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Showing posts from June, 2012

The Internet Game

©Shers Gallagher 2012
I’m nursing an anger, a personal rage, perhaps unjustifiable yet still of an age where it’s easy to copy, to cut and to claim the talents of others through this internet game. And I'm frankly astounded by such unabashed pride that attaches a name-tag with the assertion: ‘All mine!’ It's the work of another and a rape crime of voice
committed by you in a one-act, called 'Choice'. 

And as grey matter rots while the cheek spreads too wide don't you feel a known prick of unmerited pride? You're just a fencer of thoughts,
one who gulps and gleans 
from the crafting of others, 
on their ideals and dreams.  Yet where are your own? Lost in your nebulous binds as you lurk in subscriptions and imaging finds? Such effortless meaning is your identity tree. You’ve no signature at all, 
there's nothing to see. Neither wit nor insight, not one creative scrawl. You’ve let yourself go in a colourless fall. 
Now I ask you again, is it so hard to conceive? To make yourself k…