Night

chinese lanterns – popcorn – photographs
old records – mozzarella – sweatpants
heat – bollywood clinging – seabreeze
stench of rum on a collar
untimely teardrop of a cloud
a window curtained by
shadows contemplating union

culminating in a linen cove
a script – generous parentheses
suggesting a future lunge
confirmed by fingers hinging
a rain percussions for the ceiling fan
to take bass, while a duet
swells the air, repaints walls,
deafens the city for the time being

Advertisements

Night

12.11 am. Let it begin. Raincoats soaked,
teapots cloaked
by thick steam, the murmurs of shadows
passing in and out of their faces

Books browse the breeze, their flaps open
pages stroked and shivered
unwritten bits whispered as wants
sitting on moist ears

Like a workshop, the bed, busy and frantic
rises and falls like an ocean, whose waves
travel towards the silent coasts of windows
faraway and sleeping

Travels

I let my words go last night
They travelled cold deserts under a sage moon
Whispering ancient secrets to still oases
Silently calling scattered gazelles and foxes
To come drink together

They traversed countless dunes and entered a town
Where shops were shutting and drunks were rising
Filling every house slowly like opium
Eventually arriving at every mother’s lip
Each growing
into a different story

Much later they reached a sparkling port
Ships carrying dates and saffron anchored momentarily
They dissolved into each sleeping sailor’s dream
Becoming peaceful prayers
For battles to come

Like all words they tired too
And cuddled in a moving caravan and fell asleep
Someday I might find them again
Dressed in a different language with changed names
I hope they might remember me
And teach me poetry all over again

BO S 012

the train gathers faces and departs gradually
stench of clogged creeks wash its spilling sides
a fresh drizzle carpets upcoming platforms
whose contents look towards the clock anxiously
each station adds stories to an obese train
that overflow from its sides like a grotesque sandwich
blurs of the night dot the scenery outside
the train takes with it the sounds coming from factories
and slums too, even collecting glances and stares
from dimly lit windows and car windshields
it empties itself bit by bit at every stop
losing weight slowly through the humid night
towards the end becoming hollow and nearly lifeless
lit by the fluorescence of flickering tubes
hummed by slanting ceiling fans thick with dust
it offers its open ribs to its programmed end
where a full platform awaits