Jyothi

Jyothi- the pompous pleasure-citadel,
On whom perched the parched people,
With their squinting eyes as lusty eagle,
And pronouncing ghastly, gusty syllables.
Her fragrance - a morgue of million men mating,
For their sloppy seconds they are waiting.
The hot oil boils on the black and brown body,
The smile on the faces does satisfaction embodies.
The stained robes of every man's space,
With loathsome fleas and flies are laced.
With my prying eyes I flee,
When the their eyes stare at me -
From the "pork-hotel"Jyothi,
beyond the sight could ever foresee.