Sunday morning,
The window sliders slashed open,
To the same old urbanizing world;
Another caffeine morning neon blue;
And the houses, grey and cemented,
So un-inspiring, so predictable...
Yet, they give a sense of purpose,
A sense of rationality,
To the golden cat, looking at me with his drooling eyes,
From one of the shanky lofts,
Hanging obtrusively from a neighbouring three-storey.
Nah he's not one to meow,
He's just so unmoved, like me,
And whatever thoughts of utter destruction he's quivering behind his elegant streches,
Are not enough, not much inappropriate.
Belling of one or two bicycles,
Rikshaw legs, so strangely blotted,
People...
Walking like sailed boats,
Over the streets;
They vendor reality in exchange for their own;
Killing slowly, whatever bits of bleached peaks,
I had for dinner.
