My friend took me to
meet a pastor who cooks
great wild boar, and as the
man grilled me on what I did
and what I plan to do
(the usual Indian ‘uncle’ questions),
I wanted to be anywhere
but there, but today, I
realised that I always want
to be anywhere but where I am
at the moment. It’s because
nothing excites me anymore.
Red is grey, and blue is black,
the colours, merging, love and
lust, dead, circumstance, and will
becoming one — making me
an out of sorts, outwardly
idiosyncratic, clueless rat
who scuttles across the floor
thinking he’ll find cheese that
will taste sweet, or savoury
cookies right out of Heston
Blumenthal’s kitchen.
The vainglorious I am became
an I was sometime ago, and is
now no longer even an i,
just like the tale of nobody who
wanted to be anybody because
everybody was somebody,
but ended up getting nowhere
after going everywhere
and screaming, “Anywhere!”
The past is full of chicken and fries,
the present, yesterday’s pork
microwaved and the future,
an ugly, tasteless pill, swallowed
for the sake of nutrients or
whatever. Even if aliens landed
tomorrow, and declared that we were
welcome to join them, get into
their anti-matter saucers
and fly to their galactic federations,
proving everything Haim Eshed said,
I’d say, “Meh, I think I’ll
just lie down.”
Others might herald the benevolent
invaders, and say, “We’re glad you
stopped nuclear annihilation,”
but all I’ll do is eat and drink
until my stomach goes nuclear,
and then take some sick, twisted
pleasure in the runs.
*Grunts* Oh yeah! Finally
something to look forward to.
*Farts* Man, that was nuclear!
*Squeals* Shit! (no pun intended)
It’s ending.
So, I’ll end this by telling you
that I’m bored by writing
a toilet quatrain that isn’t connected
with the words above to elicit some
response because I’m writing
for the sake of it.
When you feel shitty and depressed,
eat meat, drink soda, and forget art
until your vibrating stomach is oppressed,
and you put your arms up and stridently fart.
Photo by Andras Rozsa on Unsplash
Ordinary Person 
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