that shabby yet salacious;
free market of ideas…
never awaits me
nor I welcome it’s presence,
within my pure artistic agenda…
On a stick I buried in sand
I hung for you;
To watch waving
Like your national
flag
Printed on a polythene
Never to decay
And yet to fade away
Like the scent
Of her first kiss
That could more than once
Melt your heart
In it I’ve said
No awards or accolades
Shall bequeath me their gaze
Let alone their grace
That has torn hearts to shreds
which reborn as coffers
To gulp, gulp and gulp…
To gobble, gobble and
gobble,
Till they doubly redouble
To spoil the literary trouble.
I now hear you mumble
‘What nonsense!’ you grumble
In your brain-wallets
yet you fumble
In search of food for a gamble
‘You want a copy machan?’
‘You want a coffee sir?’
My turn to say’What nonsense?!’
Once one Everett wrote ‘FUCK’
And revealed the world
The way books fuck the bookers and bookies
In the circles of yours
And maybe mine too
‘Blacks’ turn to ‘Whites’
Sans shame to beg…
I mean appraisal
‘Whites’ turn to
‘Blacks’
Sans shame to beg…
The forgiveness and fame
Is this the carom game?
That you copy from me
And they copy from you
And I copy from them.
Finally I throw up
To watch my own old shit
At my own feet
Smelling and squirming
Waiting their quoting
To feed your fetish
Wrapped in the cream of graphic
Sweet scent of newness
That marks and masks my literary numbness
Among paid reviews and numbers
For you to wag your tongue on
Another day, another time
At another place, with another gathering.
Or will they be…
The same old same old same old heads
that spit , the same old same old same old sentiments
About the same old same old same old things?
And ask,
The question at the top.
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