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Pyromaniac's hands The night pulp spreads out: recycled, cheap newsprint; a grey serum of a whey. The pyromaniac hands of the tall lamp posts write the late version in comic sans. Down below...from the footpath the grim-reaper looks up: beggarly; how dependent upon me. The air has a fever; I cannot ride his back— I catch him in short breaths. The trachea compress, smiling slight; I bear... to send me to the morn; again. On the window-sill, the carcass of the book sits without a character; it befits the meat hung in the shop of a butcher. I rub my face in its page, it is full of cry: an ember left by the fire. |
1001 Nights You thrust the thermal-proof beaker into my mouth; its embossed scale-markings hurt; makes me sick. I might as well be one. Recurringly, you read: acrid, now rancid; yes, the seeds of my mouth are are saline beads.. that I bite with my teeth. I thought role Scheherazade lay in wait for me. It is but, the red-beaked parrot in your head that eats up my sun-flower. In the dark of the dungeon the vaseline of the melted moon dabs itself on the chapped skin. The 1001 nights keep repeating the orphan stories. |
Finished, reading a Book I’ve seen strong, sure hands of Men shutting books with a snap flicking it onto the desk after reading a book. Quarter of the dapper wrist watch peeping out of their cuff sleeves, despite the links; while they lunge for a cigarette or a cup of coffee. I’m sure, women will agree how lousy they are while trying the same act. With their manicured hands, they’d caress the book cover, feeling the length and breadth; slender fingers with fancy rings on some will stop by each leaf, touching the papyrus, the words, the spaces therein, while the eyes tries to re-read the text with no restraint. |
Minister's Wife They say—spices lose their flavours...esp. cinnamon; it has to be bottled up with a tight fitting lid... to be taken out— crushed and grounded. Nothing beats that fresh scent—for seasonings. He says—“wife, though you are dull and dark... you have a scent of a cinnamon bark...I must not allow you to dry up in that kitchen rack.” Elections are harrowing times; I hear— “ministers season their campaigns with compassionate issues.” |
--I Wish --it wasn’t all grey and bleak; but then, I can always picture myself dangling off the Ashoka tree...like it’s bright orange flowers. They say—it made buddha-a sorrow-less being. --I was a Jackson Pollock drip painting spread on the floor; he transformed the canvas into modern day arena: with epic struggle in long continuous bloody lines. --I could as well be a lone feather... a goose plume—out from a shuttle-cock; falling down, from the high above: limbs frayed...ruffled. Its thud... is always silent. |