"trademarked" poems
Foundlings lament beneath their shrouds
For the Givers they never knew.
Shouts of terror, gone unheard, loud
And bright in the fright of selected few.
Shadows cast beneath sunlight's flags
Are trademarked captions made of stained silk.
They trod the daylit bog in dusty rags,
Secretly living, they and their ilk.
Nov 9, 2010
Nov 9, 2010 at 3:10 PM UTC
SpongeBob SquarePants is an American animated television series created by marine biologist and animator Stephen Hillenburg for Nickelodeon. The series chronicles the adventures and endeavors of the title character and his various friends in the fictional underwater city of Bikini Bottom. The series' popularity has made it a media franchise, as well as Nickelodeon network's highest rated show, and the most distributed property of MTV Networks. The media franchise has generated $8 billion in merchandising revenue for Nickelodeon.
Many of the ideas for the series originated in an unpublished, educational comic book titled The Intertidal Zone, which Hillenburg created in the mid-1980s. He began developing SpongeBob SquarePants into a television series in 1996 upon the cancellation of Rocko's Modern Life, and turned to Tom Kenny, who had worked with him on that series, to voice the titular character. SpongeBob was originally to be named SpongeBoy, and the series was to be called SpongeBoy Ahoy!, but these were changed, as the name was already trademarked.
The series was previewed on Nickelodeon in the United States on May 1, 1999, following the television airing of the 1999 Kids' Choice Awards, and officially premiered on July 17, 1999. It has received worldwide critical acclaim since its premiere and gained enormous popularity by its second season. The SpongeBob SquarePants Movie, a feature-length film adaptation, was released in theaters on November 19, 2004, and a sequel is currently in production, with a projected release date of February 13, 2015. On July 21, 2012, the series was renewed and aired its ninth season, beginning with the episode "Extreme Spots".[2][3]
Despite its widespread popularity, the series has been involved in several public controversies, including one centered around speculation over SpongeBob SquarePants' intended ****** orientation. The series has been nominated for a variety of different awards, including 17 Annie Awards (with six wins), 17 Golden Reel Awards (with eight wins), 15 Emmy Awards (with one win), 13 Kids' Choice Awards (with 12 wins), and four BAFTA Children's Awards (with two wins). In 2011, a newly described species of mushroom, Spongiforma squarepantsii, was named after the cartoon's title character.
Apr 28, 2014
Apr 28, 2014 at 4:22 PM UTC
Altogether, the night we wove
a trickled treasure, tangled:
skirted legs spilling out from
the teacup of a denim lap,
validation in the vacuum cove.
- Dusty Nikes before the dusk,
who art in heaven, my god
he thrusts.
- Why'd your mother
let you talk that way:
You smoke cliche cigarettes
in such an unfamiliar way.
- The hanger left welts, weeping
into post-relevance landline love,
body lay like the hands on the clock,
copper landmarks seeping.
What a feeling, ever so same.
Arched eyebrows, a trademarked shame:
like a fighter, like ****** oozing.
Like a functional inability,
divine in its losing.
Apr 13, 2016
Apr 13, 2016 at 1:01 AM UTC
You, you are a
Thermodynamic
Buoyant
Force
******* like the
single-minded
Octopus
that takes and takes
Strong energy,
mild energy
Inhales the organically-grown
Petals
of all flowers, regardless
Good intentions.
that sure is nice
What humility,
Artificial
Plastic
Egotistical
Manufactured
Trademarked
Birthed
Regurgitated
and
too thoughtfully acted by
You.
But I see it.
You have
not landed.
The world needs your
footprint but
it does not need your self-indulged
hunger.
Be humble.
Your success is not
marked if
You are not humble.
Keep your tentacles
in your depths and
Be
Poised
Poised you seem to be and success is your process but
Humility is my truth.
We float on
neighboring clouds of
public service
that have not the same hue.
Take a step back.
I see you mean
No harm
like a dinosaur with no arms
Good intentions.
Take a step back.
You desire to envelop others yet
You do so
so
mindlessly
I see it.
Let your brain rest from the throne.
the world does not serve you
It serves nothing
and no one as
We are all lucky.
You say that you’re lucky
For all
to hear
just to endear
And that is the problem
My dear, be poised.
Publicize your life for
documentation?
No
Take a step back.
We need your
love
compassion
independence
ambition
Real
not fake.
Transform this and
Good intentions.
The world is not yours
You walk on its leaf
and repeated, recycled
identities
Take a step back.
The world is not yours.
Cameron Bell, Copyright © 2019
Mar 11, 2019
Mar 11, 2019 at 7:11 PM UTC
I want poetry to break out of it's underground cave
Break out of the solitary lonely, locked cage.
I want my poetry to be capable of inspiring change
I want to illustrate beauty in a verse beautifully maimed
I want to communicate the tender sudden pulse of a surface wound
I want my poetry to be blueprints for change, in the world, or a room
I want to connect the universal nerve of tremors and feelings
I want to connect wires and vessels, shifting cells and ceilings
I want to broadcast this current human condition,
Rewiring like a revolutionary electrician
I want to transcend my, and next time,
With my poems added to anthologies
And each of their lines
Being recited by literary scholars and dedicated readers
But I have accepted some poets are popular during their lifetimes
Like Alice Cary, and Maya Angelou
With acknowledged, renowned, printed
Published Stanzas, and lines.
I want to at the very least, be one of those who guard a hidden, folded..
[Rather than outdated, infamous, tattered and broken]
..genuis.
Or maybe an answer to some past hanging question
Found in the very letters in my words to
The trademarked inflection
Breathing a bashful verse that grew in this universe
Or the next
To strengthen roots of the beauty of language
The older, the wiser, the more interpreted complex
Not the unknown but claimed roots of American poetry
And some
May close the **** kindle. Or rip out the last page.
After I die, I might return with bones live with rage.
Because if nothing has happened, I will continue to say:
I want my poetry to be capable of inspiring change.
Because we are destroying a world we should be killing fighting to save.
(Hopefully this shan't be said again from a grave.)
Each person who has read solely to write one more page
Take your weapons, inspire, engage
None can lay bricks until a clear path is paved.
iii.viii.xii
Aug 3, 2012
Aug 3, 2012 at 6:41 AM UTC
I do not lack for intimacy, real and touching.
Perhaps, so blessed, I reach out to those in need
To those semi-known, but never met, never realized.
Perhaps, so disfigured by experience,
Compelled, self-commanded, self-anointed,
I venture to parts and people unknown,
With all that I have, my only possession,
Words of comfort, which is my trademarked craft,
And my true purpose... Here on earth.
But when entreaties refused, misunderstood,
Rejected, I am stunned by the hurt, the rejection,
Which makes one tired in ways that
Shock.
How allowed, who gave me permission
To increase my vulnerability to one more, only
Imagined, only Internet real...
This foolish tirade, in words, my stock and trade,
The only way to expiate my grief
For caring,
I Am that I Am
My instincts good, I will continue.
Disregard the brain, regard only the
Need,
To Be Who I Be.
Aug 23, 2013
Aug 23, 2013 at 4:55 AM UTC
Darling, he doesn't care about you
You're a fulltime fill-in until he finds someone better
And oh, when he breaks your heart?
I'll be front row.
Popcorn.
Ambiance.
Why would I ever consider consoling you?
You're trash.
G a r b a g e .
You look at me like you expect someone to care about your life.
Or does it bother you that I ignore your existence?
Does it make you sick? The worse you feel, the better I do.
Does that make me sound like a villain? Oh well. Every villain has some ****** depressing back-story.
I don't plan on informing you of mine. Just know, I've seen things you wouldn't last a day seeing.
I've ripped out my own heart to sew it back together.
**** with me.
Nov 28, 2015
Nov 28, 2015 at 3:00 AM UTC
On A Calm Autumn Night
Sitting and watching stars on a calm Autumn night
Viewing the celestial stars with you in my sight
this evening is all I have left of you my dear
within the deepest recesses of my mind here
all the beauty on this calm Autumn night with you
takes be back in time as we danced ‘neath the stars
we stared into each –other’s eyes with love so true
on a calm Autumn night our hearts sang loud and far
We both stayed up all night and watched the cosmic rays
while the rays turned into the dancing northern lights
we both vowed to appreciate our earth each day
we sit and watch the stars on any given night
on a calm Autumn night, we will cherish all lands
and earth; God gave us with love in my heart and hands
Written and © and Trademarked on 06/05/2017
Aug 13, 2018
Aug 13, 2018 at 12:33 AM UTC
I treasure those eyes the best, so lovely each night. Long lashes fluttering with your trademarked twisted elegance. I trace your skinny hips and kiss your scarlet lips, we lay close and and whisper across the quiet divide. I sit inhaling smoke and exhaling pretty words that roll off the tip of my tongue, sliding down the floor boards. Drinking, spinning in sickly sweet light. I can tell them, always trusting the people I meet, dancing to the sweet spot. Wicked am I, missing the saunter of those long lovely legs. Trapped a loop of taunting, teasing laughter. We all talk crazy, tangled and comfortable in each others hair, this is the closest to perfection I've ever been.
Dec 23, 2013
Dec 23, 2013 at 10:26 AM UTC
My heart it feels, the scar tissue form
The engraving of TM, forever trademark
The light in my soul goes out
It will remain, forever dark
So broken down, I finally know true pain
For it showers me, like the May rain
You brought me up, and threw me down
Hope I can swim, or in my tears I'll drown
So I hope your happy, and you can get by with ease
For my trademarked heart, will always tease
For you I'd stay sober, except for tonight
This ***** in me, will erase the scar tissue, out of sight
Jan 13, 2012
Jan 13, 2012 at 11:46 AM UTC
Down the rabbit hole I go
Trademarked by Acme and the warnerbrothers
I put it there myself to see where it would take me
Thrown down in the middle of dinner parties
Slapped on to a stranger's windshield
Pulling it out it feels rubbery and flimsy
The only way I've ever known my reality to be
Walking on the other side of the sidewalk
In an attempt to avoid the pianos that might fall on my head
****** features exaggerated with expressions of valor or dismay
Hearts surrounding the dogs sniffing each other
Can they see it too?
Sometimes the forget me nots blow kisses as if everyone are their lovers
their little blue pedals waving or curling in and out from the garden
mom's a little clumsy and there's always at least a single star spinning above her head
It's always been this way
A spoonful of sugar was never enough to make the medicine go down
Jul 31, 2014
Jul 31, 2014 at 4:27 AM UTC
Translation of
Red faced misfortune
A tune for the muse
Who rests *** less yet
Smiling with satisfaction
A sad old feeling
Of realizations & regrets
Halloween wrinkles Her nose
And the grass turns brown as
The sun slowly starts to burn out
Locket of love
Golden hanging replica
Of truth & of lies
A tie painted by a ring
A kiss where behind
Lays the knife
Burn the pages
Memorize the words
Turn of the century
These wounds are turning green
Trademarked & sworn
Leaflets of one's
Own devices
A pressure cooker
Of a lover
Tonight eyes glance
Left to right
Nigh up & down
"So your the one
They keep talking about..."
Each minute presses on from
The palms of her hands
As the wax brown & purple wooden
Floor caked with bad dreams
Speculates no longer sober
While animals dressed in winged cobra suits
Rest inside the house made of faceless poker cards
Resting willow
Eyes in half slant
Blankets pulled up to the ears
She speaks of animals lost
A tarot card terror
Death & memories
Feb 25, 2012
Feb 25, 2012 at 1:56 PM UTC
Walls of Brick
Soldiers Clad in Iron
Towers that pointed up to the sun...
Lined a city in the Dark Ages
Deemed as a "Myth"
Camelot holds secrets
Which have never been uncovered..
Replaced history
A true place lost and changed in time...
Due to whimsical movies and books lined with a children's story.
The grounds no longer hold a building...
The Legend Remains...
Soldiers fighting for honor and for their kings
and the well kept treasures valued to the lands...
Camelot was a lifestyle and Magical Icon
Now it is a trademarked brand.
Rest in pieces unknown land...
Until we meet again and unearth your true heritage
Let's enjoy people's myths of you upon bright lit stages.
Dec 12, 2015
Dec 12, 2015 at 9:15 PM UTC
I mean, look at this. Look at it! A world built on fantasy. Synthetic emotions in the form of pills. Psychological warfare in the form of advertising. Mind-altering chemicals in the form of... food! Brainwashing seminars in the form of media. Controlled isolated bubbles in the form of social networks. Real? You want to talk about reality? We haven't lived in anything remotely close to it since the turn of the century. We turned it off, took out the batteries, snacked on a bag of GMOs while we tossed the remnants in the ever-expanding Dumpster of the human condition. We live in branded houses trademarked by corporations built on bipolar numbers jumping up and down on digital displays, hypnotizing us into the biggest slumber mankind has ever seen. You have to dig pretty deep, kiddo, before you can find anything real. We live in a kingdom of ******** A kingdom you've lived in for far too long. So don't tell me about not being real. I'm no less real than the ******* beef patty in your Big Mac.
- Mr Robot
Dec 11, 2016
Dec 11, 2016 at 10:21 PM UTC
By the Five-Ringed Gods of Adrenaline
Pour the Plasma's place for Victory's Fair
Of most Sacred Masters peered and pristine
Prim Art above Profits; Yet still Aware
That the Spirit - recorded by the Muse,
Took her Efficiency a Best Blown Ride
To see each Win; Yet Bloated Heads subdue
To preach Sane Messages others will Find
Not yet Delayed - still - keep the Feathers strong,
Your Trademarked Swan times Frequency beloved
If still - Nineteen - left the ******* Pig's Throng
And your Path-of-the-Prince takes Currency.
For I, Spells and Chants soak Growth in my Age
Read my Almonds be: The Path-of-the-Sage.
Jun 6, 2013
Jun 6, 2013 at 12:51 AM UTC
Why must we unpack MYSTERY?
Wrap it in Theology?
Box it up with piety and on our knees call “Deity!”
Can AWE be trademarked, WONDER sold?
Does the unknown have to fit a mold?
Embrace the pure uncertainty and cherish possibility.
Jan 18, 2019
Jan 18, 2019 at 8:35 AM UTC
Listening to your music makes me very bored
So I headed downtown for the things I can’t afford
I walked into the crowded lake till my feet got sored
If the traffic questioned me I’d say I was lured
For a glass of ice and an old album I stored
It made four. I listened till the choir singers broke their last vocal chord.
For years they trademarked desire, eventually it topped the Billboard
the train got jammed midway, again this team had scored
I didn’t say anything; I even signed the peace accord
All the piano keys marched out my door, saying ‘cursed was my Lord!’
I couldn’t sing well, but I walked behind them with a sword
Only my guitar slept soundly; at midnight it even snored
Jun 10, 2019
Jun 10, 2019 at 5:42 PM UTC
The way history just happened in a way to give these words meaning —
We grew up to believe in a Jesus ,
Were raised to want somebody , something to save us ,
To need that more than the confidence to save ourselves
And then bombs killed the sun ,
And radio filled the sky with waves ,
God’s old realm become a vast ocean of voices and other sounds
And we listened to the static for something with faith ,
Something like a Jesus , somebody to save us from a modern **** nation ,
Some note of some harmony in static
And when some people started to sing and dance ,
We made them do a Jesus, spit cameras in Their faces and committed Them to celebrity ,
Painted Their faces on cities like graffiti written on the wall
And then we made a box like a church to frame Their living image ,
Put it in our living rooms, arranged our thrones around it ,
Worked overtime at the pollution office so we could see Their faces in color
And that box just got better , got sharper in vision ,
And we worshipped it like we’d finally found faith with a remote and a bag of potato chips ,
Always upgrading the box with Pandora trademarked on plastic
And now we have that box in our ******* pockets ,
All the Jesus , facts , vileness , and worthlessness of life ,
All that is bad and maybe good for our species , the size of our palm
And it recognizes our ******* face
And we wanted it this way ,
We asked for it , voted for it , fought for it
******* paid for it
Apr 27, 2019
Apr 27, 2019 at 2:06 AM UTC
no tsunami reached higher
no gasoline fuelled more fire
no conductor reached crescendo
no wall called protego
as loudly as my grief cried
to rip you back from that void
back to my side
you couldn't have stayed,
and I understand.
I am trying still to be that man
that man you kissed, caressed and threw
deep into the universe of loving you
but it's very hard to be that man, my dear
when you, my sun, cannot be here
it's difficult to see myself each morning
through the mirror of our bedroom
hand empty, where once yours was sewn
when we were young, how we stressed
that infinity was ours
and we were joint, dually blessed
for years upon years, and all the hours
I know I was blessed- to have had you I am grateful
but I cannot help but be resentful
of the world in which I breathe
where endless love is trademarked
but thousands are left to grieve
and oh God, have I grieved, and cried and stared
at the empty space your death prepared
-I have clutched bottles in my fist
held fire between my teeth
crushed my footprints beneath rags
and rammed iron through my wrist
I have pulled away each eyelash
poured acid on my cheeks
cut away elbows, knees and fingertips
have stalled my breath for weeks
at what point will I realise
that this pain cannot compare
to the knowing and rejection
that you're no longer there?
Nov 3, 2015
Nov 3, 2015 at 6:33 AM UTC
Enter discreetly, and proceed to take a pew;
Artsy fartsy culture camo lines the wall
like morning dew. A raptured window
sits atop a glazing gall, enthralling all;
As fetished hook propels, sinks in and pulls you through.
Decked obsequis with dire strands of self set, alight;
Mixing murmers; Churning, gurning grunts and groans,
stoking sight. Essence blossoms
effervescently, into warbled drone;
Symphony of souls, atoned, erupting, blood accrued might.
Dark set eyes behind the counter, counts another crop;
Foppish foolery as skin set sore adored
by boorish mop; Head of hair
aligned, entwined, principle annulled but ******
Evoked Muse's invocation, released enormous slop adored.
Finally a noise devoid of touch, howls reified;
Chair despair sets into tumbled, mumbled call,
plea defied. Shoddy surgeon's hand
demands, gropes alleyway to shadowed hall,
Sits abreast infernal mechanites for deified brawl.
Creeping shadows come'a'peeping, Uncle Tom'a'weeping wonder,
blunders through the choice of sticky sheen
Resists the proper plunder. Whirring warrior
begins assault on castles primly stoked for seen;
Seams amended, blackened blood serene provoking chunder stream.
Followed Zeitgeist back to Black. Slow daunter back to blue;
Repairs conceptions of the Self within the mirror visored stew;
Anew the reckonings of where and why, Oh how freshly do they die
As left to see another in thyself, and loudly to decry:
Decry the aspects of bad health, no longer put upon the shelf
Stealthy pox and watermarks depart to leave aesthetic wealth;
Dealt in depths and crepts of cunning folk behind the trademarked lens
Obssessed with visibility, maneuvures us towards our end(s).
Sep 18, 2016
Sep 18, 2016 at 8:33 PM UTC
It'll be twenty years this spring.
Twenty.
I can still remember those red lockers,
and the cadgy way you took my appraisal.
I was so innocent then,
for all my ennui and dark eyeliner.
So young and untried.
Though we were only a year apart,
you had lived entire lifetimes
in the gap between us.
You offered me a taste,
and I devoured.
A ravenous thing,
I consumed every gleaming,
disjointed moment
in that bright world.
I was an experience ******
and you were my dealer,
my fix,
Doling out paradigms,
in neat white lines.
They called it a hole,
but it never felt like that to me.
Each hit was a journey,
And we travelled everywhere.
I was a glitter bug,
sashaying in platform heels,
you were a fresh faced candy necklace,
in a tank top and wide leg jeans.
Together we ruled the night.
We were fast and irreverent,
Trademarked by our frenetic maneuvering.
Free as the changing wind.
We were raging toward the dawn,
We were getting lit up like Christmas,
We were being kicked out of clubs,
And having dinner with the literature.
We were building blanket forts,
and breaking hearts.
We were breathing sound.
We were discovering the Multiverse,
and burning it
the
****
down!
We were two rarefied souls,
barreling toward oblivion,
laying it bare,
laying waste.
Discovering infinity,
Discovering ourselves.
Those were heady days,
and if I think about them long enough,
I can still get high on the flashback,
The swirl of fog through laser beams,
warm camphorous kisses
from loveable strangers,
Those deep beats...
If I close my eyes long enough,
I am transported
to a dark room somewhere...
A crumpled mess of girl,
you and I sloppily intertwined,
venturing ever elsewhere....
Two desperately seeking souls,
paired adventurers,
finding beauty in chaos,
in the unknown,
in heartache,
in everything.
Knowing that whatever we learned,
we learned in kind,
and that knowledge was ripe for the picking.
That everything is an offer,
an opportunity,
a lesson...
If one can just open herself,
to interpret the vibrations.
Nov 18, 2017
Nov 18, 2017 at 12:20 AM UTC
pronouncing beauty, eloquism i've dealt with,
a lit-up candle resembling a snowflake
in the middle of weary summer—
hearth, solitude, and soulmates
have particular habits,
like one i seldom right now:
never get my hair blow-dried
after having cut them down,
knowing i wouldn't go to those lengths again,
or see the styled version—
that's as real as your plains.
wouldn't be there the next day, would they,
when i wake up, a messy bedhead,
stars on my skin, nightmares stained in purpose—
guesses on that somewhere along the ride,
i accepted the chaotic messy half curls
and half waves of my dusted heathery heathens.
learn my language if you must:
private with a public intensity,
burning in paradoxes and flameproof identities.
there's multiple facets of how you live—
decisions, situations, ironies, as you will,
weaponize descent, set trademarked positions.
loathsome evil little creatures,
annoying in proof,
existing by mere chance—
i despise them all through.
but oh, do they deserve love?
perhaps, maybe they do—
from those who speak their words
and listen to them swoon.
deities settled atop the mountain of lies,
dancing in between the lines.
truth is a factor—
those eyes, they lie:
iridescent, accompanied with desires,
breathing vacuum, eating dust,
speaking their shares even as they shy.
spider webs curling upon oneself,
eight-legged creatures grinning at the fresh catch.
fakers faked their own fake selves,
hid secrets of the sacred mess in their chests.
i live for i.
give up, for you shall—
i've some offers to make.
but before, offering some tea—
oh, on the side,
would you like some scones dipped in earth, perhaps?
Jul 22, 2025
Jul 22, 2025 at 6:10 AM UTC