Well

It has been days ..
Haven’t been out of the house.
Except
to take my dog for a walk
The o’clock
When the glistering pearls are still on the leaves
And the fog seems gradually disappearing
And the rays ricochets
from the Meadow onto my face..
I gaze towards the smell of dewy sward
With my slumberous eyes..
I watch the piegons fly
As my pup struggles to poop
How this Constipation runs in the family.
The morn strolling old man !!
where did he go ?
round and wrinkled
Trembly legs
and stubby neck
Hat that arrayed his Gorkhali days
cane made of fine rosewood he clutched
Perhaps around 80 he was
About hundred 85 pounds perhaps
It has been days…
Haven’t seen him around
May be he is dead.
Mrs.Flabby women next door,
oofy and phoney
She has everything she needs
She even has everything she don’t .
Like the shoutings and cursings
and hurling tools . cooking pots.
Glasses . ceramic plates. all at each other.
Nevermind .
She has a beautiful garden though
Of which,
One flower did I rob and adored it on the mane..
But  soon it died too.
Such inevitable poor thing..
This Death is
Like the death of my summer hobbies
Death of my mobile phone
Death of my nearly lovers
Like I killed the social networks
Like the vitality that died long ago
It has been days..
Haven’t got the smell of Mary Jane
The taste of wine
The burp of beer
Or The puff of Surya Red
They say I am on the wagon
They say I am clean
But I am dry as a fucking booger
And Sober has got me aall ill and dirty
Sober makes me ween
Ween hell a lot
Weening ..
While my mind is always feculent
and filthee
It’s a scrapyard.
My mind is.
It has been days..
Haven’t shuffled the playlist lately
Tom Waits and Diamanda Galas
The voices of tenebrous nightingales
Lures me..
In and Out in grace
From this feeling of severe dejection
and melancholy
As I flip pages from Bukowski
Jump to Plath the next.
Ending up with Camus.
Just like my mood..
Unstable.
Just like me..
so so erratic.
It has been days..
Haven’t abandon the vitamin D
Right out..
Basking.
Flat.
heated.
The fifth ballet position on the clock
And i am Braiding. braiding and braiding
Sometimes ..
gleaning up the hairs from my knitted sweaters
Sometimes..
roaming room to room swaying a broom
But Most time.
just lying flat .horizontal.
So an aunt looks at my hand my feet
swollen . cracked . Scratched
“Lady your age are supposed not to have these” she says.
Indeed has she not known yet
Oh It has been days..
I haven’t bathed or washed.
Clothes unchanged.
Bed unfixed.
Room where reclines a Rouge electric hot water bag .
Pad of fur and velvet
The hoodies and jeans look like rivers
Flowing out of pyramid inside the cupboard.
Somewhere..Pile of orange peels.
And Heap of sweat wrappers
Couples of pair of empty cups lying around
Of which
I refill my obsession.
Black tea. Ginger tea.
Lemon tea. Oolong tea.
Milk tea. Earl grey.
“What about coffee ? ” you ask
“Oh I sniff them on midnights” I say.
Yoh know like when I find it hard to slumber.
And the best combination gets me going..
Like the obscurity and insomnia and caffeine.
It has been days..
Haven’t been out of them.

especially not of these MADNESS.
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