The time is nearing to leave.File – save as – give a nameAnd it becomes a partOf my documentsHidden behind a passwordWhich I only know.In the recesses of my hard disksC:\ My documents\ Kottayam, or-Some other name that I declineTo tell you.Later, in a lonely nightI will access the fileAnd glance through itAt random.This flower, that faceThis light that flicker in the darkness
Laboured breath, squeaking kneesCrunching pain in the lower backStench of garbage ride up the nose.Passing by people, sleepy dogsNewspaper boys whizzing byCycling, cycling, cyclingCycling on a great Sunday morning.Old men on cycles pedaling byI could love them, warts and all.Sticking up my nose at the bikes and carsCycling, cycling, cyclingCycling on a good Sunday morning.Smells of the sea wafting byDrone of the jets sweeping byCaw of the crows flying byRoar of the waves lashing by
Crackling cellophaneAs the packet opens-Aroma of tobacco.Fingers a- trembling, brain a- tickling.The glowing butt, curling smokeAs the tip touches one’s lips-Tingle! Deep intake of smokeSeeps in settling, satiating one’s blood.Rings dancing in the airWafting away into nothingnessOnly a fragrance remains-Then that too, like you, is gone forever.
Take a hold nowOn the silver handles here,Six silver handles,One for each of his old pals.Take holdAnd lift him down the stairs.Put him on the rollersOver the floor of the hearse.Take him on the last haul,To the cold straight house.The level even house,To the last house of all.The dead say nothingAnd the dead know muchAnd the dead hold under their tonguesA locked-up story.
I am not the black cat.There were four of us;my grandmother,a black cat,a myth,and I.My grandmother oftentold us a myth.When you are ill, she said,if a black catcomes and sits on your bedit means that youwill die soon.I was only six,seriously ill.Our black cat
He wakes, who never thought to wake again,Who held the end was Death. He opens eyesSlowly, to one long livid oozing plainClosed down by the strange eyeless heavens. He lies;And waits; and once in timeless sick surmiseThrough the dead air heaves up an unknown hand,Like a dry branch. No life is in that land,Himself not lives, but is a thing that cries;An unmeaning point upon the mud; a speckOf moveless horror; an Immortal OneCleansed of the world, sentient and dead; a flyFast-stuck in grey sweat on a corpse's neck.I thought when love for you died, I should die.It's dead. Alone, most strangely, I live on.