Monday, August 10, 2015

For Summer

A picture perfect summer afternoon
Waves of green grass, strokes of white birds..
A hundred surveillance cameras humming in my head.

The touch of skin, the smell of sunlight
The radiance of flowers
And the corpse manufacturing newspaper
Over our morning coffees.
How nice is it to be alive


I don't walk fast anymore
Or think fast, or count my hours like grains
It is nice to let centuries pass by before your eyes
Like harried coal trains


I am not hell bend on reaching anywhere
Clock ticks of academic nightmares
Foucault has been trying to communicate
with me for a while.

But, he always gets stuck at hell's door
There is never enough money on his oyster card
To reach anywhere.

He is still stuck somewhere
But now, in this winter of summer
I get him

Don't work with the clocks they make for you
The graphs, the maps, the sights to scare
Walk out of the panopticon
Think like a river
Move with the weight of decades on you
Let trees talk and clouds fly

Time is endless
You will be die and live a hundred times
As a bird, dust, spark, tiger, prey..
Don't ever walk fast.

You will die in genocides
Starve in lands of plenty
So, pass by the wine counter
Don't try to make polite remarks

Sit with squirrels, touch flowers
Smell grass, not fear

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