There was an incident in Mumbai involving an item girl, a bold performer female and far too female and stagey sexuality, a pop singers birthday bash, where the item girl pecks the singer on his cheek, he bites more than a mouthful, liplocked agony, warring tempers, a fight between the singers body guard and the item girls companion.She rushes to the Police and lodges a complaint. This was first page news, a channel went on and on and on and on with the clips of the bash. Last evening this stage managed media event was live, with the item girl shedding crocodile tears and , she wants an apology from the Popped and Pooped Singer through the media and the police.And what more can I tell you of Castrated Indian News.. yet not come of Age. And there is so much to India, an India that touches and heals, India that is a love poem..India that is a Diwali wrapped as a Xmas gift , opened as Sheer Korma on Idd. my poem.. just a footnote fuck forums..I write poetry ..that is jumbled words mastubated thoughts , I stain the unsanctimoniousness of my pajama like poetic plethora..with a a prosaic pause.The picture for this poem is the gyrating posterior of a Eunuch. Late night bash And what a splash Page 3 And all the trash Someplace else Birthday blues Birthday boy Bad boy In the news Singer Swinger Kisses Item girl Locked lips Item girl trips And tiger Leaps Item girl weeps Media Lose no sleep India news Now we weep Molested Stunted publicity An item girl and Media creep. So frickin cheap. BAA BAA Black sheep News channels Couch potatoes Voyeurs And all for Keeps Newsprinted Garbage heaps and heaps.

All throughout childhood I stood waiting for a day of no bad news: no car crashes no blood stains on white shirts not another earthquake no robberies no divorces no projectile vomiting. I fantasized about my family, seated with a bucket of popcorn (perhaps a bottle of champagne for the adults? a can of soda for me?), to watch as across the room from us on TV the news reporters, now jobless and dumbfounded, gave us blank stares, even yawned a little. My little awkward body getting lost in the crunchy taste of salt, in the laughter of grown ups, in the clink clank of glasses kissing each other mid-air: it was possible, it could happen. Still some days now, trees on fire in the paper and a crying girl, and I turn the volume all the way up, hold my breath. With a bowl of oatmeal in my hands, in my pajamas, still I am seven years old, buzz cut and bare hands, waiting a wait that smells of cinnamon, waiting for a news reporter to look into the camera, pause for a second or two, then tell us THIS JUST IN: EVERYONE YOU KNOW, EVERYONE YOU DON’T, THEY’RE DOING JUST FINE AND WE’VE GOT NOTHING MORE LEFT TO SAY, SO GO WASH YOUR CAR, GO FOLD YOUR WARM CLOTHES, GO WAIT OUTSIDE IN THE STREETS, IT’S A GOOD DAY FOR A SUNBURN AND THE ICE CREAM TRUCK IS ON ITS WAY