These are the lights that are a ceaseless blaze
Of an undying night soaked to its negroid skin
With an ontological fear of the finality;
That which imposes itself like a sagging fruit
Of a bloated ovary on a half-dead blossom.
These are toothaches of a nagging gut
Rotting like a melted angsana tree branch
In sacrosanct prostration on the golden-lit road;
Discharging at will the deadened anxieties
And tightened throats of a hungry forsaken night.
Those are the screams,
Empty and unheard.
Smeared like heathen graffiti,
On a haemorrhaging train ride.
Whence I am adrift? Wherefore am I adrift?
These the mud, dirt and rain in a rabid fornication
Of a lingering vulgarity like a flitting mynah
That squawks unctuously in the timid headlights;
So sickly like the mucus besmirched on the walls
Where only the old and lost dare to lean.
These the writhing worms on an iron pike
That line the streets of passing karung-guni men
And vacated reverence for a decomposed ideal;
Impaled with which on a dried carcass of emotion
Long asphyxiated by the cold of nicotine.