Ever since his conception from the pink pit,
That moist, beautiful raw meat flower,
He'd always felt that he was saturated in a repetitive
repetitive
Repetitive
Simulation of social acceptibility.
His mother, dutifully,
Plentifully and often cried sillicone tears
At all major events.
Her insides were manufactured
To create intricrate apathy.
He grew into a talented young man,
And used his abilities properly.
He's a hot dog vendor.
People would assume that he's a dull, run-of-the-mill guy,
They like to feel connected to the guy that hands them their saturated meat products.
But I've looked into his eyes
And seen his unique universe.
I looked into his eyes;
And saw a songbird
In him.

I find this one to be pretty decent, generally. I find that some of the most interesting people in this world are actually the ones who seem to be outwardly dull or bland, working mundane jobs, etc., as opposed to the typical successful businessmen, which sort of seems to be your interpretation here, as well. There seems to be something of a contradiction in that he used his abilities properly, yet he's nothing but a hot dog vendor. Also, in regards to the mother, I think you may be meaning to use empathy as opposed to apathy? Apathy means indifference and not caring. However, maybe you do mean to use apathy, going along with the theme of the mother's feelings for her son being somewhat manufactured or even robotic.

This is generally well-written, and I really like the last 5 lines. These are the crucial lines here, and that sudden shining of light in the last few lines sort of reminds me of a Bukowski poem.

Solid effort.

Yeah, that was the point. I wanted to point my finger at the irony of people wasting what they have. The artist trapped inside the store clerk.

Yeah, her public showcases of emotion are just faux niceties. Her insides are manufactured in the sense that her mind has been shaped and moulded since it was nice and soft into what's an acceptibility.

I've been getting more and more into Bukowski recently, so that's come through in my poetry.

Thanks, man.

Yeah, I bought my first book of Bukowski, Play The Piano Drunk Like A Percussion Instrument Until The Fingers Begin To Bleed A Bit, at my friend Brett's recommendation (I mentioned him in one of my poems in my new topic), and it's brilliant.

Also, thanks for elaborating on the poem. Keep it up, dude.

The interesting thing was that he despised the Beats. Not the classics like Kerouac and Ginsberg, but the successors, the guys who he saw as entrepreneurs, stealing the style and exploiting the art.

Haha, Buk would probably hate me. I don't know though, I utilize Kerouac's spontaneous style to write my poetry, but I don't feel like I'm entirely ripping off the beat style. Maybe I'm just being egotistical.

You're not profiting from it, so at most, a mild dislike.

This is true, and I doubt I'll ever seek financial gain from my poetry. I wouldn't mind being published but I don't want to do it just because of money. In fact I just became part of this organization called the Guerilla Poetics Project. Basically they're an underground poetry publishing organization. They pick new sets of poems to put out every few months and publish them on little cards called broadsides, and ship them out to their members, who hide them inside books in bookstores, libraries, etc. I found out about it when I bought Allen Ginsberg's Collected Poems: 1947-1997 and found a broadside in it.

It's a really cool thing they have going on, I have a stack of broadsides to hide sitting in my room right now. You can check them out at http://www.guerillapoetics.org.

Sorry for slight bump, but I think that idea is totally crazy but brilliant at the same time. There must be atleast some change for someone really appreciating something like that. Even if it was just 1% of people who found those, it'd still be great.

And the poem of JCC, I think it works quite well. I don't like the first half that much, cause it feels a little bit... I'm not sure what word to use from my small English vocabularly. Well, I just don't like it as much as the second half. Still, it's fine piece.