I saw myself wallowing
In self pity
And wasting away
In self-destructive misery
Writing, what is considered, sacrilegious symphony.
For after all I am the fool, who cries himself hoarse.
While he touches up the painting on the blood-stained wall,
The woman who, saltless and naked,
writhes in pain while she waits in her ash-covered chamber, whored and destroyed.
I am the fire-eater, who satisfies himself with drugs, darkness and drunkenness.
I am the pregnant girl, whose swollen womb spews out venom,
who curses, spits and vomits, unable to vanquish the seed of her oppressor.
And yet again, I am the vanguished and he is the victor.
There is blood on the streets
and again and again
I dance to his tunes
with pelvic thrusts and kohl laden eyes.
We do not speak for seven days
and on the eighth
We meet in a furnished room,
And light cigarettes while the pale blue night
observes in silence, unable to speak.
Our souls walk the streets deserted
Political Factions Disintegrate
And all I do is contemplate.
My repressed self is out to oppress.
Poetry by Reeti Roy
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Written on 2009-02-22 at 18:03
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