the waif's agenda seen mother fall like the evening, tired, on last night's preserved bed sheet, that the prude sun shuns. the partnering grime covered light bulb shadow floats on an ocean of moss greened wall. the man beside, hollow chested, liquor pickled and a regulation cigarette lost between yellow decaying teeth. she, somehow, has drowned her sense of smell; sweat and urine plastered thick on her reason to differentiate. this ritual one more time. of looking askew - while the skeletal form heaves and ebbs in abstract pleasure. the bed creaks shamelessly as ever before. she has lost touch. its 50 rupees tonight. nothing more. "son of a whore". the boy is slapped once again. mother didn't bring forth a daughter. the scourge of ages passes by. only to return in a new guise. the turmoil of origin searches blank faced in the crucible of respectability. child of void. seeking asylum in his asking. the autoconsoling feebly echoes the capsiecin question. mother your infirmity to tell who's seed i manifest or will the footsteps on the creaky staircase stand witness, dumb to your spurned tears.
Pradeep N. Mane's Questions:
Was wondering what thoughts would be going around in a prostitute's son's mind. Most of what I have written in this poem is culled from movies/mags.
Also wanted to brutally depict the hovel in which these people live. It is more Indian in its imagery and setting but feel it could be universal?
Do you feel i am able to convey my thoughts?