Trucked, Muffled, Miffed

Trucked, day is trucked so is night so is I and youth
Buckled in the time of nigh, so is the buckled-e-ment, so is the nigh fairy flying flying

Muffled, muffled day muffled night muffled I and youth
Gutted in the time of laughter, so is the gutted-ness, so is the laughing rook fearing fearing

Miffed, youth I night day – miffed
Bothered in the time of gaff, so is the bothersome-ness, so is the gaffed clown begging begging.

semblance

There is semblance of the tired in a
           line drawn
                  b e t w i x t
                  there is harmony in 
           diabolica yes there is there is
But you have to c
                          a
                          re enough to listen and when you are done listening
when you are done listening when you are done listening.

the participants can wait

the participants can wait
                         but waiting is lost in time
the participants can chant
                         but chanting is good only for so long
the participants can gauge
                         the fall of rectitude, the measure of
song, the revealing fabric
                         of a tiresome nuance goaded on by
three centuries, no, make
                         that three and a half.

Karachi – Snatches

I. Afternoon
Just afternoon,  just when collages of retrograde commerce
mishmash, coalesce with a train of thought conditioned

by imperial diktat – of the gorasaab says kind –
by identity wars – of the god says kind –

ooh the electric eclecticity
aah the wounds

when dust settles – dust will never settle in Karachi for dust is its abode its essential throwback to primordia
when dust settles – attempting to outflank the sewerage shining brazen baking in the hearth of sun.

II. Winter
There is no need for winter; the crust has been cold
for long and the discontent has chilled song for

long enough.

If you rejoice the odd winter breeze from the hills
up above, recall too the their chilled song gone for

long enough.

III. Dawn
No not the chirpy chirpy, not the
oil for breakfast, not the lingering
stench of last night’s blood. Grain

of morning wakes up to smell the
doodh-patti, the attentive bird
is reluctant to sound out for fear

of falling into the redundant abyss
of chic billboards inviting you plainly
to observe the absence of song.