The grand narrative

You sit down to write memoirs, what you did
All these days,in fine fettle, demolishing space
Borders ,entering world, getting out and back
In vainglorious things of non-doing by a body
A fury of signifying nothing, not even a sound.

Writing is life in black and white,telling  world
You exist despite  world telling you to fuck off
To get the hell out of the place, scowl or thing
On your face,  obituary ready for evening news.
It is essential to write from  revenge motives
For not taking note of your bawling existence
Sniffing diaper smells, feeling swaddle clothes
With reverence, kissing the hem of your skirt.

But  world tells you to go and eat the golguppa
The while , twenty four hours and seven days
And sing wedding songs in a hip swinging dance
And watch inane television of unending cricket
So you do not have to write  fucking memoirs.

You can at least complain in concise nonfiction.
If you cannot do a thing ,write it man and live it
In what you grandiosely thought you had done,
A fiction written in strangely connected fashion
Connecting grasses, yoga men,  birds in trees
Old men in white mustaches,unripe men dying
Pointing stars, the pathetic fallacy of a blue sky
And mute trees under it saying – doing things
Occurring in  acts of spontaneous combustion
All  in a fistful of matter in a sub-cranial recess.
The story turns now part of the  grand narrative
So you ignore  world's call and don't give a shit.


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