bliss station ~ poetry

room of none's own

I feel atoms glide down
the sleeves of fanwind pulsing
a solenoid field of diamondair
in the closed room.

I see the CFL sunrise
behind the himalayan range
of clothes drying on the line
hooked on wallparting curtainrods.

time unbatteried in the clock robotly
hammers the 2 cornered on its circleface.

in the velvet peeled sofacushions
I find mansa musa's hajj paused
atop the desert kingdom
of a godrej almirah knockoff.

the blushing basket of knotted socks
is vasudeva carrying an infant krishna.

my fatherdirted towel is shroud of turin.

his office uniform is a tall magician's
dogcuffed coat. to-wash heap
is jormungandr shed.

the clothburied deodorant is a panther's

shoulder blade black from its skin as it rips

apart a garden creature. the curtain itself frozen

in a verywrinkled skinsation of being loved

in pillowcase winter.

frozen like ears a flesh whirlpool timestopped

about to surrender as two drops refuse to let go

sustaining on persistent whisperwhorls.

moonlittered night bitterglows & the only

warmnaked gap of air, like the necessary

brevity of joy, is slight & high at the brim

of the room, unscalable for darkinside so I

reach towards thee-o cloudyboobed goddess

ofsky, through a windowveil, chant a gargle

of lowthroat sounds, frogdrone to boneset

the fractured night with trident veins on my

palms furled in a fist, knuckles four eyeless

earfused elephantheads, their trunks squarecut

to hide pruned fingernail crowns.

but the door opens into a view
of other rooms & more doors
& gravity is magic but not.

I need to save electricity. I need
to buy batteries. I need to take
the clothes off. I need to stop

epifying. the bridge of my nose
will not cross me rivers.

~Ajay
28/5/2020