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Crankshaft

Manjit Banerjee

 
 

Chinese made British beauty throttled to silence,
The mechanic rises to feel the beautiful rays of sun wishing him;

After a brief hiatus of regular dilly-dallying amidst the household cacophony,
The regular mandatory chores of the morning start – its eight now.

Newspaper lay idly at the doorstep waiting to announce the world,
The mechanic picks it up hesitantly puffing stale air of high risers ;

Green tea and diet breakfast enforces the first rule,
Has to be a strict gap of an hour atleast before treading the moving belt;

Numbness prevails for the next hour when flies relish on his idle wrist,
The mechanic fires up the engine to commute to the holy shrine of health;

One needs to sweat to earn its livelihood, next hours contradict the theory,
Moving belts and heavy weights come at a cost, price to perspire;

French aftershave and American perfumes try hard to prevent,
Prevent the stink of the hollow soul as he strides towards the shrine of earning;

Korean beauty throws tantrums whilst it swerves its way through the logjam,
Hoi polloi race to take the pole position, enjoying the journey is a lie;

Japanese air conditioners work overtime to spawn cool yet stale air,
The mechanic blends with the logical world of fixing things,gapes and shrugs;

Noon gives away space to evening, lost birds seek direction,
Indigestible lunches give way to the acidic breaths, the air looms heavy – Its eight now;

Black smoke lurches out from the white sticks,
The mechanic seeks passion and inspiration from the fire, as it crawls closer;

Tired strides accompany heavy heads, as the dead strolls with the hallowed,
The dark beautiful night gets blinded at the stare of stark headlights;

Dark Korean beauty loves her way back, blending well with the pitch black,
The fool manouvers to make way while the driven enjoys the journey – Its eleven now ;

White shirted curious eyes looks for velvet necklines,
The mechanic breaths out slow, as he quenches his thirst gulping down the yellow;

Inhibitions rests, tight necktie loosens, voices reach crescendo,
Hard day is just a norm, breathing is life now;

Chips and chirps mellow down, as the bards and the birds seek direction,
The mechanic pushes hard the plush leather chair, done for the day;

Pain and pleasure don’t intertwine, foreplay does not play any part anymore,
The road is traveled half, but then, journey is a lie, its the destination which matters.

Dreams dare to appear, as the crankshaft prepares for the next hard day

peacock_feather

 

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