From the seat
That night, at that point of time, three sounds: a cricket, a clock and a moving bus
Cricket: End of the year agony or entertainment or just a competition? There may be a paramour nearby, a boyfriend. So, will she fall in love with a mosquito? Is she able to see all colours, violet? She can probably see more dimensions-buh! When bored does the cricket play cricket? More like dung and cricket-soccer. There is a mother, and a father. Perhaps, has many half-brothers and half-sisters. Probably will commit sororicide and live without remorse. Likes some vegetables, doesn’t like some. She must be, subjectively, pretty. If someone mistakes her for a cicada, praying mantis, more cruelly, a grasshopper, she’ll cry-is she crying now? Her tattoos-handmade, looks like. Does she have the graveyard shift? Does the antenna have good reception? Has an asshole, but is not. She jumps when she wants to, flies when she wants to. Any rebound, after the jump? She is an insect. Bushes dance, when she lands. Are there shirks in her land? In human terms, singing to self would be insanity. Spiracles are her noses. Do the legs mop around? In some parts of the world she is eaten: poached, roasted or raw. Does practise really make or mar singing, everything? Is she scared, attracted to artificial lights? Any tourist arrived in town, lately? She has a razor sharp piercing voice like a blade. “The world is his who enjoys it”. Doesn’t have to figure out the size of figures. Rain welcome, or a distraction? There: Is life cool, exciting, wonderful? Any imagination, ambition, aspirations or outstanding fantasies? How’s it to live in the ‘present’? In a record breaking soliloquy- She sings. She lives. Tag: Kicks
Clock: How does it feel to imitate the seconds? Is the isolated existence, a blessing? Is time really boring? Its body looks definitely nonrenewable. Does it view life from the point of view of happiness, sadness, cynicism, loneliness-stock market? Who is the best-the hour arm, the minute arm, or the seconds arm? It emits just a feeble noise, a tick-tick. Is five years old. It was bought from the nearest town, made in China. At times, surfers arrive to slide across-ants, they are commonly called. Highly dedicated, except when the battery dies. Inside existence. A clock in the wall, it is impassive. It is, in fact, a clock. Someone will check the radio, and correct without excuse. Will mobile phones with atomic timing obliterate it? There may be masculine, feminine or transgender clocks. It is a machine. It has a weathered look. “Ignorance is bliss”. Except for the dots, there is only ‘Promise’ written across in English. It is precious today, trash tomorrow. It is round. It is yellow, in many shades. The wall is white, different shade, each day. A minute’s arrival is another’s departure. Once in a while, a spider will make a home behind it. There’s glass across the body. If it falls, the glass will break. Will all the clocks conspire, and run fast on the same day at the same time, for fun? How is it when people peep at it? When it strikes 8.30 am someone leaves for work; when it’s 4.3 pm, it’s evening for someone else when it’s 2 a.m someone goes to sleep. Round, round in ‘what’, ‘where’. It is a cheap clock, costly time. It is boring. It shows. Tag: Beats
Bus: Did he chip-in when his friend fell sick? How’s to hear different accents, gossips, people? He is a public servant. Does heels worn, and trampled all over his body, hurt? Corruption is rife-the engine, oil, machines-so, farts frequently. When riots arrive in town, a bonehead will break his windshields, headlights. He is a bus. The road rolls, he is above it. People wait for him, look up to him. He likes men or the women? Does he pray for a safe return home? He is manly, with feminine features. Does he hate the advertisement on the belly with lying slogans, with the pretty woman with: whiter than white teeth; fulsome smile; thin misguided body? He is visibly middle-class. Does he crave for oil less food? He may or may not have a tyreache. When the brake is applied, he rests. Relatively or non- relatively, he is expensive. He can look himself in the mirror. Perhaps has a calm superiority complex for his length. For all his intelligence, and idiot may steer him. Does he count the number of people he carries? He would have got more than his share of curses. Isn’t fond of curves! At night he is like a self glowing ghost. Did anyone ever thank him? He is red, and black with a dash of blue and green. He escapes monotony, not the routine. “Better a lean peace than a fat victory”. The doors slide, open and close automatically. The windows are different from the Gates’ Windows. The radio is broken. The first-aid box is empty. He runs. He has style. Tag. Driven.
Merlin flower is an independent artist and writer.