marketable name...
Nov 3, 2020
Nov 3, 2020 at 7:32 AM UTC
I thought
Pipe-fed freedoms
Would stay at bay
Behind minds fretting needlessly
Then I was told to buy a lottery ticket
I supposed
My wasted wants
Would keep in my sleep
Beneath griefs of weakness I'd never possess
Then I discovered I'm one more normal mind
I believed
'My' graceful gods
Were lame in their frame
Below fallow understandings in flaking canvases
Then I was told what to believe
I refused
And was suddenly different
Shown the ropes of a living wage
Pariah,
Burned alive
until I was so different
I was marketable
People came to me
And suddenly I was someone
Suddenly I was understandable
Like never I was as one of dissonance within -
One of picture frames without, the label
'Vive le différence,
Ici ça meurt'.
Jun 16, 2017
Jun 16, 2017 at 7:33 PM UTC
Once upon a time
he accused me
of finding him marketable,
but I swear,
if I had twelve of him
I'd still keep a dozen.
One for each month of
the year, so when one
wore out
I'd cycle that clout
every other moon.
Dec 10, 2015
Dec 10, 2015 at 1:38 PM UTC
I turn to my left , my reflective portrait in a five and dime piece of 'artwork'.. A stunned , graying anomaly going eye to eye with his namesake ...
Thumbing through 'fish wrapper' trying to make myself believe
a masterpiece is lying at the bottom , something to occupy a lonely wall
in a forgotten room ..
Something I've been guilty of many times over the years ...
Hanging on to things that have zero significance , working hard to remain ' Vital , Marketable and Practical' for wolves and robots who were oarless in the deep end of the lake , basically committed to my destruction with no clue for independent thinking , creativity or even grade school logic for that matter .. Tonight I think I'll leave the 'Van Gogh's and the Monet's' here at the store , head back home and write this poem in black marker on that 'lonely wall ..'
Feb 22, 2016
Feb 22, 2016 at 7:48 PM UTC
Court is now in session
We are suspended business men
And teenage film stars
We are more marketable this way
Won't you take my word for it
All your wisdom is absurd
And a burden to your bank accounts
As the sounds of mountains
Are firmly standing up to bullies
We are millions of years older
Folding stock markets and overcoats
Wearing sweatshirts and sandals
Morning is our only time to pray
As we stray into the wilderness
Fences learn to keep their distances
And forensics is our only evidence
Regarding the dangers
Of too much living on display
Aug 30, 2019
Aug 30, 2019 at 5:00 PM UTC
Depressed are my poets
because they lack the marketable skills
of my singer-songwriter friends
who, though they are still poets, at least
can play in a band or be staff writer
at some boring record label.
You know the place, where
good art goes to die.
It’s stripped and beaten,
forced into some man’s pocket book,
which consequently gets shoved
into the pocket of his sports coat.
But even the poet doesn’t get
such awful treatment. No, the poet
puts out a few lines to be read by who?
No one. That’s who. Just a few other
lonely writers on a forum - that’s who’s
interested in poetry these days.
Feb 27, 2018
Feb 27, 2018 at 10:53 PM UTC
How I wish to disappear
completely, to unplug fully,
til I shut down-deep-withdrawn
and there focus on something
that's more internal
and less commercial,
less self-evidently marketable -
something less brand
and more a brand new venture,
out of sight, of mind
and of a sense of duty
to myself,
to the me I left behind -
somewhere less,
somewhere small,
where the music inside
was clearer
and nearer
to the first bars
of the first song
when I first sang along.
Oh, how can I disappear
completely and get myself ready
for my next swan song?
Feb 27, 2018
Feb 27, 2018 at 4:21 PM UTC