How I detest your boychild face,
Your saggy eyes despise,
How I revile your twitchy tongue,
But still it smacks with lies.
How I abhor your dusty hair,
That mops your forehead dry,
But really, it's rather gratuitous
For you to be so wry.
Forsooth I mark these lonely lines,
And pull them down your face, don't fret,
Myopic, though your precious self,
Be not blind to these wretched lines,
And this, your cigarette.
How I dislike your crooked nose,
And chapped lips and dearth of faith,
And all your painful imaginings,
Your listless wait for death.
But late it is to be a child again;
The end's a sodding wreck,
To birth, you are an infant still;
To death, a meagre speck.
6 comments:
But how I love you, and this.
:)
Ki odd aar successful ekta combination of contemporary and old-style.
Arre dhyat, there you go again with your critical summaries. Do you imagine I know anything at all about poetry?
If you haven't studied any, then obviously it's an instinctive tendency for poetry you have, and thus all the more valuable. Either you're more than you know, or this brash refusal to acknowledge literary potential is an act.
*pleased*
yes yes all that they said. but why don't you blog anymore? :(
also, i have started associating that noorie song with you :p the remixed version by baba sahgal with the ghost in a white sari singing "aaja re"
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