A blue lagoon
deep like consciousness
stretched like an unforgiving bullet.

I am inside a taxi
I am running to my retiring girl
She is to me what this yellow automobile is to this dying and rained city.

This road doesn’t go through places
It goes through times and resentments
I looked for Ghalib in you but I got you in Ghalib.

A bunch of rolling drunkards sitting by the road
If you know how then you can find stars inside them
they are what you call cheese on burned breads
They are way behind now.

The taxi has stopped at the airport
People always act like moulded keys here
All speeding towards the great grand latch.

I am now in front of the big transparent gate
ants and humans are going in from here
well mostly humans.

The girl is gone and perhaps by now she is flying over those clouds with scotch neat in her body
you can’t expect punctuality from a lunatic watchmaker
She is gone.

Though I have always liked solitude over false numbers but the art has always been a traitor
it demands beautiful and bold herons on it’s hardcore nightstand.

…………………………………………………………….

Photograph: Tia Henderson.