not
chic, not debonair.
like
a surrealist’s imagination of anatomy
it’s
clumsy, distorted and nauseating.
but
the bleeding wound on the forehead
is
hot red
as
the deep romantic chasm
in
the centre-spreads of mod mags.
it
was just hopping on the ground
like
the slaughtered head of a chick
before
a moment.
the
eyes were aglow with tears,
(alas,
they are now dead as dumb-bells)
the
sensuous lips are turning muddy brown
like
drought-hit earth.
the
luscious cheeks are getting dried hollows
like
a rotten apple.
it
never claimed for a headline or hotline—
the
teleprinter went on tick-ticking the sports-flashes.
the
camera feasted on the nude beaches.
it
is as compassionate as the
wrinkled
face of mother Teresa.
darkness
has settled like dust
upon
the sad face of agony .
it
craves for lime light,
miss
Anees Jung,
make
it a cover page agony.
the
poor head of a killed harijan !
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