Crossing the road

Deeply penetrative writing, one among many forlorn. Whose writings shall I beget: now that the after has begun.  Recapitulation minute pointed through seconds. Nerves as usual. Slurred political from the street, gas chamber melancholy. High drainage system, no vomit, no qualms. Otherized solemnity, water for me. My ecrit about to be blank, before tense to happiness. Same intensity to the garage express, point blank shut down. Bios to the political. Body’s ellipsis, never the narco haze of Meta, yet it transpires at length, futural. My non-arrival to the bossy future dome, the great situation. Conditioned to be half baked price of apple juice. Who plays that tandem notice, sign boards triple down. The fourth one glares. Public urinal becomes nodal secrets lone caring observer. I pass down my puke, with one chained side bag pain. Pain being removed only by side track hopping. Lovelorn nestling: resting, for a cause. I wished to be young like them, but a decade after.

Transfigured hope down memory lane. Pointed aluminium plate, exam foiled. Chambered rusticity, who dares now? Messianic intensity breaks the accord with spatial time, the fourth limit dimension. Hoping the twiddle twee, plenitude.  Passing of time pushed so much back, it elopes as pure future, the unheard. The non-elegiac mode of my intrigue writings reference Dom. Some paltry heroes playing at the corner, with solidified petrol, cheap risk. Not for me. Loving the tycoons of Honours, I overshadowed the break. Some institutional high handed Nero also play for me. I showed them my grand piece. Modern as more forward, than backward. Centre falls, never apart. I, the margined centre, forced to the leap, transplanted back in safe abode! Who is here young and wealthy? No moronic sultry bakery of disinterested philosophers. Guise for me no more. She was already there, before, with her cut-ups. Her much awaited lips and solitary Galapagos Island.

Jeet Bhattacharya

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