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Upside Down



Cluck...Cluck...Cluck
I go clucking into oblivion
Not an ear to hear
my desperate call from doom

Cluck...Cluck...Cluck
My feathers detach
dropping down 
from sparkling white 
to tawny brown on the ground

Cluck...Cluck...Cluck
I am a feathery fiend
for I never end
my struggles to free away 
from the fence

Cluck...Cluck...Cluck
As he cycles away 
onto the muddy plain 
with me lolling upside down
my legs strangled into a mess
on my way to mourn

Cluck...Cluck...Cluck
My friends and foe
have no morrow
for they are beside me
clucking away to sorrow

Cluck...Cluck...Cluck
I breathe my smell
nostalgia creeps in
of the meadows
that I dwelt in

Cluck...Cluck...Cluck
But all I smell now
is of the steely cycle
of blood and
the stench of paan
that the satan chews

Cluck...Cluck...Cluck
I am untied
fall down to gravity
picked up
my wounded neck bleeding
ducked in
my neck hell bent
strapped to the pricking metal
of the fence

Cluck...Cluck...Cluck
I sense my end
as I am thrashed away
my head pressed to the black slab
that smells of gory blood

Cllluuuuckkkk... Clllluuucckkkk
I thaw in pain
my feathers plucked
I gnaw my tongue
as pain sears 
and blood trickles
as the knife 
tears down my life.

I can no more cluck...
for all I know 
I am dead meat
yet hanging upside down
with the unsettling flies
endeavouring to get a taste

For I am up on sale 
beaten down by death
just for the satans to savour
my bones and flesh. 

Image courtesy: Internet


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FEBRUARY 15th, 2012





















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I'm too shallow to write a verse

I'm too shallow to write a verse To wrap around the twists and turns To dwell unto my own, I do Living somebody else's life or my own? Shrouded under piles of thought, I scribble, thinking only of the applause.
I'm too shallow to write a verse or two To make ends meet, I'm too cuckoo. I'm not the classic, scratching blue wooing 'em, tearing 'em apart  with every word.
I'm not the one who rhymes nor the one with notes for those lyrics. I'm the one who scribbles blotching blue on all my troubles, roiling over moments back and forth, trying to string those stray words, into at least a doggerel. See, I don't make sense.  I told you, I'm too shallow to pen that sonnet, that ballad, that haiku, that refrain, that ode.
I'm forcing it out all that gibberish snowballed  unto mine, to chime and rhyme  but nevertheless I realise in time, I'm to shallow to be read over cheese and wine.