Deathwish

I want to be sweet and clear and free, as half a line of Auden, or an episode of the Powerpuff Girls; I want to be dew, and honest with mine, like Bob Marley, or Boesman the Boer. I want to swing and get it right at the speed of Pollock’s light, I want to be deep like Zulu, tight like Tamil, and trust my sense of Sanskrit true with little shame for its will. I want to dabble in the fields ignorant of what I was doing, rub myself on the ruins with a self-induced disease and gleefully lapse the hope to be heard. I want to fix my favourite English words into the forty-fifth century— haw, for instance, or luminary— hiding them in a snatch of prose… passed over in silence like Wittgenstein, no evidence for myself or Laura Riding, like Bharathiyar going mad composing, I want to dissolve into our language printing too little for my age; I want to be obscure but not leaden, flippant if I feel like it, then I don’t mind being called poetically shitty in a note from Manohar Shetty, writing into the time we’ve borrowed, singing from our utter boredom; I want to hold in me the heat of my combustion and leave this sweat-smear as a resurrection: I want to be sweet and clear and free, insouciant, insufferable, just like me.