by Kushal Poddar
Godot
In the wrong station
that bleeds away
the railway profits,
on an iron bench
painted dim,
and although its
colourants have been
peeling away
you can tell it is green,
sits Mr Godot,
and the time frozen in
one John Smith & Sons Midland
grieves for the late sun.
I have a sign breathing his name
in my molten hands
in the mirror-station to his,
and I yawn, it is quite late.
The Behaviour Pattern of the Illusions
Midnight shakes me awake
just before I fall asleep,
and I move the window’s curtain a bit,
see five of our neighbours
sitting in our front yard looking at my house.
I have a gun by my imagination.
I keep it locked in my conscience.
The summer whistles as the dark
reaches the boiling point.
And then, in the same night
I open the curtain with…
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