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.