Killers of Growth

The fecundity of nature does not discriminate,

Limbless or with lim(p), (Or)gans intact

or born dead with intestines out-

Sides

are not taken by Life on which soul to kill,

which imperfection to stem. It is

Us

choosing the fresh; we abort the

Rotten.

 

 

 

Egg-Stone

A poem written after news of a 10-year-old rape victim in India giving birth to a baby. She was told during the whole process, that she had a big stone in her stomach which caused the bulge.  The victim had been frequently raped by her uncle over the course of several months.

Egg Stone

A large egg

is growing in your tummy- what?

No, not an egg

but a big stone inside your w-hole:

Stone-shaped egg

that looks like – I ate no chocolate eggs!

 

We must remove it. To be

Precise,

it’ll expand in size- the

heavy, breathing mess

of a Stone. But-

 I love eggs, fried and boiled.

 

You have an

Egg-Stone, not an egg.

My Egg-Stone. Can I keep it? 

No. But-

 

Egg stones are caused by Rat Men.

They cum into you from an under-belly tunnel,

Tearing viciously past a thin wall.

Searching in their dusty lust, for      Why did they choose me?

You have what they want:

The Chocolate Egg.

 

When Rat Men find sweet chocolate eggs,

they devour them,

leaving behind pale,

motionless Egg-Stones

which grow, bleed and

Rot. Yucks!

 So, let’s get rid of the Egg-Stone?

 

No. Let’s catch Uncle.

He is a Rat Man who

stole my chocolate egg.

 

 

walls of the mind

they must be flung out of the Court

or they’ll multiply in the ferocity of movement.

Banging hard against the

Walls-  Bouncing:

from the frontal gate of the forehead

to the back of the convex skull,

to and fro,

Horizontal Basketball but

in this game,

the loser gets sent to the a-sigh-lum and the

crowd members?

They reappear in the madhouse of the brain.

 

 

bird conscience

Miniature Myna

Treading spaceless cafeteria floors,

with imposing table tops!

 

My disquieted eyes are on your jaunty walk,

steady, not surely,

bobbing head- off balance, then

fleeing explosively through the open window in a surging rush, you

 

Carry your pompous,

Prying beak along,

to taunt

weak animals like me.

Dante’s Curried Crabs

Hard, breakable crawling shells

Scuttling across the powdery sand of time,

Boiling in mum’s curried pot of

Dante’s Inferno.

 

Why are they writhing in painful

Phlegethon:

A heated river of blood, with

merciful sprigs of coriander?

 

Violence against others,

Must call for no need of justification- or must it,

when the voiceless are preyed upon by

Barbaric dictators,

seized, whipped and cooked?

 

I, with the body of a man,

Must’ve sprouted the head and tail of a bull,

to be stirring and guarding these

sinful, hardened criminals. But,

 

I’m no perpetrator.

 

I’m just a beast ensuring that

the law of reparation is served,

My only intention is to appease a perfect

and morally pure,

Dante.

 

Note:

The poem is based upon the seventh circle in Dante’s Inferno, Violence.

The Seventh circle is separated into three parts, Violence against others, Violence against self and Violence against God. Those who acted with violence against others are boiled in the river of blood (The Phlegethon).

The circle is guarded by a minotaur, possessing the body of a man and the head and tail of a bull.