poetry, trails of thought

Fudge [or nudged and budged (but not yet beloved)]


For people of my caste –

and cast I am

on lonely sees

where nothing is herd-

ed to any desti-

nation or state of mine-


I know of clearly enough –

the stuff of snuff-

ed existence overpowers my


sis to the extent that being

an object-

or of inconscience fa-


lying homily of grate-

r Gouda: the pungency of

food records its pass-

age through time.


And a fudged budged nudge

is not only dishonest on your

part: it is also that awful symptom

on my part: my failure to extend

myself honestly without artificial

tool: I can be no individual soul if

all I am is the ownership-

less sum of the support you provide

(neither ownership-

free ever and a day;

never and a day;

no freedom I know of;

no joyous existence I knew of …).


And this is why fudged nudge is such

a fiddle for me: for if I can only achieve

what I do by fraudulently, hiddenly,

unattributedly, unauditedly,

riding on your backs, on your wisdoms, on

your beautiful thoughts, on you ingenuities,

on your genius … then what am I

but a …

… cheat?