The hour is a venomous ellipsis
when nobody smokes
or talks about poetry and art.
People bolt the door
of next day’s guilt.

There are men who run from restaurants
to bedrooms, bedrooms to offices
talking to their mistresses
on the mobile phones.
There are those who hate ellipsis,
who love a natural continuity in lives.

I don’t see Hindi movies
they are worse, when it comes to business.
Their plots are cardboard fixes:
generations are sold
in posh, saleable vending theatres.
The “art” is as great as the “sale”.

I see men bought for adjectives,
women for adverbs.
After finishing the second bottle of beer
an ellipsis drills a hole
in my conscience
stroking my illusion:
trying to emboss my opinion on you.
Perhaps I am commercializing
Mr Ellipsis: the thematic break,
the hysterical continuation.
Perhaps I want to enjoy a share
of adjectives to bolster my ego.

I’m a silent scream, in this liquidated
estate of:
culture and heritage,
custom and people.
The summers are layers of memory,
and time for erotic
excursions in the desert and the sky.

This page is non-causal:
no law to probe it.

Copyright© 2006, Debashish Haar