A tiny man walks in the class,
And says, "Hello".
A crowd of staring college kids,
Say "Think its time to go".
"there is no class today,
loads of time to sleep".

Then in comes, Mr. Shrivastava and says
"Guys why do you leave?"
"This is your new faculty,
he will be taking your class.
Be on time from tomorrow,
or from your grades you part".

A look of shock crosses the face,
No one speaks a word.
Trying to let the fact sink in,
And someone in the back says:
"He is weird".

He comes and introduces himself,
Asks our names too.
Out of the thirty six,
how many he remembers,
is a question though.

And on with the class he goes,
Showing pictures on the screen.
Showing logos and *** hole ads,
Untill a hairy scene.
A boy interrupts and asks:
"Whats the meaning of this?"
Wham! goes the teachers heart,
He was not expecting this!
So, he thinks about it for a moment,
no wanting to appear a fool.

Sure he must have taken then pictures from somewhere,
And was acting ****** cool.
He gave us topics,
And shooed us away, saying...
"Lets meet on tuesday!"

Locked doors either side of the stairs:
this empty evening, silences are vacant.
Old helmet on the bench by the door,
glass eye-cover raised: illusive presence.
Light from the hall peers into the dark
room, and reclines on the empty couch.
Spiralling shadows of incense plumes
rise snake-like on walls seeking the roof.
A lone spider ranges by the kitchen light,
lizard across the house seeking refuge.
This lone bird late mourns an absence
in her haunting call, this empty evening.

How is the night treating you? I am asleep,
but not. Half awake, but not. I am hope,
but not. I want to scream, but don't. In this
half-morning, I want yesterday, but don't.
Tomorrow has poured in, but hasn't.

Now these itchy feet. Itchy tips of hair
that rub the cheeks. Itchy heart where
love smoulders. Some sweeter itch:
but, itch, nevertheless; itch in my sleep.
I want to know if this is an itchy night?
The rain falls like an itch on the rooftop.

This is some funny farce of a farcical night.
Tonight, I love the teals more, but don't.
Coots seem darker than the sky, but aren't.
In this deep night, I am love, but not. In this
last 'but not', the 'not' part is small, I mean.

I’m the son of my Mum,
product of Dad-
just with his mid seventies look instead.

Sown and grown in a house
from the past,
fixed by the full swing of
the can-do and will do,
not by the we’ll get through
or the *******.

****** by the plum tree
because its root system
sat lower than the toilet seat,
in the downstairs bathroom,
working radiator- never any heat.

Tantrums on the second step
because bad-mannered children
never want what they get.
But in hindsight, and I’ll admit,
they were doing it good, doing it right,
doing it by the book
printed in black and white.  

Nothing but rocks and stories where I’m from:
pebbles in the path
between the herb garden grass;
box hedge borders that’ll protect
and last;
stone walls hiding cancers and dangers,
unwanted gifts from door-to-door strangers;
postmen in shorts
with their all-weather legs;
women up the road
with their cool-box eggs;
neighbours behind curtains
hiding help not guns;
children in the street,
they’re somebody’s loved ones.

I’m the son of my Mum,
product of Dad-
just this time round
tall, grateful and glad.

you make me

so unbelievably happy.

you make me

so unbelievably sad.

and i wish i could understand

how one person

can lift me to the stars

and then

hurl me to the darkest part

of the ocean.

oh love
you would not
put another nail
through my coffin nor
put another nail
through my grave
but still
you bring me flowers
that i can not smell