Often these words, which I hold like
A proud patriot, start becoming like us. They
Also become conditioned to our erratic demands...
They too demand from me a passport from flying page to page..
Coloring images or swerving in ink. Eroding nightmares or
Blemishing walls with crazy doodles.
So, they too should get stoned once
And let their fragile cords flail over the rooms as they
Elongate like amoebas blown into balloons..
They start forgetting what they really mean and just deluge
with a relentless rant of existence and get drunk
On mouldy tattered pages, sniff the aloe paste smeared
Women of Prakrit poems and bring me a world closer
To the legendary romances of Gods.
You can choose to be Apollo or Zeus Or Vishnu.
I always was Parvati...
These words have wet mouths.....they crave more water.
They have fully functioning brains...
I hustle smoke into tiny packets and all the
Words on your face seem a little relaxed.