I could see your unapproving
nostrils like a rounded waste paper
crumpled on all sides ,
stigmatic cartilages flagged up in an ironic
least to say, those
rigid shrunken lips front falling
shabbily in a piggy-nose fashion,
all in a displeased display,
some sort of erectile team work!?
And, what a disfigured buffalo
face you look like as you inhale acrid uric
stench sparsely mixed with a divine
note, an undoubted heaven’s
rosy deo note..
No doubt on that folks, as I am no brand
ambassador of that dubious
Its more on a differential plane I put this
praise on such altitude touching
heavens…All credits to you ,
such a strong creator of a deadly repulsive
circumference like a warfare agent!!
How terrible an aroma gets raped by you!
I mean , by your unbearable
emits of twin black moon exposed
armpits out of a largely un-purposed
thoughtless escapist pose of raised
arms with tight-married fingers
pillowed on back head,
rescuing self by numerous blind reasons
shouted in defence like fat paid
dummy rallyists sloganeering
calls of a causeless protagonist
Ahh! Back head…is that still a whining
pain spot indicting of your convenient
negligence to vessel rupturing shooting
pressures that could be a life-claimer
any time now like your unannounced
quizmaster ripping apart
once and again, in those stereotypical
bookworm institutes you were made to spent
Is that your ingenuity being misplaced there
or you not even worth in such mundane instances
that you keep on climbing
high doors of a lost
heaven of distant dreams, unheeding
dust-blanketed thickets you reside,
coiled hard in dark closets?
As your little one thrusts a shuttlecock in your
vision, always that she had struggled
enough to divert your abstractive flights, but then
it’s a telling plight which she loses
almost all times, this time though you fix a stare, a real one,
on that feathered conical thing,
Couldn’t answer her simple query , Is that a real birdie
or any other? Your blurred sight
dangled between two felt factors, softness of a natural
feather overtaken by a smiling synthetic
sheen …It’s again the
invisible being lighting upon subtly ..that it’s fake, got to be.
Reversing corollaries doesn’t arise.
There isn’t any parent for your evidential driven eyes…
….for a sudden plop of inferences.
Consequences merely you see in its discretion, to question?
Trace back to the point of origin, hold yourself .I am.
p.s: first published by self on du-poetry site on 18th November 2012 4:50pm Last modified 18th November 2012 4:53pm