tea glass clinks dot the drizzle, my butterfly ears approving

[ in & around captain's corner, teas & snack ] as I spill

kafka on the cigarette stubbed floor, I see - hey guys

look there - we see, a lone discarded jaggery bun

on the road, soaking up all the rain

[ on the road ]

no, I'm not on instagram [ on the phone

on the slab ] what are the odds

of algorithm being destiny -

it rained as we predicted earlier [ working memory ]

during a bunked class, in rosemilk thickness

pointing our longer than law arms at the clouds

like boys weathering into men, as we watched

a woman [ by the out of business amul ice cream parlor ]

argue with a shopkeeper [ in his provision store ]

how the green dishsoap is 3x better

than the yellow one, as proved on tv

by the daily soap actress.

guys, guys, guys

the world stops -

as we chant around the slab altar [ bell tower shade ]

a deer tricks by, our antlers hair over our laps

our laps air filled with faces

truth or dare -

truth: two hours on insta, what's your handle

mine is I can't handle this much vanity

this much icky yellow newness.

[ long term memory ] to eee words, the principal

becomes princey, the vice principal, in class five

our new vicey told us our mothers [ ]

were homemakers not housewives.

dare: do a happy dance.

inside, through the velcro flap gates, of bouncy castles

[ policed daily 10 pm ] soft curled toes kicking soft

curled toes, biting the inflated rubber's toxic taste

ripping on a strap of someone's clothes, pushing

the weak kid down then petal down themself adorably

[ aged five six seven eight this is stupid take me to

balloooon shooooting nine ten eleven let's go

to the restaurant instead ] put saucer ears

to the blubbering sounds of air swinging tide

by tide into the very fabric we're standing on

we wait [ by the velcro flap gate ] mechanism

murdering magic, for the twenty rupee time

to expire.

wait to hit reply, don't come off desperate, turn off

read receipts, wait to hit when [ where ] it hurts most.

[ & snack ] the fritter oil spill turning the newspaper

see through, the words awaiting trial in the air

like I spill kafka [ in the air ]

strangely, I feel a wanting to open a velcro sleeve

in some body & tear [ tears ] into it

when everything is casually together & I'm

causally alone [ discarded, on the road, soaking ]

with a sharp halo waiting for my skin to ripen

but there is no body in range [ of my senses ]

thrust through the butterfly wings, what a violence

is my face - no solace of smoke, none of those

ochre filters mine [ around captain's corner, tea

& snakes] or sin or providence or fleshy agape

after men weather back into upgrowing boys -

[ of my senses ] & their sleeve gates are unfurled

in a faraway wind wistfully fluttering over bodies

wiping their bloody shoes on magic carpets

to erase the final trace of me, continuing

to end [ in the end ] the swinging tide

[ in me ] just continuing.

~ Ajay

17/7/2020