i was born in a gutter and i see no reason
even after years of good smells i’d forget
the evolution of things in an olfactory order
and act like, like india, all along all along as if it belongs
among the strong, flashing guns, flashing cocks in the back
and in the front, standing atop some statue some shitstone
preaching what it takes to be a great land of all
—no, never, i know where i come from

i belong to the gutter
and i cannot hope to enjoy the palatial comforts
maybe it will be an exception
if the king dies of gonorrhea
and if his bastards kill each other off
but i do know the odour will stay on
i carry my root
not even the army boot dare ruin it

i’ll go back to the gutter
and play me no bloody farewell songs
only the gutter knows what it feels like to be a gutter
what it feels like to be in a gutter
what’s really in a gutter
and it’s already a tragedy in itself
there’s already enough of gutters
—supernumerary, just as the word is

ps: if we go by the western traditional meaning of a gutter, it might bring about a whole new definition, with its orderliness and all. but in our daily life, a gutter or a khongbaan, is a natural sort of drainage and it needs neither concrete nor planning. it exists because it does.



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