mascara milk

the hunted became the hunter
the dance became an exercise
the story became a news as
i grew torpid, tactually comatose

an immature infant fed on mascara milk
clothed in the latex of language
(a putrid abstraction saddle-stictched to my skull)
cultured in a colorless confusion created by
catacombs of science and gutters of religion

what proofs do you speak of?
dear cyber-statisticians, you reek of
excuses, not to read the books you've never read
excuses, to not let the dead delete the dead.


KK(K) said...

Despite what might seem to be a passionless, listless wordplay, for me this poem's effectively bringing across two complected feelings: an experience of deep, personal anguish and an objective, evaluative recognition (& subsequent rejection?) of communally-created disorientations. Either they're both true or they're both false, but they're not all that different or even unconnected. This is the thing with your poetry, everything's so characteristically ambiguous, a reader has nothing to do but apply their own interpretations without any help from you. :P But I love this poem. That's all I really wanted to say.

suraj sharma said...

@KK(K): :) Thanks.

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