Posted by: Shiva Nagri | 11 March, 2013




Off, the door knobs
and its mahogany frames.
opened and closed forever.
blinkin’ and blottin’
like an Orangutan’s testicle.
T as  it is supposed to B.
is sipping me away.
No Cosmos. No Nothing.
I have turned into
a Crème Cuncaal,
floating bone powder,
boiling tender flesh,
spliced up and spruced down,
lithium loads into me,
a sun full of steroids,
and voids,
of depths of pain and restrain.
It used to be
acute sometimes,
sometimes obtuse,
and now,
it is obstinately obsolete again.
Right it wants to be,
wrong; it’s in pain.
A while ago,
a white ecstatic filmstrip
passes by,
in a red Rumified light,
it burns,
in its silvery ego,
in fumes of desires and destiny, dries,
raises itself like a paradoxical cloud
into the intergalactic smoke
and smog.

A luna-laid dervish
drives a quadbike
into a sea full of tears
into Pushkar,
with plentiful of beers.


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