In search of internal innovation



Pink moon of another night,

wants to bring newness in the boring sky

but the blue horror in an airy mess

summons the sun.

 

If there’s no new death,

no new birth

say the skinny pages

no deluding the blackjacks

the real authors of those leaves

light with dryness

they fly in search of oil and artwork

to give the moony white back

into the nocturnal star

they look like starving assassins

the spelling carries two asses with sins

two enemies intoxicated like twins

a drunken stupor

the sun stares, then smiles

in its usual color.

 

In the presence of all

these meaningful people

you are absent, inert

sitting like the unused gland

maybe they’d have got

what they wanted

like peace, for instance

or prosperity, for a change .

 

But no, they want others below them

more than their upping

a flock scared to change color

on and off the stage.

 

On the ground

some boys play holy

with the bowwow mongrels

they’re busy licking.

© supratik 2018
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critique and comments welcome.

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