your comrades are dozing right at your face
my search for the "sweetest crow" has ended now
inside this air conditioned, carpeted sound proof hall.
where have i not wandered in search of the crow?
the lampposts, the gardens, the garbage, the beggars
i have even tried to be a poet
looking at you i find a long poem
written in the air, on the wall
your hands waving in the air
like you are talking of the most poetic dream
your sweater is as flamboyant as your accent
as your english like your walk on the stage.
And the most dumb girl in the pink is so lost in your words
she fixes her eyes in the air and not breathing at all.
the old handsome ex-half russian sitting
his leg crossed, worrying about his ironed shirt
not to mark a wrinkle, not singing a love song
despite of his old senile romantic heart
the german who thinks everything in india
is interesting is sleeping too.
the chinese, admiring his bottle of mineral water
for protecting him from indian germs,
keeps combing his hair with his kung-fu hands
the director seems to be trapped in a brane world
with his head sticking out
like a Pharaoh's head out of a huge pyramid
the string theorist keeps interfering
and i keep thinking "i dont fucking belong here"
with my mind listening to radiohead
No comments:
Post a Comment