RAW AND THE COOKED

Some killings are Raw

And some are cooked

When the raw is at it

A performance or two can always be cooked up

To make things perfect

F---, the f word is missing from my typing and my life

Because when things are so Raw

We too should wait for the cooking and for fucking

Because the Brahmins liked theory

And ate shakahari as after murajapam

Everything was deemed perfect.

The execution commands are very specific ,

Whether to doctors or for patients nursed to death

Raped or unwrapped

By caretakers of every kind.

The pharmacy does a perfect job

Sending in the right sort of medicine

And the right sort of injections let urine into your veins.

You have had a haemorrhage, a stroke,

Or cancer, or a problem in your kidney or bile

A pancreas is an open sore

Or a swelling in the knee

From a fall or a problem with your gout-

Alcoholism, of course they would say,

After sending you alcohol

Concocted from their sacred brews

Made available by military sources

Or meningitis, for the many..

Your brain has stopped winking at the signs,

Brown sahib,

‘cause it is raw eating into your

Memory and your motor functions

With parkinsons, or alzheimers

Or a clot that saves you for death.

A difficulty to breathe, a perennial

Death bed where I see to you(ICU)

Since nothing else works

And your family can be drained of some cash.

School boys may hang themselves

From dreaming

Or a cousin fry himself or herself to death

In a bala(tender) brother fry,

We shall take care of the cow

And the calf and obviously of

All of you national animals

Giving you the right drugs to stop you from taking drugs.

No dog barks up the barc gate

And cars fly around leaving corpses behind

To which we wait for because things are a bit (U)nclear.

Men falling from trains

Do not complain of the shove that delivered them

Because in a life like this death was most bearable

And a poet or film maker dead on the street

Have passed urine, and was drunk.

Are we from the SS?

Ha ha proudly learned!

And the Pundit with his squinting eyes

And knotted brows knew nothing of it

But that his thread is sacred

And so is the cow.