"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.
Jan 9, 2018
Jan 9, 2018 at 10:38 AM UTC
►☼◄
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.
Sep 10, 2015
Sep 10, 2015 at 10:21 PM UTC
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
May 14, 2013
May 14, 2013 at 7:56 PM UTC
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.
Jul 11, 2016
Jul 11, 2016 at 3:41 PM UTC
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.
Aug 15, 2019
Aug 15, 2019 at 3:58 AM UTC
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.
Feb 19, 2025
Feb 19, 2025 at 3:18 PM UTC
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
May 7, 2024
May 7, 2024 at 3:15 PM UTC
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.
Jul 14, 2015
Jul 14, 2015 at 7:48 PM UTC
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
Mar 8, 2015
Mar 8, 2015 at 6:40 PM UTC
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.
Jul 28, 2017
Jul 28, 2017 at 9:50 PM UTC
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.
Feb 12, 2017
Feb 12, 2017 at 8:03 PM UTC
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?
Feb 18, 2016
Feb 18, 2016 at 2:38 AM UTC
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
Jul 18, 2013
Jul 18, 2013 at 2:14 PM UTC
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
Nov 4, 2014
Nov 4, 2014 at 10:23 PM UTC
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
Oct 25, 2017
Oct 25, 2017 at 3:02 AM UTC