When we were accountable to clarify our departure,
To patrolling Arizona rangers in a Borstal-like locale,
You made heavy treads of your steps,
And they got green-eyed of our escapade;
How we, in a mortal coil, desperately attempted to respire
in a slightly better manner.
You flouted men who twirled in delight to Turkish country music;
But contemplated men who pour scorn on epistles, and disregard manuscripts;
And hunky geezers who won’t ever respond properly
to a single epistle you poured your heart into.
Wryly, you thought you were the Milena in a post-Aught world,
And their lack of concern steadily stole your will.
Your portraits portray skinny colleens,
Who possess no flaw in their visage,
Who are deemed the epitome of perfection
To women grappling with body image issues;
To women who spend hours to attain the degree
In order to impress the poetry-hating, sturdy men.
Instead, if you portrayed men
who spin round in jouissance;
women who don’t skedaddle in fear of murk;
Trust me, neither would anything come about;
Nor would you beget revolution;
For they would only regard, if you partook in performative activism.
In a post-Aught world,
When the protagonist was discovered dismembered,
All preconised it a tram contretemps;
But you consciously believed it was a felo de se.
As she ensnarled in realism and objective morality;
Her life-long principles failed to expound.
Out of moral obligation, she stood on the track
and stretched her arms;
The seismic noises came gradually closer—squinting ceased.
December embers, artichoke-turned-greens.
Tilted palettes, and withered hyacinths.
Cluttered collection of underrated paperbacks,
bought at a cut-rate from a store in the heaving twitten;
third or fourth-hand—handful of pages marred by silverfish;
An anonymous geezer dedicated
The Secret History of the Pink Carnation to a wight 6 years past.
The umpteen-time-played track in the vinyl
successfully sparked off the same pang and twinge;
as if reminiscing never ceased.
After ten years, as poetic justice, you are
imprisoned in a cathedral of nostalgia,
Where there is no entrance or exit;
The reverberating din of bells
And sermons keep triggering PTSD;
Where nursery rhymes reverberate
To celebrate immolation,
In order to save London Bridge from collapsing,
After the skulls of innocent humans are buried under the bridge.
The writer is a part of TDA Editorial Team.