The hope of a city amidst pop art, cubism and neverending psychedelia

Drip. Drop. The darkness takes shape

like a building, or the sky – shifting

in between often. Lights and lives

twinkle into existence at their whim,

and then flee into ether.

Somewhere, a camera whirs

and grainy diaries are made

from whoosh-hushes at the Phoochkawallah,

dreams by a gray river, rickety trams

with nostlagia ; failed poets and cathedral bells

collide. A chime of untold stories

on an Empire State, a state of Empire~

Once, centuries ago, now

buried under slogans, curry draped

melancholy, mom’s food – vapid 

relationships of body and a maggoty 

mind, screaming for air,

breathing high, sniffing low, stifled

by undercurrents.

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