"scrappers" poems
What does a painter do? A painter paints.
Of paintings inspired by the universe;
Of legends luminous as pious saints.
But people like me work to fill my purse.
Not artisan by trade nor rich merchant,
With rough and stubby fingers callused palms,
I'll starve if I were the master's servant
And soon to take the streets to beg for alms.
I paint for sake of commerce not for art;
I paint all kinds of buildings, houses, schools.
None enters, jobs can't start till I depart;
Scrappers, ladders, paints, brushes are my tools.
Do what I'm commissioned to do. To paint.
But Leonardo or Angelo I ain't.
Aug 24, 2018
Aug 24, 2018 at 8:48 PM UTC
Love was the fragrance of every flower
in this city, of celebrated gardens,
not long before,
Why i sit here, nursing my uneasiness
in this bus with out a destination board,
I don't really know,
all I hope is this:
my belief that it would take me to
it's last stop- love- would not fail,
Once there ,I know,
my redemption would be easier.
I don't see any one bound
to that destination,
not even one whose face i recognize,
night has no language, like a dumb man
i have to be contented with signs,
in this overly lit long, red bus, too sleek
for everyone here to feel happy about,
i feel the shock of change, from every side,
The city is busy shedding its old skins
and its soul, the villager and his words
that spoke of rain, crops of corn and harsh summer,
almost in a poetic vein, is alien now,
they aren't invited here anymore,
sulking, loitering around a bit, they have left, before sun down.
We are racing towards deadlines,
roads everywhere are blocked, broken, changed beyond
recognition, one's own street, needs introduction
work is in progress even at midnight,
new flyovers, elevated roads, sky scrappers
you easily lose count, and crawl through a maze,
all for a make over, to a global city of electronics,
from a sleepy town, embracing villages
to somewhere, the world feels flat, in an illusory grandeur.
Trees died horrible deaths,
a loveless and forlone look takes over, even on young faces
the sparrows, disappear, no one knows where
they have gone, bees and butterflies,
what would be their fate, studies are on.
A lady in the front seat
gets jittery, she is not sure where she goes,
the driver doesn't pay attention,
there is none to reassure,
we are on the move, fast too.
I was looking for Mahatma Gandhi Road, but the signs
are all gone, hope, those would be back pretty soon,
but would love come back?
OOO
Apr 11, 2012
Apr 11, 2012 at 8:03 AM UTC
The Acolytes come marching in and out and in, out again
Minds befuddles, rationalities amissing, fully indoctrinated
Pathetic Dogs of Attrition dressed all in white, all in pain
Compulsive obsessives, neurotics primed and oxygenated
Scrappers at the bottom of the barrel wants unlawful gain
By hook or crook is their recourse, to that they are mandated
From rhetorics long gone and ideologies forged in days of rain
Our intrepid Confused and Acolytes are soundly medicated
Just march to left, left, left, left and we will ease all your pain
Recognize that the enemies are those that think and are educated
They all claim domain at the top, with kudos, status and fame
While you languish in closed barrels, your poor lives truncated
Those Bosses are all there because they are all Masonic inclined
Doctors, lawyers and Professionals paid cash for Degrees granted
They did no work or study, rich Daddies just paid so they claim
All those Entrepreneurs are Robbers who bankraid unarrested
Because the Police are all masonic and help/share in all the gain
The Royals are Top Mafiosas, with International links atested
So Dumb Acolytes Know the truths and fall with the wise in line
We must regain Power and march left, left so we're not left in vain
The republic shall live because it's 21 Century and we wake in time
We take all from the Secret Society and cut off all our iron chains
Begin by taunting, tormenting and harassing that ****** Wayne
The ****** Prince is the African Mafia Chief and Exploiter kingpin
Sing with me everybody
Viva la Revolution, viva la Revolution
We are clever, all in our White uniforms
We march to the left left left with our two left feet
We know our brains have left us but we go left left
Viva la Revolution, Viva la Revolution, Viva la Jinbba.
Hey! jinbba, jinbaba, hey! jinbba jinbaba, hey! jinbba jinbba
Sing.........
Sep 12, 2018
Sep 12, 2018 at 5:09 AM UTC
his eyes glared at my soul
wondering what dwells inside
or how it would shrivel
after the rigors of winter
his lungs and liver
were worn out
every after sky scrappers
were created
he walked everywhere
wearing his belief
that two people
are only meant to last
for a few bottles of beer
two shots of *****
and the human bodies
are not made for the long run
i'm building the walls higher
than it was since the last time
every time i realize
that this could be it
this could be the daydream
but could also be the nightmare
Feb 19, 2017
Feb 19, 2017 at 9:24 AM UTC
The plantations have been privatized
The cotton fields paved with concrete
They still exist
Despite how much you resist
Needing working bee's
They persist
And insist you enlist
From the stone like mass
Sky scrappers are erected
At the tiptop, a **** head runs the show
He tells all the little white men
Who work beneath him
What to do and were to go
You're too tired to even think
But you have to work
If you want to eat
From cotton
To poppy
From slaves in shackles
To droids with imperceptible chains
Leading and whipping the pack,
NASDAQ reigns
Grinning like a fool
All complacently cozy cuddling your coins
In an ornamented box
Where your view of the stars is blocked
Politicking away with a bottle scars of yesterday
Telling yourself "Everything will be okay,
It has been this far."
All the while Uncle Sam blows freedom smoke
Up your *** with his federal cigar
Buy, consume, sell
Get drunk, stay distracted, inhale
Imbibe thoughts instead of ale
You could read a book for fun now,
Or to cure boredom in jail
Jul 18, 2013
Jul 18, 2013 at 1:05 PM UTC
*Life was once an adventure
How beautiful it was to sail the ocean
to raise sails and battle waves
months at Sea awaiting the destination
Life was life when we took trains
and slowly made our way across
all kinds of terrains, viewing hills
illuminated by the Sun's rays
when we sat astride beautiful horses
and journeying was taking the reins
breathing hot and cold air and
feeding on the chocolate atmosphere
riding all night through moon's glow
it was joy taking the stairs
even if it was to the sixteenth floor
Writing letters with glamorous words
to the loved ones so far away
and sometimes having to wait years
to receive the dusty envelopes bearing
the breathtaking responses...
Life was something to look forward to
until we shunned ships for planes
where we shoot through the sky,
shunned Trains for these Taxis
which just fly, until we invented
elevators so people know not the
satisfaction of taking the stairs...
until we invented smart phones and
abandoned the beauty of letters
Life was fun but we pushed Horses
behind bars in parks and the zoos
after all those hoofs can't stand
the tarmac and there are no more
hills and Sunsets to see because
we've congested the skyline with
Storeys and scrappers
Then we judge the world unfair
yet we're the ones who don't care
The world was a paradise
during those good old days
until we became demons of change
and twisted a heaven into Hell...*
Jun 15, 2016
Jun 15, 2016 at 2:29 PM UTC
Sometimes I'm high
and way of in the sky
I find peace
tripping out of classrooms and landing on my front teeth
spilling **** water like secrets i wasn't meant to tell
Sometimes I'm too high
and The clouds ripple around my head like mountain peaks
scrapping *the ******* sky*
sky scrapers got nothing on me i use them as shoes scrappers
take the **** of my feet,
Sometimes I come down
and i transform, curling into a space plane
sub sonic I'm pealing back the atmosphere,
red hot to the touch my existence is on another plane
more often then not though...
i wish i as here
Sometimes I just need a hit
just one,
please
Keep me up
I don't want to go down
I dont want to fall again,
because my fingers are singed and my hair reeks of smoke
my clothes are ***** and my pokets lined with coke
I love you,
no
not you
her.
in my cone peice
in my lungs
***e
x
h
a
l
e***
Apr 22, 2015
Apr 22, 2015 at 6:37 PM UTC
In this jungle of sky scrappers
Mountains of concretes
Surrounded by the dark air
Noise of cars and all you hear is the fast pace of life
Give it a break
Look ahead of you or maybe tilt your head up
Don't you see a beauty?
Something magical awaits your attention
Hey there pretty!
Oh you reveal so much
A unique feeling every time
And I can stare at you forever
Thanks to you I could still have a glimpse of nature
Your existence is marvelous
I close my eyes and still have that image of yours
You bring me peace from with in
Each day I look forward to seeing you
And how you would look today
It's giving me a different hope each time
Also a peculiar story that leaves a smile in me
May 16, 2017
May 16, 2017 at 8:28 AM UTC
****** hounds
but stop and nod
Scrappers or survivors
a quarter here a quarter there
ears bit neck scratched
a Styrofoam cup
fights won, lost, lamed
an upturned top hat
Defenseless, lonely, sad eyes
a blanket and a stack of newspapers
A fighting dog
or a fighting man, don't walk by.
Sep 19, 2013
Sep 19, 2013 at 10:05 PM UTC
*(After reading Dorothy Allison’s “To The Bone”)
That winter I did go crazy:
like a growing tire tear,
like naked sacked scrappers,
like the water waning sand
in the desert of your bones.
Nov 30, 2012
Nov 30, 2012 at 1:35 AM UTC
Rows of sky scrappers
Are standing high with pride,
Looking to the hutments
With a nagging look and hate.
Said 'how ***** and shabby
You all are -
With full of filth and stinks '? ?
Hutments were in laughter
And replied them on face
'Yes, we may be poor
And may be stinking even , as you've said,
Still we do not occupy the sky
The invaders,
As you did invade'! ! !
===================
Amativa(9.7.2014)
©ALL RIGHTS RESERVED BY AMITAVA SUR
Oct 27, 2014
Oct 27, 2014 at 9:50 PM UTC
How magnificent is the bourgeoisie!!!
How is the proletariat feeble?
There is but the naive capitalism
Yet the laissez-faire rot!
There is not a single dismay,
Non prolific is the gray!
The lost souls of aristocratic,
However, shall pay!
The lusterous scrappers
Orenated, the walls drape of ravishing sprays
No nuisances, no broken window panes,
For now the children dont play!!
For haven't I done more than,
What the society deserves!
For I am the creator
Of the brackish bays!
Nov 13, 2019
Nov 13, 2019 at 3:45 AM UTC