"bagged" poems
I get accused of a lot of things at first glance
"You're simplistic, you're hiding something
You have no convictions, you don't think deeply"
Usually by those who I consider to be on intellectual crutches
If you're gonna come up to talk to me from a religious context
from a spiritual context
from a hierarchical, metaphysical, eat this **** popsicle mindset
Don't expect me to swallow
Don't expect me to talk
You won't like what I have to say
Because really you just want me to agree with you
If you want me to respect your framework
When you have nothing but the claims of quacks
and the feelings you gleaned from your last psychedelic trip
to back you up
While I have to sit back and listen to how I'm close minded
Close minded for wanting some real truth in this universe
unfiltered, raw, verifiable, and in my hand
and that anything other than that is a spray paint over
my true awakening
Then I guess I'll just have to be that *******
to die for these intellectual sins
The Eldest Son of Matt, hater of pretense
Hypocrite to the highest level
Build me up into a figure of idolatry
Just like you do with the rest of your ego cases
Priests, Gurus, Rabbis, Rockstars, Poet sensations
Tell me how wonderful it is to listen to them
Tell me how I should be more in touch with a tree
Tell me how I don't dream
When all my life is but that
Tell me how I'm not deep when you make no attempt to learn
Who I am, and where I have come from
Misinterpret my teachings, and claim me to feel
As if I was the newest son of god
When all I want is for people to get beyond blinders
and love each other, and to get beyond the metaphysical rat race
Tell me that I'm supposed to live and let live
While you jam your beliefs down my throat
and expect me to respect getting philosophically tea bagged
Tied up to the crucifix
and asking me to repent for my search for truth
Jun 3, 2014
Jun 3, 2014 at 1:02 PM UTC
(sorry, but not sorry)
There once was a potato plant,
(Because potatoes grow on plants...)
This plant harvested baby potatoes.
This was no ordinary potato plant, however,
It was SPECIAL!
Anywho, the plant grew several baby potatoes,
Who were harvested and shipped on a crate to a grocery store
in a cold, dark shipping truck.
The potatoes, they weren't scared! Yah know why? Simple.
Because Potatoes don't have FEELINGS!
....but if they did....they'd be scared. Take my word for it.
The potatoes arrived at the store and were bagged, ready for purchase. They sat together in a pile for hours,
thinking about (but not thinking about) what would happen in the future, why they were in this bag, UNTIL, UNTIL a homeless man (he looked homeless) reached into the bag, pulled out a single spud, and RAN! Out the store, down the street,
HE WAS OUTTA THERE! BYE-BYE SUCKERS!
Well, on his way to.... wherever he was going, he fell and dropped it. That's what stealing does to yah.
It rolled into an abandoned alley, far away from the man's sight. He couldn't stop and look for it, because he was being chased, so he ran away sourly, the potato being left cold and alone, without it's family to be piled up motionlessly beside it.
This potato was different. Unlike it's family, it could feel,
it could think and understand, even without knowing language at all, it's like the potato just knew everything and anything, without a purpose. And, another thing.
This potato, it was hungry. Very hungry.
Only hours later (again)
A parentless child walked the streets, searching for something to eat. They hadn't eaten in days. Of course, the child found the battered potato on the ground,picked it up and smiled.
It was the end of the potatoes life cycle, it seemed.
Or...was it? Seconds until the end, seconds until facing the terrifying wrath of the human's sharp, untaimed teeth, seconds until it got to see if there was a potato heaven or not, JUST SECONDS, something changed.
The spud; it grew. No, it didn't grow in size, but it did grow a mouth, and arms. And it could scream. Oh God, yes, it could wail like no tomorrow, so, quickly adapting to it's new form; it yelled ****** ****** The child threw it at a wall, screaming and running away.
..... Silence from the potato.
Sadly, it could withstand the grasp of a sweaty, homeless dude,
it could bare the growing silence from it's siblings,
it could even dodge the teeth of a starving ape!
But the potato was no match for a wall.
Mashed potatoes for dinner it is.
Sep 13, 2017
Sep 13, 2017 at 8:54 PM UTC
As the warm days of summer give way to chill, and shadows grow longer as days shed their hours.
High winds and rain storms scrub the tired landscape down.
Colours are changing from rich green to gold, from yellow to red and orange to brown.
The grain has been gathered, wheat, barley and oats, cut and collected, sifted and sorted and put into store.
Grown by God, and by man with machine and by effort of hand.
Poppies and stalks now mark the spot, of the return for their labour. The wealth of the land.
Birds follow the tractor, rising and falling, swirling and soaring they move like a cloud.
The farmer is out and turning the stubble into the ground.
Rooks and crows, gulls and wood pigeons, starlings and magpies follow him round.
Hay long since mown is now bailed and in barns, or rolled up and bagged, ferments now in high silage towers.
The countryside has yielded reward for all Adam’s toil.
Work done in rhythm with the seasons, sowing, growing, reaping, ploughing and tilling the soil.
Gathering goodness, from garden, and greenhouse, carrots and courgettes, tomatoes in bunches.
Fresher than any you can get in the shops.
Picking the bounty gleaned from the hedgerow. Rosehips and cobnuts, damsons and hops.
Elder and sorrel, mushrooms and puffballs, sour green crab apples, and brambles in tangles.
Sloes that were missed by the late winter frost.
Not all are pleasant and some really can hurt you, pick only those that you know and trust.
Take full advantage of God’s generosity, share it with gladness, with thanks, there is plenty for all.
Sticky syrups and cider, wines, cordial and beer.
Pies, puddings, sorbets and ice creams, jam, jelly, and chutney and enough pickles to last into next year.
As the warm days of summer give way to chill, and shadows grow longer as days shed their hours.
High winds and rain storms scrub the tired landscape down.
Colours are changing from rich green to gold, from yellow to red and orange to brown.
Oct 23, 2011
Oct 23, 2011 at 3:16 PM UTC
It was in total a fast track ticket to the moon
and I can't return to transaction dock 8 too soon
the star checkout lane at my local supermarket
tops balloons with rocket science aeronautics
that pilot's service areas binary counter perfect
exceeding expectations bent into global orbit
My items sped along to muzak her slim milky way belt
a smile beaming discount countdowns heaven sent
taking off in bit lips when her priceless item buttons
almost burst free to air with a strain of special promotions
helpfully assisting my every excess flight of fancy
made impulse buys a baggage allowance necessity
She stroked parts of her radical laser station
to fully engage hygienic wiped spills of imagination
and I felt the warp of hyperdrive tangelo engines
urging me into a dive to scan juice ripe tangerines
a last minute save fuelled by stalling flashback cavities
gyrating in tight nets as we escaped earth's gravity
With a twist of her wrist I was into fits-the-bill ecstasy
as the whirr of electronics cut loose such quality
with a lick of an index finger our mission was bagged
handled too efficiently for any danger of jet lag
no flyby chance to not exchange standby coupons
my trolley emptied of offers too galactic to pass on
Jul 7, 2014
Jul 7, 2014 at 12:52 AM UTC
at age 8 i stopped wearing jeans because they were uncomfortable.
at age 14 i wore high heels, fish nets, and skirts to school and a man once asked my mother if she really let me leave the house looking like that.
i also wore checkered pajama pants and shirts with holes in them to class, i dressed up and down because everyone else seemed to dress in the middle.
i dressed however i wanted to because my mother told that guy to shut the **** up and mind his own business.
at age 16 i wore crop tops the size of sports bras and pants so tight i understood why they called them skin-ny jeans
my **** and *** would be flying all over the place,
but people with larger **** and larger bellies, people like me, weren't supposed to be wearing those sorts of things so i thought i must.
or so i thought.
at age 18 i started dressing in oversized shirts and formless dresses
i didn't believe my body needed to be objectified and put on display anymore,
i didn't need to prove that my waistline was small enough,
i didn't need to wear the spanx i wore every day at 16.
at age 20 i stopped wearing make up or a bra,
my **** sagged and eyes bagged but i wanted to show people that ***** aren't always perky even on twenty year olds.
i also stopped shaving my armpits
i thought they were cute.
at age 22 i stopped shaving my legs.
i didn't think they were cute.
but i realized not every decision i made about how i presented myself needed to be in order to make myself more beautiful.
and at age 24 i shaved my head.
a man once asked me,
as he looked at my college ring wrapping itself around my pointer finger,
if i always did things differently just to be different?
and if id always be doing things just because someone told me not to?
i should have looked at him and asked him
what has he ever been told he cannot do?
Jul 23, 2021
Jul 23, 2021 at 11:22 PM UTC
It seems my little curb side tree
is acting like a tease these days,
Like the famed Gypsy Rose Lee,
She is disrobing by degrees.
A gust of wind, some red leaf falls
like feathers from a boa ripped.
Nearly naked head to breast
but fully dressed about both hips.
She seems quite loathe to lose it all
even in these waning days of fall.
Yet as the stripper ends her tease-
bare magnificence applauded,
My little tree will shed her leaves
to be raked,bagged and discarded
Dec 2, 2011
Dec 2, 2011 at 10:17 PM UTC
The seed-at-zero shall not storm
That town of ghosts, the trodden womb,
With her rampart to his tapping,
No god-in-hero tumble down
Like a tower on the town
Dumbly and divinely stumbling
Over the manwaging line.
The seed-at-zero shall not storm
That town of ghosts, the manwaged tomb
With her rampart to his tapping,
No god-in-hero tumble down
Like a tower on the town
Dumbly and divinely leaping
Over the warbearing line.
Through the rampart of the sky
Shall the star-flanked seed be riddled,
Manna for the rumbling ground,
Quickening for the riddled sea;
Settled on a ****** stronghold
He shall grapple with the guard
And the keeper of the key.
May a humble village labour
And a continent deny?
A hemisphere may scold him
And a green inch be his bearer;
Let the hero seed find harbour,
Seaports by a drunken shore
Have their thirsty sailors hide him.
May be a humble planet labour
And a continent deny?
A village green may scold him
And a high sphere be his bearer;
Let the hero seed find harbour,
Seaports by a thirsty shore
Have their drunken sailors hide him.
Man-in-seed, in seed-at-zero,
From the foreign fields of space,
Shall not thunder on the town
With a star-flanked garrison,
Nor the cannons of his kingdom
Shall the hero-in-tomorrow
Range on the sky-scraping place.
Man-in-seed, in seed-at-zero,
From the star-flanked fields of space,
Thunders on the foreign town
With a sand-bagged garrison,
Nor the cannons of his kingdom
Shall the hero-in-to-morrow
Range from the grave-groping place.
3.4k
That familiar sound of a helicopter approaching
out of nowhere its search light focused.
Down onto a desolute and lonely moorland
quickly joined by a second one.
But what is the true intention of their task
as a figure looks up wearing a mask.
No ordinary being sitting there in isolation
as soldiers approach with guns.
Nearby a circular craft of unknown origin
lays damaged amongst the grass.
Away from the view of a watching public
the covert operation is slick.
Taken alive the alien is roughly removed
put into a third chopper nearby.
Two other bodies are bagged and tagged
the sight is cleared of any evidence.
Reports of an object seen falling denied
once again the military have lied.
How many incidents have really occured
the public know nothing about?
The real truth of an extra terrestial existence
rather than endless misinformation.
Was Roswell fact or fiction what is area fifty one
when will the real truth be done?
The Foureyed Poet. The Foureyed Poet
Feb 25, 2011
Feb 25, 2011 at 3:46 PM UTC
I never knew his real name and my youthful imagination named him uncle funky the peanut man as bagged peanuts burnt were hopefully sold from a makeshift stand now on this June 2013 morning my mind slowly opens the door of youthful memory and I see soiled pants turned over shoes old hat crooked atop long gray hair brown hands waiting for a dollar exchange as funk clings to the untended skin like fleas on a homeless dog whiffs released randomly would stagger a prime boxer the times changed with the town sweeping uncle funky away with yesterday and the past of bygone days and I wonder and it is"t a very pleasant wonder whatever happened to uncle funky?
ut to be sold hopefully from a makeshift stand now on this june 2013 morning my mind opens the door of youthful memory and I see clearly soiled pants and shirt old hat atop of unseen hair brown hands waiting for a dollar exchange as funk clings to the unbathed skin like fleas on a homeless dog whiff released would stagger a prime boxer the times changed with the town sweeping uncle funky away with yesterday and the past of bygone days but I wonder and it isn"t a very pleasant wonder whatever happened to uncle funky the peanut man?
Jun 15, 2013
Jun 15, 2013 at 4:23 PM UTC
old soybean crop dry & brown
---empty rustcap 12 shot bottle canadian club premium
---broken ("good quality")
wooden blinds
crowfeathers.
muddy packs of darts:
ménage (4)
peter jackson (2)
next (1)
number seven blacks (3)
john player (2)
shreds---plastic . . . bags of earth
all manner cardboard thinlike
drinkcups (tim horton's mostly)
******
child's wristwatch (..plastic)
frog in a cardboard box
dozen pair new (white) socks? still bagged---
Oct 11, 2011
Oct 11, 2011 at 11:01 PM UTC
You are true to your roots and delicious to boot,
You’re a sweet potato.
No fear to shed skin, to reveal what’s within,
You’re a sweet potato.
Years and years I’ve never fit in and I’ve
Never felt right and I always stuck out and
I learned how to speak for myself, how to shut people
Down before they have time to get down
Up real close and see
The real me.
And now tragedy strikes and I feel all alone,
But not all is lost, I am now on my own
And am getting quite better day after day,
I find that it’s easier to smile these days.
And then you come along, you delicate treat, and
You flip, trip, and sweep me right off of my feet and I
Usually always can keep my balance but
Now I can’t help but fall down.
But I see now that you’ve stuck around.
You’ve bagged me and tagged me,
You’re taking me home, and I
Just simply cannot wait.
Can we go to concerts and movies and drive-ins
And dances and nightclubs and can we go hiding
Around in the dark just to find one another again?
But it won’t be the same, will it then?
Nothing can compare to that warm, glowing stare
That you gave me when you had my sweater on.
There’s no one that it could look better on.
This is all so ridiculous, crazy, not planned,
But aren’t those the best things around these here lands?
It’s fast, it’s exciting, it’s scary, and yet…
I don’t want a life that’s devoid of it.
There’s something about your hair.
There’s something about your eyes.
There’s something about you, sweetness,
That I’d like to make all mine.
How could you have been here this whole time,
Right under my nose and I had never known
That a goddess, a genius, my dream girl had seen
Me from afar and saw something that she liked.
I’m clumsy, not skinny, I’m awkward and weird,
But I don’t feel a need to hide it.
Because I know you’ll just stand beside it.
Hold my hand and be there to guide it along on
Wherever this twisted road takes us.
And I smile when I hear or say, “us”;
Even though we just met, I feel like I’ve known you
For a long, long while.
It’s easy to make you smile…
It’s easy for me to smile when I hear your voice or
Look at your face and I can’t believe my luck.
I don’t care if it rains, because all I need is to hear from you
And everything feels like sunshine.
I’ve struck gold, diamond, oil, I’m rich with
Deep conversations to come over coffee.
Whipped cream and sugar and talking.
I’ve read many books but I can’t remember the last time
I’ve been so interested in a novel like this.
Your brain is a book, your prose on it’s pages.
Can I add to your Table of Contents?
Feb 8, 2016
Feb 8, 2016 at 5:00 PM UTC
I don't have a filing cabinet,
I've emptied all the drawers;
Lugged it through my clearing house,
Then gleefully through the door.
The **** thing's out for pick up.
Each drawer was filled with files:
Insurance forms for cars and bikes,
Gone this long while;
Health receipts for healthy lives,
Warranties and refund lies,
Transcripts from a former life,
Lesson plans and records,
Some pics of you and me.
All shredded, bagged and tightly tied,
And ready for the street.
I'm finding some relief.
If only I could do the same
With memories of you.
Jul 27, 2018
Jul 27, 2018 at 9:27 AM UTC
Little princess had a plan,
To fall in love with a handsome man,
Little princess got her plans all wrong,
With her natural face; no makeup and briefs; no thong,
Little princess took some advice,
In search of a man she would have to look nice,
Little princess went out to town,
Got some suspenders, a wax and a new crown,
Little princess found a man,
With money, looks, many a lady fan,
Little princess bagged the fella,
But what the adviser didn't tell her,
Is once little princess took him home... She would wake up all alone.
Little princess should have stuck to her original plan,
Maybe then she would have found her dream man.
Feb 17, 2013
Feb 17, 2013 at 9:01 AM UTC
Hot today
Road-crossing slow
Couples snail-walk
Love on show
Buses queued
Shoppers bagged
Cars throb-beat
Traffic drag
Mid-road-island
Man is lost
Tiny dog
Seeks lamppost
Time getaway
Stop revolve
Go home vicar
Mystery solved
Jun 5, 2011
Jun 5, 2011 at 9:30 AM UTC
as if pulling (on the tab)
prevents the continued closure
of the lunch box
oxen milling brunch
as it unfolds sinewed pasture
green purloining sunlight
oxen munching salami on Thursday morning
mourning the luncheon of Sunday
black black blackberries lugubrious
lubricate brioche freshness
pile of white pile of brown pile of pylons
pile (on the tab)
shots are on me
shots fired no casualties
oxen bagged lunches aren't as fun as pulling punches
Mar 20, 2014
Mar 20, 2014 at 5:06 PM UTC
oh better not say that
mind of hell
tongue of heaven
better not think depraved
veiled demon, licking ******** for car payments
God watches
what will people think
am i good person
birthday face
shut eyed stiff
not dangerous, like a gun in the face
did i say the right thing,
cypher of morality
the knot of good, a slow strangle
a frightened worm
wont risk tears
eeek
here come the scissors
technology brains wired like weaponized monkeys
eater of crumbs
heatless heart ransomed for the ******* rent
can i evaporate
like a dead cat in a black box
better then tripping all over my self
strings attached with hooks
on shunted limbs
a relic of modernism,
office life
talking scapegoats hissing
always haunted by what's missing
guts spilling through clutched fingers
apologizing to a faceless crowd of sea shells
and bagged heads
minds like the small screens
sitting all day
frenetic fingers and burning eyes
exhaling only
there's a part of me thats been crying since birth
be careful
what you do
in the land of the free and the brave
Oct 16, 2017
Oct 16, 2017 at 9:49 AM UTC
Sunglasses stolen from Wingz in Duck, NC
a $15 thrift shop suit - just in case
the car is used
and the cashiers at the GoodWill down the street all know his face
bagged eyes
morning after hair
in need of a shower and a smile
He just bought a $200 laptop
now he masturbates in style
shoving Lenovo 2in1's and iPad's up their ***
please sir - may I have some more
status symbols symbolic of castes
and he hides among the untouchables
but this **** is loud
and I don't drink ***** unless P Diddy made it
Memento Mori
when we die -
we'll leave behind remnants of our false idol
Nov 26, 2013
Nov 26, 2013 at 12:28 AM UTC
Ghetto child, dusty brown face, hopeless eyes, dandelion flower,
piles of dirt surround him.
He quickly runs across glittering pieces of glass
that mimics the sound of ice crushing beneath his
paper-thin soles.
Sirens scream! Radios blare! No angels to be found,
at least not here.
Tall brick building,
six stories high,
so worn and torn from many loveless years.
Baby doll, blond and white,
tossed from the high rooftop late last night,
cracked face,
broken smile,
she once brought solace to a lonely child,
she now lies forgotten amid a maze of discarded trash.
Drunken man leans against a blood-stained wall to
support his failing body,
brown papered-bagged bottle he clenches in his bandaged
hand;
he struggles to reach his lips to swallow its pain-killing
contents.
"How bout a date, sweetness?"
He slurs to two young girls passing by,
who carefully ignore his cry,
but jokingly remark of his haggard condition
as they quickly pace down the noisy garbage strewn street
and he fades within the darkness of the heated night,
without as much as a prayer to soothe his waning soul.
In this neighborhood lost,
at high human cost,
in the heart of the thriving city......
Feb 1, 2014
Feb 1, 2014 at 1:36 AM UTC
When you hear the word "hammer" you may think of it as a tool for pounding a nail onto a wall, to hang a beautiful painting done by a beautiful girl, or to hang a beautiful family photo of a beautiful family.
Or maybe you think of building. Building a house, building a swing set, just those stupid belts those stupid builders hold those stupid hammers in.
But it's rare to have someone think of a hammer as a weapon.
To think of a hammer as a ****** weapon, as the weapon that's bagged, locked deep in the chambers of the evidence room.
As the weapon used by the murderer, and how their twisted mind thought of using a hammer to take someone's life away.
But it's even more rare to think of a hammer as a self harm tool.
It's even more twisted to think that a person would take a hammer to their own skin, and pound it over and over again until their skin turns red, and then to such a scary bruise you would think it belonged in movies.
That they would keep bruising themselves with that hardware tool until they're shaking so hard they can't even hold the hammer anymore, it feels too heavy in their shaky hands.
Until they fall to the ground, covered in bruises just because they think they'll go away faster than what a razor blade could do.
But little do they know, the shaking is worse than any bruise or cut could ever be.
Why can't a hammer just be a simple hardware tool again?
Mar 16, 2015
Mar 16, 2015 at 1:01 AM UTC
Artemis ran through the woods tonight Calling her dogs to her side,
For the hunt is on, in the Moon's light,
And will watch her claim a prize.
Her bow at the ready with arrow nocked,
String drawn to her listening ear,
She scanned the wood for a sign of deer,
Before she let fly a sure shot.
The stag she bagged was great and mighty;
Her dogs helped her carry the load.
Thus this treaty she gave to sweet Aphrodite,
But in vain--she went home alone.
Jun 25, 2014
Jun 25, 2014 at 10:13 AM UTC
I don't want to be a speck in this ocean of humanity.
I don't want my words to be so small and obscure that even the keenest ear, still, cannot hear.
I don't want to be tossed and kicked and shoved about, like the speck I fear I am.
The speck that floats & sweeps and glides & sighs - the speck that will never be examined.
I breathe.
I live.
I mean.
I am.
I don't want to be invisible.
---
The world is one big bustle after another - people pushing and shoving, only to sleep and repeat?
I am the one you bumped into, in a race to catch the nooner to downtown Detroit.
I am the girl you stumbled past, in your rush to catch another cab.
I am the flower girl on McKenzie who sold you more marigolds.
The waitress at PJ's who asked, "More cream?"
The cashier at Aldi's who bagged your Arizona.
I am that ticket taker at Cinemark who gave you your stub and genuinely hoped you would enjoy your movie.
I am the girl you're seated by, right now.
This instant.
So close, you can hear her soft breaths;
So close, you can nearly smell her perfume;
So close, and still...
You stand.
You gather your things, get off the train, and run off to catch another, what?
Bus? Plane? Cab?
You're gone.
And, I'm here.
And, I'm still the girl;
The girl who might have been your soulmate.
But, you traded me for 15 minutes of silence and a bed you'd sleep in alone.
---
I don't want to be a speck in this ocean that is your world.
I want to be a boulder.
I want to mean something,
And be something,
And exist to you.
So, STOP.
I'm here.
"Hello."
Jul 13, 2011
Jul 13, 2011 at 9:15 PM UTC
To rivit and gaze abrrantly
Your visually sick behind retina
Processing on whimsical stammor
Docket’s of false telltale pouring from hundreds of mouths
All while one gamming sheray from your eyes says enough
Those worn graying-blued bags underneath;
They show a hard working bluff
Devised; let’s embellish our stares of evil on outward crowds
Let us pick out other bagged eye crevices, and not moving blabbers’
Nothing but the time they’ve gave; those wise ******* dabblers’
We glance the demon out for thrill
We are the visually ill.
Nov 21, 2010
Nov 21, 2010 at 8:37 AM UTC