The Right Kind of Talent
All I get these days from editors
Is rejection slips. All
Of them do the exact same thing:
To tell me that my work is not good enough.
I wonder what has changed suddenly-
The newly acquired flab on my ribs post the marriage?
The lush red carpet on the living-room floor?
The micro-wave oven (a most wonderful invention tho) ?
Or is it the hack work?
Meanwhile, poets with MFAs who pontificate about the
Structures of their poems
And publish in fancy literary journals that only accept
Go to exotic tiny countries to receive awards.
With the right kind of talent,
One can scam everything.
I have not had a drop
For the last two days.
Drank too much at a party before,
Sick of the wanton snobbery,
And tried to piss on the bedroom floor, sleepwalking
Till my wife
Screamed at me.
As usual, I can’t sleep tonight.
Gives me company,
Curled up on the
Chair opposite me – she just
Tomorrow I shall again
Offer myself to be gobbled up like a modern-day sacrifice to
The Great Machine,
Moving through the bowels of the city
With the insouciance of a hardened piece of shit
And come out
Like a rat startled out of its hole and
Mingle with the great unwashed
And make my soul pure again
By breathing in the sweaty aroma of an avalanche of arm pits.
(During the monsoons, the Yamuna looks lush
Like a politician’s poll-time promise when you look out the
Poets should keep away
From ventriloquists, however talented.
I went to a party
There was a guy,
A film director.
His film had opened
A European festival recently.
He talked on and on
About not liking
And the Iraq war.
He spoke in a falsetto sometimes
And his wrist went limp from time to time.
He was an artiste and he wanted it
To be known – he would leave you
In no doubt about that.
He told a lot of stories
Featuring a lot of famous names and
Cracked a lot of jokes with sexual innuendos.
It was all great fun. I had a lot of Biryani,
And thought of
The Intelligence Bureau.
They are sinister, I tell you.