58. Dictator of Discourse - Part I
That doddering old fool
With smile of cruel condescension
Deserves little description, yet here it is;
With myriads of apologies and dollops of apprehension.
Beware his piss-mouse hair, near head and small pair
Or the smile that is his toothy despair
And lips like dried blood and discordance
On which tongues sometimes dance like ugly serpents.
Not to mention his crippled hunched-back still intact
Until, praise the Devil, someone from the abode of the dead
Grants us salvation by spanking his spine of dread
Whilst dragging him to the depths of warm hell.
Such a malice is he,
But for now let us find him in his lair
Of spiral-bound false fables upon arranged tables
That he claims necessary to the progress of this varsity
And thus comprehend the magnitude of his monstrosity
And the absurdity of his stupidity.
His disciples were worse than their guru
Scratching virgin scrotums and sniffing on fingers
Burying Pinocchio noses in ponderous books until
The least comely woman in their dorky sight appears.
Then, pervy and pesky thoughts pervade their presence
As they finally acknowledge of their pedophilia the true essence.
Thus, like saggy-balled merchants giving life to art and advice
And like wilting muscle worth nothing to slave-traders
They become, seated in fettered silence in front of their king of
Lies, whom they love as much as they heartily despise.
These disciples are but mice, and the teacher their king.
This ultimate, crooked canvass of despair smiled
Upon the rabble with homely, rat-like grin
And decided it was time to commence the dawn of the din.
He proclaimed, perched on his pernicious podium:
“The mice are in the den! Close the doors!
Hear one, hear all! Let the brain-cleansing begin!”
59. Dictator of Discourse - Part II
With tensing belt and toad-like felt
And a face at which Prufrock would bawl
A face great demons would dread to recall
A face that Dalai Lama prayed died last fall,
He cleared his croak, an instrument hitherto in repose
And commenced speaking; voice limp and morose.
“Art must be independent,” said he.
“On no art must art stay dependent.
Art is a responsibility available for the worthy.
Art must be set free, like daffodils among a lily.
Art is a darting rabbit, a flying bird, a dancing tree.
“As artists we must strive to be art.
We must dance to tunes of Beethoven and Mozart,
From the sorry state of sold-out stories depart
Until the separation of the head from the heart
Is complete, and even flowers can be smelled from fart.”
The words rang true against tests of acid and steel
But the aged oaf could not practice as he preached
As he remained caged to the knowledge of the reams
Of the bound books; chained by their rigid philosophy.
With scent of rose and honey, shining when opened
These tomes demanded all authority and credit
Yet their words were worse than water mixed with lead
Or phenyl and phlegm brewed with cheap mead.
“All opinions matter, all opinions count,” the volumes said:
“And nothing you say will change that fact.”
A sentence that gave great pleasure to that rat.
The irony had danced through like rabid dogs
Yet that repulsive reptile with face of frog
Failed miserably to look past even this simple fog.
That weasel worthy of no wisdom had the actual audacity
To act as an allocator of truth; dispensing dungs to disciples
With the confidence of a conman.
He polluted the minds of many mice
Without hunch, in a trice; without comprehending
An iota of the spirit of the law, and in his false pedagogy
Danced with the gods of villainy.
60. Dictator of Discourse - Part III
“Professor.” A mouse raised his hand.
“Would it not be better if such-and-such-and-this-and-that?”
God bodkins, noted the teacher with startling look!
His answer is true, succinct and sublime!
His answer is true… but not in accord of any book.
His answer is true, but unfortunately not of mine.
“That answer is wrong, better luck next time!”
Another man knows that to stop this tyranny is folly
Yet he raises his hand with the quintessence of chivalry.
“Professor,” says he, “surely such-and-such
And-much-and-much-and-thy-and-thee?
Surely you are wrong, and correct is me?”
Now the rat-like grin disappears
And malice in his eyes reappears.
Let me explain to you carefully, thinks he
On how and why you must listen to me.
“You challenge me? Here’s the spotlight!
Feel the wrath of my myopia, of my dead eye!
Drown in my back-answers and interruptions!
Dread in my useless and pointless digressions!
Die in the giggles around you that I will inspire!
Perspire until the spark in you will expire!
Kill your dreams, your darlings and all your desire!”
As the man turned mice slinks in his chair
It is now that we must note a fact so rare:
That the ego of this toad must be dealt with great care.
This vain old buffoon finds in the shackles of truth delight.
He mines his truth and makes it ours
Repeats the same three words within the bowers
Of the books, for fear for finding truths
That may threaten his addled-minded stances
Or provoke him to scan data with more than two glances.
After all, why find in life an original thought
When at the bookstore they can be sold and bought?
Kissing thumbs and index
While harmonizing with hands the death of sound and music
He continues; lathers, rinses and repeats till millennia
Dancing with the same script ad nausea.
But the true tragedy will lie at the end of the coursework
When humans turned rats will carry on his dull work
When this rodent will breed more rodents
And varsities will turn into temples for rats—
Grading like birdbrains, munching on dead brains
Inducing chest pains and dancing when hell rains.
P.S. I hid behind the moniker of TINTA since the account was opened on Instagram. Truth be told, this has always been my natural impulse. If I had my way, none of my works would be attributed to me. I write a lot of miserable stuff, which I don’t want attributed to my character. I am proud of my writing, but it is also comfortably the worst of me—where my most cynical, nihilist and antisocial tendencies come to fruit.
For a while, I hoped I could hide behind TINTA forever. Perhaps anonymity is cowardice, but it has always been my impulse. But people tell me there’s nothing sustainable about the moniker strategy—that I must put my name, centralize my content, ensure I take credit for everything in a brutal industry, blah blah blah.
So, briefly, let me introduce myself: I am Neil Nagwekar from Mumbai, India.
I don’t plan on abandoning the moniker TINTA though. Because there is a story behind TINTA, and I think it will take quite some time for it to be completed.
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