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Three pegs on a memory's wall

Soumarjyoti Bhuyan

It becomes colder within than outside,

the tint of mist disappears from glass houses;

demurred by sunlight, the moans

of diabolical lovemaking

soften to a fade, utopia dissolves

like sugar in a teacup, melts like butter

on warm toast, ends like an elusive song

playing off an accidental radio signal.


is white noise. Screechy.

The grease dries off the wheels

of time. The body writhes in unfamiliar bed.

The day subsumes you from the very beginning.

Life, whole in sleep, hereby shred

into apportionment's of living. For ravens.


Ode to evening. Gleaming with bright

lights and homing signals. Oases

upon oases of electrical fluorescence

as far as your eyes can see, which is

not very far, because of the concrete.

In the Main Square, rivers of aliens

descend from invisible vortexes...

Mostly young, mostly male

specimens of race, and rumbunctious

with ephemeral rage, jostle to stop them.

A vague, passing image from the window

of your train of consciousness. You descend

only when you reach home. Turn off

the music.


Sleep arrives like a gust of wind.

A whim lingers on, masquerading

as epiphany. Extinguishes like candle.

We're Transistors….



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