I feel weary and lame,
might as well sleep for five days,
these impalpable ways,
no mate, she really doesn’t
care at all.
Will the magic elixir inside
this fresh lime be squeezed
onto a page
where today’s
and tomorrow’s timelines
are written off the top
of some disparate heads?
Man, she really doesn’t care.
Nor can I make myself go back
to one or the other stages
where neither blazing strobes
of nuisance
would meet and
show what the fuss is all
about.
A poem written on the sole of
my shoe, size 10, as grey as
this world without its flickering
carelessness,
reads a lot like this menace of
a life
stepped on and rubbed down
upon.
Slouched down, on this very rooftop,
“L’appel du vide”,
french for ‘the call of the void’,
is abruptly desired across the
entire space.
My undefiled soul, just about
blurs all the intersections
and removes
every colour in existence
as the ground 40 feet below
stares back.
Madras Courier originally ran as a broadsheet with a poetry section. It was a time when readers felt comfortable sharing glimpses of their lives through verse. If you have a poem you’d like to submit, do email us at editor@madrascourier.com.
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