Dr. Yogesh Sharma (1-7-1959 / india)

Wolfs from the land friendly,
Those are our past cousins, sour;
Oil rich land but lust thirsty soil,
Visit us at the gateway of India.
They are hailed as friend dear,
But indulge here in love of debauchery.
Post colonial secular pimps,
Hungry for petro dollars and bank votes,
Strengthen their no loving fingers tie string,
To prick our red buttocks.

But I stand in the dark in a long Q,
Although you may spit on this,
Forgive me, this is about dancing.
Spreading my legs from one foot to another,
Getting their load inside, like piston;
They pull my hair, blurring my vision,
Then I think, I see my own brother,
In front of me, maybe ten paces.
I rub my eyes with my trembling fingers,
And of course it's someone else's brother.

Closer and closer to body naked,
His lustful but mine the same sad slump,
But he has no mercy, all doggedness,
The sad silence to give in to,
Only dark, to the hours wasted waiting;
Knowingly well that someone on the back,
A man is drilling his piston in my ring;
And I cannot say no today,
In any manner he wants my body,
To pump me with his stinking sap.

After the storm I can hardly stand,
The ugly love flooding me and my poor brother,
He is not beside me or behind,
He is at home trying to sleep with,
In a miserable night shift with an Arabian traveler,
And failed to be freed before noon,
To wrap his body to go to school.
Works eight hours a night so he can sing
The love, the work you hate most,
The worst game ever invented.

How long has it been since you met him,
you hate him, but hug his wide shoulders,
Opened your eyes wide and only sighs and pains,
But have to kissed his cheeks,
You always unbutton him and self,
Job so simple, so obvious, not because;
I am too babyish or too dumb, or desirous;
Or even mean, or inept of howling,
With the love of another man,
NO, just because I don't know what work is.