by Kushal Poddar
On The Complex Illogical Hypothesis
The waiting period of the puzzle pieces
elongates unevenly; now A may cross B
and meet at the point C; now those arrière-pensée
will conglomerate and succeed in upholding
the predictions and predestined sooths.
I gather one piece, and think, “Now where did
I place the other pieces?” A slow car runs down
a withered red balloon. Hello to Mrs Snyder.
“Where are you?” The following piece screams silently.
Somewhere between the truths I am. We are.
Rain oozing out of the tips of the monsoon clouds.
The road lies wet. The tire-mark shows a path.
The Behaviour Pattern of the Illusions
Midnight shakes me awake
just before I fall asleep,
and I move the window’s curtain a bit,
see five of our neighbours
sitting in our front yard looking at my house.
I have a gun by my imagination.
I keep it locked in my conscience.
The summer whistles as the dark
reaches the boiling point.
And then, in the same night
I open the curtain with all my might;
my muscles ache and ring;
I find nothing but the darkness outside.
No one faces me when I feel
the strength to face them.
Bangs, Whimpers, Arts, Culture, and Commentary 