Mom wears dysfunctional wife gear,
To dad whose organism is crumbling.
Small organisms are confusions too.
Third party mask chills out in a pub
On its cigarette stubs between rants
About parents lost bodies in a plane.
It works out to a group photograph.
You just pretend to be someone else
As old man’s tongue pretends dead.
(After watching a Hindi flick Kapoor and Sons)
They have twisted body shapes
From absurd forms of our lives
In the night rain, as frogs croak.
Some are turbaned noblemen
Who do nothing except nobility
And absorb nothing of weather
With smoothly rounded cheeks
Round with unintended laughs.
(After a visit to the fantasy rock garden created by Nekchand in Chandigarh)
We run six flights of stairs
Down looking in joint dark,
Our hands on a greasy rope
Of all those years together
Greased by our live palms.
We add grease from palms
Until we are famously dead
One of us is dead, the other
Presumed dead , filed away
For want of collateral proof.
The death rope is stiff with
Years of everyone’s grease.