Rear view mirror cornered me visually
and my eyebrows- landing strips for the flight
of fried-rice discussion and Videocon love-letter-
toppled under the weight of her who shuns
the medallion around her neck of a god whose gist
is that of a glutton with an attitude. So do not
get me started on the metro and the thin man
with the hair that seemed to bend right as if
attracted to the seat, with three (precisely three)
dandruff grains caught my eye.

In Russell street where the steel monument rises
the green and purple lights of rich people's rooms
tower over the humble good days in my mouth.
Dead queen's dream polishes the road with soot;
the death of magic upon us, the dead of loves
built a quarry with a door without a foot.

Who cares, to be time among friends?
Give it a break, hon, be it the stubborn wood
Of my mold or the face of my force, no
Daring heroism closed in a fold or
Magical rope tense from the cold-
You'll fix the glass, raise the warmth of body, buckle your nose for the blush.
The boy who talks is a boy who cowers
In the frame of being uninvolved.
Always scream at the devotion of things before
You, let me watch you love the things before you.
Let me suffer the fatal sore throat.
Let the silence
Of a fish overcome my lung.

It may be a Thursday of the muffled variety;
the plastic of the cup bent to the angle of your words,
your modulation drifting off along the rim
dappled with sprite. I guess that mostly sums up
the premise. Doesn't it? Cooling stomach,
atmosphere that can flake itself away
from the motor-cults, a serious crow
roving its neck like the search for a lost interview;
we shine in the baggy sunlight,
and I realize that I would make a house with you
out of legos, and you would sneeze if I told you.

Nah, the cold is fine for now.
Style-statements aside, knowing the contours
of one's own breath so intimately vows
to be an interesting approach.
The disgruntled bus plodded slowly,
hoping to fool the amber marker bulb
to posit a couple of rounds of sleep.
The counterdraft resembles the shape
of my face in collision; it wanted to tickle
the nose, to sabotage the box, but it failed.
I tried to backlog some wit instead,
but the atmosphere calls for itself
a ginger taste, and a slight tilt of the head.
Symbolic dither prays for us in unison.
It matches speed with the auto, whose
yellow (now glinting russet) shakes hands
with the green smell of wishfulness. Its
reluctant pauses (speedbumps?) does
make me think, of music being released,
friends under the spot, the runaway scents
that pay for every movement.

Oh I train- then the desperation bakes;
myself. Myself. My grave. My bread. My strait.
Making a star out of a monster man.
A pain that bites the crocodile of sleep
says it is supple enough for the length
of digabamboom strides of a leg.

Pardoning umbilical jello.
Those are melodies. Mawkish, but spotted
to be watched while you eat;
endless rascalry of the stinking bile
surging across the olive rooms of the hide.

My my. Tore up, facing the fantastic oblige,
whole tones hovering to say hello hi, bellow
the brackish toothpaste smile; repercussion
of caws, repercussion of caws.

Happy girl happy about happy girl clapping,
ecstatic to no fault, we'll be yapping in the loft
(happy girl) while they're snapping the locks out into a pulp
we can be chubby in our credit-hoarding books.
Take a look. We make a spoon, the concave shape in time will crook
into a tinny opportunity for ice-cream off the hook,
traipsing on until the bonafide jukebox hits the perfect tune
to which you move, be still my beating rust- this night's a swoon.
Each night is unevenly cheesed, grinded and sequel-esque soon.
I hurtle a lamp into the maw on the enamel of lonesome comfort
to fetch love in a bowl of creamy tomato soup.
Yes, love in a bowl of soup.