Rancid rant

And no i will not compromise!

Why should i?

Did i work less?

smile less?

report less?

write less?

perform less?

discuss less?

advise less?

manage less?

Yes i did not -

warm up to you 

snigger at lame jokes 

laugh at sexist jibes

tolerate idiocy and sycophancy 

passed counterfeit data 

blew up time for 'right' moments 

cosy up in corridor meetings 

And that is the precise reason, Mr. Asshole !

That i deserve all that you claim

appropriated by goddamn history!

And i will have it, my way - someday!

He is a poet

Because he can afford to - 

He writes poetry dipped in sensitive phrases 

laced with kind, soft musings about a female heart. 

The first kiss on her lips

the soft touch of her skin - for the first time. 

She is just his wife -

being made so the night before -

washing the stains of the bloodied sinful sheet furiously 

sobbing and crying and wetting her dishevelled hair.

He looks at her 

writes another verse 

of her pain 

the stab of his virility

taking away her innocence. 

She cries 

continues to cry. 

His verse unbale to reach her 

penetrates the world 

with amazing sensitivity. 

Brilliant the poet 

emerges on the canon

Rising above mounds of tears

Because he bloody could afford so! 

Am not writing...am ranting

Am not writing - 

creating a beautiful architecture 

measuring words in teaspoons of rhyme, rhythm, candor 

loading with intertextual metaphors in history and theory 

Am ranting. 

I don't have the luxury 

to weigh 

to balance 

to contemplate 

to think through. 

Poetry is not a hobby for me 

it's a reflex 

when one of you groped and fled 

whistled and sniggered 

catcalled and dragged 

Poetry is not a search for me

it's where i belong 

after each night of violation 

where i curl up in peace 

after draining my tears 

In tiara of words. 

Am not writing, am ranting.