Sunday, May 14, 2006

The subway poems: prodigal son


Prodigal Son

I am your prodigal son,
squandering tears between
coffee stains and rose
blossoms chained to a velvet wall.

I am your prodigal son
spilling my seed on callous tongues
and spending nights crucified
to a sulphur moon, slipping beneath your milk
white breasts
in this gray nicotine room.

I am your prodigal son,
pissing sin on empty durex machines
and squatting my ambition to
recall a memory of my bitter youth
tattooed forever on lampshade skin.

I am your prodigal son, haunting
dens of black-leather Gods and
undressing some pretty young tart
with her Gucci tits and cocaine pussy.

I am your prodigal son, hanging
misery on bare walls with a picture
of her and the cum and get-it smile.

London. 1989

1 comment:

adi said...

once again,
an experience i've never imagined, an emotion i've never felt... that's what i like about your blog, i can live an alternate life here :)
any clues on how to contact your countrymen here in delhi, i wud surely like to meet some of them and write back to you