Twenty-four years remind the tears of my eyes.
(Bury the dead for fear that they walk to the grave in labour.)
In the groin of the natural doorway I crouched like a tailor
Sewing a shroud for a journey
By the light of the meat-eating sun.
Dressed to die, the sensual strut begun,
With my red veins full of money,
In the final direction of the elementary town
I advance for as long as forever is.

self-pity. another obfuscation

floundering, spiffy me,
vainly gain to hide
these desires, love,
ambition; while all
dear dirges quietly.
blinded still, am
starstruck, frustrated,
caught in the proscenium
of my mind.

what is the art of writing a story? does it originate from the heart of the writer's ego? or from the egos of its characters? can it ever elude the writer's bias & instead delve into the truth?

an invisible man with huge thighs, one diseased ball & small feet whose chaddis fell off.