Requiem For An Unknown Tigress Cub
still the climbing green lianoid lass
her tender tendrils torn
massive metal lying like a cutlass
in her lap forlorn
finger on trigger
still the wetness thighs eyes
the breasts peaking
the quick quelling blushing frenzy
the slightly forwardthrusting awkward turgidness of the torso
the stalk-neck craning
a young pallid green palmyra on the thrust
the dusky knuckly fingers strict and bony quivering
the gangly gait now stiffening
and within alert grasp
an AK-47
rounds of bandolier bullets
nipping her nipples
fatigues for jungle sarees loose silk anklelength skirts
over rough cotton jodhpurs
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poem by T. Wignesan
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The Solitary Oak on Mount Kremlin-Bicêtre
On Bicêtre Mount a stately oak did spread its unmeshed
boughs to swarms of sparrows beating retreat
To turtle-doves and flapping pigeon-mates a frolicksome
haven
Where now on thunder-split crutches hop the mocking
magpie
Its black upturned tail uppity down high-domed arches'
smooth-shorn limbs
Desolate within chilled-threaded casements of fading
green
Sleek crows guard the sentinel post where gentle souls
tread lonesome
Once his benign fiery eye caught the tame light in lame
downcast distress
Novice and apprentis sorciers sought the shelter of his
umbrella wing
The charge-nurse at his beck and call
Under the official seal of his high personal chair
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Give me back my name
tell them i'm gone
tell them i'm gone to change my name
give them any name
i'll not give them another name
tell them i'll not take my father's name
no more father than i'm my own
i do not create
i'm not responsible
i have no ownership over my makings
so i'll take this name i've got
for the moment
tell them
and i'll go short-changed to be cast again
yes
tell them i'll go and change my name
not have my name changed
and come out again unchanged
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Akbar, the Great (1542 - 1605)
Can a man - all alone - foist a god upon his fellows
Even if it's only himself
And they his subjects
G.. is Akbar!
Does the muezzin from the minaret of Qoutoub-Minar
look up or
down to the illiterate savant emperor
whose newly-ordered cosmos
much as Tamerlane and Genghis Khan's blood
mixed gods
invented the Gysin-Burroughs cut-up and fold-in method
a cornucopian chimera
shi'ite-sunnite-kharidjites
hindu/buddhist-jain
confucian-taoist/zoroastrian
orthodox-christian/judaic
saivite-vaisnavite
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What You Don't See Is Not Necessarily Not There
I
Take out the caked grimy faucet plug
Let those unseen crawlies dive and duck
under the rust-ridden slime
stuck to phlegm and saliva globs
dried blood and flaky semen
shot through with crap
The seen and the unseeable
The sane and the goneforsaken
This glob of virus a syruppy eggdash
got rid of in a hurry
close your thoughts
to the raw genital-vaginal whiff of public lavatories
the brothel closets' stained sticky sheets
the stink and the dirt and the stinging hell
that comes from under
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Curse of Caste
I
They came on bullock-carts
loaded with gods
Indra
Agni
Varuna
Rudra
traversed sinuous mountain ranges
rivers
gurgling outlandish tongues
their children caged as poultry
their priests chanting weird mantras
spells
charms
curses
hymns
drank the soma juice
choking with the sacrificial bleating
of rams
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Golden Secrets in the Flower
'...The Secret of the Golden Flower is not only a Taoist text of Chinese yoga but also an alchemical tract. (...) it was the text of The Golden Flower that first put me in the direction of the right track.' C. G. Jung
'The Golden Flower alone, which grows out of inner detachment from all entanglement with things, is eternal.' Richard Wilhelm
does it bloom in the subatomic quark neuron
a flower
petals deranged
burning with green rage
dark firmament pullulating infinitesimal quasars
unpeeling layers of nuclear fusions fissions
the blue-blackish greenish-blue haze
is this the eye looking at the eye
which I
between the crushed ajña-eyebrows
under eyes straining to envelope reality from afar
spotty bright grains pulsating in a velvety ink-blue-black throbbing screen
thoughts racing forwards and backwards in time
childhood slights deprivations unrevenged hurts
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Blinks through bloodshot walks
When at five-thirty
In the rubbed-eye haziness
Of ferreting lonesome night walks
The camera-eye refugee
Asleep in the half wakefulness
Of the hour
Peers out of his high turbanned sockets:
Hyde Park's through road links
London's diurnally estranged couple -
The Arch and Gate.
When at five-thirty
The foot falls gently
Of the vision cut in dark recesses
And the man, finger gingerly on the fly
Gapes dolefully about
For a while
Exchanges a casual passing word
Standing in the Rembrandtesque clefts
And the multipled ma'm'selle trips out:
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Before you go a little way, prospecting...
You, in going a little way from yourself
Have gone a long way from my gullible ilk.
« I'm trying hard not to like you, » you said
The breaths of several men surging in your nostrils
And the stench abraded in your flesh:
« You are unshaven. »
You took proper care to remember the right words:
« Why are you so far away, I cannot reach you. »
The orgasm you probably tried to fake -
Thanks for the repeated protestations -
Blew all the other exhausted noises through.
« I think it's all this lack of sleep and all that, » you said
Trapping me with your alien scents.
You have gone away more than a little from yourself.
I have felt and avoided the humiliation in your voice:
« Turn out the lights. I'm afraid
You'd never like me again. »
These are bothersome words.
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A reluctant Sayonara
for my long-suffering, poetry-loving doctor sister: Thadshayani
« She must suffer to her last breath. (…) They'll all soon be as Dead as 0-Ren Ishii. »
« That woman deserves her Revenge. And we deserve to die. »
From « Kill Bill Vol.1 »
I
Two French girls in Paris
one aged thirteen
the other fourteen
together take wing.
The police bring them back home.
Then hand-in-hand they jump
from their seventeenth floor flat.
They leave behind a note:
« This life has nothing to offer.
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