‘I, however, am gooey like the inside of an egg’: Poems and antipoems about modern living
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If a god with genitals reads my poem
He should feel the urge
at once
to fuck it,
shouting foul words
And from that
a new world will emerge
a place
free of veils, free of rancour
a place from where
god has not withdrawn irresponsibly
But we can never find out
whether god has genitals or not
All the secret injustices
inflicted on my poetry
begin there
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What is an antipoem
Mood of an ellipse
Flipping over the magnifying glass you keep waving before life
Real poetic skill
Tickle in your nose when you pick up a poem from the clutter, mend its wheels, silence the squeaks with oil, and with a tender nudge, it takes off and nuzzles its nose against yours
Blood that trickles from your nose then
I wouldn’t mind lending you my handkerchief
I am an egg
Some people love with great elegance
They start at 10.00
They finish by 11.25
They kiss with great economy
Then they dab the corners
of their mouths very discreetly
Even their saying goodbye sounds
like the last note of an Ilaiyaraaja song—
a tiny bird gliding
so swiftly
so perfectly
I, however, am gooey
like the inside of
an egg
a flowing liquid maze
confused at boundaries
the tremors I induce
in the other’s hand
from fear that I might break
What’s more
I am waiting
inside a refrigerator
to be fried
on a round griddle
before I rot