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It is a quite Sunday morning

It was a weird outing in the evening

We saw fuming ashes

We saw failed elephants

We heard the tales of fallen petals

We saw drifting continents of love and lust

It was a quite Sunday morning after a tepid Saturday night

I saw many men sulking under the weight of their own dreams

I heard many women lustfully languishing their tongue twisters

They were all eloquent

They were all spellbound

They were castrated

A Carnival in the oddest of the hours

A Caricature of my self and many other selves

Our pulses were travelling to Venus, Mars and Pluto

We were simmering in the heat of the market mongers

We were boiler plates to the typecasted experiments in human nature

Have you heard about Pavlov

Who embarked on an experiment to create machines in human mindset

Have you learned about Vygotsky

Who smiled at the smiling babies and loved their zones of evolution

Have you wept when Maykovsky shot dead himself

His poetry must have been boiling faster than his heart impulses

When I end up embracing the dichotomies of Mikhail Bakhtin

I know I have become a scoundrel, polyglot, a hedonist, pagan beast

When this hetroglossia unfolds and scarlet fevers engulf the nations

Fear of languages, life and all sort of glass house effects will prevail

Do you know the fissures in your palace

Do you know if it is made of marble, mosaic, or even a piece of pitch blend?

Now I know only about primordial stones and shadows

Who build pyramids and prisons in the middle of stone hinged and laggard society

Who are in multitudes, nameless, nation-less, necro-manic living echoes

I live their turquoise blue rings, silver palms, their mythical fear of tortoises

I dig a grave to heal their zest for anarchy, and to unwound their zeitgeist