Old Tavem

By Kakoli Ghosh

The pouting lips of indifference

sip slowly the slurry broth

of continental words, crushed cries,

old spices, dignified aloofness,

freshly stewed in fuming incidents;

smoky flavour of intolerance,

a dash of dried and preserved quotes,

abstract sadness brewed like wine,

strained through the sieve divine,

saliva licks the aroma of history.

Every bloodshed breeds violent gods,

anguish gets addicted to prophecy.

Old traditional melody creeps up

through the vocal cord

of culture, heritage and devotion

like the measured twirl

of a window money plant

creeping along a guiding string;

neon light shapes the drizzling night,

empty street walks naked like truth,

murdered sleep bleeds until dawn.

Corpses pose for cinematic shots,

award winning films portray life -

pragmatic, realistic, artistic like death.

Eyeliner smudges with emotion,

monotony smeared on abused lips

smiles in tired shades of passion;

Speeding wheels screech to a halt

on the breast of depression

on sleeping footpath, or on rocks

protruding in undulated demands.

Likes, comments, countless shares,

videos going viral float in the network

like aimless sperms going haywire.

Layers of yummy open secrets

top the cake of buried truth, square.

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By Kakoli Ghosh