Autophony

My name is Ozymandias, king of kings: Look on my works, ye mighty, and despair! I am not Oz, that kingdom fair, That wizard's land, That's terra australis. I am not Ozzy, the Osbourne man with family on TV nor a Stryne mayte. I am not Ozman, Agnes, pentecostal The Chinese-speaker, Nor a Turkish dynast. I am not Sir Oz, nor any knight I bear no armour-suit Nor am blest by Queens. My name is Ozymandias, writer of things: Please read my works, make me not despair!

O well! O well! Why you are not having water? I am failed in exam. I want to suiciding. Why you to be cleaned now? O rope! O rope! Why you are so weak? She is not loving me. I am having depression. Why you are breaking now? O poison! O poison! Why you are not working? My crops are not growing. I am want to die. But adulteration in everything. O gun! O gun! Why you are rusting? Police are chasing behind me. I not wanting caught alive. Why I bought Chinese goods? O ink! O ink! You are running full. You are saving me. I am drowning in you. What a relief!

I want to say sorry to you. I could say in lots of lovely flower-bedecked words. That is my one gift from God. But will it unspeak, undo the words I said? Ugly, unthinking words - the abuse of my sacred gift? What will the sorry do? It may hide, It will not heal. The scar will not go away. I can say stupid things in defence. I can say I bear things said to me with a grin and not resent. So should you. Foolish things to say. I can say silly things that make me pretend that I have escaped from the web of guilt that I have spun for myself. Only to say something more imbecile and fall into my own trap. Even these words will only weave that web even more. I can give you some more fancy words that mean nothing. Just lots and lots of words. One more poem, a little balm to pretend all is well. But they are all I have. But I cannot let go of you. That I will never do.

I think I am a Nazi. I killed a hundred flies today. I froze them on ice, lined them up one by one, and beheaded them; with a new, half-divided blade. I needed those heads: to isolate protein to do an experiment. The Endlösung to publish a paper. And that would bring me - fame, glory, eternity. I say that it is only my duty for the advancement of science. The Schutz-Stafel guard also said that at the doors of Mengele's laboratories. I think I am a Nazi. I kill because I do not like. mosquitoes, cockroaches, ants. Disgusting vermin I call them like the Aryan called the Semite. I swat them, crush them under my foot until blood, limbs, heads, hearts are all indistinguishable organum. I spray them with pyrethrin with glee, maybe even aplomb just like a Sturmbannführer putting down the Warsaw uprising. They come into my house, (built upon theirs). why should I tolerate that? I think we are all Nazis. The wise ones say that an area the size of Belgium is chainsawed every day in the Ama...

Today is Monday: Temple going day. Queue is long with hundreds of folks waiting to see God and praying: to escape from sins, for getting easy money, resolve doubts or feel strong. Priest is doing rituals, chanting fierce mantras in dense Sanskrit, adorning idol with flowers and sandal-paste, and burning powerful incense. Devotees are awed 'Siva Siva' they are chanting. Outside one shop is there selling things for God: Flowers and coconut to bribe the God inside the temple. It is asking one rupee for keeping chappals safe for pilgrims. Prasadam also it is selling. It is also selling tacky little idols of brass or copper, little brocade dresses for the goddess lined with jari and little steel cradles for baby God to sleep in. There are cushions for the cold metal idols to rest when tired, pretty little crowns and lots of other things. All for pious believers to dress up their Gods as if they are dolls. Is God like a doll, to be adored and played with and not awed or worshipped? O...

Those pearly whites that you brush in the sink as you sing our favourite songs; In that cracked yet enchanting voice rich in memories of every argument we've ever had; Those glasses on your shapely nose thickened over years though it is time for a higher number; The sun glinting off the strands of coconut-oiled smooth hairs: white, grey and black; And that perpetually swelling medicine box shared between us from which I swallow what I see first... You asked for it, didn't you what I liked in you And I had to be honest about it? Of course you have silky black hair, and dazzling eyes, bewitching smile, sweet voice et cetera. Not that I don't like you this way, Of course I do. But when it comes to that... Glad you get the point! Published in Writing Love an Anthology of Indian - English Poetry , ed. Ashmi Ahluwalia; Rupa Publications 2010. ISBN 978-81-29116-66-6.

eternal embrace forgotten a myriad years in earthly shelter (based on http://news.bbc.co.uk/2/hi/europe/6338751.stm and composed in MSExcel. Do diphthongs constitute one or two syllables?)