get rid of the insects

while the rays rain down
upon the step
my quiet puffs of smoke burrow
for languid sleep whirring air-conditioner
crackle crackle stchrcunch stchrcunch padded footsteps
cannot hide their thoughts a lonesome ambulance
whizzes past the rest
of us the krrdsh of a door closing
behind the swish of blonde
locks that borrow the silent smell of vanilla and mint that animal smell of copper
left lying underneath his itching station
rrrrrrrrrtttrrrrr
rrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrttttttttttrrrrrrr
stop
stop
stop
the noise
of the insipid the roaring train-track lends its ears to my breathing
whisper whisper psshhspp … go … yes
silent lick gifts the air a tchkyl

Deep Breath

As I walk into the narrow alleyway I can’t help but wince at the smell that seems to emanate from the little pile of trash at its mouth. You get used to it though, a few seconds later no memory of the smell remains. The tea shop is but a few paces down the lane, right where it had been when Calcutta was my home. The dust of the streets swirled freely around my aching head. Still the same old man at the tea-stall though. His children were older, not he – people stop growing after a certain age.
“Dada, ek cha.”
“Haan, bethiay."

From snow-clad lowlands
to plateaus of peace,
the mind wanders
aimlessly through bodies
assigned to them
once, long ago when they had no choice,
no taste, no dreams,
or heartbeats.
They wander aimlessly as they must,
wander within realms
of their own making,
these corridors that leave them panting,
aching, struggling to catch their breaths, weeping, laughing
in hysterical fits of maniacal dementia,
all their making, their hands and feet,
their minds and feats,
crushing their conscience
under the weight of eons of neglect.