Conch, Conjure

They commodified you
in Modern Times,
as Chaplin mimes,
to ignorant fools
en masse.

A la carte
is how you are
served, fate
on a silver
platter, feet
dancing to
the clatter,
pitter, patter.

Peter Parkers
don’t find the
time to be
existentialist.

And Mary Jane
whatsername’s
too caught up
in the womb
of Mother
Earth, or
a spider’s
web.

You commodified me,
in 2001: A Space Odyssey,
did you notice the tablet screen
iPad? I thought I saw a
tabula rasa?

Rakshasa!
Selling spirits
on the rocks,
gal arrakku,
narikala,
they will
call it.

Nagha,
coiled and
recoiled, they
will reconcile
you, not before
ridiculing you.

I commodified my Self
when I turned ink
from pen, to words
from mind, mind you,
not, no, thank you,
but I digress,
my moral compass
never points to it –
Self.

Words from time-
immemorial, symbols
of continuous lines,
hand-drawn in the
sand, kolam, swastik,
flower of life.

Conch, conjure
soul eruption,
through feet
to head,
let not blood
be shed.

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