the roots are hanging like shoots,
the sun sets, the light is dim I
arrange myself for writing, a
burst of commotion in the corner
of my mind threatening, I look in,
no dogs, but human beings grunting
like pigs the contention is the bone,
less or more calcium: the cut off money,
I cut my nose too as I poked among
them, but they are born on this earth to
cook the book of honesty, I am not fit
any where in the scheme, I faint when
I find them hand in hand in herd on
the red light street, I am alone in the dark
of the dingy room, on the table of poetry
there is another din, a lady jester writing
poetry on a rock star, a jackal from the hell
throwing his hands and legs with only
sound words to stab and create rumours,
megalomaniac fools of the paradise believe
some are scared: but finally truth is out,
this is not a dance but a real jerking of
the great nonsense.
Today I have two commotions in my mind …
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