Hunting a Ring of Smoke

cross-legged edged close to pavements
in the shape of a hunchback with arms spread.
tattered textiles tattle a tale,
of misrepresented interests; inadeuqate rations.
protrusions at the back scream
a hoary tale of stretched ligaments
weakening puffery at the hands of evolution
declaiming reality as a bad dream.
hop on a misformed leg with determination
and a never-ending sense of mission,
because stories that mostly survive
are ones that put off the stink of regurgitation.
in the horizon are veritably seen,
smoky castles of borderless exhibition
that hover over apprehended plans
but lie formless like whispery dreams,

make merry, make rich the stink of desperation,
a streak of panglossian enthusiasm,
that crookedly makes this world go round,
drowned in quicksands of muddy exasperations.
smoky clouds tintinnabulate in eyes,
narrating a scandal of vast proportions

that envelops this earth like the ozone layer,
gripping the green ball in a firm vice.
anticipate a deluge of shineless diamonds,
the moses of the muck wanders nearby,
what vision carries you forward each day,
in venomous air with poisonless pythons.
dead frogs twitch legs on electric wires,
a morose life, is it just an experimentation?
on the best possible ways to throw a dice,
between the vaginal elixir and funeral pyre.
I poke my thoughts burning on rings of smoke
that dance terrific to tribal tunes,
let me today, skin a formless dream,
and hack through it in a butchery show.



Image taken from here