It is as ugly as the antithesis of peacock
you used to call it limpy creepy
you may love it hate it
he doesn’t seem to bother
he closes his eyes two-third of of the day, on the sunny powdery beach
in the island of spices
he stands out against time
there’s no trace of evolution in his contour
he is willing to tell the story of three generations
his rows of teeth make chunks out of your limbs
cut out the meat, and your masculinity empowered
drink up the eggs raw, you’d feel being a ruler of a dynasty
but the earth is on the move
the solitary beastly lizard comes nearer to the huts
not even sneaking
mothers, daughters, innocent blood
are offerings for the myth
and when there’s no more fisherpeople
whose tale is to be told?
for vicky feaver workshop, guided by meena kandasamy
SL lab
Picturesque Inda 