Am I dirty?
I overuse the word 'sex'.
My friends say, What the hell do you write?
You have a dirty mind
When I say, Let's have street food
They shout angrily, No! It is dirty
Money [Dirtiness] Morality.
My mother says, Your father is a good man
He takes neither betel nut nor alcohol.
I am their dirty son � a spoiled brat
who drinks, smokes and sleeps around.
I left home some years ago,
I now live in a splace where
I control my days and nights
anchor my thirsty soul and
read lots of poetry � poetry that dirties me
Bukowski, Donne, and Ginsberg.
I don't need anybody to talk to
all the time,
I love this splace where
I can think, sleep and create.
On weekends, I make out with my beloved
who talks dirty to me.
Only do our desperate bodies know
the secret language of the patterns
that I draw on them
after I come quickly.
On weekdays, my imagination struggles
against the academia
that has given me an identity.
Few people care about my poetry,
as un-rhythmic as my lifestyle,
that can tell you about
the untold miseries of intimacy,
the inspiration that I derive
from my beloved's eyes
that can soothe the banality
of my academic life.
My father gifted me a dictionary
on my fourteenth birthday,
It made me believe
Home is a breeding ground
for dirtiness, isn't it?