An Old Bicycle Tyre
Arun Kolatkar
An old bicycle tyre
I may be
– a bald wheel peel,
an endless eel,
a wobbly zero,
a spastic shunya –
but that doesn’t mean
I’m ready
to hang myself
up on a finial yet,
or rot
on a mossy rooftop
in the company
of a three-legged chair,
a left shoe grinning
from ear to ear,
and a homeless snail
caught
in the vicious circle
of my cunt.
...
And I’m not about
to join some silly commune
of ascetic
bicycle tyres
that live in colonies
on treetops
and, on no-moon nights,
are said to rise in flocks
to just freewheel,
chase each other from
horizon to horizon,
mate freely,
or play skygames
all night long,
before returning to their perches
on host trees
in the small hours
of the morning
– there to remain
in suspended animation
until the next
no-moon night.
All bunk, if you ask me,
And besides,
I just don’t see myself
up there, somehow,
on a batty banyan
or a grandiose raintree.
...
I certainly don’t intend
to let cicadas
piss on me,
bats shit on me,
or a Taccardia Lacca
varnish my hide.
No way.
I would immolate myself
and stink up a fine
winter morning
to warm some shivering bums
by the roadside
rather than listen
to a cricket tuning up
his one-inch
electric Stradivarius,
let alone a whole
orchestra of crickets
performing
under the stars
and indulging itself
in pseudo–
Wagnerian excesses,
God forbid.
...
Certainly
not as long as
there’s enough mileage
left in me
to give
a slap-happy boy
a good run
for his money
or enough boys
left in the world
to give me
a good hard slap
on the bottom,
followed by another,
and then another
in quick succession.
I shudder
every time I get a whack,
but that’s what keeps me
going I guess,
what I actually
live for.
And what I want to
know is,
when you’re my age,
how many boys
will still be running
after you,
Mam?
Chandrabhaga-5