Borman and Anders and Lovell have gone around the moon
And charter trips in rocket ships may well be starting soon
We've reached a time in history that's called the lunar age
A frantic race to conquer space has now become the rage
Meanwhile down here on Mother Earth things haven't changed one bit
We bomb and raid what we have made led on by some half-wit
Man doesn't stop and try to save the treasures that are near
Let's lock the latch on the booby hatch—the loony age is here
Militate on one another with great passion
the nonperson,
The fusty one.
Nothing fancy, delightful or bonvivant
Having a genteel attitude, but impassible
Vagabond. Loner. Prodigious.
Yet no blandishment.
Complicated as a merman
Porous because of mutilation
The obsequy closed with an
Elegy
Rigmarole. Rigmarole.
Not the booby hatch which
hosts may
The railroad tied on knots.
Big as an intrusive blunt forced
object
The copulation of blood and oxygen
Wins over the slightly manipulated mind.
From inside, out
Hapless haploids creating the uselessness of existence
Making, permanently each place
devoured
Feeling the blades and molar impressions piercing through each layer.
hors d'oeuvre--
the stroke of a pendulum
booby hatch
inspired by a scene in a mental hospital in Kolkata, India
© rajat kanti chakrabarty
10 December,2014
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