1736 Borivali Slow - Poem by Hardik Vaidya
Don't spit, it spreads Tuberculosis.
Don't touch un identified objects, inform police.
The station is your property, help it keep clean.
A bent old woman is running on two legs,
Hands swinging like a mama gorilla,
The train slips away from her.
Short skirts, salwars, tight trousers, pot bellies, breeze by,
Tracks break into a bitter but known cacophony.
The IVR like the government advises the obvious what's happened.
Every one knew what the next station was.
No one knows what's their next stop is going to be.
Passengers keep on playing games,
I don't see any apples, neither oranges, nor onions,
My eyes don't irritate. Must be Korean or Japanese.
Flowers picked yesterday, strewn into beads today,
To be adorned for sexual nirvana tonight are watered to be kept alive.
Ladies dream of miracles, men dream of escapes,
Children of Pokemon.
The tracks ramble. I write.
The driver honks. Telepathy he got horny.
Influx of tired men, some bald, some old. Some alive.
We race, our train with the fast one,
Tracy Chapman, Fast Car, no, fast trains, no,
Just rattling tracks, under 25000 Volts
This can go on,
But soon it will get stuffy,
I won't have the space to finger my fingers,
Therefore I allow the train and the passengers.
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