Inside the puddingland

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MySpace Graphics Your kiss spins like a dice in the night air and finds a shelter in the naked geometry of my face. - For R

Thursday, August 28, 2008

Bones and bullets

from the slums of Calcutta

to the towers of California

there are only the cosmopolitan cries

of beggars and bastards

and the clock is ever counting

on the third flank of Waterloo

in my city of bones and bullets

warships wreck the winds

and astronomy dangles

from frozen clock hands almost everyday

the messiah comes at midnight

to build an island of false promises

and the vermillion rings of Esplanade

are an unscripted altar

for bandhs and bull-fights

not every man

is a poet or a politician

but the epics need one badly

every hermit

is a hooligan at heart

Caesar or Hitler

no longer humble me

and Mozart or Milton

humour me no more

for blood is the latest calligraphy

on cyber cenotaphs

I search for a place

to hide my history of nuclear robberies

from the breathlessness of New York

to the pacelessness of Nandigram

there are only the sickening scowls

of unicorns and eunuchs

and the clock is ever ticking

even on the mantelpiece

of your drawing room