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

Jeep

 

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

 

Existentialism

 

Bertolt Brecht

 

Conquistadors

 

Large Breasted women

 

computer games

 

post-modernism

 

Beer

 

Anarchy

 

Anime

 

Deadlines

 

Maya

 

Comics

 

Salman Rushdie

 

Wait.

 

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