Saturday, October 4, 2008

the moonlit junkyard

gloominess above, shone on
the talcum powder tin [with a dim cologne?]
laid away from the mound,
the meadow hiding its brand
and the old transistor radio’s band,
in-tact and young
heaving hopes of an elapsed song,
the shells of the unsorted, trouncing
the expectations of the still bouncing,
thrown away hastily for the standby
time packed capsules, waiting expiry,
near clammy bottled expectorants
coughing sick of windless hollows,
the cat yawning near the old hat
smelling baldness
and brief skin-deep holds
among burned incriminations
akin to dead arid sperms.
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Margareth Osju said...

The way you use the word, catch the reader in your yarn ......

Sadia Hussain said...

Whatever scene you describe somehow renders it's own magic.