"marketed" poems
Orange capsules of condensed vitamin C
Tumble out onto my cracked,
Outstretched palm,
As I arch my spine towards the bathroom sink,
Scooping lukewarm water from the faucet
Into my half closed mouth-
The tiny pills clog my upturned throat:
Just two of the numerous solutions
To a world too numb
To contest.
I've never felt more alive,
Than when I'm drowning my body
With handfuls of tap water
And magic remedies bottled up and
Marketed to a world
Afraid of growing old.
Lining the wall of local drug stores,
One isle over from office supplies
And scented laundry detergent.
Multicolored, multipurpose-
Labels proclaim the fountain of youth
To anyone alive enough to fear it.
There's never enough of reality
To reach our depleted veins
Through the ever present forms
Of the world. Enough isn't
Enough, until we've convoluted it into a tiny
Plastic oval, and forced it down the throats
Of those well enough to swallow it.
Pharmaceutical companies proclaim their
Daily gospel in the linoleum streets
Of hospital waiting rooms
And local grocery stores,
As I cross my heart and count the
Hours until my next prescribed dose
Of complacency. Who knew happiness
Could have the bitter after taste of
Vitamin B or
The credibility of Zoloft.
The sandman has been replaced by Benadryl,
While creativity lies stagnant
Beneath adderall's indifferent thumb.
Obsession is a 26 letter alphabet,
Strung together by a bunch of deficiencies,
Incoherently droning on
To the burden of Man,
And flickering neon light
Of a drive-thru pharmacy.
Sep 26, 2013
Sep 26, 2013 at 1:41 AM UTC
In department store foyers, free samples sprayed,
A collision of cosmetics muddle the air.
The olfactory overpowered by such obvious odours,
Why do natural notes disconcert you?
Not the gym heavy sodden or overworked,
Recognition of an individual, whilst eyes remain shut.
Faint trace of the familiar or frenzied pheromones,
A headiness misplaced by the cologne wearing clones
Preference for the perfumed, the artificial sweetener.
Marketed meticulously
Musk manufactured yet not made by man
Of flowers dear, of oils and compounds.
Fresh, fruity, citrus or spiced
Artificial aromas keep your own scent disguised
Society simulates this sophistication of the senses,
Masking yourself from me as you are wooed,
Accustomed to this attraction, till you let down your defences
How shall I know you when you are ****
Oct 30, 2012
Oct 30, 2012 at 6:10 PM UTC
Tales marketed at the edge of all existence,
formulated by mass hysteria
and poverty
spit from the grinded ideals of our fathers
but our fathers were twisted and aged-
but our mothers,
our mothers
whom were convicted as the criminally insane
and held at a lower standard
knew the future,
they knew we would crumble,
that we must crumble.
For it has been predicted since ancient times
that mankind would fall
but the fall was blamed on Gods
and those of a higher power
because they could not believe
that man would wound himself,
slowly poison himself until he drags
his black and blue skin across the lands
and eats all he sees,
gorging himself till he bursts
and drowns our cities in his impurities.
Funny,
built like monkeys we are fools,
but more to the liking of our pink skin
we are pigs at heart
Oct 25, 2013
Oct 25, 2013 at 1:41 AM UTC
"The eyes are the windows to the soul"
good thing I have pretty blue eyes?
******** The soul is the window to the soul
peeked into by watching a life.
Where does the self reside?
in a cardboard box body
dimples marketed to be cherished
a full lipped smile, irises to beguile
this image, lottery identity-
Mine?
Am I supposed to feel lucky?
Arbitrary proportions, is my soul a brunette
are its shoes size 9?
Some assembly required- to be human
words writ to describe this shell
this meaningless husk
puppet jesting at life
feverishly polishing itself
until it cracks, breaks
abstract and
lost.
Does the self wear a top hat
and say: "Here's a hundred years to sell out the show"
"Til death do us part,
my perfection and my soul."
I'll lay out the patio so nicely
they'll never even realize
the host is in absencia, has hidden deep inside
I curse myself for the illusion of aesthetic-
Beauty is the greatest lie
Rid me of the irons to
my body
my name
my poise
imprisoned in this wretched skeleton,
the cage of the soul, the self, the someone
in embryo form
dreaming they're awake
but have never even opened their eyes.
May 4, 2012
May 4, 2012 at 9:58 PM UTC
The chorus of Katy Perry's song "unconditionally" is written in the future tense. "I will love you unconditionally." This implies that current circumstances preclude love. In other words, her love is subject to conditions.
She goes on to suggest "open up your heart and let it begin."
In other words, her love will become available if and when the subject decides to receive and/or reciprocate it. This sounds like the opposite of unconditional love.
She also repeats many times "there is no fear now." Irregardless of whether she is referring to herself or the subject of her affection, it sounds like there is in fact a lot of fear insecurity and reluctance on both sides. Perhaps this was supposed to highlight the wishful thinking of a person in this situation. Perhaps this whole song is a sardonic analysis of unhealthy, obsessive, unrequited love and how difficult it is to be objective under these conditions. Or maybe Katy Perry doesn't care that her young female fan base will listen to this song and see nothing unreasonable about it. Or maybe it's like the movie Shrek where it's fun for the kids but also has some elements that only adults will understand. Maybe Katy Perry is a gifted lyricist allowing millions of people with different amounts of life experience to listen to her songs and all hear a different message. Maybe the apparent banality of her music actually allows it to function as a sort of mental mirror, forcing people to confront their inner most thoughts. Maybe that's why her music is so popular, because everyone hears it as a harmonious duet between Katy Perry and themselves. Maybe Katy Perry is like a cool kid that's introducing us to ourselves, telling us that we're cool too. Maybe, all of her listeners, whether fans or not, have been enriched by her music.
Or maybe it's just ****** pop that has been marketed very effectively.
Oct 24, 2013
Oct 24, 2013 at 10:26 PM UTC
the traditional Western narrative,
basically ending where it started;
which is why Hollywood can tell
the exact same story over & over
knowing its toolbox consists only
of cliches & stereotypes; there is
never any originality in corporate
product marketed just to fill space
Jul 26, 2018
Jul 26, 2018 at 9:29 PM UTC
Hold up with that block chain
conflicted economy
keep up the complaints gain
Fall in line with wannabes
Situate yourself into a failing position
Cross the line of chance and miracles without decision
Are you listening to the rhythm or are you trying to glisten on
Shining blindin yourself and everyone you’re walk-in on
Hold a second crazy cuz I’m busy for your hazy mess
Crowded in my head but world is filled with emptiness
Glamour baby
Watch out
Tear at the game
Hear them shout
Test my circuits
Freak out
Sparkin in your eyes
Get down
I’m searching for equality, but let me play don’t bother me
Addicted to the gifted that you try to clone in quantity
Sober up while gettin lit
Fill our cup don’t ever quit
Seeking self control inside of every little hit
Spare the change
Stay the same
It’s a **** shame
We’re all insane
Can’t contain
Past remains
Thinking that we like the pain
Universal consciousness
Never kiss
Heavens bliss
Shake the earth with every moment captivated by a wish
Cold and calculated marketed discrimination
Switch the station work do wages go through phases different stages
Visitation rights to our ancestors blight
Fuel fire engaged engines blast and burn it bright
Out of sight
Out of energy
Not quite, close so let it be
Do you feel me
Come fair to be free
work the weight til they bury me
Commemorate the warriors, fighting behind enemy lines, with idols and worshippers for a war designed to ruin all sides
Guinea pigs
Flipping tricks
Scary that we handle bricks
Galactic motivation cuz they know there’s something more than this
Space it out
Dimension strong
Definitive in guessing the irony of being wrong
Template made
Run the track
Tie shoes or you may never come back
Lock and load
Here we go
Infinity
Now end this show
Mar 11, 2019
Mar 11, 2019 at 1:25 PM UTC
Imagine it's all a faze, that it will all fade
Stop.
Cease.
Halt.
END.
Dirt filled shoes, and grass weaved hair
Fierce eyes that won't free their gaze
Fierce hands that won't grasp the emptiness they hold.
Fall for shame that consumes the pride
that's willingly left up for grabs,
Bare.
Vulnerable.
Marketed.
Ready to be diddled, fiddled and bargained.
Hold them coins high
Watch them turn to ash
Feel, as the wind filters through your fingers
and from your hand, the I-couldn't-care-less set of mind
take its place among the synapses that are
cut and restrung,
erased and retraced.
Fall for shame so that you know your chest cavity center piece
still feels as it should,
when worn on your sleeve.
Maybe, if you can regain pride
If you consume shame
If you kick of those shoes and kiss the dirt
Gold will become like coal
And the wind like a string of pearls.
Oct 6, 2012
Oct 6, 2012 at 10:02 AM UTC
ALL THE WORLD'S A STAGE
Where every scene from every play
Ever written flows seamlessly into
Each other in no particular order
ALL THE WORLD'S A ****** MYSTERY
Where everyone’s a probable suspect
Including the investigating officers
Playwrights and audience
Yet we’re all sure we know whodunit
ALL THE WORLD'S A COMEDY OR STAND-UP ACT
Where everyone’s a dressed-down clown
Even the straight man and the cast and crew
And everyone plagiarizes the punch-lines
ALL THE WORLD'S A PASSION PLAY
Where everyone’s a martyr
Even the judge and executioners
And the messiah must be
A flavour of the week superstar
ALL THE WORLD'S A SOAP OPERA OR CRIME DRAMA
Where the cast doesn’t realise
They aren't wearing any clothing
Even though they are seasoned
And respected award winning actors
And the show is being marketed as pornographic
ALL THE WORLD'S AN OFFICIAL DOCUMENTARY
Where everyone’s the subject
Director producer and crew
As long as the camera is rolling
And it’s rolling 24/7 !
ALL THE WORLD'S A REALITY SHOW
Where everyone’s a drama queen
Including the director producer and crew
And the camera is always rolling
Even when there’s no film in it
And the props and stage are constantly being
put-up and torn down all around them
ALL THE WORLD'S A COMEDY/DRAMA
Where nothing’s really that funny
And the edginess is trite and melodramatic
Like a cast of mimes in a Shakespearean play
ALL THE WORLD'S A GAME SHOW
Where everyone is the host
Including the audience
And there are no contestants
Only models on a flashy stage.
Apr 1, 2017
Apr 1, 2017 at 2:42 AM UTC
the youngest brother loves his ladder. the oldest is barefooted and sentimental. the middle is marketed to your children and dies to put a stop to the glorification of suicide. their father knows **** well what the world thinks of them so why would he stoop to reading. the family bible isn’t a book because it knows nothing about god. mothering is not the billboard that got away.
Jan 23, 2014
Jan 23, 2014 at 4:25 PM UTC
I'm starting,
to be able to see,
I'll map it out,
I'll get back to you next week.
Do you
Believe in me?
Or am I just a ghost
We'll wait around to see
Were you,
really conceived?
Or just some accident,
Marketed history.
These walls,
they're calm and cold
Whiskey wore them down now,
And I'm slurring their notes.
Oh I'm calm and cold now,
And I'm slurring my notes
Oh I'm calm and cold now,
And I'm slurring my notes
Feb 22, 2011
Feb 22, 2011 at 10:32 AM UTC
Her Heartbeats defining my expenses
Dominating what I can hear
Water being marketed
With special additives
Lost in this world
Where getting by
Involves selling my soul
The devil having the upper hand
And I sold myself
To be relatively unknown
Within a known circle
Apr 17, 2010
Apr 17, 2010 at 6:32 PM UTC
Dear lord
she was
wholesome
before her culture was regulated,
now marketed. --
Her technological fancy
and consumer venture;
her webcam
with ripe buttock and *******
Evangelical woman hailing eretz yisrael,
equality your goal...
Ha-Shem has no equals in a global pantheon of one-worldism.
© S. Wesley Mcgranor
Feb 4, 2015
Feb 4, 2015 at 6:41 PM UTC
the youngest brother loves his ladder. the oldest is barefooted and sentimental. the middle is marketed to your children and dies to put a stop to the glorification of suicide. their father knows **** well what the world thinks of them so why would he stoop to reading. the family bible isn’t a book because it knows nothing about god. mothering is not the billboard that got away.
Jan 23, 2014
Jan 23, 2014 at 4:25 PM UTC
Holy Crap,
They Sold My Name!
No big deal, your name, your email, bought n' sold daily,
Like a baseball card, your picture and vital stats are on the internet,
Your credit card in the fine print tells you they love you much,
But the data they collect, might get credited to such and such.
You're fair game if your sign up for anything.
Now I know I am getting on in years,
Tho spry rhymes with die, I flatly deny
Any notion that
My great beyond is just around the corner!
But Holy Crap,
They Sold My Name!
Got a color brochure
Suggesting that when my travels are over,
A nice place to rest my head might be
St. Michael's Cemetery.
St. Michael's Cemetery
7202 Astoria Blvd, East Elmhurst
(718) 278-3240
Friday hours 7:00 am–5:00 pm
In case you want to check it out too...
Tho I live not in the Borough of Queens County,
My zip code but a hop, skip and jump away,
The cemetery adjacent to the Grand Central Parkway
Which is actually quite thoughtful of
The mass marketer who dreamed up this scheme
(And got paid a plentiful amount of bounty).
My kids could wave as they drive by,
On the way to LaGuardia or JFK, (airports)
And say, guilt free, they visit me regularly!
Sadly, their plot foiled,
I will be buried in
New Jersey soil,
Near to my pop, who liked the
Wide open spaces of suburbia
And shopping on Route 4,
Where the selection is great
And there is no sales tax.
But Holy Crap,
They Sold My Name,
And I am now target marketed,
Niched, pretty soon the boys from AARP
Will come calling, reminding me of the gap
Tween Medicare and the poor house!
Ok ok, grow up you say, tho your hair is full,
And not even a hint of baldness shines forth,
Nonetheless, its color is zebra striped gray,
And when someone says they got my back,
I think, please, please take it and keep it....
Oh yeah,
Dear St. Mikes
You might ask for some of your money back,
Cause this sily scribe is a member of the tribe,
Some call "those ***** (hint: it rhymes with Mikes),"
It starts with K and ends in yikes!
But thanks for thinking of me anyway.
May 24, 2013
May 24, 2013 at 5:32 PM UTC
In today's world religion can be hard
To tackle since so many view it as barred
Away from the world like the poor dying man
People avoid as best that they can
But what is the price of being uptight
About suppressing the essence of life?
Why is it so that it can be so wrong
To speak of the motives that guide us along?
Religion is not just a vast collection
of various mythical origin legends
Religion is the root of motive and desire
Religion is wood, humans are fire
So how can it be that the absence of thought
Is how some are marketed after they are bought
Into a title that simply describes
A lack of connection to open blue skies?
How can it be so, that siblings can fight,
Over which one is wrong and which one is right,
When in the end the real problem is
A lack of empathy for hers and for his
Where does it say that you have to sign up?
Why do I have to drink from anyone's cup?
What prevents me from creating my own?
What prevents me from being alone?
Why do you look down upon me so,
For having not only courage to say no,
But to say no and also be self-assure
For my essence is pure, and so is yours
Question not the names and titles
Question not the idol or idols
Question not those who dare to walk alone
For it is from the same cloth that we are all sewn
Question not the small details
That can breed such conflict, but to no avail
Question not the symbols or form
Question not those who deviate from norms
Question attempts to segregate
Question any actions fueled by hate
Question your mother, question your father,
Question your friends if you dare bother
Question anyone who you care for
Religions are doorknobs and humans are doors
For it is religion that truly precedes
The philosophies carried by you or by me
So question your friends, go on, it's ok
Hopefully the world will reach a day
Where religion is the opposite of a taboo
Where religion is recognized as what makes you
So question the motives, question desire
And most importantly, question those who set fire
To other's religions, to other's homes
Violence is never the answer
Nov 16, 2014
Nov 16, 2014 at 11:17 AM UTC
They squeal & shriek as they career down the hill.
Not because of adrenalin, seeking a thrill. They don't know of the impending ****
You see, they’ve never been in the back of a truck before.
Even daylight and the cool breeze is something new they regard with awe.
But prodded, pushed, poked; overwhelming! Terrifying is what it is!
Herded into the light and across the ramp with brothers, sisters, cousins.
No more the cosy family unit, they’re now just some of dozens… hundreds!
The only thing they’ve known till now is darkness warmth and a mother’s love.
And today, at just 4 months and a day…right for butchery - and suddenly a shove,
beaten… slaughtered, packaged, marketed, eaten!
There’s no realisation that this rude awakening, this beginning, is also…the end.
Their confusion is profound… No inkling… no message to receive or send,
that this first welcome breath of fresh air will also be their last.
But, having witnessed it , I’ve decided that I have a carnivorous past…
Et a partir de maintenant je suis végétarien!
May 24, 2019
May 24, 2019 at 3:06 PM UTC
Bottled
Boxed
Shrink wrapped
Flash frozen
Angst
And grunge.
Spray on depth
And emotions,
Advertised
To children.
Individually packaged
Insomnia,
Because something
Needs to be wrong with you
For people to care.
In our pre ripped,
Pre faded jeans,
Music
About drugs
And drink,
Sung
By children
Who've never come close
To either,
At the top of their lungs
Into the night.
Because pain is deep,
Pain is real.
We're dumping paint cans
Full of black paint
Over our heads,
Clumping our hair together,
Covering our sunshine
Yellow bodies.
Just to demonstrate
Some contrast
Against the summer
Blue sky,
So we get to be
A little different.
Sabotage
Sabotage
Sabotage
Sabotage
Marketed,
Advertised,
Sabotage.
Do you feel it in the air?
Family value sized
Self destruction?
And pointing it out
Is pointless,
Because my fake nose piercing,
And brand new
First tattoo
Sting still,
You could say I'm the worst.
Apr 18, 2017
Apr 18, 2017 at 5:18 PM UTC
Your words melt in my mouth
I savor them in
Drawing the flavor
******* on them
And they dissolve
Leaving me craving more
You had me hooked
On your saccharine
Your very own heroine
Marketed specifically for
Idealists like me
Optimistic
Unaware
I turned my head away and refused to see
Refused to taste the underlying sour
The syrupy sickness surging through your veins
Travelled up to your brain
Tainting your thoughts
Your words
Your actions
And you cast off your innocence
Like a snake simply sheds their skin
Revealing the rotten core
Within you
Beneath layers
Walls you built around this tumor
Carefully guarded
Drowned in a lake of fake maple
Syrup you find in grocery stores
With empty promises
And wishy washy half truths
I didn’t realize your poison
Until it was too late
Nov 21, 2013
Nov 21, 2013 at 10:33 PM UTC
The colour red strewn through the rocks
Iron rusting over years
Untainted by The touch of man
With exception of tourists
Oils slowly eroding, but untouched
By our prided advancements
Miles of peaks attracting the world
Though, still wild in the sense we define
A refuge from the bustle of life
We ascribe ourselves to
At least to me, it is a place to be alone, to meditate
With acres of trees, existing and feeling with them
Pulling from their ancient wisdom
To sit high upon a peak
With notebook in hand and a pen in the other
My only defense against the human condition
Peering out as far as my feeble eyes will allow
Clouds paint elegant watercolours
With the rays of the sun
Storms creating drama and feeling
But I am above it all as Zarathustra was
But I am compelled to return
As was he, back to the hives of my birth
To the city that Jack and his cohorts
Loved so much, as do myself
This place that has more sun
Than the marketed beaches of paradise
It may snow here, but that is the beauty of it all
The variety of seasons, it is not all-arctic wasteland
In the winter months
One day I may be swathed in layers
Against the cold, the next
I can walk around open to the elements,
What other place is the weather so differentiable?
A couple hours’ drive and you can be
In a winter wonderland or arid city
An arctic paradise with acres of fresh powder
That many do not take the time to sit,
Just sit; in a supple seat.
Perfectly formed to the contours of your body
And look out; simply look out.
At what is surround you; high above everything
Too often do we become obsessed
With the tiny oases of ski resorts
And forget the solitude and beauty of its telos
It’s not the resorts I love,
But the mountains themselves; that is my attraction.
A place to carve your own path, to find yourself
This is my home, a sojourn for the Beaten
As they traveled this country,
for those on the trail settling from sea to shining sea
Facing the fortress of rock, ice, and pine
I may stray for spans of time, travel the word and sea,
But I shall always come back to pay homage
To the place that has sculpted me
And given me sanctuary from society
Colorado
Feb 28, 2013
Feb 28, 2013 at 12:40 PM UTC