Poem-8
Scratched with spud when thought I’m unable to write
Bloody flesh appeared inside the words
One wordless corpse
How damn bloody red, it looks!
My pen is striking through the flame
Sweating and shiny
Twisted with words and epithets, today’s recipe
Legend! Taken from Stockholm
Liver, thigh, hyper tensed brain
Enliven to ode just because of spud’s movement
Few guests will come today
To appear in a different look
My tormented school is triumphing
Within the boiling oil.
Baker of poetry, grand Feast, feast
They are screaming
Guests had enjoyed to the brim
Yes my eyes are still thirsty
Digging some singed oily food
Through the bottom of the pot
I thought only poems smelling those burning odour
Plates were arranged in rows
I pour little blessings on them
What a poetry, I was adorned by
Today met its final goal.
Till then something was being roughly written
O my petty poems! Blind with undefined desires.