tea glass clinks dot the drizzle, my butterfly ears approving
[ in & around captain's corner, teas & snack ] as I spill
kafka on the cigarette stubbed floor, I see - hey guys
look there - we see, a lone discarded jaggery bun
on the road, soaking up all the rain
[ on the road ]
no, I'm not on instagram [ on the phone
on the slab ] what are the odds
of algorithm being destiny -
it rained as we predicted earlier [ working memory ]
during a bunked class, in rosemilk thickness
pointing our longer than law arms at the clouds
like boys weathering into men, as we watched
a woman [ by the out of business amul ice cream parlor ]
argue with a shopkeeper [ in his provision store ]
how the green dishsoap is 3x better
than the yellow one, as proved on tv
by the daily soap actress.
guys, guys, guys
the world stops -
as we chant around the slab altar [ bell tower shade ]
a deer tricks by, our antlers hair over our laps
our laps air filled with faces
truth or dare -
truth: two hours on insta, what's your handle
mine is I can't handle this much vanity
this much icky yellow newness.
[ long term memory ] to eee words, the principal
becomes princey, the vice principal, in class five
our new vicey told us our mothers [ ]
were homemakers not housewives.
dare: do a happy dance.
inside, through the velcro flap gates, of bouncy castles
[ policed daily 10 pm ] soft curled toes kicking soft
curled toes, biting the inflated rubber's toxic taste
ripping on a strap of someone's clothes, pushing
the weak kid down then petal down themself adorably
[ aged five six seven eight this is stupid take me to
balloooon shooooting nine ten eleven let's go
to the restaurant instead ] put saucer ears
to the blubbering sounds of air swinging tide
by tide into the very fabric we're standing on
we wait [ by the velcro flap gate ] mechanism
murdering magic, for the twenty rupee time
to expire.
wait to hit reply, don't come off desperate, turn off
read receipts, wait to hit when [ where ] it hurts most.
[ & snack ] the fritter oil spill turning the newspaper
see through, the words awaiting trial in the air
like I spill kafka [ in the air ]
strangely, I feel a wanting to open a velcro sleeve
in some body & tear [ tears ] into it
when everything is casually together & I'm
causally alone [ discarded, on the road, soaking ]
with a sharp halo waiting for my skin to ripen
but there is no body in range [ of my senses ]
thrust through the butterfly wings, what a violence
is my face - no solace of smoke, none of those
ochre filters mine [ around captain's corner, tea
& snakes] or sin or providence or fleshy agape
after men weather back into upgrowing boys -
[ of my senses ] & their sleeve gates are unfurled
in a faraway wind wistfully fluttering over bodies
wiping their bloody shoes on magic carpets
to erase the final trace of me, continuing
to end [ in the end ] the swinging tide
[ in me ] just continuing.
~ Ajay
17/7/2020
YOU ARE READING
bliss station ~ poetry
Poetry~ where is your bliss station / you have to try to find it ~
