seaboyman ~ poetry

The Great Indian Circus

-Contains strong language-

No fancy metaphors here but the ugly truth,

And I have the want to say it.

Wake up at six catch a bus to the school,

The black under the eyes getting heavier by the day.

You want to learn how the universe works? They'll tell you

To mug up the Lens maker's derivation,

That the labelled diagram of a sperm is a sure come

For three marks, that Pablo meant only one thing

When he said salt gatherers will look at their bruised hands.

After that, these investments are off to the coaching centres

By the train, stuck between eight shoulders in the crowd,

Who once were like you, now are no one.

Get off, rather, the crowd nudges you along and you meet

The exam cracking demon. Not a metaphorical one mind you but a monster

Made of killed cricketers, dead astronauts and penniless painters.

When the monster is done, pull up,
Head back home and talk to no one.

Surf through instamemes, smile a stranger's laugh, colon: close bracket)

Jerk off and go to the next wake up

No wonder the rope looks delicious, the ceiling fan a dream,

the broken glass' potential and the blind curiosity to know it.

I am at the end of the universe one moment, then encapsulated in a bubble,

Cannot pop, will fall, cannot float, am too heavy

Dading dading dading thring, caught like a fucking Pokémon

Yet I will write about the tree poses, sounds of the wind, the moon's good beauty wow glow-

A hypocrite's voice at its loudest is just silence.

~Ajay
12/3/19