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i’ve learnt my lessons
but not fairly that well,
first lights and retard bards
come to chase them away.
rhymes clasp and till the breath,
finds its shallow escape
thru brush or bound or sway
be freed and become flesh,
then paint has not been plopped
on madhu’s canvas screen,
nor has dzyan been read,
nor my best poems been writ.
is it that i do not exist?
my poems are sour minced pie
of foul and rotten fruit,
a starved man can’t devour,
this corridor is proof,
as decomposing smells
from floor to walls to roof
disgrace your quiet scent;
while bent i am, yet it
persists though blind and deaf
the poems that i have writ
have not been truly read.