Another face in the opaque crowd searching for some translucence to diffuse and project his myriad thoughts through this utterly abhorrent state of lame rigidity.

Dystopic Kolkata





 Attention.
Train number -
a-man-with-Molotov-cocktails-644
is arriving at platform number 2.


The marines
have assembled at the ghats,
to celebrate the impending death
of their kingdom.
Captain crow and his mistress
have had a fight over the politics of the state.
Apparently, when one looks left
the other looks right.


Chaos.

  
Bribes, amidst the chaos.
The fortress has been infiltrated.
Spies swarming all over.


Out of fear,
people piss on the streets
but not in their pants.


Canons are out for sale.
You can kill each other, 
destroy your homes.
Save yourselves the dishonor
of being killed
or your homes being taken
and you being turned into bitches
by aliens.


The king plans an escape
while his minister
is more concerned
about oral hygiene.
The latter blew the former
last night.


Zombies everywhere,
 but sex-starved men
would rather have their brains eaten
than their penises.
 Keep fit.
Keep sexting.


Run, run, for your life.
If the fire does not burn you,
you can burn your cholesterol.

 
Nuclear explosion.
Wipes the city out.


It is 11:40 AM.


 Wake up!
You’re late for work.



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