Kolকাta

Shrouded,

bumping off buses and cars and subway stations and trains overflowing with the dead

Slouching,

cowering behind shadows,

growing

like the stench of battery acid

consuming the night sky

black—blacker—blackest.

Kolkata, tall and uneven,

filthy underneath its colours

spicy and sweet,

savoury—

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

devouring,

by and by,

slowly slipping into my veins

s l  o   w     l      y

drowning me alive, one with the dead.

Fear not,

I whisper to myself every single morning

it is almost over.

_________

Edit: another cliché title which I like better.

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