In the age of Homo-Economicus,
Became the body,
The prime commodity,
With risings of poverty,
Creme upon sheets of satin
Lacings of luxuriance bathe my being
The coolness of the morning air
Resting on skin as a gentle hand unseen
A body of breeze...
The harmony of melody...
I soothe to a jazzy track 'Fullmoon'.
Bombay sweets and Strawberry tea
A celebration to both taste and see
The smoke that unfurls is a song of relief
Wrapped in respite although a moment brief
In the comfortable daze of half-sleep
I lay with you
Your nape a bed-couch
For my eyelids
Figures half covered
A new dimension unveils
Sitting motionless for a certainty
Neither the Day nor the Night claims the moment.
Did Bolden come out of Slaughter?
Or did the butcher get him?
Made into meat patties
To fill the space between the sliced bread buns