"pakis" poems - Hello Poetry

Dear son I am dying So you may live! I couldn't pay for your son's school fees, The deepawali sweets and crackers And your wife's saree, Nor could I buy you the500cc Enfield Bullet.I had promised. My revised pension hasn't yet come. They have told me to wait, But I know you can't. Deepawali crackers are costlier this year With the boycott of Chinese goods A big price for patriotism. My friends tell me that if I die They will turn me Into a symbol, Something very big and important. Somewhere elections are just round the corner, There will be a statue And money and job for you. They say. I must die for you to live. I have lived my life. Sorry son, I had much to say But they tell me to hurry. The facilitator has another appointment to keep If only I could go with a bullet in my heart And a few pakis at my feet And not a sip from the hemlock tree! Do not gamble with the money you get, This Deepawali, pay Dipu's fees, Buy a plot of land, Take mother to Haridwar. And yes, get the money and the job Immediately after I die, least they forget. They will promise the world. They will come, don't worry, make them pay, Insects always do when there is light. They call me I must go You live..

0

Nov 4, 2016

Nov 4, 2016 at 3:32 AM UTC

rana-pratap-nandi

Father to son

Dear son I am dying So you may live! I couldn't pay for your son's school fees, The deepawali sweets and crackers And your wife's saree, Nor could I buy you the500cc Enfield Bullet.I had promised. My revised pension hasn't yet come. They have told me to wait, But I know you can't. Deepawali crackers are costlier this year With the boycott of Chinese goods A big price for patriotism. My friends tell me that if I die They will turn me Into a symbol, Something very big and important. Somewhere elections are just round the corner, There will be a statue And money and job for you. They say. I must die for you to live. I have lived my life. Sorry son, I had much to say But they tell me to hurry. The facilitator has another appointment to keep If only I could go with a bullet in my heart And a few pakis at my feet And not a sip from the hemlock tree! Do not gamble with the money you get, This Deepawali, pay Dipu's fees, Buy a plot of land, Take mother to Haridwar. And yes, get the money and the job Immediately after I die, least they forget. They will promise the world. They will come, don't worry, make them pay, Insects always do when there is light. They call me I must go You live..

41

A cold winter noon Perched atop a new ruin, Toothpick stirring a remix bhajan, Rocking in a lame chair, there I am. Taking in the sun, Thinking of the world, the poor And sipping on my *** ‘’Ayele kanda, batata’’ Ah, there goes my line. Why doesn’t the idiot shut up? We can’t anymore buy onion and potato. A lonely koel perches on the antenna Clears its throat and tries to sing, Hoot! Out of my sight you noisy thing. Give me peace and let me think. One more sip, the line comes again, The down trodden! A girl of sixteen was ***** and killed. Who will punish the bustards? Such a shame. A mother of two violated, Shorn and paraded naked. Served her right, the five magi hissed Her threadbare boy shouldn’t a Brahmin have kissed! The stocks went down; the Taj has gone brown, Down with the rightists, down with the leftists, Down with the middle-east, down with the Pakis, And the Chinese, a foreign hand, don’t you see? Rocking in the lame chair, Taking in the sun, Thinking of the world And sipping on my ***

0

Jan 11, 2016

Jan 11, 2016 at 11:29 AM UTC

rana-pratap-nandi

AN INTELLECTUAL’S HOLIDAY

A cold winter noon Perched atop a new ruin, Toothpick stirring a remix bhajan, Rocking in a lame chair, there I am. Taking in the sun, Thinking of the world, the poor And sipping on my *** ‘’Ayele kanda, batata’’ Ah, there goes my line. Why doesn’t the idiot shut up? We can’t anymore buy onion and potato. A lonely koel perches on the antenna Clears its throat and tries to sing, Hoot! Out of my sight you noisy thing. Give me peace and let me think. One more sip, the line comes again, The down trodden! A girl of sixteen was ***** and killed. Who will punish the bustards? Such a shame. A mother of two violated, Shorn and paraded naked. Served her right, the five magi hissed Her threadbare boy shouldn’t a Brahmin have kissed! The stocks went down; the Taj has gone brown, Down with the rightists, down with the leftists, Down with the middle-east, down with the Pakis, And the Chinese, a foreign hand, don’t you see? Rocking in the lame chair, Taking in the sun, Thinking of the world And sipping on my ***

31

Jinx! You owe me a haggis! Sheep! Sheep! Sheep boing! I tried to connect the two. I am glad that someone loves my discursive stuff. I feel thrilled that someone validates me. Tell me why again? Why why why not? Did you mention socks? Why? You’re a sock! Your face is a sock! A pair of socks! I laugh! You didn’t anticipate that one, did you? I will nevar stop. Nevar. Yes. An alternate spelling. Hehehehehehe. Be bold. Be bold like Leeroy Jenkins. Yas. Chicken music. Yas. He was brave, he led the charge. On monkeys and elders, what was our conclusion? Monkeys are silly, elders are catnip. I am silly. This poem is silly. Hehe. You know what I’m about to say next. We must keep it a secret. Sheep! Sheep boing! Figure out what that pakis-ectomy is. Yeah? Yeah? Well, you’re a pakis. I guess that Wyatt Cenac said it best: I have to fool you. I am fooling you. Aeneas, Cooper, Pedro, and Boo. They are all amicable with each other.

0

Feb 3, 2015

Feb 3, 2015 at 6:51 PM UTC

allen-page

An Ode To Pakis

Jinx! You owe me a haggis! Sheep! Sheep! Sheep boing! I tried to connect the two. I am glad that someone loves my discursive stuff. I feel thrilled that someone validates me. Tell me why again? Why why why not? Did you mention socks? Why? You’re a sock! Your face is a sock! A pair of socks! I laugh! You didn’t anticipate that one, did you? I will nevar stop. Nevar. Yes. An alternate spelling. Hehehehehehe. Be bold. Be bold like Leeroy Jenkins. Yas. Chicken music. Yas. He was brave, he led the charge. On monkeys and elders, what was our conclusion? Monkeys are silly, elders are catnip. I am silly. This poem is silly. Hehe. You know what I’m about to say next. We must keep it a secret. Sheep! Sheep boing! Figure out what that pakis-ectomy is. Yeah? Yeah? Well, you’re a pakis. I guess that Wyatt Cenac said it best: I have to fool you. I am fooling you. Aeneas, Cooper, Pedro, and Boo. They are all amicable with each other.

29

Hand-full of people fighting for Islam. Our weapons are pen and holy Quran. Resources are less, but ambitions are high Allah is with us, so lets not grieve or sigh We don't like colour of blood, we like colour of ink With message of love and peace we are here to close all ***** We are here to clear all your doubts and misconceptions we are the best of Ummah, so we will argue and talk with patience propaganda against Islam will be buried in cemetery We are mujahids of twenty first century Bound by faith pakis, Arabs and Indians We are soldiers of Allah, we are LMDians

0

Nov 13, 2014

Nov 13, 2014 at 5:37 AM UTC

mdasadullah

LMDians

Hand-full of people fighting for Islam. Our weapons are pen and holy Quran. Resources are less, but ambitions are high Allah is with us, so lets not grieve or sigh We don't like colour of blood, we like colour of ink With message of love and peace we are here to close all ***** We are here to clear all your doubts and misconceptions we are the best of Ummah, so we will argue and talk with patience propaganda against Islam will be buried in cemetery We are mujahids of twenty first century Bound by faith pakis, Arabs and Indians We are soldiers of Allah, we are LMDians

12

rykł gwałtu: czy śmiercí... sie boície?! the 1st world belongs to western europe, as is the poppy emblem... but the 2nd world war? you have no right upon this platitude of nostalgia... you have no right here... you don't belong here, go **** yourselves, and settle the flatlands of belgium... you, take you ******* and your other colonial subordinates from these pages of reminder! no, you don't belong here, on the ukranian plains of the flat-fields... you are not commonwealth sorts... i don't want you here... you are on your way home... and no... none of the commonwealth bits & pieces ever worked the construction site, like the irish or eastern europeans did... q a few sikhs... but that's about it... pakis make great mustafas of the "work" invoked by the designation of a prior toward the authorirty of an imam... i too never knew i knew how to read... must be a literate donkey somewhere! i'm trying to love the brits, but given they're really into their p.c.s.d. (post-colonial stress disorder), i'll my stretching it with nazis... please call me that... please, please, please call me a **** it will make me remember my great-grandmother affected by nazis, all the better, for your **** journalistic *** please! i'm begging you! call me a **** call me what my grandfather called the ss-mann: herr-bite-bonbon... call me a **** you **** swine! call it! call it!!! i dare you, i want you to call it! i, ******* dare you to call it! call it! speak your little jihad! speak your little spell! say it! are you aware that i was the one who liked the idea of collecting swords? oh yeah... i own a hussar blade... over 50 centimetres... curved and all... if i inserted the blade via your *** it would come out of your mouth as a tongue; say it... i want to hear it... why are my hands and the fingers extending off of them, becoming so itchy? i have a heart for a guillotine, but no more, for a bed-fellow in the form of a woman; how desirable does death become, the least you account for fearing it... how welcoming the jest of recounting: novembers & septembers.

0

Aug 9, 2017

Aug 9, 2017 at 9:59 PM UTC

removed.polaroid-scrabble

novembers & septembers

rykł gwałtu: czy śmiercí... sie boície?! the 1st world belongs to western europe, as is the poppy emblem... but the 2nd world war? you have no right upon this platitude of nostalgia... you have no right here... you don't belong here, go **** yourselves, and settle the flatlands of belgium... you, take you ******* and your other colonial subordinates from these pages of reminder! no, you don't belong here, on the ukranian plains of the flat-fields... you are not commonwealth sorts... i don't want you here... you are on your way home... and no... none of the commonwealth bits & pieces ever worked the construction site, like the irish or eastern europeans did... q a few sikhs... but that's about it... pakis make great mustafas of the "work" invoked by the designation of a prior toward the authorirty of an imam... i too never knew i knew how to read... must be a literate donkey somewhere! i'm trying to love the brits, but given they're really into their p.c.s.d. (post-colonial stress disorder), i'll my stretching it with nazis... please call me that... please, please, please call me a **** it will make me remember my great-grandmother affected by nazis, all the better, for your **** journalistic *** please! i'm begging you! call me a **** call me what my grandfather called the ss-mann: herr-bite-bonbon... call me a **** you **** swine! call it! call it!!! i dare you, i want you to call it! i, ******* dare you to call it! call it! speak your little jihad! speak your little spell! say it! are you aware that i was the one who liked the idea of collecting swords? oh yeah... i own a hussar blade... over 50 centimetres... curved and all... if i inserted the blade via your *** it would come out of your mouth as a tongue; say it... i want to hear it... why are my hands and the fingers extending off of them, becoming so itchy? i have a heart for a guillotine, but no more, for a bed-fellow in the form of a woman; how desirable does death become, the least you account for fearing it... how welcoming the jest of recounting: novembers & septembers.

88