I reached the end with breath to spare though now
the air is blanketed and reeks afoul;
I’d like to rest – savour whence I came, of
where this site was once sweet scent – pure until
contaminated by a Mumbai taint,
infected of its rank insanity.
You write obscenities in childish prose
which pose, you claim, as decent poetry.
Whichever way you dress your illness friend
through alias and foul abuse you’ve made
a mess you can’t escape. Too late my friend,
your last excuse has merely closed the gate;
the reckoning is just around the bend
with all your pseudonyms as thus exposed.
© 12 December 2007, I. D. Carswell
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