The hatesong of J Devdas Defrock

Zu schreiben ober nicht schreiben
Das ist nicht eine der großen Fragen
Nicht in der nacht getraumen
Von Worte ober schöne Mädchen

Let them go out then, she and he.
When my arm is plastered and on a sling,
Like an old man’s limp little thing.
Let them go through narrow bylanes,
Of slick urine reek of sewer drains;
And decaying graffiti encrusted damp walls,
Murky as the opium smoke that me enthralls.
A night or two at a cheap hotel,
A day or a half on the river barge,
Or a sandpit, a lovenest of lobster smell;
An antiseptic mall illumined by cloying dream;
Or wherever else she chooses to have him,
On an insidious argumentative woman’s whim.

In the room the women come and go
Lusting after Di Caprio.

The green fog that flickers its tongue on the window panes,
The green smoke that rubs its scales on the window panes.
That licks our sweat and hugs our grime,
While grinning in obscene pantomime.
The crepuscular creature curls, crawls and creeps away,
Spying the monsoon’s cleansing cloud `n its way.

And indeed there will be time,
Little reason but plenty of rhyme,
To mull over her reptilian crime.
Momo `n shondesh served with lime.

In the room the women come and go
Lusting after Di Caprio.

I grow cold……I grow cold…
I wear the bottom of my dhuti rolled.
I will measure out my life in cups of tea,
And count out boredom in smoke rings.
Poison myself with poetry’s ivy or tree,
Wallow in the stupor that wine brings.

I should have been a jangling raw neurotic wire
Played by ruby-ringed fingers that set me afire.
In stead I feel like:
A lacerated onion’s pungent streak, thickening gelatinous
jellylike emanation from the suppurating wounds
that infect my groin.
Her bare palms join.
I try to frame the me of femtoseconds ago;
(As the women in the room come and go)
Till mermaids ring their truculent knell,
And we forsake this confounded hell.

ps : with no undue apologies to Eliot for tormenting us with Wasteland. :P