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Frying The Soul

by Anisha SenGupta-Yanger
(Mumbai, India)

Ladies and Gentleman
For all intents and purposes its an ordinary room, it
looked out on a drapery of leaves from the tall
athletic tree
It’s the air of younger years
Those sweaty teenage years that peek
Through three large windows and lean
Against the insurmountable
Weight of light
That idle interlude, the nap and always the
Whirl of the FAN, giant ancient fans
To wake to tea, on a silver tray, no fuss
No flurry
Just things
From times more graceful
More delicate
The grand old ladies, chiffon against skin
With banter
And quips
Mostly she missed the ladies
And a few of the gentleman too.

Hold Court

It’s not like
Can’t hear your silence from here
Are you like our news
Loud rambunctious
Go ahead
At a fools paradise
Put your foot in it
Go ahead
Put your back into it
The daily gestures, the banal stuff
Filled with so much love
It’s unnoticed
Though one can stand in light
But most importantly also
Be of the dark.

Trotting Out

Well, I raise my other self,
Prop it up every morning,
Dress it up and trot it out
The hour glass in my hands
Floods either way.
Its marks glide over my body
Casually with no cause
To worry
Except the red eye in my head
That blares through my scalp
In unforgettable
Unbelievable beauty and longing.

Killing socks

Between the big and the small things of life
of domestic and partial efforts
Between the front and the back door
We call out
Losing out to the empty milk box
The mess of home
The gargantuan urge to kill socks!
Flying through moods
Counting fried brain cells
As the world spins
Shrouding real evil in baneful boredom!


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