Art of Faking

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


Sell in kilos
The flesh sliced off
Garnished.


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.