"plagiarizing" poems
All these stanzas look alike
they talk about the same things
with the same words, the same poem
written over and over again
like voices, whispers, copying each other
unable to feel and trust experience
differently, socialized for homogeneity
unified but dull, strong but obedient
their writing seemed the narratives
of machines unable to innovate
plagiarizing voices they believed were
their own, authentic, pure
their literary journals were a politics
of masters of arts and agendas of contests
like car commercials without a proper
enjoyment of speed, or our favorite writers
whose names we only knew because
they were the ones who died at the right time
while somebody was looking, reading them
but the bookstores didn’t know their
metaphors were weak, or their life’s work
was merely symbolic, that’s the thing isn’t it
poets are only symbols, as poems are only
fluff, paper, the labor of writers-in-residence
while the rest of the world are more
interested in serial killers and which stocks
might be worth getting into, and when to sell out
investing in words seemed silly to them
and, in my selected works there was nothing
of how to be a Poet Laureate or how to win prizes
exceptional or not, publication was left to amazon
state grants, fellowships, visiting writers
academics who never felt truly how to write
poetry at its heart was a colonization of artists
few could share what that meant, we were
the first illiterate generation, spending more time
with the internet than with books.
Oct 18, 2014
Oct 18, 2014 at 12:04 PM UTC
Mark Twain to Helen Keller
“Oh, dear me, how unspeakably funny and owlishly idiotic and grotesque was that “plagiarism” farce! As if there was much of anything in any human utterance, oral or written, except plagiarism! The kernel, the soul—let us go farther and say the substance, the bulk, the actual and valuable material of all human utterances in plagiarism.
For substantially all ideas are second hand, consciously or unconsciously drawn from a million outside sources and daily use by the garnerer with a pride and satisfaction born of the superstition that he originated them; whereas there is not a rag of originality about them any where except the little discoloration they get from his mental and moral calibre and his temperament, which is revealed in characteristics of phrasing.”
Mark Twain
Dec 1, 2021
Dec 1, 2021 at 3:39 PM UTC
A Tribute
A king takes supper on a creaking deathbed. Featureless, winged creatures zoom by the dark condensed windows. Micro parasites build adobe headquarters in his soft tissue. Reaching for a plate, he groans the terabyting howl that’s prescribed with chemotherapy. Qwerty and light from the drugs, he stares at the apple on his tray. Lost in its curves, he finds himself trapped in a safari of memories. A dream devolves upon his downtrodden mind….
The canopy is populated with twittering, angry birds. Pools of social blood attract flies to the googolplex degree. He stumbles through the dell, suspicious forest while a tremulous, fiery fox stalks behind his echoing footfalls. Pixar apes swing from trees chased by grisly, disney men with guns and trucks. A large eye tunes the darkness and blinks red upon an aging mountain lion in shadow’s brush.
The sony rays belight foliage in auspicious, plaid-orange hues. This amazon of experience plugs the wanderer into a hard drive of intelligence – a gateway to an encyclopedia of wikis and browsers, expanse enough for any backdrop rooftop audience to be faux-enthralled and eager. There are grumblings in the distance of another engine tromping the scope in search of something new and useless. A rumorous bat upsets the plagiarizing tide of the Atlantic Pea Sea. A snake slinks out of the blossoms clinging to the vines among a macintosh tree and bites the salty flier of the washboard night; cyber venom invades his veins.
The average, homeless, bounding, warrior awakens to find a cold supper on his lap and another syringe in his arm. His remaining gums support his teeth as they bite into the apple. He swallows, sighs, and rests his balding, crescent, once-handsome head on the white pillow. The green fruit tumbles gently out of bed and mutely rolls to the floor.
With that, Steve Jobs is dead.
Oct 22, 2012
Oct 22, 2012 at 12:03 AM UTC
Shakespeare’s Dog
in the theater tonight, the notion of a poem-potion
courtesy of Shakespeare's dog came unbidden
So when home arrived, was unsurprised that this
very peculiar pug was farting before my own front door.
get lost, I announced got what I need from your boss,
but before I could kick him across the floor,
the pug spake thusly:
*this dog knows the boot too well,
it is parcel of this dog's life of no quality,
but if you give me shelter tonite, I will provide,
share some of Speare's un-Published Works
and you can claim it as your own!*
kicked that dog across the room,
(having pity earlier I let him in and enter)
told Jim, (that’s what I called him)
he can stay the night, or long as the sun rises up
and goes down unbidden, but, if I ever
caught him plagiarizing, selling sonnets on the side,
I would report him to the ASPCA and the Poet’s Union.
The American Society for the Poets of Conscience Alive -
might have his low hanging ***** cut off in retribution.
he laughed out loud, rhyming funny, pontificating:
*well mate,
thanks for the soliloquy,
me ***** long time gone,
but what I know and what I’ve seen
if tale-told you, and you were to listen,
you would keep me around as fodder
for your artistic soul.
in return chappie,
you need only provide me a rug, a fire,
A/C for the languid summer eves,
fodder for me body, and your boots,
far removed from my hindquarters.*
We spoke much thereafter,
turns out he served his poet-masters
in many ways, more than a mere footstool.
his snoring keeps me awake some twenty years later.
his love for country music makes me put him on nice days,
outdoors, his headphones securely strapped round his double chins.
ugh that pug. became my best becoming love, old friend,
one of us will pass someday and an elegy composition,
the other devotee will furnish sadness utterly becoming.
so if a farting pug before your door you’ve found,
take him in, give him water, an amply supply please
of Carrie, Trisha and Chaplin-Carpenter for his immortal soul,
but beware, he might try to sell you
some of my words, as your own.
Mar 26, 2018
Mar 26, 2018 at 1:31 PM UTC
Alice is being put back into the basket
The last thing she saw were pelican wings
She’s being shipped off to Africa, Alaska, Antarctica
Where all her ideas won’t mean a thing
Barrel of monkeys, household deities
Ballerina idol figurines
Empty harvest, ashen dreams
Scapegoat of all mystery
Send her to Babylon, Venus, New York
Build her a temple for the deported
Cause she’ll never be destroyed
Just atrociously unemployed
While everyone back home
On their counterfeit thrones
Saturate the seventh day
Plagiarizing her decay
So keep the lid on tight
Say your prayers as you fight
Off chaotic thoughts
And warnings made in tears
As Alice is being put back into the basket
We continue bobbing for apples
Nov 27, 2011
Nov 27, 2011 at 8:52 PM UTC
Two years ago a teacher here on HP messaged and informed me
that she used my poem in her classroom for a class assignment.
I've never felt so honored, I pictured twenty kids
With copies of my poem in hand analyzing it
When I inquired where on earth this school was?!
She must have been here in the states
Because she quickly disappeared
She just signed off
I never heard from her again
To tell her Thank You!
Thank you for sharing my worthless words
And giving them value..
Some of my poems/songs
Have registered copyrights
So please ask permission before plagiarizing
Although I won't be flying across the sea to sue anybody
Because face it, having my words circulate
Even further
Is very appealing.
Apr 11, 2016
Apr 11, 2016 at 8:16 PM UTC
Little ant, so small and insignificant
Yet in numbers up an elephant’s snout
How easily you make him indisposed
Lesson to learn: strength in numbers
Maxim to remember: unity of purpose
Oh termite, thou destroyer of civilizations!
How mighty when surreptitiously you creep in
Such ingenious civil engineering feats everywhere
Orderly highways with neither jams nor congestion
And tall imposing castles kissing the air proudly
Result: new architectures plagiarizing your prototype!
And you wasp of constricted waist and mean toxin
You make no attempt to hide or disguise your dwelling
Yours is a house built upon a hill for all to see and tremble
They say when a man has no obvious protection keep away
Lest you trigger subtle forces that mesmerize and pulverize you
Lesson from this: commandos are modern day human wasps
Everybody owes the bee everything, from sweetness to health
The bees a-buzzing speak of persistence and how it breaks barriers
In the end you listen because the message is ceaseless and urgent
And oh sweet bee of the hot sting shot from your posterior
No cordon bleu chef anywhere can ever approximate your finesse
Your formula and patent are hedged with natural mystery
Lesson to learn: the bitter and the sweet in judicious mixture!
Now little man recently so puffed-up and conceited and ever so inadequate
Hear ye this and know it well lest you stumble and fall into dark precipices
You’re nothing and you’ve created nothing; there’s a prototype of everything
In nature’s wonder store of huge surprises and unassuming wisdom
Lesson from all this: one day the other world will rise up and assert it itself
So steer your course differently and beware of those who bide their time
Grim in their purpose and determined in their unshakable resolve
Sep 8, 2016
Sep 8, 2016 at 4:00 AM UTC
So many people tell me
*You should take
a page out of their book*
And I just think
*Did you plagiarize
Your whole life*
Dec 9, 2014
Dec 9, 2014 at 10:20 PM UTC
The internet, social networking, you, reading this, now.
It’s all about surface value, the judgment of likes and dislikes. It’s all about interests,
"Oh, you like this band?
this movie,
this painting,
this author,
this show,
this piece of ****
"Oh, you’re so cool, you’re such an awesome person", obviously.
You will never know me, never know who I am, and with the way this world has shifted,
with the acceptance of this voyeurism of superficial attractions, I’m afraid neither will I.
You’ll rarely know when I’m genuine or when I’m plagiarizing, original or manufactured, real or phony.
But that’s alright, it keeps a distance, it keeps things calm, and safe, and clean.
That’s all we really want. A facade, a dream, the image of our desires, not the manifestation.
We want cold, hard, unbreakable, shiny plastic perfection.
No one wants the warm, moist, moving, ever changing mess that is life, and love, and humanity.
So stay at your computer, stay inside your factory, keep typing instead of talking,
keep pushing instead of feeling, keep staring instead of looking.
It’s okay, it’s alright, it’s now.
circa 2009
Jul 21, 2013
Jul 21, 2013 at 5:33 PM UTC
asleep
only acknowledged when awake
trapped
seems so easy once above
the labyrinth
of physicality
illusory creations
of geometric energy.
Lost
in the wired perception of reality
forgetting
that all was taught was taught by teachers
teaching what was taught to them
not knowing the alteration
and miscommunication
developing over the generations.
only reactions
that is what defines me
how I respond
in certain situations
how I speak and spew
opinions I heard elsewhere
plagiarizing ideas
that never really belonged to anyone
I, me, the abstract concept of "Malachi"
is an
algorithm!
a mathematical program designed to optimize relations
with continuity to any situation provided
I, concept
sleep soundly in my dream
hating, complaining, idealizing
while all opportunities
pushed my way
are ignored
for I slumber
I gave my freedom long ago
to become an automated machine
a complex voice-mail
an entity who never picks up the phone
never responding consciously
trapped in the spell of samsara
identifying with the machine
lost in the maze
no guaranteed escape
even though the exit is under my nose
Nov 15, 2012
Nov 15, 2012 at 12:12 AM UTC
Adam4's acquaintances who frequent
Foxholes as salivary soliloquy,
Usually suspected no second helpings
A dim ambience for an active bedroom
On battery powered candles
Concorde lighting
The carpet's edges chewed thin
Receding hairlines
And he uses me as bait..?
Our neglected puppy's teething
Nesting under California
King Mojo's hollowed cushions
Keeps him gnawing these nights
Misters and oil burners
I was mistaken, there are those
That revisit--reacquainted with him,
Must of shared a Starbucks,
As his Sasquatch hands
Rub wet platinum on his old fellow
Bears and their Cubs
Silicon smooth pets, house boys
Fished from the deep web,
Plagiarizing with their eyes the pleasures
Of Eurocreme
Bare back dreams, hours heave
The subtitled felatio scenes
I tell the old man, they only ***
After and mostly when
Most of the guest leave,
There is one hovering quick
To accommodate his
Ginger manly girth
I'll be out in the smoking section
At the side of the house
Through the slider door
From off the kitchen dining area
Where he had once
Replaced the table with billiards
For a Lenny and his troop...
His Samsung vibrates every time
I take a five to breathe
Chain smoke and self defocations grief
He posts another ad.
If only you heard
The vagrant shout
A banchee in my skull
For these off the street urchins
Plugged in to the internet's latest
For a place to squat
For winter will be cold
For them to just
****** off
And here I go again,
Assuming that these were decent folk
Come for the holidays
Between taint and pocket rocket
Wallets drain
When one lets the desperate
Indigents
Free range...
"What's there for dinner?"
**** chicken heads again?
Same ole same old dope...
Sep 18, 2016
Sep 18, 2016 at 7:50 PM UTC
i spent nights writing about you
all along i thought i was a poet
that was until i realized that
i was just reading and
plagiarizing one of the
finest poetry of the gods
Jul 13, 2015
Jul 13, 2015 at 9:09 AM UTC
I fall to valuable words,
Slowly plagiarizing cries and smiles
And looking dizzy around my knees.
Naturally blushed with drunken worth,
Fifteen happy poems were easily dreamt
Of him like those life and death people.
Our big lives died of passion.
Our time ripping through time,
And the sun reproducing dawn.
I am a garbage dream thief and
The words have told me how to steal.
Aug 8, 2012
Aug 8, 2012 at 9:50 AM UTC
Being here before the bible,
I have learned nothing has ever been planned.
Byproducts avoided bullets,
Because all the bandits all have lost an eye.
Never can put my finger on it,
Newly **** imagines that I wish I knew,
Fogging up the nightmare's window.
Now evaporate back into your nimbus.
I can see past the eyes,
They all think they are invisible.
Like a heated igloo in a blizzard,
Imploding inevitable but still comforting to look at.
Everywhere I sense the uneasiness,
That stampede of silent elephants.
Eyeballing the problem might just scare it off,
But everything equal can still tip a scale.
Pieces of this puzzle,
Are too interesting not to play with,
Making products through plagiarizing the ideas,
Given to us by our planet.
But nothing is ever planned.
Sep 19, 2012
Sep 19, 2012 at 9:43 PM UTC
The master copyist hath made an appearance
Without being given the proper clearance
He's just blown in at another poetry site
One bets he'll be at his usual caper
Plagiarizing poet's work on his paper
Twas noted that he'd come to have a look
For poems which he could put in his own nook
None can be credited as a true write
This chap is serial at knocking things off
No wonder we should of him verily scoff
As bold as a brass **** he was stealing
Slipping under the radar's scope to ******
He's made that locale his casual patch
Hope he hasn't purloined those poet's writing
Nov 8, 2014
Nov 8, 2014 at 10:15 PM UTC
a germ has infected
the Hello Poetry site
it is much worse
than a mosquito's bite
fast spreading
is its very nasty spores
in the layers of dermis
one sees its grubby paws
quarantining the place
is a massive task
as the germ has escaped
from its insecure flask
precautions must be taken
by all members here
remember to pop on
your safety gear
you'll all be wanting
to be informed of scourge
which at this site
has been having a splurge
the plagiarizing bug
is omnipresent be forewarned
and those who've been at it
should be well scorned
Sep 6, 2014
Sep 6, 2014 at 7:21 PM UTC
I push the revolving glass door
Shuffling almost reverently with it's turn
A pilgrim to the written word, I am entering
The church of human consciousness.
The greatest minds sit here with some
That came in through the back door of
Specialist interest or just plain bizarre.
Alphabetical order belies the years that separate
These authors, some rubbing shoulders with giants
Who have barely been alive long enough to tell
Of real experience, then there are those who have
Stood the test of time, decorating bookshelves
In homes that have never read them, they just
Fulfil their reputation as if by osmosis bringing
An intellectual vibe to the coffee table and
Into the very fabric of the space occupied.
They are all here hiding behind their spines
Luring you with interesting fonts, bright colours
Like jpegs on a contact sheet waiting judgement,
Wanting be taken down and become your big picture
"We have made it, our voices have been heard,
All it takes is imagination to release us within the mind
Your images our words, we can make a movie together."
But I have been spotted, "Whatcha looking at punk
Think you've got what it takes to sit with the likes of us,
Don't go reading me and plagiarizing my well worn
Extensively researched mumbo jumbo clap trap,
So you can call me one of your influences on your CV,
Using my name to make you seem intellectual
Look around, how many do you think didn't make it."
I have gazed too long into the abyss and the abyss
Has gazed back into me, how can I claim to have
Any more to say than the greatest minds on earth
And yet, with pure heart my trembling hand hovers
Over the letters of my qwerty keyboard, pressing
The shift key as if in defiance, identical words,
Just not necessarily with the same meaning.
Jun 30, 2019
Jun 30, 2019 at 7:36 AM UTC
Her pants will not ascend up the body.
They exhibit the various mountains and valleys of exhibition
that exhibit all and every stifling opening in the land between the limbs.
The progenitors apparently never trained the lass in class.
Her pants will not ascend the body.
I slam the image processor shut
and beg the higher powers for more cloth
but the portrait remains hung in the palace,
exhibiting, exhibiting, exhibiting,
weakness and detestation in the wake of insomnia,
for she can spine-chillingly be pictured in the movies they show,
the ones with palm and sand and *********** for all.
When the tape ends its shift as a documenter she still exhibits,
plagiarizing the greats like a trombone entertaining itself with exhibition,
its brass perpetuating nausea and its horn emanating
aromas of catastrophic consequences
while it sits there like a ********** echoing the words of the vivacious
director in the silk scarf of silhouettes and the exhibition of pure animosity,
that pops and fizzles like the dying carcass of an ****** ridden rodent
who decrees that Cersei is the finest in the land.
Apr 15, 2015
Apr 15, 2015 at 5:09 PM UTC
First of all, if you have to steal pieces of other people's lives to make yourself feel good with reactions, I'm sorry for you.
Second: these poems are people's lives, their hearts and for many the only way of being heard. And you are stooping low enough to take that from them. Shame on you.
Third: if you will steal something like poetry, then who knows what else you steal from others. You will never be your own person and never feel personal accomplishment
Lastly:
**** you
Dec 19, 2013
Dec 19, 2013 at 10:44 PM UTC
Eyes a creamy caramel
Looking at me
Girl; slow down
I want to walk with thee,
Skin so smooth
I can feel it without touching you,
All I wish for
Is one everlasting day with you,
Smile as bright as the sun
Caressing my face,
If I was a lawyer
You'd be my best case,
That pretty face of yours
All up in my dreams,
I wake up frantic
Busting at the seams,
I've been thanking God
For creating you,
Praising him
All the while idolizing you,
Plagiarizing your looks
Would be a crime,
I've run out of lines
For my next rhyme,
You're so fine, so unique, so sweet,
Being close to you
Would be my ideal treat,
If the hills had
As many curves as you do,
They'd be a drifter's paradise
Dream come true,
If my life ended
Before I could be with you,
I'd have one last thing left to do,
I'd thank the heavens
For having laid eyes on you...
© okpoet
Feb 5, 2013
Feb 5, 2013 at 3:45 AM UTC
It's only best to write when the feeling's height,
that is when it is best.
Not when your thought's are singing a popular song, you feel as if you need to write along.
It comes from you, not someone else,
It comes from the silent heart, not a pair of head phones.
If you've plagiarized, you are not a writer, you are just another plagiarizing fool.
Aug 19, 2013
Aug 19, 2013 at 3:07 PM UTC
If writing poetry is like giving blood
That would explain why I'm so dizzy half the time
And why I haven't written anything worth saying since December
I have been listening to the same songs
Over
And over
And over again
I stopped asking myself if my life's worth living and started asking if I'm even living
I keep getting angry to the point my nerves have worn down to nothing
And let me tell you
There are few feelings worse than feeling helpless when you know you shouldn't
Feeling helpless when you've got plenty more privileges than the next person in line
Should I allow myself to feel this way when my life was never in danger and I still live at home?
Just another egalitarian with empty hands
Plagiarizing my manifestos from the lips of people I've never met
Beating my feet on the ground or fist on my chest thinking anyone gives enough of a **** to know what song is stuck in my head today or yesterday or for all eternity
Every love song or song of peace or song of quiet is gone
All that's left are songs for battle
But the more I sing the words the more I question if they mean anything to me or if they will last beyond my life
Maybe we could build a better world if I wasn't such a coward
Maybe we could all be free if I wasn't such a hypocrite
Maybe I'm being to hard on myself but nights like these I can't allow myself to be too comfortable or it could mean death
You sent me a message the other day
It had been two years since we really spoke honestly
Two years and many angry poems about it all
It was really good to hear from you
You're younger than me, but you know much more about being an adult than I do
You know a lot more about being an honest person than I do
But today I tried to do better
Not for your sake (or my memory of you)
But for my own
Feb 1, 2017
Feb 1, 2017 at 1:01 AM UTC
Why can't you want me like the other boys do?
They stare at me while I stare at you.
Why can't I keep you safe as my own
One moment I have you-
the next you're gone.
We have steps on an empty stage
That boy's got my heart in a silver cage.
Why can't you want me like the other boys do?
They stare at me while I-
Crave You.
It's true.
I crave You.
Around his little finger
that boy has got me curled.
I tried to reach out but he's in
his own world.
This boy has got my head tied in knots
with all his games.
I simply want him more because he looks the other way...
Why can't you want me
like the other boys do?
They stare at me while I-
Crave you
Aug 14, 2014
Aug 14, 2014 at 12:37 AM UTC
I'm the forever bête noire,
plagiarizing the plague rising cellar door.
Aug 5, 2013
Aug 5, 2013 at 11:34 AM UTC
BUT each piece, limb parcel, of me,
claiming authorship credit,
the fingers that type,
the left foot upon
which we stand,
the heart, soul,
and the oxygenated blood,
diluted with a vodka-like
mysterious soulful ether
all vociferous claim
full credit
regardless for the specific
IDENTIFYING
instigating moment,
specific contribution,
they each encapsulate
and the birthmark,
a Noah’s ark-escapee,
sign left behind, well,
upon my chest, exactly
when my guttural growled,
complete! for the very first time
Do I care?
Not really.
Can we live without any ***** specific?
Briefly, perhaps, a substitute oft rejected,
the jigsaw of my body, it’s animated spirits,
just a bunch of noisy, plagiarizing auteurs,
egos so big, it’s amazing
we can frame them all in
into a single slop bucket
Jan 16, 2021
Jan 16, 2021 at 11:04 AM UTC