"lobbies" poems
To Ezra Pound
These are the names of the companies that have made
money from this war
nineteenhundredsixtyeight Annodomini fourthousand
eighty Hebraic
These are the Corporations who have profited by merchan-
dising skinburning phosphorous or shells fragmented
to thousands of fleshpiercing needles
and here listed money millions gained by each combine for
manufacture
and here are gains numbered, index'd swelling a decade, set
in order,
here named the Fathers in office in these industries, tele-
phones directing finance,
names of directors, makers of fates, and the names of the
stockholders of these destined Aggregates,
and here are the names of their ambassadors to the Capital,
representatives to legislature, those who sit drinking
in hotel lobbies to persuade,
and separate listed, those who drop Amphetamine with
military, gossip, argue, and persuade
suggesting policy naming language proposing strategy, this
done for fee as ambassadors to Pentagon, consul-
tants to military, paid by their industry:
and these are the names of the generals & captains mili-
tary, who know thus work for war goods manufactur-
ers;
and above these, listed, the names of the banks, combines,
investment trusts that control these industries:
and these are the names of the newspapers owned by these
banks
and these are the names of the airstations owned by these
combines;
and these are the numbers of thousands of citizens em-
ployed by these businesses named;
and the beginning of this accounting is 1958 and the end
1968, that static be contained in orderly mind,
coherent and definite,
and the first form of this litany begun first day December
1967 furthers this poem of these States.
December 1, 1967
3.8k
They were masked
with obedience of terrorism on their lips
shoot people mercilessly
played with their souls
in their eyes, no sign of remorse
that dreaded night
when Mumbai cried rivers of blood
death toll increasing with the politicians giving zero *****
ten men killed approx 164
so many injured
so many scarred
lest we forget them from our hearts
martyrs left a legacy
they were many other than Salaskar, Kamte and Unnikrishnan
They played with blood in
Taj, Oberoi, Cama Hospital, Nariman House, CST and Leopold Café
their minds were moulded to be like this.
the innocent tried to hide in hotel lobbies
she watched her husband die
and then she died a silent death
they shot her unborn child
they ignored the infant's cry
they killed humanity
they came with guns
tied their hostages to a pole
and had fun.
The bomb exploded
shattering all their body parts
nothing but chunks of human flesh here and there
the innocent hid themselves in a room
took up the phone and fumbled words
they found the innocent
and...nothing.
the phone line went dead
6 years later,
we still can't forget
Nov 26, 2014
Nov 26, 2014 at 7:51 AM UTC
Miles of dusty polished marble
In half lit carpeted corridors
Of abigails and millers
Furnished lobbies that
Pipe down in soft tones
For absent auris
And present shells
Dec 12, 2014
Dec 12, 2014 at 11:15 AM UTC
I would love for you to kiss me
Kiss me how I could actually feel it.
Feelings might not be mutual
But agreements are out the door
Just because that door is closed
The kissing door isn't
I want to feel your lips graze mine
I want to feel them in me
I would love for the kiss to end up
With the both of us intertwined
Like that one night
When I never though I'd feel that kind
That kind of chemistry in bodies
Unlike the ones I can feel in lobbies
I want your hand to hold mine
It's terrible that this isn't the right time.
Jun 11, 2015
Jun 11, 2015 at 12:55 PM UTC
Image based, and
position placed,
to keep society spaced,
image of peace erased.
Individuals put in groups,
separated by bodies,
as Congress lobbies,
preparing forbidden fruits.
People told to turn a blind eye.
Focused on the one atop the pyramid.
"Spend greenbacks, don't sigh!"
These are government truths!
Not a marketable lie!
Human soul for sale;
morals thrown out to no avail.
Industry infiltrates and states:
Conformity: You'll win, not fail.
Sep 29, 2012
Sep 29, 2012 at 3:34 PM UTC
We left the Summer too long,
that is ran off and absconded,
turned to Autumn,
made blue skies red.
I got told that
there’s a girl for every thought,
by a man with brown eyes.
He took a train South at
nine fifteen with a bought
bag of lies tucked between forearm
and chest; below the neck but still high enough.
Hide behind new names
devised by haircut disasters and
*** gin and past-their-sell-by-date jokes,
thought up in hotel lobbies
in front of a front desk clerk,
oblivious to everything but hotel work.
Nov 15, 2012
Nov 15, 2012 at 9:41 AM UTC
Down the hall, through the living room
and living daylights.
Through corner shops, spoon-eateries,
between rows of seats in adult theaters,
Beneath Roman spears
of crystal ice
ignoring the warning.
Same old, same old wicked agonizing cold. I freeze solid
and I escape once more.
Through Subways, through hotel lobbies.
Between invidious eyes, above the malady.
Down streets, down stairs, getting stuck, falling asleep, getting chased.
I refuse to affirm my negation with pity,
but rather with revolt and insurrection
I build this fortress not with iron and bricks, but with dust
and guilt
And off I go again...
An airport chapel is tonight's citadel.
From a hidden corner
a raspy cough emits from a familiar throat.
I sit down.
I sit like Plato's prisoner in my cave,
eyes fixed forward
on the wooden cross.
The familiar figure rises.
He walks through my vision,
but I refuse to see anything
but his silhouette
And off I go again...
Jan 9, 2014
Jan 9, 2014 at 1:01 AM UTC
and the bus windows fogged by human heat became a part of this child, and the wooden roof rot recliner
for summertime phone calls, and the crying neighbor woman’s sticky mascara,
and the hot asphalt became a part of him…the sideways light on the trees fifteen before dark, and the tract
house mazes at night, and the hidden playground underground,
and the blooming jasmine over strangers’ fences…invisible barking dogs…and burnt bike wheel tracks,
and glittered marsh gorgeous and toxic,
and cherry tree lined freeway, and the bitter fruit afterward…and the purple grateful palms…and the
neighbor’s unbloomed roses;
and the car rides to Elsewhere, and the urban self-sufficience envy,
and the free tickets from the out of town hero…and the wild-haired directors pacing preshow
lobbies…and the squirming audience beer-in-fist…and the blush-stained sidelit Cordelias…and
the honest snickers clearing the building into the cold lot still and quiet,
and all the changes of city and country wherever she went.
The red couch, the red rug, the blue kitchen, the dying dog,
The star trek memorabilia, and the dusty book garage, and the overcooked rice leftover…
the weight of guilt, the thought if after all we deserve every ounce,
the streets themselves, and the midnight three block nightmare runs to safeway…and the barbeque smell from not-my-house,
and the ****** children stumbling to the bus,
the brass chimes that fell off the door, and the dead grass backyard blanket, and the overgrown fields
where your dad smokes *** and the heat wave transposed radio, and the bird nest window mold ,
And the lawn flamingos become a part of him or her that peruses them now,
flame retardant,
american canyon: The Gateway to Somewhere Else, hallelujah, hallelujah,
Amen.
Jun 12, 2011
Jun 12, 2011 at 6:27 AM UTC
Like this morning for instance
Hot February and dry cracked
skin of my shadow
which sometimes seems
to look at me
and move w/out me
and I, w/out it.
Sometimes I see the flicker
of a dark soul jeer; a savage dance,
right in front of me,
or in the corner of my eye
when my head is tilted.
The other day at my friend’s
I felt like I was, briefly,
in the sunflower courtyard
of this ol’ dark
underwater museum
full of mirrors
that float adrift.
Angles that perpetually
gyrate and shift…..
I hear the sound of a whale
submerged in a highway
crying with striving despair
at night
and I'm sad
because his lovers reply
sounds so distant
and it sounds as if it comes
from a cavern w/in an ocean
below a sun
I hope he finds her
and dies happy
in the warmth of her flippers....
I miss the panther-warm wine & cream
Was it worth it
Is this worth it
Cold violet city
vacant warm lobbies at night
desolate allies and dogs in such deep slumber
they cant even wake to bark at impending footsteps
The musty brown cars
whose aura of mothballs and pipe smoke
reminds you of a childhood irretrievable
I smiled back at the rocks that snickered
Beside the fence
which stood firm
In caring vigilance
Cold verdure within
Misery mixed with
Getting bored w/ absorbing it
There’s a strange saloon w/ hotel attached
at the center of Melancholy
where flames are lit music is played
bodies are slowly denuded
and silver knives are thrown
I can show you…
(Long ago it seems
I bit and kissed and became
aquatinted w/ the bark of
the root of delirium
Recently even I’ve spoken
to the heart of delirium itself
from within
w/ no reply
but I can remember
all my memories were hallucinations)
Feb 28, 2012
Feb 28, 2012 at 1:27 PM UTC
Why I ever lamented
your advertisement
in the NY Times
Your sickly look, it's she you took
swept off her feet
I know how it feels
Found her again on the internet
while you were desperate
In Haifa, a million miles away from English without an accent
You hunted her down
A clown you are
She, editing dime novels by candlelight
manufacturing romance for the racks of Walmart
Next to the car mags and tattoo girls are those things
women read
gotta make a living somehow
So she can fill in the spaces between your attention
with her imagination, stoked daily from corporate romantication
She can live in her bubble world and see what she wants
eternally and think it's real
So she's better for you than me
because your love isn't real, never was, never will be
Both of you from the land of fake nobility
Prep schools and Ivies that lead to jobs
in sparkly NYC lobbies and decaf mochachinozeenos
with a side of 100 calorie pastry
Before dinner at the Italian restaurant
where you can show you are loved and love
And you, with your fakery
You shallowness, can collect your trust check
And work just a little, and blow the cold coals of her love once
in awhile to get the corporate machinations again in her head
to spin a fantasy romance
I'll look for it at Walmart.
Nov 4, 2012
Nov 4, 2012 at 9:01 PM UTC
beat poet
the lines, the times
they are a changin'
entropy of empathy
the anthem won't explain it
the world just keeps on turning
and warming up the globe
nations of hate hotter than warheads
hate ain't what they pay us for
be a boss but don't be bossy,
boxing in a corner lot
everyones a leader
leading no one
supply and demand spinning pulsar-fast
economies based on wars
collapsing under peacetime
without fires
the lobbies smothered fighters
beat poet
the lines, the times
they are a changin'
entropy of empathy
the anthem won't explain it
inflation cannot haul us up
here at the bottom of the heap
can't even afford the beep
beep that tells us what's wrong in our hearts
medical bills ticking higher numbers than volumes of get-well cards
we're under attack
our changing family pact
beat poet
the lines, the times
they are a changin'
entropy of empathy
the anthem won't explain it
spoken word, short form
bytes from sharpened canines
written word, formatted to the dimensions of our icons
glittering oh one around us in the haze
our might in roaming-charged clouds of war
you can burn the papers
ban the books
we weren't writing in your margins anyway
our beat is undrummed, uncensored by you
language we took, righteous and true
and the ideas we kept to hurl out
our aim would be true
shout now
aim for us, beat poets
beat poet the times they are a changin'
Apr 7, 2014
Apr 7, 2014 at 10:50 AM UTC
Here the girl goes.
Plucked a bunch of hobbies,
From the dream lobbies.
Stemmed, rooted in her soul,
She garnered hard, to let the diamond shine out of coal.
Looking all around; fields of roses, she is a wild daisy.
Trying hard to find a way, but its all hazy.
All she wants to create a masterpiece,
Her hobbies, passion divided her hardwork in pieces.
Her mind fragments trying hard to lookafter every art she knows,
But under human capacity, it is difficult to be consistent in every art she knows.
She knows it all, yet she is lost,
She is the ballet dream dancer and too a host.
Enjoying a ride with dreams,
Stars aligning in a row and scattering gleams.
A wonderer, over thinker she is,
Thats the worst part yet the best it is.
Chasing soft breeze and a sudden switch she wants to travel in the speed of light,
Star gazer she is, admirer of dark night.
Light is her home, dark is she allures,
When dark lives within her, light she creates,
Beauty may be she isn't, she thinks of,
But a beast out of art colours she creates.
©heeranshimishra
Oct 10, 2017
Oct 10, 2017 at 5:52 AM UTC
Down off the beach
The women wear gold and white dresses
Worlds of pearl and crystal glassed slpendor
I can get there in twenty minutes on the motorcycle
If she starts
But what a night it will be
If I make enough to buy liquor
Or a blue night home
The moon peaks just up above the sable palms
The night is warm and brimming with stars
The smell of gasoline and wind full of ocean salt
Where my home is by the sand
Blown into my heart
And no matter how I shake it
Or try to hose it off
The salt remains crusted
The smell of sea and home
Up town to mainstreet
Where little Cuban joints
Like to keep the neon glow
Where drunken black boys
Smoke *** in the yard
girls sit cross legged on the roof
Of squat sea blown houses
Painted pink, and blue and white
Like Miami hotel lobbies
The spedometer is broken
Just a haunting yellow glow
As onto Seaway I turn
More sea than road
God put this road here for me
Right here on a warm night
Where I can speed by the brilliant
Candle lit yards and dull sidewalk lamplight
The smell is strong of sea there
Heavy on the sky
The moon is a yellow crescent
Up above the ocean black
But the bike shifts clean and quiet
And the yacht clubs up the road
Are Shining bright
Where
Pretty girls dance
Red lipped in yellow lights
Feb 24, 2012
Feb 24, 2012 at 8:25 PM UTC
In fact they will stop on rainy street corners
To read us behind glass black and white
Televisions flickering
They laugh at us and toss cigarette butts
Getting into taxis
Off to some important date
In old gilded hotel lobbies
But on the rainy street
Our poetry is lost
'Neath the hustle and buss
Of their everyday feet
Mar 23, 2013
Mar 23, 2013 at 7:20 PM UTC
There I was.
Loitering in the lobby of her heart, after a long flight the only thing on my mind was rest.
The aroma was nice, stepping in through the double doors.
Following the stretch of carpet to the front desk.
Air conditioner stationed right above the door soon as you walked in.
Almost feeling myself sink into the splash of a fresh comforter.
I stood at the front counter waiting to be checked in.
Didn't quite feel like home.
The longer I waited the more anxious I became.
Messing around with the pen chained to the desk.
Making circles and snake like motions with the chain.
Noticing the dust under one of those small relaxation fountains at the closest end of the receptionist's desk.
The hum growing louder signifying that the water needed to be refilled.
More interesting.
There were no vacancies.
Good that I made reservations a month before time.
Noticing the aquarium over by the elevator.
There I stood loitering in the lobby.
Patiently waiting.
After a while, it sinks in that all lobbies are the same.
An endless void of waiting.
Was it absurd that I envied the fish watching me from the aquarium.
It's a strong possibility that he fell asleep watching me wait as the receptionist hasn't quite made it back yet
Nov 17, 2016
Nov 17, 2016 at 10:10 AM UTC
in black sky above us, the shreiks
of the shells cut the air, sharp, until
the dreaded booms which tell us
how close
how close the rounds landed
to our trench, where we hunker, drenched
in dreck, mud and blood, an unwilling
audience to this martial symphony
screams stream skyward
and comingle with the next volley,
a cacophonous courtship of vibrations,
invisible, but we know it's there
a miserable marriage of metal
and flesh--monkeys made into men
who ****** their own; who are determined
to sing these sour songs
when the lobbies stop, the only sounds
are the winds, the ones which will gently carry
the sounds of men moaning, crying,
praying for silence
Mar 8, 2017
Mar 8, 2017 at 7:30 PM UTC
similar to the rhythm of hokey pokey
a coup d'etat here
and a coup d'etat there
fund some white terror
and spread red scare
Truman had his doctrine
Eisenhower did too
this way we won't waste nukes
Cold did spread and so did aid
here aid there aid
socialism won't do
you can be a dictator
just never read Marx
instigations are your cue
Juntas apply for sponsorship
but don't you dare serve your country
guerrillas and provocateurs will work for you too
you can be our terrorist
as long as we profit
"we" of course only includes
corporate elites and lobbies
one year we fund you, the other we hung you
We build military bases
no, we'll never go home
learn to love our NATO mob
Everyone is evil only we are good
we got a cowboy president... here, look!
We wage war on terror
and pretty much on all of you
while we sell our racist movies too
Jun 9, 2015
Jun 9, 2015 at 11:40 AM UTC
I've stood in the lobbies,
Drinking crap coffees,
In churches, schools and theaters.
There's mingling talk of the topic
Involving a paradigm shift,
A segue too smooth to resist.
A new diagnostic, a new way that's better,
Although the old one's not gathered dust yet.
A new guideline, a revised playbook,
An updated prayer book,
An all new look, an all newer look;
And the newest look's coming out next.
Closer to platonic perfection.
*I should feel slighted.
Babies shouldn't rock sideways.
Bacon tastes good, is good.
The surgery is booked.
The schools are over-cooked.*
The dais is lit. The crowd shuffles to sit,
The auditorium dims, we're all in,
And everyone knows the speaker by name.
Jan 5, 2018
Jan 5, 2018 at 9:36 AM UTC
The king of darkness called me a year ago,
Making me drink rufescent blood from
The wine chalice every night.
Forcing me to breathe
a life overflowing with ****
Asking me to breathe
The silence in chateau lobbies.
Making me listen the wails and the cries
of the innocent.
Not letting it engulf me further,
I darted away from it.
But it caught me again.
Leaving my nights slumberless.
The ghosts haunted me every night,
with their shadows dancing on the walls.
They called me again today,
But this time the king wanted me to
taste
the garden of death.
-Khushi :)
Mar 11, 2018
Mar 11, 2018 at 3:32 AM UTC
Sunday morning means ghost town lobbies,
No barking dogs or cracking of doors,
It’s just me; playing with my blue inked pen,
Hiding behind this glass fortress,
Trying to write away my sadness,
I like to walk through my graveyard of unfulfilled dreams,
And listen to my breaking heart that grieves in silence,
Loneliness comforts me, its stays with me,
As I walk through what was or could have been,
Beautiful Sunday morning, I should be living the dream,
Yet, mascara paints my face,
A dark shade of grey that matches what I feel,
This high-ceiling glass fortress allows me to pace,
As I try to make my way through my thought maze,
And the strong marble desk holds my hands up to my crying face,
Life is a journey, not a race,
This summer sun shouldn’t make my heart break,
Am grateful for that that only the ghosts reside in this morning hour,
They comfort me in knowing that perhaps there is more to this place,
And smile at me when they see my true face,
They embrace the sadness my smile tries to erase,
Just few more minutes before I have to wear a mask on my face,
Before I have to smile and lie that I am Okay!
Jun 23, 2019
Jun 23, 2019 at 2:10 PM UTC
Fancying myself a sophisticated gentleman, I like to lobby sit.
I have favorite spots like the Palmer House Hotel lobby in Chicago
where I'd even light a cigar and smugly read the Chicago Tribune
in one of their leather chairs
or else when the Yankees
or other visiting pro sports teams
were in town buy a Milky Way
and the Sporting News at the newsstand
hoping to rub elbows
with some of the players
as they paused there
on the way to their rooms.
I can also remember sitting there
one time gaping at the Embassy Room marquise
when it advertised the Supremes singing there -
I also liked to lobby sit in the lobby of the Aster Hotel
near Times Square where our family would stay
on trips to New York
and maybe catch a glimpse of say a new phenomenon -
then a bag lady as she wandered in looking for a place to take a load off
or else I hoped to see some Band standers from Philadelphia come through
as they were there in New York spending the weekend
to appear on **** Clark's Live Saturday Night Show from New York.
Also I enjoy sitting in lobbies of the Desert Inn and Siam City in Fort Lauderdale
listening for the Yankees serve on the Clure Migas sports segment
on the late night news
or else sitting in the lobby of the Ordillone Hotel on Miami Posada
watching the McCarthy hearings.
One time when I was lobby sitting at the local Ramada Inn Hotel in Champaign
some Champaign police came in and ordered me out
and said something to the effect of "if you want to lobby sit, go up to Chicago and do it
but not here - this can barely be called a small city"
But yeah the satisfaction of lobby sitting in general.
Nov 22, 2017
Nov 22, 2017 at 3:54 PM UTC
I think I understand it now, life that is,
How easy it is to lose the sense of control in all this.
We're trapped like animals and on a conveyor belt,
Awaiting judgement from a consuming generation, but hell,
I'm guiltily part of that as well.
I think I get how people get lost in the numbness of judgement and consumption,
We're all consumers consuming humour and a humans convulsions.
That repetitive nature of the newest generations has change the world,
No longer do we fight the same fight and stand beside the typical Gerald.
We look to be hurt by others and take a leap of ill-faith into broken people,
Expecting them to catch us when they can't even find love to love themselves; never mind other people.
We hurt ourselves to pause the conveyor belt,
We harm ourselves to draw blood and feel pain and escape our modern hell.
We snap like thin hard wax and damage our perfect bodies,
When we're so powerful; we could revolt and fill the lobbies.
We can make a change, stop the automatic production,
But in a modern world, we're the creators of our own destruction.
Oct 31, 2018
Oct 31, 2018 at 9:17 AM UTC
I still walk past bridges and imagine us jumping off of them
Maybe it would feel the same when we hit the bottom
As it does when we speak to each other.
Do you know what it feels like to watch the walls of your house collapse onto your shoulder blades?
I used to love to watch you skip over the puddles trying not to wet your feet
It was the same way you held your hands out of the car window on the freeway
Flying, so fast.
You told me " i dont care what anyone thinks "
but the truth is-
i hate the way you hold your breath before you laugh at my jokes
like you're about to blow out a candle but you're just not quite sure you want to watch the flame go out
I hate when your eyes disappear into the ceiling of your bedroom -
the same place your dreams go every night
as they flash and turn into lightning bolts of images of who you used to be
In them are your screams
They are the sounds of your alarm clock before you hit the snooze
You told me you were happy
if happy is a place where babies cry and bees go hungry because flowers are dead.
and thorns capacitate roses, weeds overgrow petals, and dogs bark endlessly into the night.
starving and cold.
the way you look at yourself is the way I look at you too
shivering and crooked like a bad park job
I imagine your promises like a sealed letter without a stamp to the wrong address on a Sunday morning
your voice makes me violently scratch at the roots of my follicles and fight with myself over whether to submerge my head into the beads of the water or to just finish conditioning my hair
your laugh burns. it echos through lobbies like elevators waiting to be pushed and children waiting for the waving hand of their mother to slowly dissipate and dissolve down the winding road
I remember the sound of eggshells crackling underneath my feet walking through my living room
Wishing that the panels on the doors and the fibers in the carpet could speak to me, or Ask me how my day was
You became the fibers in my carpet sewing my pieces together holding my lungs in place filling them with oxygen
And then slowly just letting them burst.
Sep 30, 2014
Sep 30, 2014 at 3:53 AM UTC
Bodies going down in my city
Man I tell you it's ******
No lobbies or committees to combat
The epidemic of systemic genocide
Man I'm so tired
Of losing all my friends to dope
******* shoot it up
Snort it like coke
All up in their nose
If you're into popping pills
They got those too
***** lethal but it's legal
The government's got you boo
Get addicted want to quit it
hit the clinic get your fix in a minute
Heroin's a game
But only the pusha man is in it to win it
Cause the dope is slaying
Dealers don't give a **** about the implications
Of the drugs they slanging
Saying man come back I got more of that
Homie keep on banging
Family trees rearranging due to falling leaves
But as long as they stacking stacks
They'll perpetuate the perpetual disease
The illness is the illest
The realness is the realest
And if you feel this
Tell me what the deal is.
Aug 15, 2017
Aug 15, 2017 at 2:38 PM UTC