Have always responded to the din of work which blows its horn way too loud by writing bad poetry. In the initial years it was Mom who had to listen. Well, Moms are supposed to be sympathetic. Same cannot be said about little brothers who will memorize the shitty lines into adulthood and will embarrass you in social circles by reciting them for the comic effect.
Since I met G, it was she who had to stoically listen to them because you can't really read out the so-called 'love poems' to your mother. G has always responded by drawing thick fat red lines in all the supposed grammar mistakes and inappropriate use of language.
R was more sympathetic since I always convinced her that the lines meant better in my mother tongue [which she can't make nuts or bolt out of] and a great deal of poetic intensity was lost by my insufficient efforts in translation. You can't always write 'great' poetry as well as translate it, can you? R generally is not at all a gullible duck, but has some how managed to keep up the benefit of doubt with her.
Ever since I grew out of dog eared notebooks into the pseudo anonymity of the cyberspace, have always managed to let the 'poetry' sleep peacefully in blogs where they do not posses any threat in general, unless some one decides to read them.
Well, here is yet another gem induced by the necessity to read up tones of crap dutifully turned out by various academicians at various points of boredom. To top it, self is supposed to come up with 4000 words which no one will ever manage to understand. It is rather hard on some one who believes in 'onions are onions' philosophy. So much for the preamble.......
In the unwashed smell of sleep
Pour a bit of coffee and let us stay a bit more awake.
Don't be so pompous, you are just a borrowed book.
You decide nothing.
If I flit a bit and dream a bit more of impossibilities
Don't throw a tantrum.
Past is such an honored guest
A few words there and a few sighs here
Isn't gonna choke the moments.
They are just moments, they decide nothing.