Housing the TimeA home for everything rainy,
sometimes sun runs its finger
up and down the lichens rich ledges,
and I say, “I’ll walk the pet” although
it has been ages since we’ve cossetted
one alive. The sturdy workstation sill
supports the crusade of days and my
dark roasts, a few drops spilled.
I say, “Come here, Jim.”, but we don’t have it since
the forest of burials became our backyard.
What Time Means To The Generation CNothingness fills the before and after
of the owl’s flight.
“Santa Muerte”, I murmur, “deliver.”
To breathe I pull down the mask,
shiver and cover up
to live. There must be a mouse somewhere.
“Deliver”, I hiss. The street locks down
its four corners
in a blindfold. In another time I had
An owl flew by moments ago. A vermin
stays alive for awhile.
SnakesFather throttles the gas,
“A snake crosses the road.”
I open my eyes, think –
it must be one of his darned metaphors;
must be a weirdo crossing the path
or, God forbid, one of his ex-es.
A snake, ebony and slithery,
slides, twists and crawls
from one point in the asphalt
We drive again
over the space it left still wriggling,
a strip of sensation,
field of hair rising to a nervous breeze.
Our freshly shedded skin rolls behind.
The Summer Poster of DemocracyPeople desire to nurse faith, and
there we come.
Says the politician.
I rotate my ember drink, sniff.
I close my eyes and deny any belief.
When the eyes ventilates
he, still there, smiles at me.
Can we ever cease to believe?
If one does and other still carry the cross
will the one matter to the collection?
More whiskey. The taste of vatted malt.
Between us the table creaks about
the dead cold woods.
The evening moans and loiters in heat.
The torn corner of the Summer’s poster
dances in the wind.
It says something about democracy.
By The Stream of The DeathWe make love. Our bottoms taste the gravels.
The overbridge runs near us, naked.
Honking fills the wind. All the dead people
of this town decide to leave the scene of pandemic.
We make love. Your legs quiver on my shoulders.
Nothing to be panicked for. Forward stream
the traffic of the demised ones across the bridge.
The population of the poplars on the other side
murmurs back to the birds sewing through the scene.
I inhale your juice and skin. If there be no land
promising us to stand and stride we shall lie
and roll here, dirty, bare, blended with the life
and the death alike.
Kushal Poddar @Kushalpoe is a writer and visual artist and is the author of ‘The Circus Came To My Island’, ‘A Place For Your Ghost Animals, Understanding The Neighborhood’, ‘Scratches Within’, ‘Kleptomaniac’s Book of Unoriginal Poems’, ‘Eternity Restoration Project- Selected and New Poems’ and now ‘Herding My Thoughts To The Slaughterhouse-A Prequel’ (Alien Buddha Press). Author Page – amazon.com/author/kushalpoddar_thepoet