In random abandon

I have been scribbling

poetry for long

short, medium long submerged

in the ever-growing debris

surrounding me, vanishing

as slimy memory

in a few friends who warm up

to the vanity of poetry

and they say seriously

“Ah! beautiful, fine, well okay but”

But my good ol’ pals

who care for no damn poetry

are unanimous in their

final judgement

of all my poetry

“To hell with your shit-poetry

You are Shakespeare’s pop or what?

Crazy bastard show it to

other arse-holes like you.

Let us have a drink Roy

Prem, please pass the bottle

before this cacophonix begin

his (–) poetry”

and they laugh together

like exalted Buddhas.

I am very delighted

when I hear them say

all this about my funny poetry

although I don’t know why.

But sometimes I remember

the teeming corpus

of my luni-poetry

crowding my cupboard

unread by all

but me and God.