The blue – jacketed Bhagavad Gita
& the red Rimbaud’s “A Season in
Hot & Cold taps
Sitting bedside with wavied pages
Soaked in spilt drinks & gravies in
(The gravy made grimoires even still more sagacious!)
Splitting the atoms in brain cells
They perfectly well mean nothing
to me, sitting and soaking in sunlight
Arthur, heading south,
comes out the mouth
of people of letters & poems & grunge
to persist in purusha (पुरुष) to perish so young.
Poor people who’re powders now,
at them don’t lunge.
Also I’ll say
The sea of mouth-corners should really
be curled (That is the World.)
(I) Stumble in, scaring crows from behind theatre curtain
unfurled, to mind under mantras as everything’s
(back to the brightest of pearls
such as these).
Bees should make cheese please, not
Honeys, and proper
stinkie ones .