A target of turpitude in the torpor of summer under the Ixora

Metamorphosed into translucence,
a girl of eight and this too, in
the land of the boy child
neighbourhood of boy children
and the sun pelts the sky with colour
a strange azure of repugnance.
Chameleon holds onto a leaf of coconut
that surreptitiously courts the Ixora.
A sad illusionist on a broken dream
amidst the startling red flowers
enraptured at his spectacle.
Girl vexed at the punishing heat
that stills the heart and stuns the soul
into the torpor of summer’s
engendered reluctance.
Aggrieved reptile slow motioning
down the midrib escaping
the sepulchral glare of a humid doom.
The reptile has failed to turn into a mottled leaf.
Now solely the ashen hue of escape,
each eye tracing outlines of different boy,
superstitious little fanatics seeking retribution,
reeking of ideology, punishing the camouflage of wonder
for the crucifixion of christ.

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Childhood experiences woven in with sorry tales of little boys enmeshed in the superstitions of the day.

India is plagued by sex selective abortions and a skewed sex ratio still. The girl child is still translucent or disappearing.

Ixora is a tropical evergreen shrub with bright flower clusters.

Graveyard shift

The blue screen speaks to my retina
even as Orion’s belt moves
at a diagonal across a sunless sky.

My finger tips feel their way
through work of the virtual that requires
I staple words with the braille of the times.

My eyes blink incredulously
at monstrous sleep for it harkens me
to the ‘other’ side.

As I dream of sleep
and sleepwalk through looming deadlines
synaptically connecting snapshots of intruding memory,

the only thing real now
is the mug of cold frigid coffee,
while the waning crescent of a globe weakly shines.

My body tries to reconcile
it’s separation from mind
as REM remains an acronym,

or of sanitized sleep laboratories,
or perhaps a forgotten boy band,
and I wonder if I am in a metropolis or a necropolis,

for the day has blended with night,
I need glasses to filter out scattering blue light
from a pixelated sky through metaphorical windows.

Am I in a spaceship?
The refrigerator holds rehydration fluids
and some material stamped nutritious.

Intra-planetary mates are sepulchral, auricular,
spectral, shifting shapes, changing avatars,
while on this unending graveyard shift