Sunday, July 29, 2007

A Cock Crows at Morn

Said son Saif “Dad you look
Worn out and out worn..
Like a parched rose at the mercy of a thorn
During Ashura when the blood seeps from your head
I tell myself quiet flows the dawn
A photographer a poet reborn
Poetry veiled as a metaphor
Seeking solace pulverizing
Wisdom a cock crowing at morn
At poem hunter
Even a bird cock sounds like porn
pretentious vaginal vagaries
vaginal monologues
mature women
lifting their skiirts in the bogs
wheels within wheels minus cogs
poetry that shoots its mouth
giving head to photo blogs
a goddess who pretends to be in love
with one from a family of frogs
unwashed repressed mornings
words sentenced to sodomizing weblogs
says her heart a lonely hunter
rights of admission reserved for Indians and dogs
down under god save you from terrorist laws
made for Muslims and wogs..
a borrowed Sim card ..barefeet in chains
Gauntanamo style Aussie hate for multi colored catalogues

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