A photograph I did not snap this morning:
The Black, Silk Feathered, Funeral
Saw a murder of crows
descend on a dying cat
hit by a reversing Mercedes.
Your ancestors
will get a great breakfast,
Savarnas.
And me?
No wailing,
no prayers.
I am a heartless atheist.
Only silence.
Surrounded by
the ancestral, silent
laughter of beaks
expecting warm meat.
Far away,
a honk.
Somewhere else,
a cuckoo sings for a mate.
Your ancestors blessed,
sterling examples of the chosen castes
They will feast well this morning.
Because
what is caste,
if not
a long appetite
with wings?
Play Me a Memory
………………………..
Connected a hark disk:
Corrupted.
.
Searched my phone:
Not here.
.
Connected to a cloud:
Disconnected.
.
Checked old chats:
Deleted.
…
I close my eyes.
.
I ask my mind: Play me a memory.
.
.
.
Ai Ai Yo…
You outsourced that…
a long time back.
Go play
and create new ones.
HypheNation
We dash hyphens
They lower our bar
They parse our truth
It could be our bridge
It could be our blade
Hindutva dash Islamists
dash Zionists dash Red Zealots
Let’s couple triple quadruple
our slow train to doomsday
We dash hyphens
They lower our bar
They parse our truth
It could be our bridge
It could be our blade
The hyphen is not a scar
it’s a leveller
draws blood from both directions
a quiet equaliser of rage
and in its shadow
not two sides or four
but one face
folded inward
We dash hyphens
They lower our bar
They parse our truth
It could be our bridge
It could be our blade
