Short Slangs Poems

I don’t know where it goes to or piles up
but grief is a large storage corrupting moments
of soft arousal: the body fails the mind
the screaming in the head and the grunt around
continue the night’s drunken flow
into the morning’s miserable brush
with the wheel’s slant truth and slangs
I poach in poetry to bare the sermons
lost in nostalgia or
insomnia of prayers

--R K Singh...

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I live on the other side of your revenges
I touch your words, learn slangs
And get frozen inside
Those artful revenges

Those skillfully uttered darker words
That neither gives purity nor spiritual depth
That each religion teaches us.

I know, in return you will slap my conceptual core

With one, and then another and then another;
Wiping each goodness left inside
With your humble eloquence
Of a dead soul....

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