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


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