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Writer's pictureNeil Nagwekar

TINTA Poems #12


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.


Opmerkingen


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