1. To the Apostle of k**ing Degeneration Thunderlight had startled your eyes like an ape's, and the ministers you ushered into a dungeon as if drugged by your doctrine of cool degradation, (elsewhere in the Sundarbans it's thought about in frightened honey-collectors' sagas of conquest) : as bad omens like numerals dawned on your eyes, emasculated hopes dwindled and clogged you all, all of you at every ill-starred turn you took. Confused as you were, you preached coves' struggle as futile in that Delta's thick mangroves, not the evils degenerated spirits and the militia did nor the lilt of a calm neurotics syncopated the pilgrims of indifference limping by inches; Lord, you drove back through Purgatory to Hell. 2. To the Apostle of Absolute Malice All of a sudden like a swarm of African k**er-bees, you came up buzzing all around me harshly the diamond-hard apostle of absolute malice, the lord of the scoundrels, of bloody scavengers, and of curt diplomats in the ministry of malice. Yes, it was the unruffled air that filled with vowels and consonants slaving at your arrival. I felt fear banging down my spine, and saw your eyes, blood-shot and always eager for the k**, watching me soak my glittering sweat with a towel and resting by sorrows and grief my allotted sacks. Later as I sank under the weight of one big sack, a grin on your lips bloomed like a white lotus; Lord, it's so kind of you letting it flash like a flower