In
the yellows of the streetlamps, dark shades are woven
Shadows
patterns of branches on unmanned footpaths
Silhouetted
arteries of the dusty concrete
There
where window lights hang listless in the night sky
Like
discombobulated fireflies, and the flaps of an owl’s wings
Sound
like the night’s heartbeat.
There
the boys are kings at night. And they speak in a scream.
(Jhaantu
and Gillu and Baamba and Ponty.)
Perched
on rooftops, vulture like, they spy cities at rest,
And
their spider like fingers coil around knuckledusters,
Agleam
in nuclear colours, and the coruscating hues
Of
seedy billboards.
Inebriated,
their words are frayed at the edges: rusted,
Moth
eaten. The offspring of dead end jobs, their voices
Trickle down your spine like ice water. In slurry
Grunts,
they decree capitalism an omnipotent malice.
Burps
and vomits and talk of women.
It
stirs them from their slumber. It makes the blood,
Course
through their veins.
In
the streets paper dogs totter: their vermicular ribs
And
reptilian barks, their rabid eyes, their spit,
Stretching
from the mouth like the slender tentacle
Of
some fairy book beast, hidden yet in the recesses of
Sawdust throats. Soft billows of dust and a lumbering gait,
Every
breath like a tubercular cough.
The
boys launch stones from the roof: yawing and caroming off walls,
Ricochet
bullets, tiny meteors, cling, clang. And they find
The
soft flesh of the dogs, napkin skin torn, patchy red shades now.
Pinprick
silence pricked by howls spat out like the overtures
Of
a berserk charivari. In a shock of wind a white polythene bag
Performs
a crazed jitterbug.
Armed
with iron rods, the boys now drift in their yellow SUV:
A
phantasmal apparition. A sudden swerve, a screech, a halt.
Doughnuts
on unsteady roads. Black residue of tires etched across an
Empty
parking lot like a frozen rictus carved out on cardboard
Pavements.
Torsos dangling out car windows like unstrung marionettes.
On
the tip of their tongue a taste of whisky,
And
mindless violence.
In
a cul de sac, they see the dogs: panting in a corner
Quietly,
all dead to the world, foam coagulated around the mouth,
The
eyes filming. They coil their fingers around the rods tight
Like
the legs of a spider wrapped around a beating heart. They kick
The
paper underbelly of the dogs, and laugh. They raise their rods,
Unsteady,
swerving, swivelling, and they mouth curses that sound
Like
the ululations of a crazed lot. Chants of forsaken supplicants, godless.
And
they stop.
For
in the phlegmy eyes
Of
the dogs,
The
boys see
Themselves:
Overturned
and disfigured.
And
their hands quiver.
