"monopolise" poems
How Poets routinely tell lies or truth with great "sincerity"
and earnest projections of "poetic charisma" and lashings
of "who me tell lies?".
and yet they routinely avoid truthfulness, in case they forget the power of lies and truth, in their search for fame.
Mesmerised by its attendant celebrity groupmind and of course its wealth..
Indeed Poets don't want to know that truthfulness
has nothing to do with truth.
Indeed Poets don't want to know that truth
is a lie and a lie is truth,
two sides of a darkened mirror
and both are equally valueless
except for seeing false faces in..
Poets bleat on about how the shackleable object of their 'love' ,
she or he, are not theirs to own
or categorise or monopolise.
yet they keep on expecting full submission
and just getting an empty back,
and a disappearing set of footprints.
Like the sheep and goats that Poets are,
they bleat on endlessly
about their wants their wants their wants.
They want fame as Poets--disguised as distribution deals.
They want contracts to produce garbage for HallMark--as if..
They want **** licking critical acclaim--from **** licking critics.
They want international poetry prizes from aesthetic morons--
wearing Armani suits.
They want Groupies--but not *******
They want Media eulogies--but not truthfulness.
Always are they deliberately forgetting that
"you cant always get what you want".
The last thing that Poets want is what they need most of all.
They really need
An end to the narcissism of those
that want to be called "poet"--in your dreams.
An end to the juvenile arrogance that motivates them to put up strings
of meaningless associated words
and vainly call them poems.
An end to childish immaturity, and inchoate meandering
through other peoples words and experiences, stealing others lives
and characters.
Always incessantly pretending that because
they can read the words of others
that they have also shared their experiences--indeed their experience was deeper wider higher.
In another day and age of non-violent sensibility
these kind of Poets would
be called thieves and liars.
In this day and age they scribble emotional garbage
and pretend its "poetry"--encouraged by intellectual follies.
As poets they have become walking proto cash registers.
Sin Verguensa.
Sin Verguensa.
Sin is Spanish for without.
Poets are SIN integrity.
Poets are SIN Truthfulness.
Poets are SIN decency.
Poets are SIN.
Im so glad I could never be mistaken for a Poet.
Wouldnt want to be mistaken as a poet.
Jul 15, 2014
Jul 15, 2014 at 4:19 PM UTC
Sometimes Smith has no idea of what’s happening
Whether the ground below is vanishing away from his feet
Or he is just levitating past the skyscrapers
Smith has a good book
There he reads about a great artist
A con artist to be precise and all his sadistic puzzles
Smith tries to wake up, thinking he is still dreaming
Because the artist’s puzzles are still at large
How is he that successful? He has vast architectural knowledge
Knowledge enough to create ever-tricky mazes
Only the divine can fix the con’s jigsaw
And sometimes those with the divine touch show flaws
The con creates a series of optical and mental illusions
Illusions great enough to make you think there’s no divine being and even make you believe there’s no con
Smith wonders why the bad escape and the good suffer
Sometimes he gets trapped in his mind, thinking of the **** luscious mermaids and geisha girls
He is able to ignore them sometimes
But barely escape them and their never ending charm, on a very lustful day
The con artist sits in his empire and literally tries to get people stuff two plugs together or merge two sockets together.
That is a sick idea!
The con keeps smith wondering in delusions
He hides under the disguise of light
When the divine light shines, it melts off Smith’s saturated delusions
And restores him to reality
With the light he can see, you can see
How the con poses monsters as **** pretty ladies, heat as comfort, graves as castles, blasphemy as thanksgiving.
How he tries to make people monopolise the power of the divine
Sweet in vanity
In the end the divine light blinds the con artist and all those gleaming eyes in the dead dark
Jul 26, 2013
Jul 26, 2013 at 2:59 PM UTC
Champagne corks pop
a cow parsley flourish
on your life’s roadside
after driving alone a while
someone to fiddle with the A/C
and monopolise the aux
with unrepentant cheese
is a welcome change
as the prevailing breeze
shifts
May 31, 2021
May 31, 2021 at 4:00 AM UTC
If the power lies within
I will reconcile myself and make it believe
That the truth is indestructible
And those chasing pavements have found their ways
If the truth is indestructible
I will fight for my life
Utopianism will become a model of nothingness
I will cross the boundaries
If I fight for my life
I will beguile some time by living for myself
And be oblivious to all those worldly claims
Live for people encumbered with debts
If I live for people encumbered with debts
I will monopolise the crass ingenues
And help them overshadow the mighty
I will be immune to the white lies and .
Apr 3, 2014
Apr 3, 2014 at 12:59 PM UTC
Stand tall, overpowering all
an essential part of your essence
as much as I am part of you
I am an alien when compared to what you are
an individual amongst individuals
I am all of me there is no one else
no other race, no brother or sisters
but my perants are different..
My character, arrogance
insatiable greed
I
reside in both the strong and the weak
I'm there seven days in a week
and when all of you die
I cease to exist
Burn up oxygen in the sky
the deadly diet for the Ozon layer
push bottled water for max profit
throwing plastic bottles in the oceans water
Let a kid get rich for inventing plastic fishing techniques
in the deep pacific
monopolise it, capatalise it
full shelves of salty ocean water in your local shopping district
use manipulation tactics
Commercials filled with communication riddles
that I use to talk to my inner sanctum.
Because I am inside all of you
a part of your essence
an alien inside you
born in the present
I am your Thirst for Progression
A mindset sickening.
Aug 20, 2014
Aug 20, 2014 at 11:50 AM UTC
i love the fact that poets outnumber each other
in order to speak a maxim^,
and speak it like a bunch of people
banning a free speech society
from ever being encouraged
to exist because of
a student union riddled by phobias;
the words i once spoke:
only idiots educate themselves these days
rings truer than i ever would have thought.
^when was poetry ever about writing
a maxim? i swear it was once all about a rhyme...
but modern poetry wants to offer maxims
rather than rhymes... what's wrong with it?!
you give maxims with a narrative...
poetry is hardly a place to proclaim narration;
small **** serves a conversation impromptu,
a talked over piece a lot,
a peace signature over my warring libido,
a feeling of masculine security i could monopolise;
big **** i'll be governing for eternity...
and leave small **** an eternity of a given offspring
to return to in acronym i withheld as a moulding of child;
woman was always defined as truth,
because she never revelled or revealed her
cognition as either truth or ontological intention...
she left it there for man to concern the boredom of
philosophy (suicide), a prime concern in 20th century
philosophy... because when woman writes
it's cheap, sheer the sheep adequate cheap...
women only reveal a psychology when all other
exhausts of parallel thinking are no more to provide
a dynamic... when physical reality as stressed by biology
because idiotic woman reveals her thinking...
and employs about a 1000 psychologists for each
ailment of thinking... they even implant ailments
in healthy bodies like they might allow imitation
of miscarriages to take places... there's hardly a nail
job awaiting them for the cure:
which says as much as: nietzshce's style when referring
to german dry humour concerning the french revolution,
that's a revolution (kant), when he didn't get the point of
irony... when he, himself, italicised all the minor points
to a pedantry... but then the musket and the iron sharp
bidding made leeches succour...
are we not the reverse of plato prescribing socrates:
we will look odd at people who were once in army ranks,
for they took orders and thought it wise to give orders?
rather than those who entered brothels and left without wives?
Feb 5, 2016
Feb 5, 2016 at 9:45 PM UTC
all is ablaze with love- no love can monopolise
selfless self giving seen in the order of the universe-
all things are good and all things as they were meant-
nothing is outside of loves embrace- how could it be-
science backs loves claim and loves reality- love-
the very heart and hearth and table set out for thriving creation
Jun 11, 2014
Jun 11, 2014 at 1:13 PM UTC