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You may ask what it is that breeds poetry from nocturnal thought, a green inspiration from decay, a smell of infestation and death. You now turn around , excessively aware of a role soon coming to an end on the stage, while the green room there is still gaping open with dress-clothes, a paint drying in its tubes.

Our scripted dialogues point to our role’s end a green grease-paint never to be put on again a director and prompter dead in their tracks.

We still have our green faces grotesquely moving. The brows are still dancing of love and death. Can we come back to make one last show please, we ask, before we can finally go back to backwaters in our snake-boats of grotesquely paddling oars all asynchronously moving towards somewhere?

Here in fidelity to life we have stretched our own selves,our shadows at noon soon trailing past us. Nothing happens day and night by ongoing recall of existence.

Our books are Warholean art on their way to maximalist creations with verisimilitudinous detail who did where , what and why with many a how’s explaining.

Our phone happens on a ring ,a morning ritual of dissecting men in yawning daily rituals ,their common most ablutions painted as earth’s revolutions

Our tales are by way of acknowledgements of existences, boring tiny holes in time and holes will vanish in bigger holes,in empty spaces. Nothing happens except in time.

At the night’s end is our own book of what we have printed all along ,a certain recorded history in pages that lie buried in collective memory.

Memory is a little wiggling thing in creatures of future skies made of acerbic acid of little shape, a rogue tongue wagging little hope, with a rasping sarcasm where it curls.

Our book is not in papyrus of river but an electric thought streaming through myriad acid rivers of time flowing relentlessly to grand irony.

It does not add up on some days.

The drone goes on ‘tween the ears .Existence is a few heads bobbing up on the blue space beyond the spiked gate.

A mere serious girl clicks her shoes on the waking ground in oval motion after midnight crows pierced a night waiting for tomorrow’s early dawn .A seller man is sitting under the lake trees spilling beans on the red and blue bags.

It does not surely add up on some days.

Yesterday night we  had heard another act of  disappearing. As the television news hour went on as  a battle of bright wits , the disappearing sound played softly in the wind.

He appeared a year ago in a balcony of some one else’s disappearing. The latter smoke was a sound we all heard in our plastic chairs. And now what a fine disappearing  act he would perform ,while still in heavy-lidded sleep!

Absurdly soundless.

In the morning we walk as in flimsy dreams and map our souls on to random personae drawn from scattered images and chance talk.We are not we but many men fused together.

You see we are of the Shakespearean stage playing bit parts not germane to the plot.

What are we then, among these autumn leaves, fallen and in heap, with those ripe red fruits, yet waiting for a gust of wind from the west?

Winter breeze is pleasant ,the sun  still behind  clouds. A blue shack in the ground comes to view . A closer view may yield a rich picture celebrating mono -color.

Early on ,a bored bard ,bare-headed and bearded , came to poetry from the vintage pages of memory . That time of year. Thou mayst in me behold…. Dust would come later in the endline.

We always eat dust in the end-line.

Beyond houses to be,under the clouds sitting like cats on a high border wall.The villager goes up to a stone quarry ,a hammer high on shoulder ,like child perched harmlessly on fathers shoulder. He breaks a few mountains for houses.

He goes up the opening in border wall and down he slides onto the other side. Beyond the wall stand two rock sisters at first silent before all total strangers but open up when the sun is really hot.

Between them,the twin rocks have child banyan an illegitimate child of a bird dropping recently green by the last months rain as streams of silver rain slid from tops like new born snakes from a way bush.

The twin rocks are not the red ones of shadows promised by the old poet to show you fear in a handful of dust. Our older shadows are lying sprawled on morning feelings for banyan child. The scene is too pastoral for such gloom. The villager’s hammer is not for them.

I hear a sixties song walking the  park’s track . In the song you heard a lovers song floating from the blue clouds, on waves of spring breeze.

In the next round the song changed to a moonlight in the day with the lover on the river bank.

In the return walk there was a bus load of wedding guests . The guests might have done an overnight journey from  upcountry and just landed here for the function.

The groom and the bride were marching ahead of the guests fully decked in jasmines.

Guest stomachs must be waiting warmly for the first  wedding upma.  .

Get hammers to destroy wall back in time and other walls- crows on them to fly to sky from them and trees spring in their broken bricks from future bird droppings.

Further birds will ingest their seed to demolish past walls to open sky to endless blue ,with brother to brother away, like crows from glass pieces sparkling as in kaleidoscope .

Dusk after cow returning dusk, their hoof dust blinds our sky.We go up and up in night stars. What we see is unbroken wall.