How happy can one be?
Ofentimes, I wonder aloud,
Taking advantage of my creative licence.
Let me explain -
The filth I encounter in this city:
Stinking garbage hills along the sidewalks,
Bloody graffiti of betel-nut stains on walls and lampposts,
Jellying lumps of bronchial ejaculations
On carelessly laid pavements of crowded walkways
On which I negotiate my bearing with a grandmaster's moves,
A gentleman peeing into a roadside drain,
In broad daylight, all the while
Looking up at the sky,
As if he is criticizing a painting of Michelangelo,
Even as his beer color discharge bubbles on
Overflowing effluence let out
From cesspools of adjoining buildings,
A hairless dog licking at a sanitary napkin,
Thinking it is a slice of loaf with generous spread
Of jam on it,
Like the way a chupacabra plays with a helpless lamb
Before the fatal bite.
I reached my breaking point yesterday,
When I saw a shining red car with sparkling windows
Pulled up and a hefty plastic shopping bag flew out of it,
And landed at the foot of a signpost by a level crossing,
Which read - Don't dump rubbish here!
And the car rolled away in style.
I stood frozen in utter disbelief,
While a three legged goat limped in and
Began inspecting what was inside the new arrival.
I returned home hallucinated and deeply scathed.
In the bedroom,
I found your black silk stockings
Sprawled across the floor.
I observed the illusive embroidery on them and sensed
A slow storm brewing up in my guts.
A precarious yearning suddenly nudged me
To touch the blue veins on your ankles.
And I felt a minimalist petal of happiness swirling
On a gentle breeze in my papery existence,
In spite of the revolting landscapes.
Copyright © Ibohal Kshetrimayum | Year Posted 2019
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