THE LITTLE RED VANISHING STOOL

The man in brown shorts
sitting on the red stool
of creative license
wielding a Bengali lens
and a digital tongue
to taste the lumens
on the kathi roll
torn to spill
its chunky innards
on spotless white.

A JOWL jawed
LOUD mouth squirrel
from the overvalued food chain
shoots claws from his podgy fingers
and as the man in brown shorts
lenses to shoot,
he saws a foot off
the little red stool.

The red PLumpy,
splitting at her seams,
nude pants riding
into her crevices,
asks for an
innocent handsaw.

The Queen Bee buzzing around
importantly,
stings, laughs
and jiggles
with the shuddering chainsaw
nearly flying out of her hand.


And the man in brown shorts
is left
balancing
on
one
toe
swollen and smarting.
on
a
piece
of
red
stick.

A familiar stranger.

Through the rain
raging in a battered bus
rattling blue.

In my mind
I drove past wailing mosques
and squalid slums
empty streets
and flyovers
that curled like smoke.

Orange lights green.

The silence spills over ,
The city like a moody lion,
snarls and roars in neon incandescence.

The flyover rises
in my turn,
monolith-spinningspinningspinning

the corner
of my eye
meets the silence
of a figure standing
in the red dream mud.

My eyes opened reluctance.

AN INANE BENT STARKNESS

The inane, like sprung lamp posts chattering on an old road,

Tower among us.

Shedding yellow flaky light,

and repeating themselves all along.

The mule.



The stark, with thin white beards,

that juggle their pumice words,

across their sprinkled chins.

A white horse, a black horse.




The bent, archetypal like shylock,

are arrows on a dartboard,

a misplaced straightness.

The crippled horse.