The Watcher

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I am a pedo on the build
Wishing I, too, was a torpedo
Like Namal Raj is, now, to the average duck.
What he touches turns to liquid gold. My liquid and solids
I make myself.

I watch you watching the letters you read
And I curse my conscience that
I can’t take the lead. I mean, I got more brains than
Namal’s dreams have got; but, my guts are cold and
His prick is hot.

I watch him speak on the TV screen. I watch
And I listen to his insistent speech.
I look up and I catch you looking at me. Smile.
Warm parting lips. Eyes. Brows. You smile
With me. At me. I take a while

To look back where you are
And deep in your book, you are reading
A line to yourself and I think I am bleeding.
Warm lips. Eyes. Smile
With me. Underneath this all

Girl, I am not me.
If I sign with me the pact that I would
Die for your honour, I would never
Touch your body even though you would wanna.
But, if it is anything but honour and resembling jazzes

I would never surrender you to other soppy
Emmer-effing asses. You walk away and like a novel
By Hemingway I watch and I smile and feel good
That I have no crotch. Just a thought that you’re a kid
Who needs my generosity.




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