Fists

Out of love
He found a drink of nectar juice
On the road on a horse back
Took two smoke from his drawer
And he saw vegetables in the garden.

Lost are the rivers
Without murmur in the silent night.
He knew not which hotel to go
Or how long to stretch his tired legs
Chewing the moon thinking!
Pastel driven sketches of sadness
Lost the way
As if sleeping with octupuses
Possessed and pale.

Show him to the station
In his mind
The seminal carcass of yesterdays
Which the vultures of his prison gorge.

The owls nod
Seeing peacocks in mud.



Copyright Roshan Tulachan 2007