delhi demented

a little birdie told me
there was trouble at
hudson      i bet your
pawprints     litter the
scene    bloodstains
on pavement   packs
of crisps       a single
white feather   tell
tale fumes   rotten
fruit and leather    oh
yes     somebody got
       smashed tonight
    didnt they

come back and tell me
how the other guy looks

    

The grapevine babbles
of a sighting at Shipra
initial reports are non-
committal if not down-
right contradictory, the
only reliable footage from
a smartphone near UCB,
grainy dead pixels like
a long corrupt memory,
gaggle of  raucous surds
walking across
                         before
        there. Pause and
                                   swoop.

That kind of
sort of      looks like
it might’ve been Charlie

    

Thoughts rattle unchained
down the length of a cold
bus and bounce back, un
bidden, like the kickback
from rain. And there’s hope
here, sometimes,   in old
friends’ phonebooks, but
also a world of pain.

                      In long cycle
journeys down Panchkuian
Road   and curt postcards
                from Raisina Hill,
terrabytes of bylanes and
IMs and stills, faces on bill
boards and scrunched cola
bottles,  sprints in the yard
of the old भारत Mill,  in the
way she first smiled   on a
dead sort of day   her face
and your face

                       chipping away
it gets hard to remember
                                        are you
one or the same? From cramped
enough seats   the whole world is
                                         a game

But word on the street is
Delhi’s Demented   a waylaid
soul     all lost and tormented

I watch her weep, sometimes,
through a fogged up window

Sometimes I watch her
and weep myself.

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