When the warm still night

just echoed

some mechanical noises

of air conditioners

fluttering through the muggy air

from the neighboring boxed apartments,

the geometrical sky

screeched out its bosom

for unveiling 

some heart wrenching facts

about some pseudo urban existence.

 

when still,

girls just think

about being domestic cows

and gulping in a mythical definition of being ‘ideal’

my cigarette burns in shame and despair.

it mocks and states, that my living is trifle.

it says, they still have a goal, but i have none.

it says, they still want to be someone, but i am sloth ed

it says, that my resolution of existing is futile.

it says, that my life is a living lie, where i live for Art.

it says, that my glorious perceptions about Art and Revolution are nothing but mere weapons of living an uber aesthetic life.

 

i shivered in pain.

i had spasms in my gut.

sass mouthing the cigarette,

i threw it away, from the balcony.

but its voice still echoed.

a voice smeared with sarcasm, mockery and pity.

i closed my eyes, 

and i remembered you,

i saw you coming through the flickering sunlight.

the sunshine was glimmering, it melted my soul in molten gold.

i felt it in my nerves, with my high paced breaths.

and i was sure,

that it was that Art in me,

that played the harp in my soul, then

you were my Art.

 

i looked,

up in the sky.

it had weaved back its bosom

and has hushed the cigarette,

because, my nails sparkled

and my eyes became diamonds,

i believed in you, in me, in Art.

i became Art myself,

that toppled Nature itself.

it had the power of the Universe,

to turn everything to dust.

 

Art

its mystic, exotic, romantic and gooey,

Art

its in you,

its in me.

Art

is also

in those

girls-turned-domestic cows.

 

hail

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