Daisies on his pink shirt
Daisies on his pink shirt
The stone crusher, buttoned up for BBC
Hammers rocks into stones and stones to chips
Shards fly
Anger and spite from the stones losing matter and mass
Blisters line the Nubian’s palm
One leaches pus
The other is a starfish in the white sweaty palm
Cheeks pock marked shimmer in the sun
Rouged
For BBC.
Ponderers will ponder
Instead of playing
That full moon
We sang
To the broken harp
We sang
Of broken men and sorrow of the lake lost
Of frost framed willows
Of moonlit stream
Instead of breathing
Frigid air
We danced
In swirling Incense of full bodied hair
We danced
To the joy of broken men on haunches
Bleary eyes and closed palms
To the smiles of the destitute
Instead of whispering
In each others ears
We whispered
To leaves
We whispered
To rotting logs
Clad in bright moss
And viper holes
Instead of crying
In tears on the crackling fire
Bursting with angst
The tree with his story untold
We cried
Of Ophelia
And her muddy death
Of love lost in strange places
Justice comes in coal sacks said the tiny elf. Let me show yours, the elf said. And reached out inside the coal sack and brought forth a chip no bigger than his fingernail.
“That
Is what you shall have
For coal is scarce
And your role in this world menial”
“Justice is for men of honour
Not men of my extraction
We study life
Men of honour practice life”
And thus I spoke to myself. Words came in whispers softer than the Scottish stars. What, but a clump of manufactured pain. Till it demanded, teasing out…strand by strand. Nothing remains but a shining bland plate.
“Aye”
Said the funny little elf
“shed for salvation
And you will do fine”
Putting the chip of coal in my pocket, I strode forth. For a grand day that awaits.
• Ritwik Deo says “I am a post grad at the University of St. Andrews in Scotland. Most of my writing is dull and uninspiring; meant for the industrial wastescape. But then, every now and then I jot down the insufferables.”
