to live is to write a verse on flower extracts that exudes a newfound absence of meaning
wisps of dust
on disheveled guesses;
all things eventually take a stale turn.
the need to keep up
with the rate of dissociation
turns me into a cheese-less wheat disc
topped with minced meat
a smoke crammed,
posh, Calcutta based bar
and a mixologist
entrancing people with his spirit play;
soaked in a thick haze,
i wonder if you'd like my heart
with a slightly charred exterior.
the likes of you and me
aren't exactly alike
but if the two, scour through
basic degrees of coffee roasting
they'd prefer theirs brewed
with dark roast beans;
and when served so,
they'd like it flung across the room.
a figment of my mist laden imagination-
a vagrant with intense eyes
crafting supple leather lodgings
for a rich woman's maquillage
bought at extortionate rates.
i accidentally let him get pulped
by a machine in the tannery
whilst he dreams of better days.
the background music in my life
is a wild mix of genres
and i'm not yet a fine music maker
but i'm good at raising hell
and smothering myself
with the most bizzare expectations.
tying the reality to me,
is a delicate, translucent tendril
and it snaps
just as I start to get the hang of it.