P

What is better? The smoke from cigarettes Or burnt hair? Match sticks that are more faithful to the wind, Or lips that wet in impatience, Methane that can burn down a home, Or just some bricks, wood and gordian carpets. Everyday as the clock starts to tread The same barbarian path twice Men and Women die. Why? Just like the odd mosquito wants to ski on a thread Or the ant that swims in cough syrup There are souls that can never die, And the more the rules, The more the rules. Morning clamour of the busy streets, Do not call me, 'People', 'Parents', ‘Prostitution’ Proliferate And all of them ‘P’ On the face of truth, Did they ever not sin? Did they ever not love? Did they ever not hate? Did they ever not have been libidinous? Or did they ever not want to kill? Modesty, Courtesy...are mannequins of myth Indulged in sophisticated melodrama: The People, The Society, The Hypocrites, The Rules And the more the rules The more the rules. Who the Judas made them anyway?!