I want this night to creep into the callous glass of your clock and wring out it's breath,
so that I can hear your oblong navel lurching.

Men lie asleep on park benches,
and Ice-cream vendors wait patiently for customers,
and I see a tap with a dried throat.

Meanwhile a pinky girl arrives.
Joggles her dad,
daubs Ice-cream all over herself,
opens the tap to oblivion,
and gets drenched.

These peacocks boisterously screams,
perched on the grave you dug for our love.

I'm waiting inside,
where are you?

Didn't you say,
you'll come if peacocks will call you?

Who needs a perfect life?

My cluttered teak table holds more literary secrets than your splendid ones.

My moon blabbers everything to blemished eyes than you to your impeccable sun.

I'm a stereo without speakers,
I want you to create symphonies for me, and you are still shuffling over those tantalizing knobs?

I've always loved the ocean and the boats,
both have their own existence,
their own nimbus,
contrary too.
One Living and other Dead.

But in the end the twain are ticking to kiss each other.
Isn't it mesmerizingly ****?