Never
see the stars in this city. No witnesses,
no
liquid facings. Dont blame yourself, or me.
The
Stoneman
prowls Calcutta's streets,
Chowringhee,
Howrah Bridge.
Just
another Crazy Charlie banging rocks
on
to heads like stamps of reproval,
a
sightseer's cruelty.
I
will penetrate this suburb to its source
of
deception, gargle the thick sulphur phlegm
and
rain down on heads
like
empty cake tins.
Creep
into the linings, rusty spouting,
televisions
glaring through frail curtains.
And
pound the raging djinns, |
|
till
nothing remains
but
the circle of a rigid mouth.
Neighbour's
alsation has heard
all
she wants,
races
in circles around her chainpost, wailing
at
the loud explosions and a sky
fired
up with insanity.
This
separation grows more dangerous,
the
house a meaningless plot,
with
a blue forest blooming
under
the sink, and red calendar crosses
that
terminate this date,
and
this, and this.
Never
see, in this city, the stars. |
