Swollen-faced simian spread-eagled
Red lead-smeared
fixed in a shrine that squatted
like a screwed-up leper
On burning beggar footpath
Tearing his macho chest as if at public behest
Anemic Siya-Rama with the just-married's celluloid shock
Sulking in the hulking's homosapien hemoglobin flood rock

He is one of the seven immortals
Seventh Day- Adventist's immortal hope
though he never died
Living for all the seven ages
Never indulged in seven deadly sins
Would never get angry if anybody
Bhima or Ravana
Tampered with his prehensile tail
Would never be proud though he courted adversities
Befitting his masculinity
Gulping the sun, lifting the Himalaya,
So abstemious that ate nothing but fruits and roots
So agile that flew across the seven seas in a single breath
So lustless that steered clear of everything feminine till date
Because he is a brahmachari
Who never shed a dropp of semen
Who surges with virility
Because he never wanted to push his way back into pre-natal protection
Unlike all the sissy sered dogs
Death's head dachshunds
Who scamper away straightening their sickle-shaped tails
So deftly between their legs that
They give the impression of being belligerent Dobermans
Afraid of being hurt by unhurled stones
Seeking shelter in vulvas of bitches at every fateful night
Risking their semelparous sexuality
And who still graffiti urine-jet ablutions over the walls of his shrine

'Women should not enter the inner part of the shrine'�
and
'Everybody should keep their shoes out.'�

And who sniff at every
Dilapidated dome and pulverized home
To ascertain whether 'Rama'- written stones
Smell of the same stale urine graces or not.

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