Art of Faking

When the theme seems moving
And the idea cunning
You write a poem.

Sell in kilos
The flesh sliced off

Speak volumes
Of love and loss
Set on a grinding machine.

Pen down
From dawn to dusk
Market scenes or
Street end desires

Write about labor pain
Or frogs, in your nearby pond.

Mom is a female
You don’t write about
When nights over run
Days of boiled lust

The lines speak of
Hours lost to years
In a mulberry bush
Of infant foot steps

Pasted letters bold
Slip of the white sheet
In tears imprinted
Of ditching memories.

The ink should ooze out
To cover the drains
Of your hollow self

Writing is not an art
It’s a foul play of moving dice

Calculate your steps
Count your tales
Color your fakes
Courier it in black and white

Catch it, a red hot iron.

Have it plain
With no frills or frocks

Wrap it over
Your lipstick glitter

Kiss your neighbor
For birth rate high

Hang it down
The Vienna market

Your poem is ready for sale.


sinu said…
Its awesome Lekshmi...a very biting and disturbing take on the creative process
Pravin Nair said…
hi Lakshmi..beautiful..

A very gritty piece on the not so beautiful aspect of poetry..thnks for the share

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