For the Indian-English Poets Ankur Betageri

You who write
and spit-polish your ‘poetry’
as if adjusting
your well-brushed hair,
and applying cream to your wrinkled forehead

You whose every word
and the sterile voice behind it
passes out even before it consummates
a weakened passion eaten
by greed and hatred

You who speak into the mikes
of air-conditioned conference halls,
your lines filled with burps, and the distress
caused by an excessive flatulence

You who fail to see
that poetry is a voice against injustice
and assert your vain gentility;
you who shield your soul from the spark
of sincerity, and wail your corrupt longing
stoking the fire of lightless lust

You, I now see clearly
are what’s left of
the ruined rest houses
of the pilgrim soul –
it’s time I cut you up
and set each one of you on top
of an other, and blow fresh air
for your own condensed greed
to catch fire

I’m sure there is enough of it
enough and more of it
for my bonfire to last
this entire winter.

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