Tuesday, February 24, 2009


A bunch of pale-yellow, wrinkled Indian

Women wrapped in grey, cotton coverings

Chant-faded, wind-blown granny slokas

Worm-holing, eddying, meaning less and less;

Oyster-shell mouths, closing, opening

To drone a requiem for dull-clad Indian

Women dyed in yellow, orderly saris

pleating a culture of blind humming,

drumming up the ancient, spent, ashen,

sperm of routine, illusions and emptiness,

Voices drowning, bowed down Indian

Women lie down, thighs pried apart

by lusty, wheat-eyed industrial men

Carving up, fragmenting Sita’s purity,

burning, pock-marking, disemboweling

This bunch of cow-ish, cowed down Indian

Women bent down, beat low, eating dust,

Offering cold-spread buttocks to fascists;

Pink-soft vaginas speared by black lingams;

See now, watch how, the Third Eye opens.

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