In the streets of Delhi advertised on every sign,
Is the British army’s need for you to buy buy buy.
It may cost your turban, your home your family, and the worn clothes.
But it’s for the greater good right? of the empire of them ‘s and those.

When you pass the gender and notice his cracked lips,
And coughing and dying son,
You feel sympathy as you would for anyone.
But you can parch him as your son cant starve too,
And that’s just the law of the untouchable that are below you.

Despite your status being not much better,
You walk a stranger to their leering eyes,
As you were the clean white sashes and ties,
But they don’t realise the shackles you are also in.
As the phrase goes that you see on all the ads.

“You can’t make your own confections,
You can’t save your own possessions,
You can’t even built out of your own wood,
Because for the good of the empire of the greater good,
You will serve to pay the fees that are higher than you can afford to do.”

When you think of that as you walk these deep streets you can’t help walking in a way of shame,
As you know you can’t blame these overlords,
But the submissions and laws of old,
That they stole and now uphold.
Never to be loss of my shackles,
I pass these streets, and go on to Mumbai for the next delivery meet.

I’ve been thinking about how one can fully understand the movement of life. How it goes unnoticed to most, slowly killing us. It should hurt, shouldn’t it? A constant moving pain that will eventually lead to some crazy hallucinogenic state of mind and you become the past. In a ball of flaming glory you could go out, and some do. Hopefully me too! Even though I know, it won’t mean a thing! because in the end it keeps going. And you become what’s gone.

I believe many people fear this. This ending of such. Some great men/women feared it. And they decided to be remembered but ultimately in the end, their end, nothing really changes. On the big scale of things they’ve contributed nothing, some of the greatest people you know, absolutely worthless. How can that be?

Because it is.

I don’t know a single thing

They fought with swords and shields in sorted fields

of acrimony, declared life and limb to a barren kingdom,

bowed to the royal crown and wooed its fairest daughter.

They won her heart, graced her walls, and worked within them to produce an offspring

—a love child forged with the will of iron and a random, but possessive eye chart.

It nearly took the death of an empire to bring this passion to birth,

and here it so rests upon her breast, pleading an allegiance to her tattered flag.

Why even a thousand years of war demurred to her letting down her hair.

But whose army crossed that wanton bridge and stroked her into carnal submission?

Who kept watch at the crossroads?

History tells us c'est la vie was the culprit, and détente the better angel.

Sometimes it's useless to be useful...

Were I to dwell a day

in the den of my enemies.



What would we say

of the corpses they ******

and threw in the corner?



Their history torn to ribbons

and chained to the same toilets

from which they garner

their greatest thoughts and values.



How many burning crosses

would dawn their books?



How many hoods for the wash?



Who-


pray-tell



does the washing?



The husks of flesh cut into pounds

festering on a shelf somewhere.


Once colored and cultured,

now decaying,

both in smell and in sight.



All by design.



At an oaken feasting table.



I see them eat the termites

as appetizers.



So many holes, it looks like dry split bone.



Some monstrous creature

that never had blood to spill.



From the corner of their slack jawed mouths

I see the wine swish
and drip
and drench.



They talk about Andrew Jackson
 and the Civil War.



As I fight the urge

to light myself on fire.

On the plains of Europe I contend for an empire.
On love's battlefields I have contended more for thee.
A stare from your rolling eyeballs consumes me like fire,
as I seek entrance to a world of just you and me.
Mademoiselle Josephine, you are truly my world's wonder.
What precious gem or treasure can I to thee render?
Not even Europe's plundered gold could my love equate
for the diamond damsel I ask for a lifetime's date.
What eloquent poetry could my words for thee describe,
and what tender words of mine could I on thine heart inscribe?
A thousand princes may indeed contend for thine heart,
each of them loves-truck with your magical Cupid's dart.
A thousand more princes may contend for thy dowry,
but relentless I'll be to see their love plans go awry.