Poems about bazaar

Brown yellow rusted pages
None read
None would for ages
Lying on the pave

Blurred is the title and name
Lost dream and never born fame
Wisdom of long bearded sages
Dumped in the grave

Dusty old forgotten write
Feasted upon by termite
What to author full of sense
Fetch not any pence

Should I buy take home to read
Not treat it like just darn weed
Spend some time in smelling old
See if bring some gains?

A quaint little bazaar
In the heart of the town
Tells a story
Of a thousand moments
Dal Bazaar as they call it
Or "Curry Market" for others who don't know.
I have fragments of memorable memories
Deep within my mind
The smell
The intoxicating smell of spices
Blended with the quiescent yet cacophonous lives
Of Merchants and Beggars
Of Buyers and Sellers
Of Bullions and a single calloused rupia
In the hands of the old tramp.
The sunlight baking
Bags of turmeric.
Suspending the scent
In the minds of men.

Capering clouds of black and grey
And the sudden squall
Stirring the monotony
Of the customary.
The pirouette of rain
The one that excites the plainest of the plain
Painting the whitewash with shades of grey
The chalky walls
Dust
Moist corriander
And the relief of earth
Conciliating
So rewarding
For the ruins of the bare sun.

This flashback into my soul
Where all my senses seem to be so awake.
The feel of the wooden veranda
Scent so inexpressible
My eyes devouring the sunset
Tasting the heavens
Hearing it all.
Feeling it all.
Oh the plight of poets
The ritual to end a poem.
Painful.

On the dark side of the moon
The light is always more blinding
One may hear a patterned tune
But Sol is no less binding
In the deepest black remains a torrent
Energy flows in all directions
A pulsing eruption of active current
The source of all of life's connections
Forces infused in superb creation
Energy powers our vivid dreams
Seen in a bright fiery demonstration
Found at backbone of cosmic seams
And every blistering binary star
Energy pumping from a quasar bazaar

Dreams that make your body pop, force the show to stop, let your jaw drop and breathe them in,

My dreams are kept in a biscuit tin
And hidden in the wardrobe.

File that under miscellaneous or under the skin, subcutaneous, any information unsought, bought, is probably extraneous and that's enough of us,

It's bedtime in the suburbs, the adverts have taken the lead, the dog's flopped into his basket after having a bloody good feed,

About now I'll jump ship, skip the light fantastic,
I could dream of her knicker elastic, but they don't make that anymore
(actually they might do but what would I know? )

Friday is on the horizon
But it'll never come for those who believe that
The earth is flat.
Or maybe it'll just fall into them.

They leer from the edges,
Teeth brushes never touched,
And they all chant the same words.

"Come with me, I have what you want. "
"Follow to my stall, I know what you need. "
"It's here, what you desire, I promise, you can buy it cheap. "

And I wonder.
What if they really do?
What if somehow they have what I need?

Is Love a trinket you can sell on a scarred table?
Is Acceptance a spice that drifts up in the air and makes you snuffle-sneeze?
Can one really purchase Bravery in piles on blankets like you would oranges?

If I could do that, buy those things
With a handful of American money and a little haggling
I don't think I'd want them anymore.

Same old, same old
Nothing changes.

Corporations corporating while
The poor men scrape a living.

New lamps for old tramps?
I don't think so.

We're being force fed by the mega men
Who do it as they please and when the
Poor complain
They do it, do it and do it again.

Same old story
Different book,
Wonder why I
Give a fuck.

Nothing changes
Never will until
The corporations stop incorporating
And
Give the poor men recognition.

When I'm dead and gone
The mega men will still be here,
Will still go on,
Nothing changes just remains
Like unwashed sheets
And semen stains.

But where there's life there's hope I hope
Or is this just a hopeless quest to
Do our best and
Die.

Get
Wealthy:
The rich man
Needs no heaven.
Everything's for sale:
Take stock of the market...
Prices and caprices vary
In the most bizarre of bazaars
We haggle with a zest for barter
And bargain away the best of ourselves
With third world orders of exploitation
A good greed never goes unpunished
In the most bizarre of bazaars
Broken is quite optimal—
Don't take it personal:
Profits and prophets
Both burn in hell
The poor man
Prays for
Rain.

Fluid cries erase the night
In a merciless drought
Of blinding Gods

Sporadic firefly lights engulf boisterous fights—
Hooded vultures choke on trivial grains

Kisses of amber tissue complement
Contrite countenances

Inconspicuous soles merge
With coarse protruding talons
While lithe specters fleet around

Yet the
Walk of humanity prevails no fall