India has seeped into my skin like constant rain

I am a monsoon man where all about me is constant sorrow

And sometime joy. The beggar and the fake , the real and unreal

Here illusion rains into reality as storm surges into light

Time a meaningless word

A memory present is already past.

A face glaring in the mirror,

A woman pleads in the slum,

A walk under Tamil stars with a holy man

And a beggar with no eyes and hands

Calls out prayers of poverty on to the fingertips of his lost angels.

His footpath a call to life, and the dangerous rain, a call to life , for what else is there but life because to roll over is not an option.

Nobody escapes, here everybody shits in the same river, rich or poor.

My LSD is in my chai , it strokes my wild hair.

I can leave anytime I want that’s a truth not denied,

Go back to suburbia, get my dole check, drink my life away,

But India, never leaves me,

For I am stuck inside her web, sold, souled, and stroked.

from book Fierce Light 2016 by Littlefox Press.