Category Archives: Amit Parmessur
Waiting for my afternoon, fried noodles at
B. Palace, I see four youngsters burning their
liver as they draw on long, clean,
very phallic cigarettes.
I like what they are talking about, but
not the way they are doing it.
Slaves of showing off.
Then comes a very tired, young girl, with
her sunglasses hiding premature rings
of a demanding firm. Perhaps.
She asks for matches and her voice
is so soft.
My friend the Grim Reaper, I can see
you with your shiny hourglass and
new scythe hanging over these doomed youths.
I listen well!
I hear of a lecturer who sells papers too,
as the melodious Shakira sings beautifully
from a mobile phone behind me.
I mumble about a this and a that
and what’s what to my fork and dead chicken
and get entangled in my afternoon noodles
and think of someone or something else.
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