that lost its way
to descend at an odd time
in the waiting room of an
ancient railway station.
A tired pink-dotted dark wing
looking for probables amidst
the unbearable sizzling winds and
whiff of cheap talcum powder.
You or me constitute a Constant
whose value cannot be altered by
addition multiplication or division,
a first rate fraction.
The philosophy of probables
is a unilateral one as nauseating as
the jasmine garlands failing to call
the owner/the woman’s body by name.
The man who will arrive now is
a second grade probability.
It is necessary to
select one in the vast scope of
a term like lover/adulterer
that renders the rest improbables, victims!
Ah, this world!
brimming with endless options.
How to strike up a conversation?
Not with the eyes, let the violet beanstalks
of the brassier on the wet bosom
do the bargaining.
Let the black ants
show the way
to the piggybank
from the underbelly.
Come, be my debaucher, my lover
for a single night.
Rail tracks
are mouths of wombs
opening to voids.
Deep wells controlled
by red hues.
Yellow pools of shit,
remnants of vomit,
bits of spinach,
brownish fat wads of cotton,
disposable plates,
bringing forth
the retching lust
for fornication.
Same-sex lovers
whistle and vomit out
the bygone nights.
Changed into a new dress when it was
twenty four minutes past four.
Voices board and alight
like a python.
People with sturdy bodies and
feminine minds.
Transgender train with heavy breasts
and thick pricks.
Five thirty.
The scene alters dramatically
in Shornur rail station.
Humans take form
in the red light.
They split into men and women.
Journey resumes
towards the mountain slopes
hiding the organs of the hooting train.
A transgender named
The West Coast Express
hiding full breasts
and stunted pricks
vanishes.
Me, with it!
