48) Hawking

Dreams of a nihilist kind
Are boring at best, and its tough
To be a genius
In a world of ‘geniuses’.

The tiredness of my limbs is making me type these words.

The typing continues
As I wrap my fingers around my phone
As I dream awake at night
As I plan
Another day of new determinations.

A little fiber is more than enough
A litte cockroach
To give you a sense of existence.
My fingers are more than enough.

And a little fiber is more than enough
A little cockroach
To tell you that you are
A cockroach a fiber a deathless
Finger wriggling on the top of a table.

Dreams of a nihilist kind
In which a pistol a bomb a piece
Of fried leg a lullaby a song a dream

Wriggles like a little cut finger on a table.
They keep me awake.

And they call me a genius.
And they call me Hawking.
And I just want to ‘know’.

And they just want to dance
To my invisible jokes they don’t
Understand because, I am a genius.

(14/03/18, Palampur, On Hawking’s death)

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