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At campus, as I watch some kids ruthlessly
Suck at the power dick literally
And as those in glass cubicles, aware of status,
Go pretend that there ain’t no power
While their very pretending substantiates the point,
I, too, slowly press my things,
Just to make sure. To be safe. Alright.
“Teaching”, once my mother tells,
After a sweat-strumming day at work, sitting then to tea,
“Is the most rewarding” profession of all. I say:
“Of course, it is – for those with complexes
And those with enough unopposed weight to throw around”.
Then, she argues with me; I with her.
And, arguments carried, I lose my point. As on most days I do.
Last day of class I have the final say; and as the freshers stare at me
As if I were the oyster, my saliva the pearl, my shit, the sermon:
“Give ass” I tell ’em – “If you need to survive,
Just give ass like that ass was never yours”.
They, of course, laugh at it and they’re wondering
In their thought bubbles: “Wow, what a joker
And what a gem of a joke”
Strutting – that your confidence’s oozing,
Dripping, we crawl by your doors
Your toes, we’re sucking
Your breasts in our dreams that seems
Not unreal to the unreal eye.
Your truth is a lie
In your perched existence, in the cushion
Of your husband’s crotch
You hold with four faltering fingers
The round of your coffee cup.
Where you take the turns, dust particles spreading
We’re there awaiting. We’re there. Waiting.
So – refuse me now, I’m just a
Cock that you hold with the thickest
Wrinkle of your bilabial fold.
Where you touched, where you burned
Sawdust can be smeared
And you’re beyond from being injured. Refuse me now.
We’ll break down the closet, where your riches hide,
One day the crowbar passes hands
And in sufferance, pleasure and exasperation
In pain, your body in your car will burn
Again. And again.
pdn.ac told me of the sexual,
The political, the social, the cultural,
I walk from the Grandpass to Thotalanga, its 8.00,
I’m sweating to my slippers. Testicles hurt.
Dark shadows of the pavement, shade of trees,
Clusters of shapes, in groups,
A couple’s on a walk.
The yellow ethereal streetlamps distort the colours
And flash bare the dusk brown Thotalanga talk.
Will I be waylaid and pestered so that
I’ll lose the 6000 I’m carrying? Will my
Carcass lie scattered giving sup to marsh worms?
They call it Ego confronted, you’re middle class, lad –
Theory’s just a hard on your theorists had had.
I walk more away from the shadows, brisk,
In the yellow light, I’m wondering for a moment
What’s my Professor doing tonight?
They ain’t no need of our empowerment
They look life in the balls in streetlights. Yes, it hurts.
Earnest eyes, tired bodies await the late evening bus,
Silent and shelled in individual worlds.
I do not stop, I pass them past,
Cos, I realize that my bus ain’t come, it’s gone.
Like a thesis I’d rather go on and on.
Life appears to go on in here
With a swear, an oath, a blow
And a stare. Grandpass, I am near
That organic marvel which you impassive show.
They unload, unload. Unload, they grow.
With grey brittled hair, unbuttoned shirt,
Rot rods of iron hold swift roofs to earth.
Their chance-lacking day with tomorrows flirt.
The lovers will mate. The mother gives birth.
Life cascades on to where cascades aren’t worth
Through houses; rooms; intestines; huts;
Crawl along accompanying, barging, fighting dumps
And in their law without clauses, ifs and buts
You either stand out jerked; or you hold no lumps.
Street Cricket sixes rarely use three stumps.
In the bus the men, still, make way for women,
Lovers’ holding hands assume no unreal air,
For all mortal conduct’s enriched by semen
Through for some dark begotten the world’s not fair.
Descended from Gods they have no heir.
Khettarama’s just a cough away,
The lights stand tall; around a TV in a shop
Some, with earnest eyes, watch Sanga sway
And as the catch is taken, their mouths hang; drop.
In that prophetic year of 1984 many things happened unnoticed by many; and they changed the world thus.