31. Santa
In the wake of muttering beer cans
Boredly rolling in the alcoholic wind
Inside an alley of a characterless city
The garbageman used his gloved hand—
Browned by urban vitality—
To dump the tins in the black bag,
Gifts to line his pockets with cash.
As the window sounded Silent Night
(Or was it Joy to the World?)
The man trudged aside, sack over shoulder
Minutes before more cans flung from roofs,
Casualties of an after-party.
32. Sleep
One on the other, like sharp stacks of cards
The sheets lay pretty, ready for use at last.
But there were other things to be done
Before nothing was to be done.
There was downloading his favourite podcast,
Rubbing rum and water together
Walling aside the light with curtains
Gasping to his last orgasm
And for each positive thought poisoned
Until he had had his merry fill,
One sleeping pill.
33. The Garden
Daffodils absurdly pretty
Swayed in the winter breeze like a cocktease.
In the eye of the park they sat
Amid pest-controlled plants
And overwhite lilies—
A garden in silent slumber
Like coarse rats caught in a gutter.
Her fingers twirled inside her palm
Touching scraped metal
Gold that felt like lead.
“Shall I say it is over?”
There would be no better time, no better clime,
No better chance to fossilize the past
Lost, yet lovely and divine.
As soon as lips parted in speech
They fell asleep.
34. Life
Like blankness condensed inside hollow eyes
Like bloodsuckers sauntering in the street
Like the vulture circling the crippled child
Like calves fattened with grain for meat.
35. Coronavirus Bully
The disinfectant looked like pepper spray
Clutched in her wired fingers
A sword rather than a shield.
Her face was full of tears
Yet her son caught a sneer
When she said
“So help me sonny
Should you try something funny—
A delivery, a date, a smoke on the terrace.
When people are dying, pleasure is a crime.
Your leverages have been lost, so
Hibernate and hide in this
Abode of imprisoned privileges.”
How can the subaltern speak
When slave to such a behest?
P.S. I hid behind the moniker of TINTA since the account was opened on Instagram. Truth be told, this has always been my natural impulse. If I had my way, none of my works would be attributed to me. I write a lot of miserable stuff, which I don’t want attributed to my character. I am proud of my writing, but it is also comfortably the worst of me—where my most cynical, nihilist and antisocial tendencies come to fruit.
For a while, I hoped I could hide behind TINTA forever. Perhaps anonymity is cowardice, but it has always been my impulse. But people tell me there’s nothing sustainable about the moniker strategy—that I must put my name, centralize my content, ensure I take credit for everything in a brutal industry, blah blah blah.
So, briefly, let me introduce myself: I am Neil Nagwekar from Mumbai, India.
I don’t plan on abandoning the moniker TINTA though. Because there is a story behind TINTA, and I think it will take quite some time for it to be completed.
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