A poet seemed slightly peculiar to die
At 40000 feet ,while shitting in airplane
As if poetry is to be taken and dropped
From a height , so as to to be effective 
On post- generations and all those who
Went under, that had not  heard of him.

The peculiar poet  wanted to be heard
From a flying shit-room, barely audible
In a racket of propeller slicing the wind.

The plane took him over many heads 
Of  ants of people and when poetry-done, 
Pitted poet-head against a hard sky-roof
That cruelly stilled a living throat's voice.

Surely there is nothing new about dying,
But  there is indeed something truly novel 
About dying at such dizzy Olympian heights.
Always self-absorbed, poets turn peculiar.
They  have to find newer  ways of dying.


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