Drunk on Cohen, again.

I keep telling myself there is a world out there to explore, while i refuse to move on from just one poet. How, I wonder sometimes, is my obsession with the existential despair of Cohen's poetry, the cynical prophecy of Dylan, or even my undying appreciation for the clever romanticism of Ghalib's and Ramesh Parekh's poetry any different from my mother's obsession with the plain sentimental poetry of Befaam (to the point that she used to fancy as a teenager that someday she'll heal Befaam's broken heart with her love). Like I was discussing with Mitesh the other day, we all have our Asharam Bapus. Well, here's a piece from one of mine: Cohen, again.

I am locked in a very expensive suit

old elegant and enduring

Only my hair has been able to get free

but someone has been leaving

their dandruff in it

Now I will tell you

all there is to know about optimism

Each day in hub cap mirror

in soup reflection

in other people's spectacles

I check my hair

for an army of alpinists

for Indian rope trick masters

for tangled aviators

for dove and albatross

for insect suicides

for abominable snowmen

I check my hair

for aerialists of every kind

Dedicated as an automatic elevator

I comb my hair for possibilities

I stick my neck out

I lean illegally from locomotive windows

and only for the barber

do I wear a hat.