Almost the last of the lot, i wrote this one in a lit class discussing verse by Lanjewar: i sat there, arrogant, abusive -- just coz i had read the whole dammed book and no-one had a clue of which side the head popped.
After minutes of generic criticism from my prof on my generation: i decided to scribble,
---
Write a verse: Is the order.
Well, a laconic doggerel won’t do, my classmate asks?
She frowns, “write an epic, lazy bones”
She rants on the lethargy of my generation.
She asserts we write quartets,
I plead, 'I can’t rhyme to save my nine lives.'
She reads my blank verse and throws a verbal quill.
“What happened to poetic imagination, where are my poignant words?
Make your pages bleed…..blah blah blah. Don’t be sad. Be miserable!
Be Shelly, Milton, Eliot. Be Sylvia,” she cries.
I take up the challenge and write a verse,
I open with a vodka shot, and then smoke up pot…
I tell my friend I don’t hate life still. I don't feel pathetic enough.
I fine slit my skin and rub in charlie.
Filled with self- inflicted torture
And words stolen from the thesaurus:
I swing my stylistics rule book out of the window.
I tear my sleeves and dart my fingers on my laptop.
I forge unfathomable psychological tortures,
I make love and smother my lover; I rouse the gods and herald a plea.
I rush to Sybil and Delphi; I scream, evoke.
Hit the mattress!
I lose the war; I scribble an elegy in scurry.
I am trying to save my blood.
Absolute shock slaps across my face
Drags me into deranged plight.
My professor adores me, calls me a perfect literature student.
Emotionally volatile, addicted to pain and difficult to comprehend on paper.
My parents consult a therapist.
