"baggies" poems
He opens his Star Wars: A New Hope lunch box
Inside a hippies dream.
**** in baggies that have the superman symbol
And Batman symbol on them
Tabs of LSD
And molly.
Hunter S. Thompson would have a field day
©Gambit '13
Aug 27, 2013
Aug 27, 2013 at 2:47 PM UTC
Comes in Jars
Comes in little **** baggies
Comes in Wrapped up clear wraps
Comes in capsules
Comes in bottles
Comes in a "100% organic" jars from the smoke shop
Comes in a friends hand
Comes in a pouch
Comes in eyedrops
Comes in as the best gift
Apr 13, 2015
Apr 13, 2015 at 6:50 AM UTC
"Everyone wants to be a little anorexic" she says
"You know, like, in a glamorous way, like fashion friendly anorexic"
I bite my cheek and nod, pretend to agree
All I can think of is waking up to stars dancing on the ceiling
Pale skin with bruises of unknown origins
And battered feet on and off the scale
Almonds in Ziploc baggies
Bite marks on fingers
Hair down the drain
Measuring crunches by the marks they leave on your spine
And battered feet on and off the scale
Enough water to turn organs into boats
Eating an apple with a fork and knife
Desperate hands grasping for ribs
And battered feet on and off the scale
Standing and the world going dark
Coughing around shots of apple cider vinegar
Carrying an emergency rice cake for weak spells
And battered feet on and off the scale
Enough green tea to drown organs
Sugar free gum to mask the smell of decaying organs
Whatever nail polish covers yellow and purple
And battered feet on and off the scale
How many calories are in toothpaste
Thinspo blogs
Pillows squeezed between thighs
And battered feet on and off the scale
Is today the day my heart gives out
Waking every day in a new body
Fingers clasped around wrists
And battered feet on and off the scale
Notebooks filled with numbers
Purple crescents under eyes
Fingers clasped around forearms
And battered feet on and off the scale
Elbows knocking into hipbones
Being scared of your own reflection
Lies to get out of dinner
And battered feet on and off the scale
The stench of *****
Oxygen that tastes of Splenda
Fingers clasped around biceps
And bleeding feet on and off the scale
If this is your idea of glamour
Then you can have it
Nov 27, 2018
Nov 27, 2018 at 12:48 PM UTC
save breath for later
lungs in a tupperware
container
ziplock baggies full
of sounds
the ones, the words
I'm too tired to make
hang my eyelids
on the clothesline
to dry, leave the weight
behind
pull all my teeth
plant them in the ground
grow some new ones
place them in my mouth
and let them fall out
that's not how to smile
Mar 14, 2013
Mar 14, 2013 at 2:42 AM UTC
I rode a curb side
dust devil into
the low side of
town.
Found myself
adrift right along side
the lip stick stained
cigarette butts,
empty dime baggies and
a city days worth
of welfare diapers
and plastic bottles who
will out last us all.
Same old dogs
along the same
old streets.
Dogs so old
they no longer
lift their legs to ****
Its a bit shameful
but a Hell of alot
less painful just
to let it go where
you lay or stand.
Bad kids with
big sticks and
fist fulls of
C cell batteries
chase the winos
along the railroad tracks.
They generate
terror and call it fun.
Televised Gods
for your televised mind.
Fall asleep with the
lights on ,leave
something to guide
me back home.
Blame it all on me
and I'll leave before
the hate sets in.
My time here is
far past due,
summers over and
the rare California rains
have come in.
I came only for the
weather and whatever
there was to drink.
Moonshine Cherries and
Jameson on ice.
The conversations all died with
that last bottle of whisky.
The mason jars are all empty
and this passing moment
feels right
for me to leave with.
Dec 7, 2014
Dec 7, 2014 at 2:33 PM UTC
The Jungle Cat and his mate,
Captain Hectic, tell me
I am no longer a player in this game,
I have stepped back and I am now...
An overseer? A witness?! A referee even? Or just above or beyond it all?
Yet still he sits at The Vipers House,
Being eaten alive by invisible sharks
Of one who has been in the game Far longer than he
One who bats her lashes
And incites guilt from housewife
hospitality.
And all these many, merry men,
How They do
flock and flutter
Like moths to a flame, that is just more darkness
****** in by neon lights and fake bluster.
Roundabout,
So here we go again,
Sweeping up any evidence of this deal
Baggies, pins and needles,
a twisted array of steel,
Tiny shards of Zero
Left out for The Key
To clean
She will hold her heart
So Tight inside now,
She does
Lock it till the chains ****** her skin
This screaming pain,
The vicious words
just too much
For one dissociative to bear.
Can't feel the brutality
Of the words,
Like knives, one upon another
Straight into her heart,
No she can't feel it, won't feel it,
Just turns her head away,
Switches her heart to off...
She won't be hurt anymore....
Aug 13, 2012
Aug 13, 2012 at 11:28 PM UTC
Today, I want to sink my chest into yours.
Your heart pumping blood through my veins for a bit, mine doesn't want to anymore.
Let's trade.
I'll put my brain on ice.
Wash this skull cavity with some minty fresh chemical while my wrinkled pink mother board discovers cryogenics.
When I place it back Into my tingly, almost numb now, chemical washed head
I will still feel heavy.
I want to turn to a whisp.
Like the Night Elves in World of Warcraft.
A floating blue orb of energy
Just a spirit, weightless.
Let me live as electricity, like that spark you felt .
Like that spark they all felt.
Place me in the power lines so I can power houselights and televisions.
Let me be usefull for something again.
Don't convert my head though.
Keep that on Ice.
Better still, creamate
everything but my heart.
Let the ashes get caught
in carpets and drain pipes
Kept in little ziplock baggies,
Tucked in a wooden box,
Kept back seat of my mothers car,
So she can hold it once in awhile.
Until she parks her car in a bad part of town
And a homeless man breaks in
Doesn't steal the gps, or her wallet on the front seat,
But snorts me three hours later
Thinking he just hit the jack ***
That's where I want to be.
In the lungs of some car burglar
Where his addiction should have been,
coughing on my ashes.
He won't get my heart though.
Keep that frozen in a white room.
Smelling of copper, by a tray of tools,
Latex gloves and paper masks.
One day, thaw it out
bring life to someone.
Dec 13, 2016
Dec 13, 2016 at 3:33 PM UTC
Nope.
(sonnet #MMMMMMMDCCXCVI)
I lick my finger slowly, with a sense
In closing as of stealing frosting, pale
As aught compare, th'espresso's foam detail
Tinged subtly with milk's sweetness for intents,
Like that finale suited for it hence,
The rainy blacktop half dried in betrayl,
While minutes tiptoe by on wings more frail
Than insects' glassy touch we note from thence.
Prepare their lunch with baggies for as twere
Thin cleanliness, cuz honey's sticky to
A fault; cube our potato like in tour
What, eh? I tossed my brother's typed note, knew
Not that twas worth aught, and discuss how poor
Tis that all's typed, not writ by hand. And you?
21Mar19b
Mar 21, 2019
Mar 21, 2019 at 8:54 PM UTC
if i could
i would take that smile
and inject it directly into my bloodstream
my parents warned me about drugs in baggies
sold on the street
but never the ones
with teeth
and a heartbeat
-MM
Jan 31, 2013
Jan 31, 2013 at 11:34 PM UTC
I was given, at my first birthday party,
a gift sublime, a lovely, lush garden
I played among its fonts and flowers,
traded baseball cards with Atlas and Athena,
rolled in high grass with iridescent dragons
Then one fine day through leaflets high,
I spied a fat juicy fig, haloed by Summer sun
The tree was poison, I knew, its sweet fruit
most likely bad as well, but in my arrogance
I climbed the trunk, got tangled in its branches
I lost control, lost something never truly held,
and fell, through viney snarls and vicious thorns
Fell farther than I ever rose, to putrid death,
moldered slime beneath the canopy
of verdant paradise on gentle hillside above
I crawled about in mud and earthen warrens
Slowly, year by year, learned to walk again
But arrogant I remained—had not my
lesson learned, and so I doubled-down,
made mockery of this chance for redemption
All the sweet virgins did I **** and teach
our children sin, in crystalline waters
I did shat on mulched fields, amber and green,
with cigarette butts and baggies blowing
listless on Autumn winds
When Winter finally came, as winters must,
to **** off weakened souls, and make
the garden ready for new attendants,
I did not learn, I did not take the blame...
It's Him, I cried, I have not power to do this!
But then my youngest daughter sobbed
She watched, sadly, out clouded, grimy windows
and, looking up at my limpid, sullen eyes
crawled into my arms one last, lonely time
to face what I could not...
Behold, the Silent Spring
Aug 19, 2014
Aug 19, 2014 at 11:16 AM UTC
Another night like so
many others.
A night made up
of the dope laced hours
that slowly made up a life.
A black cat laid curled in
a tight ball on a worn wine stained carpet.
The fluorescent light of the Atrium softly
lit the otherwise darkened room.
Quiet except for
the hum of the refrigerator and the tiny waterfall
that trickled away inside the Atrium.
There was music playing,so low it was as if it was
something that came from a dream.
Two lost souls took their places at either side
of the counter top and dove deep into
their demons.
Both quietly concentrated on their potions.
The tiled counter top was littered with
paraphernalia,empty beer bottles,ashtrays
that needed to be emptied,
lighters, burnt spoons,tin foil and empty plastic baggies.
One chased the dragon,
while the other desperately searched the crook
of his arm for a vessel.
There wasn't too much conversation.
There was only one goal here.
And it didn't involve
words.
The silence was broken when one lost soul
said to the other,
"I don't dream anymore".
The one with the harpoon in hand said.
"You have to sleep"
The dragon slayer replied as he exhaled yet another
slayed beast.
"When I sleep its like I die".
The Archer said as he pressed the point
up against a blue black dying vein.
The black cat stood and stretched as a siren passed outside.
Another dragon was slain as the siren faded
into the night.
The one with the point drew blood and smiled.
The slayer chased another dragon,then looked
over as the black cat climbed to the open window
and out into the welcoming night.
"Then that's the dream"
the dragon slayer said then smiled a smile
that only a poppies blood can produce.
The harpoon handler looked up and grinned,
then found his target and continued on with
his quest for the warmth.
He smiled to himself as he pushed on
the stopper and once again
played with death.
Mar 13, 2014
Mar 13, 2014 at 7:36 AM UTC
Dear Mom,
I know I shouldn’t have been
snooping, but when looking
for some socks on a day when I was
still living with you and had neglected
to do my laundry, meticulously paper clipped
in your drawer, I found a 26-page document
that made my insides curl
when I saw the name of Dad’s mistress
printed blatantly on the front cover.
Yes, I looked through it
(and I know I shouldn’t have) and I don’t know
what made me more disturbed—the fact
that you took the time, ink and paper
to look up the woman who
destroyed your marriage
on public records,
and neatly annotated the highlights
of her messy divorce
prior to meeting Dad—or that this
26-page monstrosity sat innocently beside
his old Valentine’s Day cards,
still painstakingly arranged by year, mixed in
with your daughters’ decade-old crayon drawings
captioned by the loopy letters of a child’s handwriting
next to little plastic baggies with worn edges
containing baby teeth,
the roots yellowed by age and decay.
You never let anything go, do you?
You hold time captive by the wrists
until the soft skin bruises, and even when
it finally jerks itself away, you still manage
to sweep up every speck of dust
its presence
left behind, and store it
perfectly labeled in your archives
like some neurotic historian,
where you think your daughter, who was
only looking for a pair of socks,
would never just happen to stumble upon
this hoarded material record
of every ******* thing
that torments you.
Nov 18, 2013
Nov 18, 2013 at 11:25 AM UTC
I've never been addicted to drugs in baggies sold on the streets,
But I am addicted to one with pretty white teeth and a heart beat.
He is my better half
My silver lining in a sky of clouds
Of my grandpa he does remind me
And then I see that heaven isn't so far
And I'll still love him when I'm old and grey,
Because I know he wouldn't love me any other way
In shared giggles and affections,
His love points me in the right direction
He is not where he is from,
He is where he is going
And I'd like to go there, too
Apr 29, 2013
Apr 29, 2013 at 10:58 PM UTC
The gravel crunches
as we walk
and it's cold.
We push our breaths out
of chapped lips, and wipe
away dried spit, with nicotine
fingers.
Pigeon feels the baggies in his pockets
full of vicodin,
that's gonna get us ****** up.
His fingers look like earthworms through his jeans
as he gropes for the baggy.
I get that jolt, just thinking about it;
that jolt of happiness you feel right before you get
real ****** up.
I look around and pull out a Camel Light,
because that's all we smoke.
And light up. It's real
white out, white and cold.
The moon's fat as a snowflake
and foggy up there too.
I move my toes,
and can't feel a thing,
****
We crunch through the woods,
catching glimpses of the moon, and the lake
through the trees.
I want to hit this fifth of Henny
jerking in my backpocket,
but I'm saving it.
Pigeon stops.
Me and Gus keep walking.
Pigeon coos.
We turn around.
He whips out the plastic baggy,
In the moonlight the Vicodins look
like those tiny, candy skulls you get on halloween.
Feb 18, 2012
Feb 18, 2012 at 1:08 PM UTC
*The stench of **** ***** and feces
immediately hit my senses
as I step over ***** syringes
and white, powdered filled baggies
the imperfect combination
of ****** and overdose
the drool dripping out of their mouths
and the sight of eyeballs rolling
into the back of heads
I see the hookers who parade around
in their birthday suits
who's bodies resembled that
of a skeletal corpse, and of course
who can forget the music
that shakes the exterior
of a cracking foundation
half-dead bodies moving and grooving
to the sound of a repetitive beat
but the irony out of all this of course
is the transaction.....
the meeting between men
the sell of deadly prescriptions
and the lost of finances
only to repeat its licentious cycle again
but this is nothing.... it's actually quite normal
in the stomping grounds of the ghetto....*
Jul 5, 2016
Jul 5, 2016 at 1:41 AM UTC
Devils and mercenaries
Dislocated shoulders
Second hand panic
Static cling
Visions broadening perception
Decrepit linoleum houses
Men in the front yard, *****
Crawling in search of a fix and some pants
Viles of junk, baggies of powder
An unexpected destiny of agony
Forced to dress up to please a higher society
They won’t let me go
With all the information I know
The despicable disciple’s pillars of animosity and distain toward the rebellious over flow
Never a hunter always a prisoner
The bounty is huge for this lone survivor
Two lunatics in a rubber room
One claims to be captain of a magic carpet
The other believes his skin is on inside out
Both sunburned and daffy
Her armada of refusal of failure goes unmatched
Even my resistance is unparalleled to hers
Electric shocks, water torture, brands, beatings, lashings and floggings
My beard is torn from my face
We will not surrender our splendid fascinations of the galaxy for you provincial ideals of pain and suffering to teach the divine path to enlightenment
How sadistic
We both lay silent and prepared
****** and bruised
Devising the slaughter of their brutal oppressive cult
Dec 19, 2013
Dec 19, 2013 at 1:09 PM UTC
Suddenly I am but an artifact
My bones are brittle, they crumble back to earth with the slightest breeze
Where there was once flesh is now non-existent
The heart that urgently pumped blood, the veins and arteries that carried it, the lungs that drew desperate breaths, the brain that ordered them to do so; all gone
Let my room become a museum of the only joys that never left me
Every corner of my room filled with something that temporarily filled my heart
The rocks, dried plants, mass printed fortune cookie fortunes, cat whiskers, miniature clothes pins, small pieces of pretty string and little baggies, things given and things found, the empty lighters, the scraps of paper I deemed pretty enough to keep, the unfinished sketchbooks and old paint brushes, the books that broke my heart and the ones that helped it heal, the collage of pictures of my childhood where all our eyes looked so empty, the vinyl records, the small old stuffed animals, the few objects from my infancy, the knives that cut my wrists and legs
Let all these things fill the silence or emptiness that I may have left
Cling to them like I did, find comfort in their stationary presence
or is it better to let it be another closed door, another empty room
Where you swear if you're quiet enough, you can hear my laughter and faint emo music
A room where my cats wander in circles crying out for me, wondering when I'll come home
Make a home within the ache like I did
Let the pill bottles tell the story of me slowly wasting away
Nov 8, 2023
Nov 8, 2023 at 2:06 PM UTC
Today, we have surgery
I sink my chest into yours.
Your blood pumping through my veins for a bit,
I feel heavy.
I want to turn to a whisp.
Like the Night Elves in World of Warcraft.
A floating blue orb of energy
weightless electricity,
Spirit in the power lines, like that spark we felt.
Tealight in a gas stove, left on for 6 months
When I am cremated
My ashes will be Kept in little ziplock baggies,
Filed away in the back seat of my mothers car,
Until she parks in a bad part of town
You break in
Leave the quarters for the tolls
Leave the GPS cupped to the windshield.
Then snort me, in my mothers backseat.
Thinking you just hit the jack ***
That's where I will be.
Charcoal cave painting your nasal cavity
coating the inside of your lungs like a cigarette.
Replacing your addiction.
This surgery
The Aorta of copper perfume,
Scalpels summoning blood,
I, scavenged from the wreckage
my heart inside you,
the rest scrapped in a kiln.
If they botch the surgery
cold Iron will be the last thing you smell.
I, a spark
grounding from your chest.
Heart still beating.
Jan 17, 2018
Jan 17, 2018 at 9:21 AM UTC
Posted up,
Trap Keeper's
what
my girl call me,
a few baggies
near my belly button,
and my 6-inch demon
below it,
when I hand you something,
I hand it from the bottom of my stomach,
imma make you love yourself,
for a few moments
Imma be the most beautiful thing you've ever seen,
you might even love me back,
might even love my shirtless
breast, the way my tattoos
swirl and alligators pop off the letters on my chest,
I might just swallow you whole
and make you another part of my arsenal,
another inch to the sixes.
Feb 10, 2012
Feb 10, 2012 at 7:53 PM UTC
How empty the feeling
of standing under broken skies
when the moonlight beckons all those lonesome, home
Or how the baggies breach branches on the oak trees
on a park before town
where empty beer cans swivel in brilliant winds
and kids dare not go
for the guns come out in droves
- firing squad of the soul
Jan 14, 2015
Jan 14, 2015 at 1:45 PM UTC
You left me standing here
With no plastic baggies
Who's gonna clean up the mess that was my heart?
Or will it dry in the sun
Until the flies don't even come around anymore?
Will it be eaten by dogs?
Do you even CARE????
Mar 30, 2012
Mar 30, 2012 at 12:07 PM UTC
*****
how would you like it
the bartender
sighs the lord’s name in vain
understood the slurred wittiness
wobble onto stool
****** over
joining the rest of the line
sweet
the sound
system jests that one song
about a breakup
puke on the sofa next to your carpet
it’s yellow
swayed hips
shoulders give way
diluted In and Out closed
turn over
moist
to the Devil’s dance floor
where a pretty ugly Frenchie took your wrist
foot strikes a patch of ice
popped cherry on a yellow wheel stop
get up dizzy
scrape on forearm
the impassionate spring fever
wrapped around neck
constrains body against
*****
hands stroked rock hard back
she asks if she could have a stick
reached into baggies
pulled out a yellow
she takes halo
you took halo
got into the convertible
a silent triumph when you insert your key
twist
---
by Aleksander Mielnikow (Alek the Poet)
May 17, 2019
May 17, 2019 at 5:49 PM UTC
If i could
i would take that smile
and inject it directly
into my bloodstream
my parents warned me
about drugs in baggies
sold on the street
but never the ones
with teeth
and a heartbeat
Mar 9, 2014
Mar 9, 2014 at 3:47 PM UTC
Jimmy's pad
was a rockin' place.
Like small mountain ranges,
mounds of pinkish-flake
covered the mirror.
His triple beam
balanced baggies
twenty-four seven,
while his harem of ******
went from door to door,
snorting huge lines &
******* massive *****
of the wide-eyed,
strung-out paranoids.
These vampires
always seemed
on the run,
jonesing, looking
out of the windows
'till four am,
sick for more
of the blow.
Jan 28, 2014
Jan 28, 2014 at 9:16 PM UTC