The cows in the shed are lazy poets
reciting poetry of hay and meadows
leaning over each other
chewing untiredlessly
hanging their milk-full breasts
surrendering easily every morning
to the milkman poet with the aluminium cans
The cats are mad poets
in the morning sun
waiting for a 'sparrow' to rhyme
with 'window'
of the kitchen
from where they will steal chicken
The marching ants are beat poets
travelling continuously
climbing the steepest thing up and down
looking for sweets like grapes in american outskirts
where kerouac had many sex with ladies in grape farm
with the heels soften by red wine from the grapes.
the mosquitoes are failed poets like me
whose lives you can't predict.
Heard a Slap, then
they ooze poetry of blood on the walls
leaking their own lives
the bees are romantic poets
who wait for spring
for mango flowers, lilies, tulips
jasmine ,etc, and they love to suck
They are thieves like many i know
The flies are fake poets
who act like philospher.
give them a place
a garbage or a spit
a wet private genital or sticky fingers
they will hover around
with their limbs in their heads rubbing
as if they are in deep thoughts
as if they are going to create a gold mine
the ponies are street smart poets
but never do a thing on their own
till whipped or canned
they keep the tradition of old school
as they are fools
The dogs are the worst poets
who write and bark
at poor men and women
who snatch others' poems
They are mostly green and black in colors
they travel in group
they sniff everything they see
at nights they remain high
but stick to each other
as they fear for their lives in dark
the spiders are propagandist poets
every corner they spread their webs
attracting helpless foolish poets
and slowly they will make the foolish poets' soul dry
and will leave them dead hanging from the gallows poles
The bulls are working class poets
with no idea how to defy the status quo
they will die as poets with their unpublished poems
soaked in their own sweat
while even their dung have been exploited
the fishes are the poets in prison
they wait for their day to come
with no idea who brought them in prison
or what poems have they written to end up in prison like this
'die! Die!
The bait is, for you, a rope to hang'
they are guarded by dogs
they are spat by dogs
they are pissed by dogs
the migrant birds are the hungryalist poets of 1962
who all gathered here dreaming a new revolution
under their colorful wings
but left leaving a fellow poet in a trap...
and they never returned
since then, no poets ever drop pamphlets of their poetry
in the streets of city of joy, except in russian stories.
since then the streets are wordless and voiceless
now they only write for themselves and carry wherever
they go like robins in the eastern hills under their wings
and the lake awaits for a new flock of migrant birds
the owls are the three poets of Shingnaba
who in day time, in 1974, were very hungry and angry
but now at such night time become sober,
so sober that their poems are with full of punctuation,
to breathe for every word and line and stanza.
They sit by a hole of a banyan tree as old as withered,
observing the robbed, raped and killed animals..
once a year they fly out of the hole to see the thick jungles of Assam
but they used to kick their mothers by chests earlier to fight the enemies.
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