Diary of a dead gramophone

"As I sit beside an ageing evening
with dreamy eyes and folded palms
My heart races to forgotten melodies-
Of lovers , poets, mimes and whores.
Of multi-coloured bows, hats and cloaks
Their passion curled up in their beautiful souls
Their souls curled up in their passioned songs
Pleading for change like neglected bedcovers
Their vocals mellowed to honey-dew whispers"

In another L.P, you can feel their hormones swell up
Smelling like your favourite curry;
From the neighbour’s kitchen.
You savour the last notes of your favourite track;
Tasting much like the curry hung on your ringfinger.
That sullen, love-struck melody,
Conjures vivid summertime memory-
A walk on the beach under the silvery moon
You, him and Clapton’s croon

And when the world dwarfs you in dismaying ways,
Hope blares from the dying gramophone
To ward dust off from your blue suede shoes
Hurling you to tap those toes once more.
You’re now on the top of the world-
The ringmaster of your galaxy,
The shoeshine of the disco ball
You want to thank god
for the miracle named rock n roll.

"And tired when I sit beside an ageing evening
I no longer see plastered walls and plastic toys
But promissory kisses and long distant calls
Friends smoking in bars and lawns
Such were the 60’s that injected in our father’s vein-
The blinding (vowels in the) songs of fr-ee-d-om.
That held together tightly;
a generation in its flowy pants
and its immortal spirit."

Nightfall

A dungeon awaits at the dawnbreak,
Where dreams enter
Into rocky, rugged crevices
And look into the eye scathingly;
Oblivious to the temple bells
That roar and exasperate
onto the open fields
My dreams, like dead foetus
Flows into it
Namelessly
Leading me to the ocean of lament
In the hastily sinking universe.
At the dawnbreak-
eachday,
The world wakes up
to birds, beasts and bells
leaving me behind to
the sound of
a lonely lonesome tear.