Dear teacher,
When you strut about the class, I get the eerie sensation that you are buck n.
May be it's your pink colour doing the trick, spreading from your skin, enveloping your clothes
And also, your ponderous bums
Two melons nestling inside the sack
Or should I say balloons
Or bowling *****?
Your cheeks, the cleft chin and the stubble
And the feminine dimples you make when you
Grin
Your lips that are too pink and fluffy,
Babyish
Upon which I plan to plant my garden of kisses
Your Adam's apple, the size of a cherry
The thicket of hair in your armpits
That I steal a glance at
Every now and then
When you raise your hands
To demonstrate-
Your argument.
Coal-black, steely, squiggly mesh
No, teacher, I want you the way I see you
ie.
Clothed
I don't want to go deep
And dig
Excavate
The meat-eater in front of me and the two vegans
On my either side
Would go for it
It's the way you call my name-
'Lola' 'Lola' 'Lola'
As though you invented it
And breathed into my nose your breath
( And taking two not three steps down the palate)
I know it's your heavy fondness for me
That does the trick
Mounting your tongue and taking it
Just to make your 'Lola' sound sensual
And tempting
And your ears...
Lolaaaaaaa!
( This time the teacher shouting)

Boredom exceeding the limit, I reached out
To the shelf full of cassettes and
Sliding my fingers down the names
Stumbled upon one, dustier than the rest
That one, obviously older, bore the name
'Du Dlux Dlan' (Which you may say rhymes with Ku Klux ****)
Something he'd bought feeling a liking for its name
Its quirkiness, as was his wont
I played the cassette, anticipating a flurry of blows and kicks
A curio. to unravel the mystery of its name
The movie , as it turned out, was not a movie
But what I think they call a footage,
On the screen three crosses erected in a desert land, with a man hanging on each.
The three men were bearded, the one in the middle
Looked calm and serene ( as if he'd been tranquilized)in spite of his ****** body, all battered and beyond recovery
The other two, I found , were kicking and whining (in their constrained state, of course.
Kicking with their nails, that is)
Hanging men get their peckers stiff and up, I knew it
There were soldiers around them, occassionally raising their spears and with its tip, tickling the men on the crosses out of their wits.
And then...there was a gunshot
And the clatter of horseshoes
Holding their guns aloft, rode in a pack of three cowboys
Then pointing their guns at the hanging men, they exclaimed:
'What the....., they are nailed to the crosses!"
Wasting no time, they swerved their horses around and rode away, leaving the men on the crosses for dead and me, gazing at the blank screen of the TV and asking:
'Who could the Du Dlux Dlan be?
The three men on the crosses or the three wranglers?'

The mother was warming her little baby
Pressing it to her sticky sweaty body
Her sari shading its doughness
That gave off whiffs of b.powder and biscuits
When the little boy looked up
Abuzz with shivers
And with a little purring sound
Turned around on its belly,
Ball-like and full of milk
And spinning, slowly soared
His voice a trailing tingle
Out through the window he went
The speechless mum was lost in a gasp
Her milk freezing in her mother glands
The f.passengers on that halted bus
Shot out their arms but in vain
Against the sky-cleaving whiteness a dot he was
And wending, as they watched, was gone

When poetry comes calling to you
Never turn your back on it
And don't show that you are cross, either
For it scares her and would send her
Scurrying to the man next to you
Instead,
Let her climb onto your lap
Her knees kneading your thighs
And pearls dropping onto your pants
Until, arching over your body,
She starts to undress
In the meantime, you should, as a rule,
Press her fingers to give her the essential warmth
That turns her Lily white into a brick-red colour
Then,
Your right hand, not knowing what your left hand is
Upto,
Reaches into your pocket
And produces a hanky that when you pull it out
Becomes gigantic and blankets the naked woman
And you bundle her up into a fine bundle
And ****** it into your pocket and standing up from the bench and dusting out your pants, you whistle your way home