bliss station ~ poetry

grey, & other inflammable objects

it's diwali & there's a feast. snake tablets grow
into black unwanted things, bitter molasses-like

statutory warning-like, visuals of oral cancer
& other burning birds. conversation-like,

like conversations, louder words, smiles put on
bright rivals for the rocket clawing at the night
with its final breath. its final breath a whistle.

chakri, whistlingly, spins like an angry little galaxy.

on third street, a car honks before a 1000-wala
both strange to waiting -

honk, boom.
honk, boom.
honk. boom.

all of this, of course, you cannot eat
the mound of plain steamed rice is golden brown now

the way you pour curd over it -
first the peak, then the fringes
& wait for them to meet.

the day after - newspaper bits blown off
ash & other grey feelings, & a sighing rain

sweeping everything away, dousing the lakshmis
the sparrows, hercules deluxes, two sounds
that rolled off, fell off, unlit into the grass.

~Ajay
30/10/19