Pouch Poetry 14 - 17

14. after the dry leaves of the winter fall in innumerable drops the spring comes the cover-face of spring means a note-book of the rain-tree letting float in the sun-water and mr harry says that this question of change is a major pull because all the unreal talks you are delivering one by one to keep pace with it the ambulance comes at 10am with a stale dead-body in it’s shirt is written the spelling of myself i then sat on the grey volume of the college-campus in the front a beggar from the war of waterloo is passing by over the dust of myself with a faster pace blowing is the thoughts of ataraxia in the air… and air… and air… 15. if your wishes colour silver then do return back to the x-mass dancing of the autumn sound of whose far-off hoof-steps digging so much soil of story-weeds i went into the nail-polish with the proof of tea-cup in my hand there in the midst of lot of snow-flakes and in the bed soft with the light of the candle is now that honey-name more tarnished now the atomic-howling does not follow the rules of nature so the rain-tree that seeks a-field-more-sky with the hope to become king after the sun-rise so that king is now waiting in the grocer’s shop at a stretch for an hour 16. does her well-wisher esse then thinks to escape from the love-making whirl-wind on the dry branches of the axis power the new generation of the birds rather stop a while there silently and listen which song is hidden in the bronze-buddha or in the school of the terracotta-horse i’m now opening the coating of the night-enamel to read this home and behind the coo of dove is smiling the god of the penalty-kick 17. sitting on an orange-coloured balcony in an outsider lane the green is writing poems better than the face-powder from this side all long the famine i’m the priest of the agro-based civilisation still-then i think why so much light of partiality is on the body of the chrysanthemum within the monsoon in collusion with the hair-band now thousands of birds are born they can hear my dry straws and twigs whose hearing is the police in so depth of the forest don’t move the dreadful resorts one such photograph of the girls who wakes up in the midnight speechless… unmindful … destruction… that is you now i’m then in the spore of the perfume-bounded body of match-making