Dogville –II

Tin jam half baked sausages. No routine of permanence for ad-hoc being’s selfified stasis of motion ‘in-itself’ occurrence. The notional routine being bypassers emblematic adage of recognition. Who’s who of the bakery stole a few junk ridden paisas. Enough for a grass eater. Not for us. I sold the family kitchen for a few junk. Routine stasis of being apart with the syllabus studies. New room being the shady shadowy underworld of sultry summer. The admonishers effectuating as some stole the fruit beer. I stole the rat-kill poison, halogen junks. The peddler survived by bare amenities. The half route of life’s frank understanding. Love the slow rhythm and afflicted pain of syringe pusher. Crooked sultriness and the being with for the other, buffoonery of the street smart jokering aided slurry vision. Me beget the philosopher’s tomb, by adjusting on the both sides of toiling masses and the think tank bourgeoisie. Loving truths of emerald green, the Jail quarters and fishermen colony. Perfect combo of Heroin addiction and exorcising the spirit of Piggy boxed ghostly land tenets. Houseful of admonishers begets me as a thinking spree heroine junkie. Yet, I was never lost. I resolved the status quo by making it hard to torn apart. Twenty million years of boredom. Body painted recluse. The space has its speciality. It appeared as the most lonesome corner of the planet, yet we resolve to sing through the air substance of darkness. Body felt apart in its rumination as plasmatic self. Codeine as drooping eyes. One part as many. Springed millions of body whole with self’s part, millions of parts for millions of whole. Whole never existed as we were part of the objective place, which sore as an epitome of sultry summer regimes boredom ridden topsy turvy ad hoc selfhood, at par with the excellence of otherified body box objects.  Everyone looked for others glances through the administered paranoia, for, who’s who from the neighbourhood might stop by any moment. Laughing stock ridden self played the willingness of bypassers land stricken world whole of political. Young Mr. R stayed. So did I. Now, she becomes my who’s who. She admonishes my willingness of hero joker.

Jeet Bhattacharya
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