:: Sullen Art ::

Winded by exhaustion and an abeyant inertia, I slept with disquiet. I dreamt troubled dreams and tossed to the shadows and slugs welded deep in my subsconsious. I woke up tensed. My head has been pounding with a bloodlust intensity since morning, and I'm restless for peace.

All these noises. When did they start pouring in with such infernal ardor? The physical - voices and beeps, clicks and taps, the swish of a mop, an embarrassed cough, the drumming of impatient fingers, a sigh, the screech of tyres, the turn of a heel, the gas-hiss of a lighter, the spit of a printer, the rustle of papers, all blending into an unending orchestra of my daily routines. The impalpable - the memory of a phrase, questions, obligations, responsiblilites, the desire to disappear, the fear of fear, internal debate, odes of the past, whispers from the future, all surging into a nexus fraught with tension. All these noises; I feel like I'm being sucked dry.

***

A Plagiarist's Song

They say,
Light breaks where no sun shines:
They call their chorus,
An alicante lullaby.
They say,
Do not go gentle into the good night:
They call their paean,
The shield of Achilles.
They say,
My life has stood a loaded gun:
They call their prose,
A sort of a song.

They are my languid lovers,
Clad in leather-bound jackets, their wisdom stitched with gold:
I am melted wax in their fickle, quixotic hold.

***

Today I can do nothing justice. I am grey and listless.