51. Buyer Beware
Buyer beware!
Propagandists have woven their webs well!
“The Terror, the Mirth—every Wear and Tear
Is a fun Quest! A trek to Rivendell!”
They claim, lyric lies concealed by lyres,
Commandments, life lessons from thought-bullies
That bury truths, peddle false desires
Till consumers are conned into purchase
Of “One hundred years of life on Earth, please!”
Buyer beware,
For life is not what you make of it
It is no odyssey, no feelgood poetry—
No divine Providence or hot Hell awaits
But bland cities and mansions with rakes
And lonesome friendships and polarized states
With variables you shall long to control
Yet fail in pursuits evermore, leaving
That eternal sense of things being amiss
Till it all ends—a corpse that reeks of piss.
52. On a Middle Age Rabble
The pride of killing human beings
That dared place faith in other things,
The envy of beggars and fishmongers
That wished they wore the gold plates,
The wrath that filled full its belly
Slaughtering societies by the sword,
The sloth soldiers mounting maidens
To whom stupid honor is abhorred,
The greed that feeds the scent of victory
Of broken bones and pink flesh bloody,
The gluttony that gratifies but for a while
Until he cannot help call out to his clan,
The lust gleaming in panther eyes as he says
“This town is dust—onto the next!
Leave alive no woman, child and man!”
53. News of the West
Good morrow to next-doors with binocs
And fandoms of the Kardashians
And atheists with white collars
And racists whose business we cannot lose
And your French fries and teacups.
See J-Lo on MTV fondling her Rod
Hear the Immigrant on running for mayor
DE BEERS A DIAMOND IS FOREVER
Smell secrets of royal conspiracy—
Can God save the Queen from another adultery?
Elsewhere, al-Whatshisname bombed his nation
Causing civil war someplace in Africa
And Marcus Rashford claims he feeds children
Putting our Parliament under undue flack
We are not racist, but he is indeed black.
54. To the Hordes
To hordes that generate hordes
That string subjects along with tired words
Mirroring jamborees and genocides
And end with eroded, bored empowerments
Inspiring but reminders of the noose
For you know there shall evermore be more
Like a deluge,
Like maggots in corpses or sands in shoes
A gentle reminder: clever camouflages
Are only as adept as their surroundings.
When epochs and eons evaporate
Drown those demagogues and pandering poets
Before history forgets them—and when she does,
She forgets forever.
55. Reverend
Of stones which were once soil
Composted with wails of molested minors
Buried inside the bloodred mud—
For they would rather ascend the noose
Than descend to deep depths of purgatory
By branding their reverends as sinners—
Such stones carved the concupiscent face
His gravelled forehead, the wires on his neck
The reptile, the thug in white cassocks,
Concealed in pleasant smiles
A hymn that happens to rhyme
And the dishing of salvation, wine and bread.
56. Wed Roommates
Idle eyes climb over horizons of black and white—
From printed words written like sharp swords
Stabbing the Republican party in the back—
To spy that sweatylooking nationalist hag
(‘Trump 2020’ yet plastered on his bag!)
Enter home from work. She awaits
That glare that comes, that yells: “Where’s dinner?”
She licks her lips, then instigates.
“Food is finished, just like your President.”
He bites the bait as if for supper
Mind filled with alcoholic jollity
And submits to his natural state, comfort rage
Like alligators flapping in freshwater.
Not Mount Rushmore appears larger than he
But still screams she, till he slaps her to silence
And ascends the pristine stairs to his study
Where he shall sleep—him, brandy, and
Blonde stepsisters fucking on the telly.
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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