A poem:

Strife-Cycle?

I.
A lot
of people
hate what they loved.

Too many
of them
elbowed the shoved.

Whatever.
Whatever you'd be
tonight; forgotten me?
Why must it be.
Why must I be?

Praving for your absent pity
You've had enough of me.
Fuckin' typical, you quipped
Been so long since I tripped.

II.
Now I puke blood in your drink
tonight, drain plug worldwide kitchen sink.
Now is that the best place
to find Music From The Big Pink?
Or a maroon sump-thing and
eight engines, two wheeled magic wands -
Do they run in shifting winds or sifting sand
or just lie there mensurating rust and memories,
bleached bones, faded ink blood diaries.


III.
Who cares!?!
I know what's between my thighs.
It'll get me home.
I don't like lifts from intellectual guys.

I'd rather be stranded on some road,
Trying everything to push out the overflow.
Feeling my life-breath narrow
and my strength implode.

Then I push some more
and get back on the road.

If you've felt it then
you'd know it, Lord!

— Arunesh Dogra