i live
in illusions;
out of cartons
of boxed dreams.


i would like to indulge in a splurge of words. i would like them to evaporate in my mouth, melt into my tongue like warm cheese. i want their smells to get trapped in my hair, like the smell of bread in the oven. i will slice them with my fork, pick at them with my fingers and mix them in a gravy of sentences, garnished by punctuation. i will pick out the looming capital letters, and pack wondrous vowels in consonants and exclamations. i will then bake them into stories that i will never tell, and pat them into songs that i will ever only sing in the shower.
and then, for dessert, i will pack them away in boxes and sell them to little children on the road.


she sneezed out
the story
in a rush
of phlegm,

and i could only think
of how much good
warm soup
would do her.


dear master of jacks,
do tell me how
you manage juggling
only one task.


one constant circle the clown was juggling
with invisible eyes, a red nose,
disappearing colours, laughing children,
dynamic worlds and
perfect delivery.


psychacid said...


Sita said...

psychacid: thenkya!