Poetry: July 30, 2009

It were a grave disappointment 
To have wound up so dead, 
Those were the last words I heard 
The vessel say who wrestled 
With the thundering herd 
With the fickle, easier than my fists will 
And while crawling through the thistles 
(and if that don’t say it, this will) 
Scarred, tarred, feathered, (like Farrah), 
And choked by the dragons of huff and puff. 
Scratched and clawed in a rough dry patch 
And made to seize what I could not snatch. 
A bachelor is so called while he holds his batch 
And wallows in their folds like scruff. 
We have both been there and done that 
And downloaded what advertised and 
advised the same. We’ve been ‘cara’ 
To some, though never to any who 
Knew our name (or aura), as for the wise 
They kept their distance if not the blame, 
And billed the rest to ‘merchandise’ 
As even the holy withdraw from that 
Which genuflects to circumcise 
and ate its way out of the womb of ‘Mara’, 
and licks its balls before its shame. 
(Actually it tickles!) 
And refuses to surmise why he curses 
At rules he’ll rage at and never rehearses, 
Rambles, bristles, at suggestions 
Bleeding from the wounded game. 
For this boy, 
The striped man always whistles, 
At his barracuda pride, always aims, 
To pry him from his searches. 
My full innovations, off-sides, I 
Touch the ball, the field reverses, 
The ambulance stalks angrily, 
Full of nurses, who stand against my gains, 
who slither at my strides. 
And I run all the way, not to spoil the ride, 
Otherwise I’m beat. 
They tackle me on earth too bitter 
To hold its own roots, and littered with 
Bare purses. But I run 
Like a missile in this sharp edged heat, 
especially in my football boots, 
which the sponsor reimburses.


COPYRIGHT SANANDA MAITREYA
MILANO 30th JULY 2009
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

INTELLECTUAL COPYRIGHT PROTECTED