Brain Dead.

From Vitasta

My brain is melting into my words

being decoupaged onto the mantle of my crusty paper

in through the seedy, grimy fingernails,

onto the refinement machine of my typewriter.

My brain is melting into my words,

some garnish and it'll be good to eat,

some blood sauce and paint and it'll be a work of art!

People are only people in the end,

People only deserve a half-rated marathon of their own

half-rated selves.

A white fly, a white guy

a pig, a mouse and an aeroplane;

the artwork of a century

adoring museum walls

filling stadiums and concert halls

the stink of a generation...

How wonderful to see you here

besides yourself, your better half, you.

and me.

My brain is melting onto the pavement.

brown and white, matter is a colour of polite opinion,

grey.

Let's wear golf shoes to the gala

let's celebrate these events, lifetimes, sentences

rid through psychic riddles

being born, brought into the world

every minute a child is born,

every second a woman is raped.

More colossal waves have occurred before their screening time.

More rubbish has been written.

And I've been party to the secret

to the games and the displays like candy in shop fronts

politely.

My brain is gone. 

Evapourated. Transferred,

like the essence of my soul

into words, etched onto pavements.

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From Bombay, with Love
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