Our Nirvana

Keep them in mothballs
In your moth-infested ancient wardrobe
Your winter dresses in summer
And those out-of-date ideas of an idiot.

Who said we are hollow men?
Our insides are crammed with many feet of guts
With fillings of proteins and vitamins and vintage drinks
So we have the guts to say with a shrug,
'Am I my brother's keeper?'
When in neighbourly love
Our brother is butchered in the bazar
Causing no alarm or inconvenience to us,
To our shopping in the butcher's,
Unflutteringly waiting for that happy day
When we shall get plenty of carcass of a kindred kind
In a gravy of blood.
Tomorrow
It may be my turn though
Till then
Why not fill and invigorate the manly guts of mine?

Who said we are hollow men?
Our outsides are continuous fashion shows
Showing those coils of curves and contours
Made pointedly prominent
With well-tailored synthetic vests
Venus mounding under much-used modish jeans
Luring and lubricating our salivary glands.
To condition a good appetite all the time
We have streamlined our entire system
By non-use of the useless to atrophy
And culturing with aphrodisiac
Our most vital autonomic things.
Better than Pavlov's dogs fed only on occasions,
We are hungry in season and out of season
And all time is feed time and bed time to us.
True, we often have diseases of this kind or that
But they do respond to drugs
Why don't you also start taking these drugs
To bury in blissful oblivion
The canker in your imaginary soul?
As for us
We can do without any such non-existent thing.
It is nothing but your ennui
Caused by lack of exercise and indigestion.
To cure it be gay, have some frolic and fun.
Had your so-called soul been something tangible
We would certainly have advised an outright transplant.

It's you who are hollow
For stuffing you imagine things –
They are mere opiates
Invented by your witch doctors
To induce credulity in overcredulous fools.
Don't be a fool, come and join us
With our loving aids
Your vulgar disease will pass.
Get over your inhibition
You will find your liberation
Your much sought salvation
In our lemming-like orgiastic self-immolation.

Don't say again our land is waste
It is full of factories, skyscrappers and nuclear plants,
A lot of noise and fumes
And balls of dust like huge mushrooms
Cumulatively churned up with our dreams
From the bowels of the uncomplaining earth
Made to yield up
Much of what we honestly perhaps don't need.
In what you call divine discontent
We relentlessly, inexorably seek our surfeit
To satisfy our endless appetite
Till in a crescendo
We achieve our nirvana
In a bacchanalian beatitude.

So don't stand aloof like a fool
And miss the bus
But come and join us
Your disease will pass.
There is no choice either
For we are breeding and spreading
Like virulent vermins
Insidiously everywhere
Even in your blood.
So better come and join us
And find eternal bliss
In our painless salvation of suicide.
Amen!