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"repackaged" poems
From Alan Lomax to the commercial art and now the money machine. At the turn of the century; when sound recording 1st became available to the masses, recording a song was an opportunity for folk to reach out; and tell the world something up front and personal. It meant that people were able to put themselves on “The record” A way of leaving a permanent audio statement, an epitaph, an audio sound bite immortalising ~ life, mood, emotion captured and bottled for all eternity. (A medium that conveyed messages from artists and storytellers of all kinds) A recording was also a great addition to "The family album" something more tangible, a window to a real person, with a real life, a message and a point of view; a legacy, a blast from the past. Few people expected sound prints to be re-designed, homogenised, formulated, copied, repackaged and that art and the message would be played over and over again by new artists in the form of "cover music" or that the style of the messages would become secularized, seperated into distinctive groups, or constrained by an elite clique or commercial genre. Labelling and streamlining art & music mostly benefits the commercial art & music industry; and no longer the artists and creators. I've no problem with good business, or the multi-billion pound industrys that have gained commercial success. However the process of mass homogenisation, product synthesis, marketing, streamlining and then packaging fashion, sound and synthetic culture to sell a product, leaves very little room for creative people to just be creative. A medium originally open to many for self expression, a historical record, an archive, a voice, a personal message; Is now just a vehicle for advertising and perpetuating a genre of nonsense, so much so that there is now more white noise immortalised than messages. To re-cap ~ I Think that creativity and expressionism; like story telling conveys moods and messages from the present and past! Artists and musicians should have the opportunity to create and produce more information than they copy; thus creating a richer more colourful tapestry, whilst not devaluing the message of their predecessors! Purcy Flaherty.
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Jan 9, 2018
Jan 9, 2018 at 10:38 AM UTC
The media machine and its lack of authenticity
From Alan Lomax to the commercial art and now the money machine. At the turn of the century; when sound recording 1st became available to the masses, recording a song was an opportunity for folk to reach out; and tell the world something up front and personal. It meant that people were able to put themselves on “The record” A way of leaving a permanent audio statement, an epitaph, an audio sound bite immortalising ~ life, mood, emotion captured and bottled for all eternity. (A medium that conveyed messages from artists and storytellers of all kinds) A recording was also a great addition to "The family album" something more tangible, a window to a real person, with a real life, a message and a point of view; a legacy, a blast from the past. Few people expected sound prints to be re-designed, homogenised, formulated, copied, repackaged and that art and the message would be played over and over again by new artists in the form of "cover music" or that the style of the messages would become secularized, seperated into distinctive groups, or constrained by an elite clique or commercial genre. Labelling and streamlining art & music mostly benefits the commercial art & music industry; and no longer the artists and creators. I've no problem with good business, or the multi-billion pound industrys that have gained commercial success. However the process of mass homogenisation, product synthesis, marketing, streamlining and then packaging fashion, sound and synthetic culture to sell a product, leaves very little room for creative people to just be creative. A medium originally open to many for self expression, a historical record, an archive, a voice, a personal message; Is now just a vehicle for advertising and perpetuating a genre of nonsense, so much so that there is now more white noise immortalised than messages. To re-cap ~ I Think that creativity and expressionism; like story telling conveys moods and messages from the present and past! Artists and musicians should have the opportunity to create and produce more information than they copy; thus creating a richer more colourful tapestry, whilst not devaluing the message of their predecessors! Purcy Flaherty.
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14
►☼◄ ओं मणिपद्मे हूं I sing the Self – that mystic fable. Lie to Truth as Cain to Abel. Inner blight of fallen man, enemy of Heaven’s master-plan: your inner SELF! The guiding light of Luciferian deception. Mystic wisdom’s blinding sight; purveyed as truth: obscene confection. Listen well – please spare your soul and sidestep this, the blackest hole. Your self is sewage! Look within; behold that putrid old abyss then dive down deep into your sin the fallen source of carnal bliss. Inspire. Inhale in full the stench from deep within the septic trench unsounded depths, a cesspool’s source depravity released in force. Apart from mercy undeserved on those whom Heaven has reserved. Apart from Christ, your sordid purpose; jewel whose bright refracted surface glistens, beckoning to the feast yet never can appease the beast. I hail your lie, oh Inner Self you silted continental shelf – (or are you more a surge oceanic: roiling undertow satanic)? New Age myth, and Hindu idol fallen god whose pull is tidal… Brahman, Atman, Buddha, babble lies repackaged for the rabble… How deep do you intend to go into our post – Edenic show? How far the bottom? Whence the end? Explore ! You’ll never comprehend. You’ll find still worse – and yet descend.
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Sep 10, 2015
Sep 10, 2015 at 10:21 PM UTC
New Age Sewage: Your Sinner Self
Stationed by belief As hungry carts push on Destined to the checkout lines with a fist of great deals Forgotten once cashed Repackaged in plastic wrap where flesh was once sacred Commercial clichés provoking the same old reflections and interests In the midst of clones and lapse of reason Controlled and reduced to produce more and more but the score lacks anything to do with the salvation found in art form As chained souls morn in the ashes of the wake We must transcend and break the links For these ties are the kind that bind minds I stand alienated and tongue tied as my mind's eye sets the grocery store into flames For the dependence and poison it bakes While trains of unclassy gluttonous tarts bump carts programmed to jump start Relinquishing will and spilling milk I cried out a river of chill
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May 14, 2013
May 14, 2013 at 7:56 PM UTC
Runaway Train
Nothing has meaning. Everything is pointless, an inane transient cloud. A single breath of smoke. Think of all the blood and tears that you pour into your work. What do you actually gain from any of your labouring? Generations flourish then fade each one replacing another that passes, leaving no sign they were ever there, only the dirt that fell from their feet. The dawn sun drags itself into the sky then falls back down as dusk comes, repeating its dreary cycle over and over with the same numbing certainty. The wind gusts towards the south then changes and rushes north, mindlessly blowing one way then another, constant in its confused and erratic pursuits. Every drop of water ends in the ocean but the seas are never satiated and so the rivers and streams keep flowing, repeating their tedious cycles again. Every aspect of life inspires apathy and is filled with indescribable monotony. Each dull thing bores the eyes blind and deafens the ears with mundanity. All that has once been will be again. Every single thing that takes place is merely an imitation of another. There is nothing original on earth. Some people might claim or insist that they have something new to offer, but you can guarantee that all it will be is a rehashed and repackaged cliché. All that man achieves will pass away and the supposedly great things that will be accomplished in the future, will also fade into nothingness.
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Jul 11, 2016
Jul 11, 2016 at 3:41 PM UTC
Nothing Has Meaning (Ecclesiastes 1)
the readout simply showed,     i am the brand name. it was the ubiquitous, and as      was i. production and consumption      are protected. i am the being from which the experience is squeezed.      i am the experience repackaged and sold. altered by demand, altered again by experience.      then squeezed, then sold, then squeezed, then sold. hyperreality affords the assurance of eternal life.      i am information, in its creation, in its propagation. the plot has been tossed      in favor of the house of character, atlantic, and pacific.
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Aug 15, 2019
Aug 15, 2019 at 3:58 AM UTC
Life Eternal: Memetic Resale
It is hard being a child, let alone an adult. I hate growing up. I always hated the thought of it, of leaving childhood behind— when it was never a place I could rest. I was promised something better— a new life beyond that god-awful trailer, where the walls were too thin to contain the hurt. I was promised love, safety, a body and mind without bruises. I was promised the world. But promises are just words, and words crumble under fists. I am not ungrateful for what I have, but I am ungrateful for how I was raised— how I was brought into this world only to be broken by it. Adoption was supposed to be a rescue, but even kindness can wear a mask. And when the masks fell, the truth cut deeper than any wound I’d known before. Now, I carry more stories, more bruises from my adopted parents than my biological ones. More words screamed at me, until I was so weak, I wanted to leave. A child, eight years old, should never think about dying. Parents should be a sanctuary, a refuge. Mine were a battlefield. I learned to fear growing up— to fear failure, to fear never being enough. I have accepted it all: the blows, the scars, the pain repackaged as love. Because love was something foreign until I met my first true friend, my first real love. With family, there was only war. And in their house, I counted the days I thought about dying— more than I can recall. They failed to protect me, to shield me from others’ harm, and their answer was always the same— an empty hug, a hollow “It’s going to be okay.” But they never meant it. In every argument, they used my scars as weapons, ripped open old wounds just to watch me bleed. If they understand the weight of trauma, why do they bring it up to bury me deeper? Do they really love me? I don’t understand, and I don’t think I ever will.
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Feb 19, 2025
Feb 19, 2025 at 3:18 PM UTC
Bruised Promises
It is hard being a child, let alone an adult. I hate growing up. I always hated the thought of it, of leaving childhood behind— when it was never a place I could rest. I was promised something better— a new life beyond that god-awful trailer, where the walls were too thin to contain the hurt. I was promised love, safety, a body and mind without bruises. I was promised the world. But promises are just words, and words crumble under fists. I am not ungrateful for what I have, but I am ungrateful for how I was raised— how I was brought into this world only to be broken by it. Adoption was supposed to be a rescue, but even kindness can wear a mask. And when the masks fell, the truth cut deeper than any wound I’d known before. Now, I carry more stories, more bruises from my adopted parents than my biological ones. More words screamed at me, until I was so weak, I wanted to leave. A child, eight years old, should never think about dying. Parents should be a sanctuary, a refuge. Mine were a battlefield. I learned to fear growing up— to fear failure, to fear never being enough. I have accepted it all: the blows, the scars, the pain repackaged as love. Because love was something foreign until I met my first true friend, my first real love. With family, there was only war. And in their house, I counted the days I thought about dying— more than I can recall. They failed to protect me, to shield me from others’ harm, and their answer was always the same— an empty hug, a hollow “It’s going to be okay.” But they never meant it. In every argument, they used my scars as weapons, ripped open old wounds just to watch me bleed. If they understand the weight of trauma, why do they bring it up to bury me deeper? Do they really love me? I don’t understand, and I don’t think I ever will.
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76
Pay attention to what lengths one will go to And still find themselves incapable of making it through No push or pull through, both options taken off the table on a path of glue Acknowledge the mental blocks that are constantly fought 1v2 Never told, so never knew Sold a bad bag of repackaged goods labeled NEW But these missing brighter days have an expiration on the carton too As well as an enforcement of a curfew That's never been required to pursue, Yet they still do While most never notice the touch of darkness lurking in their happy places too ©2024
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May 7, 2024
May 7, 2024 at 3:15 PM UTC
~•§•~ A Touch of Darkness ~•§•~
Holding onto reality with both hands His social life in a cup of coffee as he waits Swamped sinking lifeboats No longer accepting applications For jobs that have sailed away Buried alive, a napkin waiting its turn To be plucked out and used Then thrown out Lucky if recycled and repurposed To a younger man’s vision Torn apart, his skills repackaged, Frankensteined for each resume The boring job of cutting checks means he was A bookkeeper, an accountant, detail oriented, Friendly to external and internal users or customer service driven Or any combination of above. Leaving his car at home, he walks, Afraid of running out of money for gas and repairs Wondering what pieces he will put together today Reducing his years of experience to a tweet Comprehensible to the child in charge of his future.
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Jul 14, 2015
Jul 14, 2015 at 7:48 PM UTC
At Café Zippy’s
I have nothing to say to you You who killed me with Kindness coated psychosis Sublime smile subtly secreting An insidious succubus A devil draped in The raiments of salvation Holding my sins In your personal vault Grand schemes of subterfuge Disguised to convince me I was wholly beyond repair And only whole under your care Twisted morality and values Repackaged as love and adoration Sold at a discount, no warranty Which I bought, no questions asked Slick salesman snake tongue Singing it's seductive sales pitch Across my soul Grasping, understanding, and manipulating My penchant for shiny things You had my credit at your disposal So adamant were you that the defects Lie within the buyer alone Never once alluding to the Damaged goods that Lie within the lie
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Mar 8, 2015
Mar 8, 2015 at 6:40 PM UTC
MIS'ESS
I despair as a writer when I think that conversation, the spark of humanity, our golden embroidery on life, is unremarkable. these days, voices are shallow melodies with accents on repeat: I want you to listen and believe, but who really knows? or is distinguishing the repackaged plagues of similar beliefs. The differences are basically the same and it's time consuming to critically think. So exhausting to feel like I must hurry to get a point across before the nodding glance to the black screen, relieved of wondering: Have you been listening at ALL to my word drawings and logic trees derived from headlines, videos, and abstract malcontent? I'm learning to be quiet, or dramatic. Nothing in between but revising a philosopher's tractatus: Whereof one cannot speak, One should remain silen..salient.
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Jul 28, 2017
Jul 28, 2017 at 9:50 PM UTC
I'm learning to be quiet
The owner bites the dog, I bit myself I think I ate my leash My psychological hand pulls the chain from my stomach, leading me into the kitchen where You are making coffee I wake up in the morning and curse you that bed, that old vessel of human broth I make it Repackaged, like new, let’s consume from within – Crisis averted Last night I dreamt of islands chasing me And I was afraid because I had deserted them You Pour me a cup of coffee I accept offering you a smile, but no gratitude, or hope While my mind gnaws at the memory of love.
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Feb 12, 2017
Feb 12, 2017 at 8:03 PM UTC
THE DOG IN THE ROOM
You don't have to put up with it, no one is stuck on Facebook. I look but can't see the delete me the **** outa this app that's free and always will be krap. Zap, Zuckerberg just shot me down, run me out of Facebook town. Pow, I was going anyhow, they're just a bunch of nothing new, a new look on a pirate crew, **** you facebook. Then they suspend me, them wicked ******** on Facebook send me to that godforsaken place called Coventry where the end of me is processed and repackaged endlessly, Coventry? I think it's twinned with monotony and **** you facebook I'll go-commando, hide away in Twitterville and go it solo with 139 other characters who know as much as I know. Which is next to nothing Am I bad or what?
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Feb 18, 2016
Feb 18, 2016 at 2:38 AM UTC
I can't scream in Chinese but I'll try
Feels like my heart is just a toy packaged, Sold, Returned, And repeated I'm an action figure begging to be played with but lately I haven't seen any action I yearn to be in the hands of someone who loves me, Reflecting in the eyes of captivated satisfaction Play dates are my fate but as of late they haven't been so great They pick me up toss me round Then leave me on the ground for my body to be found I lay shroud, wet, cold, and alone, Chewed up and spit out like a dogs bone This boy is a toy but has brought no hearts joy So I'm repackaged, Returned, And receipted Hanging in the isle again, I've never felt so defeated
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Jul 18, 2013
Jul 18, 2013 at 2:14 PM UTC
The Heart, A Toy
there was a little holdup at the grocery store the chickens all went bad and they hit the door! they took all the money they did not do as they ought but there was a "manhunt" and a few of them were caught! they were convicted of their crimes and repackaged for their vice but they were still BAD! NOW THE BUYER PAYS THE PRICE! SoulSurvivor
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Nov 4, 2014
Nov 4, 2014 at 10:23 PM UTC
when chicken goes bad
Repackaged, see the sentiment sculpted in the semblance of a seraphim with second skin, I'm reckoning, Respecting artistry is the energy in empathy, Interdigitating like gloves to fingers, Clutching the doorknob, Twisting to a time that was once there, felt by a someone, A freethinking carbon unit, Carved by cards dealt and carsick movements, This perfect person; a testament to diverging from automation, A someone, Doing SOMETHING, somewhere, Forging from thoughts to creation. I admire you as a maker of things, There are no mistakes, every moment is golden - don't flinch
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Oct 25, 2017
Oct 25, 2017 at 3:02 AM UTC
At a Moments Notice