Suraj Sharma October 2, 2007
Tags: Poetry , Historical , Fiction
Memsahib scribbles epistles for an unfortunate lover,
Jots her providence down with India ink
Ends this debauchery naiveté committed
In her sterile negligée, lavender and pink
Translucent tears on the fading papyrus
by the burning guilt of kerosene
Reflect
the crystalline purity in her
And the frescos on bungalow walls obscene
Sealing the evidence of decadence with her lips
She kisses the envelope with an imperial stamp
With the servile butler’s senility molested
And thus escapes this Colonial vamp
She takes a sip of the impotence‘s sherbet
As the summer sun hides in an ambuscade
And swallowing the end of this interlude
Her Rolls-Royce follows my mocking tirade
Her deeds will make up for gimmicky folklore
And petty gossips concerning regalia bygone
Like her taxidermal pet cheetah, ornate,
Her lingerie once was an unassuming fawn
To Johannesburg! , where the reincarnated are born
And where the languid await a shooting star
No Brahmins there, to cleanse her Atman,
Just beguiling nightmares of a burning Chamar
There's nothing natural about human desire, we have to be "taught" how to desire. Poetry, I believe, alogwith cinema is a perverse art for it teaches you not *what* to desire, but *how* to desire.
Jots her providence down with India ink
Ends this debauchery naiveté committed
In her sterile negligée, lavender and pink
Translucent tears on the fading papyrus
by the burning guilt of kerosene
Reflect
And the frescos on bungalow walls obscene
Sealing the evidence of decadence with her lips
She kisses the envelope with an imperial stamp
With the servile butler’s senility molested
And thus escapes this Colonial vamp
She takes a sip of the impotence‘s sherbet
As the summer sun hides in an ambuscade
And swallowing the end of this interlude
Her Rolls-Royce follows my mocking tirade
Her deeds will make up for gimmicky folklore
And petty gossips concerning regalia bygone
Like her taxidermal pet cheetah, ornate,
Her lingerie once was an unassuming fawn
To Johannesburg! , where the reincarnated are born
And where the languid await a shooting star
No Brahmins there, to cleanse her Atman,
Just beguiling nightmares of a burning Chamar
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