In response to an ad which said 'We can cut anything except your throat'

Interesting how the centre of a cyclone is called an eye.

As though a three letter word that captures
Basic identity
Is the pin point of existence.
As though everything else is of
Destructive inconsequence.
As though your entire meaning stems from
Eye.

There is a trauma growing
Malignant
Despondent
Respondent
I can see it frenzy out of control
Even as nothing appears
Because Eye can see only
As much as Eye let it.

And then some.

If you could, would you
Work your miraculous diamond edged scissors
And tear it all apart
Like it was nothing
And offer me a factual
Contextual summary
Of what I am supposed to feel?

No, it is not the throat I want
The throat is part of the problem
I want you to cut it down to the eye
Tell me what makes it
Malignant
Despondent        
Respondent
And so worthy of
My notice.

No, I did not choose my eyes
But someone gave them to me on a platter
And I accepted them, dumbly.
But then I.
I chose to manufacture the sheyene.





P.S. This poem has nothing to do with what I feel about advertisments. Banksy explains that better than I can. This poem is just something that came out of the advertisment. Cheers.

They Rebuilt The Playground

They rebuilt the playground
Because it was overgrown with too many weeds
That dispersed from there to never return
And because the tree fell
Succumbing to emotion
Because too many of us
That hung from it like fruit
Outgrew it.

They rebuilt the playground
And now the slide is where the swing-set was
And the swing is where the slide was
And it's like a beacon of hope for little girls
Who will now pretend if they throw themselves
High enough into the air
They could kiss whatever concept of heaven
Is up there.

But because they rebuilt the playground,
The angle to heaven is all wrong
Or maybe it is all right
But I think I'm old enough
To condemn it anyway.

They rebuilt the playground
And the flowers that fall there now
Aren't the same exercise in translation
For them as it was for me
So now when they let themselves give in to
Gravity
They won't be accompanied by
The slower, smaller, equally persistent
Falling blue flowers
Whose name I can't remember for the life of me.

They rebuilt the playground
But before it was a playground it was something
I'll have to ask someone else about
And in the middle, it stopped being a playground too
And someday
Someone will want to ask what it was in the middle and
I'll be that someone.

They rebuilt the playground
And I am going to record the Middle,
When the playground wasn't a playground
Just a transition phase When they tied up the swings
And the slide broke down
And there were too many weeds
And they'd make you trip
And that's what I told myself
As some strange consolation
When I stopped going.

They rebuilt the playground
And maybe
The angle to heaven is better now.