Waiting Room

by on November 12, 2011 :: 0 comments

The room reflects the ferocious fluorescent tubes
Attacking the sweating palms, smiles stitched with agitating threads,
On the metallic lotus materialistic monks attain Nirvana
Twang! A feminine voice announces 698
I hand over the dreadful passport and the papers
Bearing the gruesome doubtful facade,
I smell of coffee, umbilical urine, gloomy faces masquerading
At Soho Square, I draw out two tangible breaths
One is sucked by a frog, another by a snake,
I kill the glaring eyes with the arrogant head,
And the snake with the majestic fist,
Near the caustic exit I pass the torch of madness
To another applicant,
Tremor—Himalayas laugh putting off their crowns.

London is crisp, jelly-like, melting in the childish mouth,
Twart! The children join in melodious laughter
While adults grin and hesitate to smirk,
An Indian girl looks at me and smiles: I don’t!
Isn’t she mad enough to do that?
London is full of meanings,
Behind a smile there’s a reason,
Behind a stare there’s a reason,
From the place I come we smile for no reasons,
And stare at strangers for no reasons,
We’re free like Yeti and Sherpas in the foothills of Mt. Everest,
Late in life we will peel our lives like boiled potatoes
And grow memories in the ageing soil of love and richness of life!

London is crisp, jelly-like, sweetening not refreshing!

editors note:

No familiar Nirvana in a metallic lotus; no refreshment in our sickly sweet Western miasma. But, in the company of sherpas, we are the aliens. – mh

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