On The Circus Bullshit Of It All

people who are too neurotic to talk, make me want to snatch their breath,
democracy is never no fun!
the silent technicians conspire dream opinions and I want to kill them all
like getting fucked in the ass to get your tongue out
I never told anyone
but communism, hell no, I want more than a Chinaman’s chance
the kind of freedom buffaloes wallow in, in the ejaculate waters of gossip and idle talk –
of all the truths, ones that shouldn’t be passed around
make way through great brass walls, plastic polycarbonate bricks and radiant cool brightness of screens of unrelenting poesy, of battered down wives,
of Inca artwork of mind, people scrounging their brains, ferreting insults by poisonous hand, unmindful double entendre
which to crown this moment – throwing dumbbells of embarrassment
while twisting one’s own affairs along the circus psychosis of social code of Facebook,
No, I’d rather put forth mechanical oath to politician sloths who ration freedom
unless their egos are not trodden on,
I’d much rather my naked belly be dragged atop rotting tincans of Delhi
until I’m at the steps of mudhuts of Buddhism,
I’d much rather die in poverty and tatters and snatch forty winks out of pools of opium, than kissass whomever the limelight’s on,
and whomever – the enlarged prostate pimpin’ gossip – go fuck yourself –
I don’t want a piece of the action, I’m sick of the lies, the sham, the farce, the ultra sugar coated goody-goodyness, marshmallow hugs and furry endearments, I’m sick of being hit by flying hearts, the broken hearts, the Inca sun face smileys, the red corollas you believe ought to stamp a smile, the fake guns, the real war, the knives, the intent behind it all, the virtual kisses by the kissass for the kissass for peace, yeah! Lets all kissass – pathway to peace,
WhatsApp the barren soapbox bringing litanies and rants of tens of thousands of jewelled mouths that’ve done feats in ecstasies of self-achievement, and the rising flood of monthly cunts swallowing up through ranks of fellatio of rosy rosy cliches with glitzy ass buffing gibberish, and not even one free beer, but the hopeless lard of religion spat out of balls of god and everyone a prophet sentenced in the foolishness of millions of disease enlightening electronic pamphlets that shivers the last city of the last youth down to the last skull,
I’d much rather return religion its crown – go fuck yourself with your Lingam – I don’t think you know how serious I am, I’m talking to you India, when will you stop mirroring Western culture with your good looks, when will you burn for higher psychologies of golden strands of original thought instead of listening through walls cowardly in your underwear, when will hip clothes and clip art refurbishments of layers of neon greasepaint bandaging the jukebox of true mental insanity escape the hallucination of superiority, when will sunset dawn over your lily-livered lies of anecdotes of total rip offs of the once proud culture now gone down the sink, when will you grab the golden staff of godmen and stick it to your side like a sceptre, when will you hurl ninja stars at each others eyes to greet the visionary who sticks wads of cash beneath age old mattresses nearing old age hospital beds, when will denim skin ass and empirical upskirt curiosities escape the joyride of the motionless world, when will you sweeten the snatch of a million whores who are whores, when will you smile a toothless little cry immobilized and marooned and flung at the bow of myriad steps of an assload of temples, when will culture whip thongs on bums too faggot to spearhead the fashion industry and scream with joy,
India, feminism, kinky Tony’s parlor for queer etiquettes, all together blotting the eye
I gotta give it to ya, you despise catching yourself think, slavery drips down your veins as does heroin from mine, India your family structure gears mental asylums beneath the floodlight of the moon, at last my ears are filled with marijuana smoke and eyes laced with LSD vision, yes, I have cosmic vibrations, yes, the Tibetan book of the dead swallows all other when it comes to eternal peace and essence of spirit
yes, I smoke marijuana every chance I get
No, I’m not the grown up snake coiling milk out of limp breasts
filling hollow eyed memories of when I was a boy watching the Delhi’s mango tree sprout,
from a seed to a man, to a bum, limbs outstretched, holding open the cathedral door
high hopes baked beneath white aluminum clouds
and people turned smart with cookie watch tied to wrists
I don’t care if you’re 7 years old,
I will absolutely recite my poem in absolute consciousness without a condom
and my poems have no rhyme, incoherent pieces of beating heart gibberish scribbled on the walls of toilets of garbage dumpyard city, shunned out of body of life-sized toy of eternal dolls and metal men pitting torsos in heavenly fire of night, sacred to no one except the battered and bleak eyed broken down spine of man of scavenger of faith, who else will read the verse of psychotic man torn out of Dadaism and newspaper cut outs of celebrities flashing buttocks and pipedream media bathed in sudden beams of illusions of power,
India what’s wrong with you, this ain’t the bombay talkies, this is serious,
why can’t you wrap your head around the reality of what I’m saying
my nuts are in your jaws, don’t you get it,
I don’t want 8 crore worth of benefits
I don’t want tens of thousands of gift surprises, or exciting cash back offers,
I don’t want to be the one lucky winner of a night with your cock,
India, don’t tell me registration is free, and exclusive
I’m not gonna wash China for laundry, leave me out of it,
I don’t care if you touch or torch the feet of the woman who sold a thousand goats to build a toilet
but I fucking care when half of Bihar feels bummed out over having to wash hands
and then to climb out of illiteracy like an ignorant sphinx and run Nation wide cameos powered by silver tongue machinery, is indeed the Indian way – to emerge out of thickness of skull, to scatter freely oratory semen at presidential podium for masses of brown Indian people, to discredit education in light of raising the bronze bust of religion on pedestal, to make babies by deep-throating the dank muck of sewage conveyed in breast milk because it’s Christmas, to make a name for the face behind the white beard by conspiring soggy underwear of masturbation of semen of banana pie ass hole, layer after layer after layer, caked in excrement of narcissistic excitement, to send men, homemade guns and blunt knives after wives of writers of strongly worded articles, to resurrect the tea seller without a graduation ceremony, to hail the capitalists and fascists and communists and have the just man’s head cut off,

Life! Oh life! You’re like the sight outside a hospital window
showing no interest to pull anyone out
except the kissass who kisses ass not due to crackpot obligation but blown by the idea of love, except those who go fetishizing furry animals because some satellite may catch them doing it, except those whose gossips are red underwear on white hot tenements of highrise steel waving genitals, except those who lionize the woman who goes whoring herself here to there all for a pile of sand, except those who wear saintly odes of self proclaimed angelical brown godmen motorcycling cock into angel pussy halo while wishing for white skin, except those whose coercion is sexy black suit and pubic beard locomotives, except those who invoke the favor and forever lie slumped against walls trying to giggle and then trying to impress platonic bonds with the heavy heel of the heavy judger of men, all for greater medical health cover, and who is the old tree entangled in its own roots, and who is in demented brain of sane man with a wife who serves him her explosions for lunch, and who is the hump surrogate and bland son poet mirroring razor-sharp words to get patted on the back, when all the farts of well fed bellies in stuffed shirts hire biographies of incandescent shrewdness perched in bungalows of rose gardens and balconies, towering over mediocre livestock kissassing the bash for the newly weds surrounded by sycophants and capitals of huge sums of cheesecake money, but when the poet behind satanic intent collides with kissass Capitana Cunt and the velocity of Proud Screwdrivers of Delhi’s slam polemics who chain themselves to reading out of memory, rules become an entrepreneurs’ melodrama crafted with sunny delight, and life yet again opens its ass to the snatch of the sun, and weeping Buddha from whom the Knight embezzles a last charge, is the lone leaf torn in the wind between the poor and the saintly city scrappers
when life pulls the best kind of people out, out into higher skies
lifting above clouds beyond the scope of eye of mind
above the tandav of uninhibited cock and balls of ash smeared naked Indian yetis
and chillum smoke clouds stacking up a waltz with music of wind
there the smoky orange sunset right above horizon doused in mind hallucinogens
there eternity is felt
when a neurotic man does unforgivable things
to be able to live

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