Monthly Archives: July 2010

The old bastard

So cozy, so fresh a warmth enveloping my old weary body
The dreams have prevailed and drifted to their deep dark cave
Leaving me reunited with a total satisfaction of a king’s rest
Though I yawn craving the one of flying rainbow colors
Anticipating that when the day’s no more, pillow to return
To linger through the glowing orchards of sleepers, dead and alive
And relinquish to the twin of death, away from–this farm hurts
The mooo and muuu sounds of cows, their breasts bursting with milk
The sordid disrespectful kids who vainly drag and brag despite to learn

Away from the farmers rackets and tractors that burst dust and noise
The sister’s who flaunt and blush —giggling and gossiping as they go
Their brothers, what a shame! same old story who’ll sleep with who and why?
Their unlearned folks, tampering our culture and tapering with age

Yes, a king on this fluffy pillow of ages who’s hand died- left me-widowed
But the morning’s good and blessed when you ooze your mind in comfort
It is twice blessed in that there’s no toil here, like a rock steady and unmoved
The dew’s cold outside and who’s that bastard who dare walk stirring it
And who’s that yokel who dare swim the lake startling the peaceful fish
Of who’s parents that lad belong, how dare he drive cattle’s on my farm

Wait till sun shines by the porch, the rocking chair—rocking and watching
Smoke of tobacco drifting from my Grandpa’s pipe, poor him to have left it
This farm has his ghost phantoms during the nights, his grave by the hill-rest
Where no kid or adult dare go, I’ve scared them away long time ago
Rocking and smoking, smoking and rocking here where it started and shall end
I’d be watching my farm, who goes where , how and why? Observing!
The ruthless creatures, unmannered, un-tamed, unlearned, uncircumcised—ugh!

But for now, better to relax, body’s old, weak and should resign from labor–hymm
To enjoy my foreign brandy and crack nuts to roast by the charcoaled hearth
Why should I be tilling this barren and ungrateful land, too stony, too unfruitful
Who cares, let the so called young blooded toil and till, perhaps they’ll yield the lot
Perhaps my stack of a million pounds buried by the willow root will last long
After all, who cares, old goat like me shouldn’t dare be concerned, after all death’s nigh

My long beard and mottled mustache, why think of fantasy under these clumsy lassies frowns. I’m mottoed of age, the label of the grannies and grandies, so fussy and gaunt, they reckon. Who cares, let them be for God sake, they’ll never grow old, perhaps this is immortal age. Anointed with elixir and all the portions of everlasting virgins and never aging blood. Blood bastards! even if I stink like dead mens foul, did you breasted me? Or napkin me? Even if I’m wild with the bottle, you say it’ll kill me, your doctors supports you—ahrrhhrrh

Eighty Seven years of life–you tell me that a child of yesterday who wouldn’t even reach nonagenarian. Who don’t even know the most sophisticated sonnet of Shakespeare–him Keats and others we’re of age. What a generation of fools, all from A to Z, none of them has yet revealed the secrets of life. Still they pretend as if they know, their governments, their scientists, doctors and teachers. What a league of ordinary gentlemen, God to have given life, what a waste of life! they’ll never learn. They say revolution, freedom, we’re setting up motives, we’re almost there—what a pity-(He cackles)

Sure to be a men enough, you could’ve experienced what we did, The wars of Hitler, Napoleon plans. The sinking ships and tankers under Germans ammunitions, the Russian, stupid dogs-protesting. Yes protesting and getting slaughtered like a bunch of unmoving dogs, blood on the child and blood on the mother. What a life, what have you to tell us, we’ve seen it all from Albert Einstein to Che Guevara