The
Ancestral Serpent Hibernates
The
colonial shutters
show
the x-ray vision
of
the room's ribcage.
The
silhouette time
tilts
towards the midday.
A
bit of wind trapped within
the
chest of the house
buzzes
around on its
blue
wings' translucence.
You
have to be one with the bricks.
Breathe in slowly. Breathe out.
Club
Underground
A
pighead DJ
played
colours for
some
masked figures
dancing.
As I pass one
she
asks, "What are you
supposed
to be? A human?"
No
mask on my face, I didn't
know,
my friend would bring me here.
Am
I one these days though?
A performing human?
The
railings
I
have left the balcony's door open
again
not on purpose or as a ritual.
The
timber panel lingers on the skin
of
my hands. This is how my mind
would
have felt like if I could hold
it
physically, but my hands
would
have slackened the grip, slipped
and
sank in the blue between
the
memories' ruins.
Now
I hear the noise of the void.
The
late night opens and shuts.
The
door breathes. My closed eyes
follow
a graph of the summer wind.
Thudders
rustle. Like a blind I see
the
dark, stars and my long gone cousin
learning
to smoke leaning on
the decayed railings before his fall.
The
Way We Realise the Facts About Our Families
The
members of my clan
stood
tall. They were
the
book covers, movie posters.
Mother
had a tale for everyone
featuring
everyone.
In
the second half of my life
my
cousins and our family friends
sleep
through my soccer final.
I
play alone for both teams.
Sleep,
it seems, come easily to them
even
after five cups of coffee a day.
I
often turn to see them
tiny
in the gallery,
and
hear mother cheering.
Her
voice is foghorn.
Kushal Poddar - The author of 'Postmarked Quarantine' has eight books to his credit. He is a journalist, father, and the editor of 'Words Surfacing’. His works have been translated into twelve languages, published across the globe.
Twitter-
https://twitter.com/Kushalpoe
Magnificent. Kush is the master of imagery.
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