The kitchen’s windowpane sits tight ,basking in the sun’s morning glow . Our women love the sun but not when making tea.
There are trees in pane waving in the wind. Their birds chirp at dawn, their speckled throats heaving up and down, as we calmly eat breakfast.
It is not winter yet and its fog is yet to blind its eyes.Later when the sun turns angry, he will beat it down on its smoothness of cheeks ,gate-crashing kitchen invading our women’s privacy as they make our tea and the gas-flame will lose its blue face in the glare. In the end the pane has to embrace its dark night.
You may ask what it is that breeds poetry from nocturnal thought, a green inspiration from decay, a smell of infestation and death. You now turn around , excessively aware of a role soon coming to an end on the stage, while the green room there is still gaping open with dress-clothes, a paint drying in its tubes.
Our scripted dialogues point to our role’s end a green grease-paint never to be put on again a director and prompter dead in their tracks.
We still have our green faces grotesquely moving. The brows are still dancing of love and death. Can we come back to make one last show please, we ask, before we can finally go back to backwaters in our snake-boats of grotesquely paddling oars all asynchronously moving towards somewhere?
Here in fidelity to life we have stretched our own selves,our shadows at noon soon trailing past us. Nothing happens day and night by ongoing recall of existence.
Our books are Warholean art on their way to maximalist creations with verisimilitudinous detail who did where , what and why with many a how’s explaining.
Our phone happens on a ring ,a morning ritual of dissecting men in yawning daily rituals ,their common most ablutions painted as earth’s revolutions
Our tales are by way of acknowledgements of existences, boring tiny holes in time and holes will vanish in bigger holes,in empty spaces. Nothing happens except in time.
At the night’s end is our own book of what we have printed all along ,a certain recorded history in pages that lie buried in collective memory.
Memory is a little wiggling thing in creatures of future skies made of acerbic acid of little shape, a rogue tongue wagging little hope, with a rasping sarcasm where it curls.
Our book is not in papyrus of river but an electric thought streaming through myriad acid rivers of time flowing relentlessly to grand irony.
It does not add up on some days.
The drone goes on ‘tween the ears .Existence is a few heads bobbing up on the blue space beyond the spiked gate.
A mere serious girl clicks her shoes on the waking ground in oval motion after midnight crows pierced a night waiting for tomorrow’s early dawn .A seller man is sitting under the lake trees spilling beans on the red and blue bags.
It does not surely add up on some days.
Yesterday night we had heard another act of disappearing. As the television news hour went on as a battle of bright wits , the disappearing sound played softly in the wind.
He appeared a year ago in a balcony of some one else’s disappearing. The latter smoke was a sound we all heard in our plastic chairs. And now what a fine disappearing act he would perform ,while still in heavy-lidded sleep!
In the morning we walk as in flimsy dreams and map our souls on to random personae drawn from scattered images and chance talk.We are not we but many men fused together.
You see we are of the Shakespearean stage playing bit parts not germane to the plot.
What are we then, among these autumn leaves, fallen and in heap, with those ripe red fruits, yet waiting for a gust of wind from the west?