The 2d story

A memory
constructed
construed;
from broken milk teeth
and old old tea table.

Spans into a middle age man,

Or a boy who thinks he is old

Still biting candy out of wrappers

And playing pop music

Chained to the rhythm.

Watching and staring

At the computer screen

Flipping through online sites

Worrying about the MS word cursor.

Blinking.

The coffee mug is empty

My table is cluttered

The song has been playing in loop.

 

Time is no longer relative

It has actually stopped

My watch has stopped ticking

I can hear time cry.

 

There is a tiny pimple

On my freshly-mowed cheeks

That I see in Louie’s face

A kaleidoscopic reflection of my childhood.

 

But sometimes

I feel paper thin

Like I am the paper

Or its me in ink.

 

I am floating in an origami world

Being floated and folded

Into a fine little duckling

Waiting to be slaughtered.

 

I am

A product

Among the multitude

Of them stacked

And racked in shelves

 

No, no. I am a dream.

A slip.

Into some dumb person’s imagination

Where memories are just lying flat

Staring at the skies

Like two lovers

In 2d.

Undoing

I imagine the wind undressing me,

Black clouds forming lead buttons.

 

One by one,

they come off,

as the music plays

in a quite peculiar fashion.

 

The old, black Tv looks like a dumb box

My mother feeding me rice balls

The smell of masala dosa

Arising and landing into my nostrils,

Rancid lake-water from grandmother’s house

The smell of fevi-quick. Acetone. Nail polish.

Coffee. Roast and warm. Home.

The way my house smelt like

Maybe like two old butts stuck together for ages.

 

I don’t know what i am saying.

It’s quite hazy with all the cold wind blowing

Or is it a dashing forty- five degrees?

 

Origami finds order

But only creases and folds

reach my heart.

I find myself

huddled in a corner

dressed in a black suit

worrying about

the white stain.