Pratap's interesting intro - and last poem (not in proper foramt)

Bonsai is a plastic-man who lives on the planet Plastique, existing separately from you and I, yet in the same time and space our planet now occupies. He worked in the Exhaustive Science Research Organization as a Research Executive before he went insane.

He was then recruited to the ESRO Labs so that his “anti-progressive behaviour” could be studied and cured- the perfect system taking perfect care of him and his unstable state of mind.

The poems in this book are written by him.

He is a creation, not mine, but of myth: as we all are.

While in/ writing my myth, I stumbled upon these poems, in what used to be his office and has now been reduced to a ‘dark, dingy’ store room loaded with E.S.R.O. junk.

From the little I have understood of him and his poems, I would say that Bonsai believes his poetry can never be truly understood- it can only be (felt?). He also believes that his idea of poetry can only be understood through his poems and not anything outside of it. The poems are the closest we can get to understanding who he is or what poetry means to him.

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My poems:

hope-tiny glimmering silvery specks

elusively slipping through my fingers

in this b(l)ack-water of The Light.

My/ your life(s)

your/ my mutual/ exclusive existence(s)

(in) our exclusive/ mutual mindscape(s).

Our,

conditioning(s)

logic(s)

hero(es)

myth(s)- primordial fodder,

poet(s)- arch-e-typ(ic)al spoon-feeder(s)

spoon-feeding (us) delicately;

(not) knowing

we are all (in)

the same feeding ground(s)-

the spoon-fed

spoon-fed

by our real hero-

Mythos- the White sun

White Sunlight Eyes

subtlest potent fractal

casting its brilliant blinding Light

on/

on/ on/

on/ on/ on/

on/ on/ on/ on/ on/

on/ on/ on/ on/ on/ on/

on/ on/ on/ on/ on/ on/ on/

our corroded armour(s)

as we dance together,

clanking lifelessly

around the cold embers

of our dying camp-fire(s);

mirroring the B(l)ack shadow(s)-

the (real?) light of the brilliant White sun,

(both) chanting in our horrible

rasping, tin-can voice(s),

our hollow tin-can inc(l)an(k)tation(s):

here we go round the control tower

eating ourselves

eating each other

here we go round the control tower

till none’s left to

d-e-v-o-u-r: