In the disorder of my room,
I've lost my mop, and my broom.
To find them, I need careful digging,
I plan to hire an archealogy team.
In the layers of read articles, scribbled notes
lie many unfinished poems, quotable quotes;
many unsolved problems of soft matter research,
and my valiant attempts at them, you can unearth.
You can find my correspondences with her,
whose leaving has mushroomed cans of beer,
these beer cans piled as pyramids adorn my window,
its hard to hide them, in them, (you know).
This state's acquired by months of neglect,
I treat my chaos with lots of respect.
Here, there are unmarked graves of memories,
must keep them hushed for a few centuries.
Even the duster and the dustbin,
must be reported as dead or missing,
but if all is cleared and all is clean,
where will then reside this chaotic being?
July 04, 2006.
11:00 am;
Motivating myself to clean my room.
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