bumpingoff buses and cars and subway stations and trains overflowing with the dead.
cowering behind shadows,
like the stench of battery acid,
consuming the night sky
Kolkata, tall and uneven,
filthy under its colours
spicy and sweet,
under a swarm of bloodsuckers and flies.
My city collapses on itself:
looser than rubber band stretched for three hundred years,
tight as a virgin arsehole.
Now emerging from beneath,
spilling through the cracks and grills,
like liquid tar, burning cold
by and by,
slowly slipping into my veins now
s l o w l y
drowning me alive, one with the dead.
I whisper to myself every single morning
it is almost over.
(I’m so sorry about the half assed title, I never really think them through)