man might suffocate under much less that expected of such concern; with such concern the least he can ascribe is worthy of an echo, or lost pedigree, or the forgotten remains.*

if bygone twice
the angel-wing,
a pigeon-****
and thrice the bowler-hat
of luck on the parade
of Trafalgar, then
my third Nelson hand
to shake a congratulation
to flick off Napoleon's
bi-corn to make a twangy
tango with four lions
rather than three
to make the shirt, and that too
was worth a kangaroo pouch
of son prior the father,
Jim prior to Timothy -
and the rest is, as they say is Lincoln
on Mt. Rushmore - thank
god i read the Marquis de Sade
too early,
to pervert myself with the French than
anticipate the English.
my first love was my father,
and the latter came, litany's oeuvre,
to which i sentenced my love
a caricature, and with each breath a loss...
what i might call a U-boat...
and that too was once a graffiti and tattoo
O days when a love for father coerces
the love for splendour - for he abandoned by both
mother and father and crucifix...
and kept idiotic chastised and chiselled...
to pigeon shape Gabriel
and crow croak Satan
and eagle aloof Raphael -
and with whatever tear to shed,
i shed..  with no eyes... blind - my tears
have wedded me to being blind.