"pickpocket" poems
THE Government--I heard about the Government and
I went out to find it. I said I would look closely at
it when I saw it.
Then I saw a policeman dragging a drunken man to
the callaboose. It was the Government in action.
I saw a ward alderman slip into an office one morning
and talk with a judge. Later in the day the judge
dismissed a case against a pickpocket who was a
live ward worker for the alderman. Again I saw
this was the Government, doing things.
I saw militiamen level their rifles at a crowd of work-
ingmen who were trying to get other workingmen
to stay away from a shop where there was a strike
on. Government in action.
Everywhere I saw that Government is a thing made of
men, that Government has blood and bones, it is
many mouths whispering into many ears, sending
telegrams, aiming rifles, writing orders, saying
"yes" and "no."
Government dies as the men who form it die and are laid
away in their graves and the new Government that
comes after is human, made of heartbeats of blood,
ambitions, lusts, and money running through it all,
money paid and money taken, and money covered
up and spoken of with hushed voices.
A Government is just as secret and mysterious and sensi-
tive as any human sinner carrying a load of germs,
traditions and corpuscles handed down from
fathers and mothers away back.
7.4k
Sometimes I steal
from grocery stores.
Nothing serious of course,
sprigs of cilantro,
basil,
snap garlic cloves,
sleeve a single strip
of green onion,
occasionally, palm a jalapeno
I think it is the tiny thrills
of being a petty villain
that provokes me.
The warm slick sheen
of salty palms,
brow sweat, and
the shivers of pulse
that drums
my heart
when door greeters pull me aside to
verify receipts,
and never notice my aroused pockets
tight and bulging
pickpocket produce.
I'm no outlaw
nor bandit,
I do not pillage or
plunder,
I know the gray lines
that divide
good and bad,
because I'm at one of their
thresholds.
The cashier checks my driver license,
and address before feeding a worthless check
into the scanner
where it gets tagged and stamped
I feel no thrills,
no bad boy euphoria,
I am too numb for elation,
and too numb for shame.
This crime Is justified.
I have three more days
till payday
and hope the check floats
Last week was a short paycheck,
gas prices are high,
rent is past due
cigarettes aren't cheap,
and then there's that drug habit.
I could only write it
for twenty five over.
It's going to be a hard stretch.
I stuff easy cash
into my front pocket
and try to catch the eye of a pretty cashier
an aisle over.
She drags barcodes through laser red eyes
that decodes sale prices
She doesn't notice me,
but she might not be into bad boys
A small girl waits
in a shopping cart
with pigtails
and new teeth,
holding a children cereal that comes with a prize.
Her mother does not see
her kick off her shoe.
May 30, 2013
May 30, 2013 at 7:24 PM UTC
There's an alleyway in Prague,
hiding neath the nights fog,
where a girl stands on red light display.
And when cold rain starts to fall,
she still answers every call;
till the dawn hours that's where she will stay.
Her life is just that way.
She wakes up every day,
tries to scrub the pain away;
forget about the way last night went.
She'll paint some rogue on busted lips,
a short skirt on her starved hips;
with her son she wished her time was spent.
Just a couple more men to pay rent.
She's got a pickpocket friend
who work the Old Town, east end,
and likes to give her a slice of his steals.
The other girls, with whom she works,
defend her from the vicious jerks;
make sure her and her boy get hot meals.
They teach her how to heal.
Last week her **** gave her a knife
after a trick threatened her life
and said "Next time, say you cut off his *****
Then he laughed like it was funny
and told her to go make money,
leaning up against his car to look slick;
teasing his hair with a pick.
Tomorrow and tomorrow
she swears she'll end the sorrow,
but each night she's in that street corner cell.
She weeps "It's not the life I choose.",
while she looks at each new bruise
in the mirror, watching purple skin swell.
Her life surpasses hell.
The endless months and years pass
until she finally saves the cash
to run away with her pickpocket friend.
They grab her son and catch a bus,
leaving Wenceslas in the dust;
it doesn't matter where their road ends.
Her red light wounds can now mend.
Jun 5, 2013
Jun 5, 2013 at 3:23 PM UTC
For I did not come here in hopes of a hello
Of a simple stroll down our village
Or an acknowledgement of my existence
I came here because I care
I care
I see in your eyes the difference
Cover up with words soothing to the ear
But actions onset on hindrance
I did not come for a duet
Or a memory that we’d never regret
A heart to heart throughout the night
I did not come for my own benefit
I come because I care
I care
I worry, in fact
That you do not realize
How much you are
Who you are
Or your worth
Because the things you do show otherwise
But see in my eyes, and the eyes of others
Too concerned while we watch the beautiful eagle continue to believe he’s just a worm
You’re too distraught by the blindfold in front of yours
To realize the cries for help
Drowned out with insanity
Because the world is stealing your flame
While you continue to be baffled by the pickpocket’s show
"Do not take it!" I scream
“Do not let it take you!”
but those eyes
So precious, full and alive
are
still
blindfolded.
The procession goes on while the main attraction continues to burp out synthetic love and false hopes
Temporary
enjoyment
And you have become the fool of the show
With that blindfold
Darned, pestering blindfold.
I will still scream for its demise!
I will still plead for the final scene!
I will rip away the curtains held up with burgundy lies!
I will still care.
The show must eventually stop!
For actors must be given a break and plays must be forgotten
To not be cliche
There will be a time when there are no more encores
An end to the grand show
scattered flowers on the first row
And utter silence in an empty space
A dangerously
Dark
Desolate
Stage
But I will still be there
Holding a match for a new flame
And a warmer smile
For I care
I truly care
Sep 26, 2013
Sep 26, 2013 at 8:57 AM UTC
I’m ashamed to say I’ve become a bit of a thief;
A pickpocket of sorts.
It started out small.
A few roses from our neighbors’ garden, every now and then.
I knew it was wrong to take something that wasn’t mine,
But I fell in love with the way your eyes lit up
when I held out those little bits of stolen life, stolen joy.
It soon escalated after that.
I saw the way you gazed lovingly up at the moon,
and I became determined to make it yours.
Unfortunately, no matter how hard I tried,
The moon remained unattainable.
(There is only one, after all.)
I figured I’d aim for the next best thing, so
I hope you like the stars I stole for you.
May 17, 2016
May 17, 2016 at 9:52 PM UTC
Your backseat,
that backward pickpocket,
that schemer taking cell phones and jackets and wallets
the pilfered seeds sewn, like lighthouses when they sprout
guiding me back again
back to you
back to that ******* backseat
May 14, 2010
May 14, 2010 at 4:43 PM UTC
I was there
when they built the cathedrals
I was there
and I watched them stand tall
I was there
for the villagers' upheaval
I was there
and I answered their call
I was there
when they fought in ancient Rome
I was there
and I watched poor men die far from home
I was there
when we ate just like kings
I was there
and I fed you a grape
I was there
when they sold you into slavery
I was there
and I helped you escape
I was there
when ****** built an army
I was there
when Stalin rose to fame
I was there
in the Jewish death camps
I was there
and I forgot my own name
I was there
I was a pickpocket in London
I was there
when Dickens wrote the Twist
I was there
when it happened, all the sudden
I was there
and I raised up my fist
I was there
with Daniel and the lions
I was there
when he went down to that cave
It had
nothing to do with a God up in heaven
It had
something to do with the knowledge he craved.
Oct 21, 2011
Oct 21, 2011 at 11:18 AM UTC
“London calling to the faraway towns…”
[The Clash]
God man, trinket man, fake leather wallet man,
Drugs man, drumming man, dancing on the street man
Antique man, eel man, bus man, trades man
Boots man, bagel man, feed me I am hungry man,
Fit man, gay man, straight man, trans man,
Chinese man, white man, "oi-back-to-where-you came from" man
Business man, rugger man, beautiful wife and kids man
Eco man, hipster man, shouting man, shaking man,
Scowling man, scumbag man, shuffling don’t come near me man
War man, drunk man, cruising near the bushes man
Watching man, medal man, pickpocket poor man
Box man, sleeping man,think he might be dead man,
Lost man, lonely man,
Looking from the ledge man
Apr 10, 2023
Apr 10, 2023 at 10:50 AM UTC
or, the pickpocket
voted
most likely
to be chosen
from a nudist
foster care
by christian
couples
Jul 2, 2013
Jul 2, 2013 at 1:14 PM UTC
She sits on the chair
her wavy hair
still neatly in place
putting on her stockings
as he stands
with his back
to the window
gazing at her
she pauses
her fingers holding
the stocking tops
and looks at him
and says
in her sluttish French
do you want me
back tomorrow?
there is a draught
from the window
touching his naked back
sending a shiver
along his spine
sure
he says
but make it a little later
the wife’s got
a show to see
and she doesn’t leave
till just after 8
ok
she says
pulling up
the stocking
and fixing it
to the clip
shall I bring anything
with me?
no just yourself
he says
and maybe wear
that tight skirt
and creamy blouse
and those black stockings
she stands
and pulls down
her slip
to cover
her underwear
and looks around
for her dress
look
he says beware
of the concierge
she’s a nosey old biddy?
she asks
biddy what is that?
just be careful of her
he says
don’t let her
see you leave
or she’ll tell
the wife
oh I see
sure I will be careful
of the biddy
she says
picking up her dress
from the chair
by the bed
and as she turns away
he studies
her neat ***
the way she climbs
into the dress
her hands so quick
in movement
the finger so precise
like those of a pickpocket
and he sees her leg rise
the stockinged leg
the fineness of the thigh
then she turns toward him
and she smiles
and she starts
on the other leg
and he wonders
what his wife would say
if she came in now
how’d she’d look
then it’s over
the dame’s dressed
puts on her coat
and picks up her bag
and takes the money
he’d put on the desk
and shoves it
into the bag
and sighs
and leaves
and as she goes out
the door
waggling her ***
he knows
he wants her back
some more.
Jan 27, 2013
Jan 27, 2013 at 3:27 AM UTC
i met you once
in a dream.
married for years
the pickpocket and
the traveling salesman.
fish rained down on our wedding day
and our friends released doves.
my dress was a million rose petals
and your tux dripped ink on the church's carpet.
we laughed and loved each other
chewing beeswax and
painting silly faces on our knees.
it was a lovely dream
drinking in the deepest love
and swimming through the cool waters
behind our little green house.
you told me you were afraid of the waking
i couldn't lie so i said
so do i.
we ran
but the alarm and the bright morning found us
i woke and you
were just a dream again.
no closer then a cloud.
a wish whose cologne
clings to my hair.
Jan 17, 2011
Jan 17, 2011 at 11:52 AM UTC
Didn’t I mean it?
Or wasn’t I serious just a bit
When I warned of the gruesome pit
Ahead and soon they would hit
Was I performing a funny skit?
The day they refused to admit
That joining would bring no benefit
Just pain and no profit
The best option was to quit
But they wanted to wait
And see as they are used as bait
I can do nothing now but sit
Because I told them.
They are now quiet
Full of reckoning and regret
Wishing they listened I bet
That to stop a fired bullet
You must require a metal jacket;
Before you meet a pickpocket
Your wallet is not stolen yet
My words they needed not interpret
Either that they did not get
Or they simply chose to forget
When I blew a warning trumpet
I know that am not a prophet
Just a pen-and-paper poet
But I told them.
Jun 23, 2012
Jun 23, 2012 at 5:29 AM UTC
take money out of the equation, and sack all the waiters and return to tribalism, the former statement of non-intellectual socialism, the sort of inherent: in us there is a togetherness, no more service from strangers in the hierarchy of enriching a piece of metal or a wavy rectangle of paper with “necessary” symbolism of authority of the status quo... but that’s not going to happen... the pickpocket picts are no more... the normalising normans glared at the hastings pinnacle and integrated with the saxon women... the saracens became surnames in poland... actually that last one is very true... a branch of my family has the surname saracen.
so i’m reading this article
and i’m hardly debasing myself,
it’s not that i’m referring
to sartre’s negation of certain things
whether animate and essential or
inanimate and existential... in that formula:
i deny therefore i am... because i can’t deny my existence...
and 2000 years down the line i’ll be pitchfork
argument in an atheist’s mouth anyway (nothing is certain in the realm of cognition, hence the cartesian invocation of doubt),
it's not like i'm referring to inappropriate pronoun usage...
so **** a doodle do... twang the strings on the mandolin...
i’m referring to this classical reference of the shy literary figure
unable to spark conversation with strangers...
god, i really love strangers, and talking to them!
why? there is no personal history, there’s no past,
there are no reference points... it’s just the moment and nothing else,
the perfect anonymity project...
not the matrix philosophy (easily invoked because
it has a flimsy plot-line and loads of images...
just what the doctor ordered for the english speaking masses
with a very naked orthography - i.e. if it’s on the internet
it’s not “real life...” as is this computer i’m using
it’s not even here!)
of using the deep web to join the rats and etc.;
i love talking to strangers, i can forget myself
and enter the realm of discretion about how within randomisation
of eggshell, yoke and cockroach there’s also the randomisation
of the interactants to balance out the need for a theological unit, god...
it’s great... it’s like... it’s like... life.
defining the genre of biography proper? never backtrack...
always sidetrack... i can’t be bothered living a life with cocktail parties
and romps and romantic comedies to look forward to
once all the animalism becomes domesticated and a
gym-session complaints column in a newspaper.
Oct 26, 2015
Oct 26, 2015 at 7:54 PM UTC
everyone you meet takes something away from you
let it be a smile
or a helping hand
or a lesson
or your wallet or car keys
but please don't let it be your self esteem
we put our most valuable possessions in the hands of strangers
you don't have to pickpocket a ribcage to take the beating heart inside, it is wide open
yours for the taking
please handle it gently
please don't let me
reach in and take you out
you are worth so much more than a whistle as you walk down the street
you are worth so much more than the robbery you are about to meet
please
give up your purse
or your credit cards
or your social security number
give away time and space and energy
give away love and wisdom and patience
give away the best you have to offer
but don't give yourself away
don't hinder to what anyone has to say
lock your ribcage and hide the key,
do not give it to anybody
only unlock it to check that it still beats
unlock yourself to others only on your own territory
give away your house
your jewelry
your computer
you cell phone
give away everything else
but keep yourself
Jul 2, 2015
Jul 2, 2015 at 4:40 AM UTC
they poke and ****
destroy your pride
pickpocket your perception
throw you aside
(they are plotting your demise.)
May 3, 2013
May 3, 2013 at 4:22 PM UTC
Poem a day, day 2
It's all fun and games
Until someone loses a heart.
Take it from me.
Well, he did.
Great fun, good times
Next thing you know...
You turn around and
Someone's stolen your heart.
I only took my eyes
Off of it for a minute
And it was gone.
Possession is 9 tenths of the law.
The law of attraction.
I liked him,
I love him.
**** didn't see that coming.
Or maybe I did.
I couldn't have stopped it if I had.
Pickpocket skill level 100
Item: 1 heart.
Dec 1, 2013
Dec 1, 2013 at 7:14 PM UTC
And she called me a lover you know
In a fitful sleep she told me...
How it wasn't worth it
How I shouldn't do it
How I would regret it
But I packed up my demons and her with them and left
You know if love is like the wind unpredictable and free
Then
Hate is like a blind man with a gun to your head
Or a old lady pickpocket
Or a pastor cursing god on a Wednesday
Or her when she smiled at me that smile that didn't reach her eyes and told me the stories of her life that never happened, or how she forgot or how she remembered or how she told me she loved me and the sting of the words made me bleed more than the feel of her gold ring on my soft skin.
Oh god oh god oh god.
And she called me a dreamer you know
Long before I knew what dreams where
And
Long before I woke up.
Sep 16, 2013
Sep 16, 2013 at 2:00 PM UTC
what you got in your pockets?
Reveal yourself with an object,
let the subtext talk in a million ways.
What you got hiding,
and what does it say?
What you
keep
close,
exposes
emotion.
Your devotion to the object chosen,
is outspoken in a delicate gaze.
Theres a million ways you can spend that minimum wage,
Or a rainy day,
is just a rain
drop away.
And you could save me from the cold with your ignorance.
And i could pickpocket your soul in the holes of indifference.
But,
What’s the difference anyway.
Keep safe on your daily ways
keep safes, keeps the evil away;
I’ll keep you in my pocket until laundry day,
forget about you'
watching the world go round in bubbles and soap screens.
We got the same jeans (genes),
baby,
We got the same dreams,
baby.
Jan 15, 2016
Jan 15, 2016 at 3:58 PM UTC
Pickpocketed
each pocket has a purpose
church bells shatter through the surface
the worthless circus sunday service
a procession past the pickled mirthless
dispersions of persons pass pews
hoping He accepts the time served, in lieu
and thus this pocket is purposed for you
At the masqurade parade all day
That preys on insecurity
youre sure to see a bargain,
sharking, armed with curiosity
but the cost is often hidden, lost
in a forest of desire, in a silk lined pocket
and this is where they keep your wallet
search for solace in a sound structure
then ruptured synapses, flayed fluster
rebuild it all, regard life's lustre
meander melancholy with what you can muster
place them in a pocket, each respective,
one for your lessons and one for perspective
as the pickpocket of fear plays with the reasoning detective
Aug 27, 2019
Aug 27, 2019 at 8:28 AM UTC
LONDON TIME
Sprawls across the skyline.
Ancient and newly alike.
Busy wheels and politics.
Backstreets of culture with pickpocket vultures.
Stations and bankers,
And other posh tankers,
Otherwise known as rich classy wan**rs.
Sea museums and see museums
Plague victims under common land lay.
Sleeping for years.
And time changes.
Smiles very cutely, as he makes the suggestion.
Let's go sight seeing "dear lady"
Come along and see my life.
I'll hold your hand forever, but you will never be my wife.
He will never be your husband, as he knows not how.
The man who stopped time in London town.
(c) Livvi
Dec 11, 2014
Dec 11, 2014 at 6:13 AM UTC
Tall grass not yet touched by
dew observe.
Longing to reach the unforbidden.
To glide between atmospheres without
stopping to breathe.
As if that breath will steal what
cannot be stolen.
Hoping their presence will not
break the silence they find absolute.
Pickpocket the sky they will like a field
mouse with a crumb of
salted *******
They shall not judge
what cannot be touched.
Just praise and absorb.
For what cannot be touched by
lavender hands can be felt by a rose soul.
Feb 19, 2015
Feb 19, 2015 at 6:06 AM UTC
To get a fresh air
A night stroll would be fair,
I thought
And switching the TV
I got up from my chair.
On the pavement
Of a nearby apartment
A lovely girl by accident
I met,
Who looks timid and decent.
On my part a wink
On hers a response quick
Lovers soon we begin to click
And engaged in a kissing spree
On the street
Our arms locked behind
Our waist
To passers by
Completely indifferent.
"My dear
Your lips
Are meant non-stop
To kiss!"
"I was willing except
For time constraint.
You see, home
I have to report!"
Thus we were forced to part
Fixing an appointment.
Resulting in a great sorrow
It dawned on me on the morrow
She was a pickpocket
When I couldn't get the wallet,
I shoved into my back pocket!
From that day on wards
At night whenever I meet girls
And exchange greetings
I check my hands
For fear even
A finger could run amiss.
May 1, 2015
May 1, 2015 at 10:49 AM UTC
Found in the churchyard of St Botolph's, Aldgate,
one distant lunchtime sixty years ago,
and saved perhaps from second burial
less ceremonial than its first had been,
would Hamlet have mused on this? A finger-bone,
less striking than a skull but just as dead.
I keep it now and wonder
what skill he had possessed, the one who owned it.
Was he a tailor or a silversmith?
a carpenter? a weaver? or (none of those)
a lowly labourer, or a sly pickpocket?
Was it a woman's finger, a high-born lady?
or housewife (working her fingers to the bone)?
Did that hand long ago once guide a pen,
inscribe long lines of figures in heavy ledgers,
telling the tale of profit or of loss?
Did it write sonnets? messages of love?
or thoughts to pass on to an unknown future?
I cannot know, but still this humble bone,
the nameless relic of a city's past,
may have some little life, if only for me.
Aug 9, 2016
Aug 9, 2016 at 8:31 PM UTC
Up with the sun, his mind razor-keen,
he hikes up his trousers and starts his machine.
Though barrels of funk feed their reek to the dawn,
he pays them no heed; the trashman rolls on.
Up alleys, down thruways, past storefronts and stands,
he guides his behemoth with rock-steady hands.
Though big rigs and small fry speed hither and yon,
he sticks to his creed; the trashman rolls on.
Down **** to Impostor, past each stinking bin,
he makes for the junkies and merchants of sin.
Though winos raise eyelids, though punks point and grin,
he straightens his shoulders and thrusts forth his chin.
********* and derelicts lurch from their sties.
Pimps and their harlots flash Jacksons and strut.
“Hey, you in the truck,” a pickpocket cries,
“What are you, buddy, some kinda nut?”
With hands on the levers, and brightly lit eyes,
The big driver leans out and coolly replies:
“No, sir. I’m the trashman.”
And down comes the fork, and up goes the muck.
The gears maul the lowlifes, the fork rocks the truck.
Though hollers and screams shake his steel mastodon,
he longs to proceed; the trashman rolls on.
The truck passes perverts, creeps churned in its bile,
up Felon to Pusher, down Vicious to Vile,
where block upon block, where mile upon mile,
the hookers regale him with smile upon smile.
Near-naked floozies exhibit their wares.
But this man just glares while they trumpet in pique.
“Hey, you in the truck,” a drunk strumpet cries,
“What are you, mister, some kinda freak?”
His hands on the levers, with brightly lit eyes,
the big driver leans out and gently replies:
“No, ma’am. I’m the trashman.”
And down comes the fork, and up goes the slime.
The gears maul the contents to streetwalker chyme.
Though hollers and screams are distressing and drawn,
his heart fails to bleed; the trashman rolls on.
Pining for virtue, he clatters along,
up Bully to Bigot, down Trollop to Spawn,
past Conman and Cutthroat to Thirteenth and Greed.
He steadies, caresses, and readies his steed. Virtue, indeed.
The trashman rolls on.
Okay. NOW CUT AND PASTE THE LINK BELOW TO READ HERO, A SPRAWLING, GROUNDBREAKING FANTASY FOR GROWNUPS IN TWO PARTS. (BUT YOU MUST CLICK ON THE PROVIDED LINK AT THE CONCLUSION OF PART ONE TO ACCESS PART TWO! THAT’S WHERE THIS TALE’S AMAZING RESOLUTION LIES. But please...intelligent, soulful readers only!)
NOW HERE’S THAT LINK:
https://allpoetry.com/poem/14922744-Hero---Part-One-by-Ron-Sanders
Copyright 2020 by Ron Sanders.
contact:
[email protected]
Feb 19, 2020
Feb 19, 2020 at 3:05 PM UTC
prefer to express myself metaphorically. let me stress metaphorically not symbolically.My Poetry's all over me like maggots on garbage, just because I interfered with a pickpocket the other day.
Once a flower is picked it immediately begins to die. see hope is the crystal **** of emotions. It hooks you fast and kills you hard. The loneliest people are the kindest. The saddest people smile the brightest. The most damaged people are the wisest.
See my Happiness is the china shop; love is the bull.If Music is a Place then Jazz is the City, Folk is the Wilderness, Rock is the Road, Classical is a Temple.
See Love is a piano dropped from a four story window and you were in the wrong place at the wrong time.
But it is just two lovers, holding hands and in a hurry to reach their car, their locked hands a starfish leaping through the dark. #JidosReality #Poetry #Amazing
Jan 16, 2017
Jan 16, 2017 at 2:36 PM UTC