Sunday, September 05, 2010


Something sinister about domestic placidity.
The lady scuttling from the crackling garlic
in the frying pan to the waves of bedsheets engaged in
brutal skirmish with the pillows on the queen sized bed.
The man wrestling with the browned pages
of a tenacious constrictor, from whose tattooed body,
words and numbers burst out at the seams.
In the afternoon, there will be yarns to knit
loose ends together into an intricate mesh of memories;
an activity that requires pervasive, compound eyes
to trace and erase any semblance of unusual avidity.
In the evening there will be attempts to transgress
the bounds of moral rotundity, usually through
crinkling mugs of toothless sardonicism or a puerile
fascination for all things forbidden. At night,
bitter compunction will find comfort in clean bedsheets.


Vasu said...
This comment has been removed by the author.
Vasu said...
This comment has been removed by the author.
Wriju said...

Thanks Vasu, this is the alternate reality. Conventional reality needs no further elucidation, except that tedium might have made uncanny things look normal ;)
Tedium is a double edged sword.
Dare I say, this is beginning to sound like Oscar Wilde.