October 01, 2005

Dead Rags and Dust

This was on my dreamscapes blog but i just revisited it and I dont think the poem was so bad, so here it goes again:
Something stirred him as he stared,
something quiet, something scared
turned his head but failed to look
or did he?
From office cramped to office dusty
Aboard the sturdy not quite rusty
He smoked, and stared into the sky
Barely nothing caught his eye
But barely nothing's something still
Dead rags and dust
A hint of elbow, a hint of shirt
A hint of brown skinned, shambling dirt
and no fingers
A hint of hatred, hint of pain
Hints of anguish, hints of shame
Hints of bruises, cuts and sores
Hint of sweat from tired pores
Blood and sweat and hatred hinted
He never saw, he merely squinted
At mounted lingerie
To fail to see is quite a task
How do you do it? One might ask
Think of British Comedy
Bertolt Brecht
Large Breasted women
computer games
Salman Rushdie
The mind it is the queerest thing
A bell once pulled forever rings
And strange detectives dig the earth
Uncovering skeletons spouting dirt
From the subconscious
From a book where once he had escaped
To hide from taunting kids who taped
the memories of childhood tears
and taunts and insults, calls and jeers
A book where shambling cudgel knees
Crunched at skulls, and of a man who sees
India and Indira in a strange double-vision
A word reached out, to drag him back
To the traffic, where commuters hacked
their lungs out, and the smog-filled sky
played strange games with the sun
And squinting worked upto a point
but city eyes can only blind
He who has learned, with his mind
To dull the screams, the blood, the tears
To separate models with big bustiers
from dead rags and dust

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