A Smoky Night

Smoking is my way to make that
unfaithful kiss with smoke on her lips last.

Standing with loneliness as free friend
on the vague verandah, with valiant moths flying
the uneventful brilliance of the night,
I let the smoke make love with my tongue
and hear the phone ring excitedly;
its fragrant sound seems to come from
nowhere and go nowhere, just like smoke.

It is my faraway rustic village friend
whose father has been expecting a better job.
He tells me around 834 persons
are going to be under his father.
I think, what power!
In the end, what is he going to do?
Cut grass in a smoky cemetery.
Anyway, I think it’s worse than being
like me, jobless and heartless,
watching spooky mountains and moons.

Switching off all the stars when day comes.
Sieving the sand of our public beaches.
Playing pop songs in funerals.
Monitoring the traffic in desolate regions.
Cleaning the tyres of aeroplanes with shoe polish.

I think these could be cool possibilities
in a beautiful world fast catching fire.

Back in my new sofa on the verandah,
I find that the already tasteless glass of milk
has been cleverly identified as a pool
with a moth swimming heroically in it.

I feel like a spoilt child,
lacking the courage to prepare another glass.
I whistle purposefully, fall asleep, the cig
burns my finger and the night overflows
with smog and never comes back.

Amit Parmessur owns interesting pots of flowers, especially purple. His work has appeared in journals like Transcendence Magazine, Mused – the BellaOnline Literary Review and Aphelion. He has been nominated for the Pushcart Prize and Best of the Web. His dream is to catch a flying fish.

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