[Art by Sakshi Bhatia: ‘Suffering’]

by Sakshi Bhatia

Hear her presenting it here. 

Dear, Mystic men.
Fuck the process,
halt this recess,
I undress, over dress,
ill fitting shoes biting me.
what am I doing?
poetry, poem, recitation
in a fancy club.
on the filthy streets
of a fucked up nation.
Intense security checks
at the railway station
gentile drugs and
some harmless
knives retrieved.
searching endless trunks
and Chains
and locks
and unending time
and unstoppable clocks
Trapped In a Smelly cell,
full of ferocious cocks,
roads with filthy puddles
fields with goals and huddles
a buildings rubble
and a pile of bodies buried alive
a thing to strive for,
Success.
that wont come knocking on my door
It’ll knock me on the floor
and fuck me hard
because I’ll like it
I’ll like it
I’ll like it
a confederacy of monkeys
run this circus
masturbate to us
and then jerk us
throw us around
and then rape us
tease us and frustrate us
prostrate
us infront of
so called fucking “god”
that’s just an image of me
with my looks
color
ability
with my cunning clarity
and questionable stability
we’re forced to pray to a god
with a lost humanity
its lungs filled up with
the vapours of vanity
mirror mirror on the wall
fuck the gods,
just fuck them all
you’ve got to be atleast 5’7 tall
to participate in miss India.
for midgets tend to need
tall leaders,
leaders who are professional
breeders,
breeders, who know which pedigree
should fuck which pedigree
to make
a perfectly profiled race of
the gen next
who know how to sext
on their smart phones
even as they waddle out of bloody wombs
bypassing the brilliance of
their ancestors and
their ornate tombs,
that are
open to tourists
on Saturdays and Sundays
100 rupees a head,
and more expensive for foreigners
because they’re from developed nations
where citizens can take holidays
and feel big when they tip big
their poor hosts
in the third world
full of exciting destinations
and
filthy streets and
malaria waters,
jungles with species
who fuck their own daughters.
so don’t drink the water
don’t walk the streets
just suck on silently
on the tethering teats
of the endless joints
full of fraudulent grass
soaked in poppy flavor
no longer good enough
for holy cows to savor
for momentary clarity
from this polluted haze,
of an entire planet set ablaze,
doused with arab petrol
and a monk on fire
and the middle class
on the funeral pyre.
So much smoke.
so much fire.
bombs bombs bombs.
tombs tombs. Tombs.
wombs wombs wombs
floods, blood,
and our sense
of humor.
diagnosed with a malignant
tumor.
the latest rumour is that
the world is drowning.
maybe thatll put this fire out
once and for all..
and we will evolve.
we will grow, flourish, bloom,
we will each have 5 houses
with 4 bedrooms,
and a nice view.
that is due to us
in all fairness.
as that is the
extent of our collective
awareness.
we need new clothes and shoes
a comfortable box to sleep in.
and the nook of a lovers chest
to weep in.
till the reality creeps in
again.
At dawn
that starts with a long
drawn , yawn
and the rest of the day
is spent wondering
why I was born?
and what am I doing?
and I pray to fucking god.
I don’t hear
the sounds
of my audience booing.

Sakshi Bhatia is 26 year old freelance artist, poet and film professional based in Bombay.