Magic show.
She is sitting by me.
Though not watching.
I’ve learnt a new magic.
Cell phone.
Light blinks on the LCD.
Swashes on her breasts.
A phoenix is caged there.
I can perceive.
Out of the theater.
A junk-food corner.
‘Wanna have some?’ And seeped out what was something of a devotion
or blood or both.
The packet of chips is
emptying itself fast.
Diminishing with every passing step. Side by side.
And the steps would be diminished at a familiar doorstep.
Or a LoC, one relative quantum.
Nothing ends in nothing, or does it?
An emptying thought is chasing us long.
We are waiting for the claws to clutch. Anytime now.
And then my notepad muttered,
“I gathered this strand of heather
The autumn remembers you in
We’ll not see ourselves on ground anymore
Odor of time, strand of heather
And remember that I awaited you”
Why this? Why now? Is everything emptying itself?
Is that emptying feel is chasing us to the end of an unfamiliar shade?
The staircase
It is only few steps from the bazaar, this staircase.
I’m parking myself there.
A plump woman passes by.
A brunet.
Masticating.
Another one now. A girl of twenty- twenty-two.
Swinging black bag. Hoofed footwear. Unknown variables, naturally.
Suppose I introduce them to each other…
a storyline could easily be drawn in such circumstances.
Maybe a mystery plot.
But not now, later sometimes.
Right now I’m not in a feel of it.
An ice-candy man is right in front of me.
The ice-candy man is oblivious of these verities.
As all ice-candy men are by
natural history.
His lone apprehension is to summon
all the human folks of the world to his feast of iced candy.
‘Ice-candy…cool candy…all candy…’ deconstructed word-forms.
Reaching crescendos in a boring regularity.
A loin rag around his face, like fear himself, as if to fright away the children.
In this parameter I’m getting sick by the sight of a woman.
The first passer-by was a fat pot; the other was a model like.
A couple of ladies right now.
They too. Nice ones. Nice, but too many. Too much. Too much women around.
This cluster of women is making me feel sick.
Like vomiting.
If she is around at this time, chances are she would make me feel no different.
If I do vomit ultimately on her face she won’t return anymore.
That’s only very natural.
Maybe she could just invent a new detergent to clean up my brain.
There’s a deep sense of obliteration building up somewhere.
For instance,
yesterday I told her ‘I’ll suffocate you with my bare hands.
And then I’ll savor your flesh. Such…hunger.’
But then, I’ll better leave the breasts and buns.
Too much fat.
Then should I export these fleshes to nations poorer than us?
Are they starving?
I’ll better sell them at a damn cheap rate…
some one wrote “two thousand per month and a female like a fresh melon
I ask nothing more to start with”.
Nonsense! Utter rubbish! Slogan.
I read out this poem to her.
Her eyes tickled.
Maybe she was feeling the same sensation in and around her waistline.
Her comment was, ‘send the poet to senate’.
Well! She really didn’t spoke out these words
but might have thought it anyhow.
Sometimes thoughts and spoken words do blend well
just like a seed and its forthcoming foliage.
Maybe this philosophy is a ten thousand years old antiquity, junk.
But still I do need her for eternity,
even if it’s a single night’s relish.