Last Sunset

Ever saw the chunks of ice-slabs, riding the rag-tag cart, that goes skreech-keech every paddle, wearing the rag-tag of jute-bag, hardly abiding the modesty of the semi-pervious flesh, flakes of which wither to, the condescension of glances hitherto near and far, and some three inches down, trickling sweat fail pass the pores to quench or deeper still, and there on the bludgeons of the concrete embellishments, leave their sighs, splatters, exaltations beyond the regular circumferences, as if joy, and the departures from the body of doubt, a body breathed in by the summer's mercury, a doubt of gravity’s disdain, it fails as it leaves the pearls, the ones on the shadows of sterner spires a whiff auburn, the ones on the shine charred, but bright, glowing, imploring the cherubic miscreant off the banters to the trail to the turn, and four alternate ones to left and right, to the decadent factory in which the fizzing whirling machines devour silences, where the coolfi draws its breath; the aqueous trail that remains not to momentous posterity, falters on the floors, roads, skywards ascending, the circular minuscule dot of the eye, wonderous, waltzs the path towards, in the minuscule face that finds a space, ad infinitum imaginarium, of boxes that are houses stacked with their bare shoulders heaving through abrasions, time-carved, rain-polished, arranged with ineffectual disdain for the blind dogs who bump on the azure-coated doors that tastes of posters of fairs on full-moon nights, remedying broken fountains, renegade hairfall lotions, whose lure wafts through thickets of Ballimaran attar in the half-storied rooms juxtaposed as sincere afterthought, behind clouds of the glass pane, rose-stained, the Nastaliq slender tongues cursive in multiple hues of ash and grey, but mostly ash, decades of age dented on the rich topography, a mirage on the mirror, innocuously reflecting most of what it perceives, never a tacit consideration or rational demise, a mirror behind which hides bindi, crimson, corpuscular, pregnant of the essential moorings of a vigorous marriage, those casual gagging, bloodlessness, smudgings of spiritual deficiency, with reminders in nature of sonorous warnings of the gongs, yelling twice for each humdrum heaving, like the pickles of chillies, croquette and care glistened doubly, basking once in the aromatic oils and then in the sheath of pervious skin, a stout Belgian carafe, spread beside straw mattresses where the belle demure, spins the yarn, of travesties unreported in the newspapers, for the crime of dignity in neighbourhoods such as these; it is in mofussils that you find a fresh metaphor for death, not finality, but as counterfactual to the living impasse, jugglers perfecting hypnosis and watchmakers delaying the inevitable, and the cheap suit that I adorn, the gaudy rag-tag, because, you want to look suave when you meet God, opiate murders on senses with too dull a knife, too stale the pills, oh my city of flower and garbage, your asphalt looks soft through the spaces shaped off by my dangling legs, searching respite in the vagabond coolfi somewhere down beneath.