"baggers" poems
Mumbai is rich, Mumbai is poor.
Mumbai is fast, Mumbai is slower.
Little bit sweet, and little bit sour,
Sometimes it’s hot but not too more….
Mornings are energetic and evenings are electric.
Noons are lazy but Nights are crazy
And any one you ask he always say “M busy”
Dude, life in Mumbai is not so easy
There is lot of Masti with little bit of Maska
Welcome to the city that can’t live, without Bollywood Chaska
From cooker whistles to the traffic jam horns,
From steaming tea kettles to breaking nut-betels
From telephone rings and doorbell brings.
There are people connecting through Blackberry pings
Where there’s little time to spare for kids
People here spend their lives on bids
Here you actually pay your travel fare by meter
But milkman mixing water is not a cheater!
Sev puri and bhel puri are all Mumbai chaat
Relishing it with spicy chutney is no easy art
From pop-corn to ice-cream, all sold on cart
Mumbai o Mumbai, you’re always close to my heart
Where local trains usually run on time
And violently rushing for a seat is not a crime
Here 3 PM for lunch and 12 AM to dine
People face hardships, but still say “it’s fine”
From Mt Mary in Bandra to Mumba Devi in Town
And ISKCON in Juhu to Haji Ali in Mumbai’s Crown
Faith runs deep as the Arabian Sea
But people don’t hesitate to pay early darshan fee.
Marathi, Punjabi, Gujarati and Bengali
Everyone forgather celebrate Id and Diwali
Holi is colourful and Christmas is cheerful
Spend some time here and your life will be un-forgetful
Billionaire to baggers, all found in this city
Be careful dude, this place is a bit witty.
Overall this dream-world is huge but pretty
Mumbai o Mumbai you’re wonderful city.
Feb 3, 2016
Feb 3, 2016 at 1:15 AM UTC
Let's Hold Up Our Glasses And Make A Toast
Here's To The Liars,
The Cheaters,
The Hatrers,
And The Women Beaters
Here's To The Feet Draggers,
Body Baggers,
The Backstabbers,
And The Joint Draggers
Here's To The DUI Kills,
People Tryin To Keep It "Trill",
People Who Don't Reach To Pay The Bill,
And To The People Who Need A Refill
Here's To The Governments Killing Their Own,
Here's To Telemarketers Who Blow Up My Phone,
To The People In My Life Who Keep Breaking Me,
To That One Boy With A Heart Cold As Stone
Here's To The Chemistry Tests,
Being Enternally Upset,
Enternally Recked,
Here's To The People Who Scream In My Face
Here's To All The Pain,
Heres To The Knifes Which Have Cut A Vein,
To All The Guys Who Just Wanna Piece Of ***
Heres To All The People I Dread In My Math Class
As You Can See.. I'm Not Even Holding A Glass
Dec 14, 2012
Dec 14, 2012 at 8:43 AM UTC
Last night they checked my garbage can.
It’s a good thing that I have a shredder.
My cell phones records are of interest-
I’ve made calls to known “tea baggers”.
Warrant-less “burglaries” have been made,
then I find my screen door broken.
The I.R.S. just called again
my case has been “ reopened”.
On every airline trip I take
I’m “Caressed “by the T.S.A.
I’m almost ready for a cigarette
after they’ve had their way.
Such harassment is “kinder spiel”
compared to what comes next.
They have a “brain wave” scanner
that can translate thoughts to text.
So I wear a cap of aluminum foil
whenever I’m on American soil.
To protect my ideas before they find them
I always make sure to copyright them.
Jan 16, 2012
Jan 16, 2012 at 8:18 AM UTC
artist working by candle light,
neon lights, coffee shop lights...
~~~
to, for & from SJR
~
this force,
burnt soul kindling,
rampant urges that bow a man's
spine
write write rite right
consumption of the soul
straighten up, flex,
flex to the curvature of the Earths
invitation to
write write rite right
cast my eyes to the mountains,
from whence will come my help?
street prowler, heart growler,
Art Deco lampposts,
the mountain range of east seventy second street,
begs the baggers question,
each a post
begging each other,
from whence will come my inspiration?
lick the stubbled sidewalks,
fall down living in their caverned cracks,
light needed needy soft heated
orange and green pizza neons
say here,
if you see upon what be,
your homelands colors of veracity
from
candle light,
neon lights,
coffee shop lights.
all queries so queer,
so cheerfully answered
in the ***** air,
in warped woof of
city write lights
he goes home
in the dark of a green moon,
and its delighting inviting
moonlight,
he composes
what is his eyes have
decomposed into a single memory,
and is satisfied
unto sleep
praising the eyes,
light lidded, but eager closing,
that
had wisdom given
to observe
light various by which to
write write rite right
4/16/16
10:30am
nyc
Apr 16, 2016
Apr 16, 2016 at 10:42 AM UTC
i fold my head into the
thin envelope of her arms
then she folds me into
the small space between her words
keeps me there for a time measured only
in the beads of sweat that gather on her
near perfect brow
she wipes me from memory and
deposits me on the pavement
the cold air shrinks me
the hot sun expands me
i cover her with evidence of wicked eyes
and impressions of nibble marks
i surf her skin with touches
that rival thouse that her nightmares
and the things her deepest desires are made of
her innocent demure hides her favorite things
jean nate scents spread like a casual laugh
i kiss her mind with the story vision thought dream of me and her
spending the night with some other honey pie
i relive myself on her essence
with the words that gave birth to her current personality
she changes faces
its just a metaphor
and she cant hide the fact she is ill at ease
with this nearness
this untamed and unpredictable
she needs on many levels to feel like she
is in control of somthing
i fold my head onto her lap
but the process has changed
she can no longer sustain the madness of this method
she can no longer pretend
that she can not cheapen herself for her own gain
for her own loss
that in the end she cannot deny
it is she who must choose the lesser of two evils
i would rescue her from this fate of her choosing
but i am beyond redemption in her eyes
and i am intent on this not becoming a fishing trip
casting out lines in hopes of
finding a future in the
destitute but romantic face of streetlife
or motel shuffle carpet baggers
after much wailing
at the little gain for much expense
and endless beating of the quality of life dead horse
we found common ground
which without a doubt will get some
banker trying to foreclose on at some point
but for the moment its just the three of us
verses the world
armed with a rubber duck and a bucket of rice
Oct 15, 2013
Oct 15, 2013 at 3:09 PM UTC
Flashing yellow lights echoing into the night
Neither the raging fires or the calming greenfields could fight against the darkness
The system is broken even if only for a split second
The regular ways are gone
You are free now
Don't be confused
You can pass anytime
You can do anything
Nüx has fought for the freedom of your mind
Live with it
You can be unseen now
The owl-light of the streets lets you hide away
Yellow
Yellow
Yellow
Flashing, rithmically yet somehow abnormal in a strange, odd pattern
It's 2 am
I am sitting in the middle of the city
Not even cars bother going around
All the baggers are asleep now
Drenched in the **** from their last beer
The moon covers them
She sees no difference
She is just the silent lover of the sun
Never appreciated enough
She always has some love to give to the ones thought to be long forgotten
It's a silent sunday night
Silent but not calm
Its not calm because there is a rebel going on
The system is down
All colors are pale now
Only yellow echoes into the nothingness
Crying for a new order
And it happens every night
Lemon flavoured chaos
The Van Gogh kinda crazy yellow
But somehow less vibrant
Somewhat like the cornfield, where the master shot himself in the head
Yellow
Yellow
Yellow
Every night it conquers the city
Whispering about a secret revolution
Flashing for incessant seeming hours
But then Nüx always wants more
She can never have enogh
She wants all the colors
all the lights
all the beauty of our world
My dear Blackhole Sun can never be satisfied
She declares war at every dusk
Just to be beaten a few hours later by the shining golden god
Going like this forever
Basically an old couple
Facing the same old fears
Again
And again
Because despite all the hate
And wars, sins, scars and suffering
They love each other
Yellow
Yellow
Yellow
As the pale tears of Isis hit the ground
Causing little yellow earthquakes in every streetlamp
Having her only time to shine
Crying mad
Without a single word
She is free
We all are
But why?
Oct 8, 2018
Oct 8, 2018 at 6:33 PM UTC
a quiet day
..............all around
the town squares are deserted
(no tea baggers...spewing hate)
no young lovers watching the sickened people
pass by
we are well under control now
quite docile
obedient
we chase the dead dreams we are told to chase
a twitter with celebrity worship
(and thus, self hate)
faceless
amused with nameless friends
and transitory "family"
strangely
we seem to like it like this
no resposibility
sitting around and getting
morbidly obese
hardly human beings
don't you think?
Aug 12, 2010
Aug 12, 2010 at 5:21 PM UTC
**** a man
kill.....his idea
the ideal dies
------
who are we?
----------------
tea baggers?
liberals?
what utter crap!!!!!!!!!!
--------
are you a dead man?
-----
well...
ARE YOU????
------
the children stagger along
unknown streets
and sleep in poison alleyways
as the spirit
"incorporates" itself
into frozen death-like greed
-----
****
----
to live!!!!!
---
or
LIVE
to love
the streets and alleys
where the children dwell
Nov 29, 2010
Nov 29, 2010 at 9:29 AM UTC
Suckling on an unlit pipe
(Talk about your pipe dreams)
Drag a name all over the place
While you jolly at the screams
You ! Yes You !
You don't care anymore
With creme in the corners of your mouth
You talk of trophies collected
About how you might be moving South
As if Carpet baggers were superior
To white trash
In the labored book of pages
All the print has been pressed and
Preserved in numerical stages
"Pressed and Preserved"
Like the life of the rose
Bitter in decay
Apr 1, 2016
Apr 1, 2016 at 10:19 PM UTC
I’m the cling-clang of coins in my pocket,
and loose paperclips in a desk drawer.
Like lipstick and gum in a lady’s purse,
I’m a kid’s toys strewn about on the floor.
When I walk my insides rattle about,
like a janitor’s keys without his ring,
like groceries bagged by junior baggers,
I’m jumbled as a cat’s unraveled string.
I’m less ordered than a box of Legos,
or debris remaining after a storm.
Nuts and bolts in an amateur toolbox
click-clack and click-clack with even more form.
I’m just a package of random loose parts,
though the world sees me as perfectly fine.
Life is making order of that chaos,
but it’s my life and that chaos is mine.
Mar 27, 2019
Mar 27, 2019 at 8:40 AM UTC
My life crumbled down
Like it was a fragile object
After being tossed around
By the baggers on the plane.
Being lead to a drama
That doesn't have an axis
No plot twists nor redos
Just another tragedy of me.
Now I only sing this shanty
That I learned from the sea
Awaiting the death me
Oh poor old man.
Jan 26, 2016
Jan 26, 2016 at 3:22 AM UTC
Show me your gods
All fur, purr and bark
Feather, skin, scale.
Those demi beings
that mark your heart
and steal your soul.
Those scraps of love
That make hard days whole
mornings bearable and nights
A little less lonely, predictable
or indeed a little less cold
The bed hoggers, extra joggers
The shoe chewers, the foremen
the cuties, the mute beggers
Soulful singers, paper bringers
Howlers, growlers,meowers
Chirpy talkers, hissers,
water blissers,
Princes waiting to be kissed
sloppy drooly kissers,
the sandpaper lickers
The back leg kickers
those who make biscuits
those who sleep,
like loaves of bread
Tail waggers, live in baggers
Perch dancers, walkies prancers
**** machines, Catnip dreamers
Redlight baskers
Show me your gods..
be they small, large, short, tall
Slim, plump, grim lumps
Portly, courtly, royalty
or hot fluffly messes
Bring them out to parade
with these god's
a home is made
and in these days dark and dreary
We need these gods
for when we become weary
Of the world we've made
We need
somewhere to lay our hearts
some thing that has a unlimited
grab bag of fresh starts.
These gods
everyday the give you a bit of
extra heart extra hope
A reason to hang on
to laugh to cry, to talk to sigh
So show to me;
your gods
and say a prayer
and thank the lord
he made them with care.
Jun 30, 2020
Jun 30, 2020 at 4:09 AM UTC