In my home, I store memories
beside the vase is the dead butterfly
her whiskers have words of reminiscence
from the French revolution to mercy petitions
they hang from the ceiling mating with asbestos
so that I see them while I dream of enlightenment!
The lockers have piled corpses
with the descendants going for a loot
mirage of being a souvenir slows death
exposed to weed of an ambiguous wisdom
immersed in my dinner plate I taste hypocrisy
we sleep over our own death like an experiment!
Sixteen hundred crore drained
the hymns topple down a Brahmin
unitedly they organize our big funeral,
some died of suicides, some have knives
they’ve a thing in common, they’re immigrants
their homes have an emptiness to be democracy!
All the massacres are bonsai
they’ve to be grown with lot of care
they’re small but they catch the looks
a banyan tree is scrapped for our leisure
while the Bonsai breeds upon our structures
in the end the plant is the score of a rich father!
Blood covers my big furniture
guests sit and chat over a red hip
I make love with their smell in a kiss
my dreams are red with feet in the tears
every night a new ghost pays me a sacrifice
my pillow has a treasure buried in cockroaches!
I eat meat and stand in dark
immigrants migrate back to hell
here it has been given a free pass
the roads have uniforms slowing cars
they call us idiots, they make stories on us,
we are the devil, there’s a dead Sita in our lap!
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If you like to share, please do! But be so kind to add the title, my name and a link to my website. Thank you! Varun Vasu Narayanan
Topics : Poems