Intoxicated silhouette sits across the nun. The nun whose night lamp lights up the city of foreign goons.
The silhouette keeps obsessing over the curtains, the summer roses, the rosary, the sun of the body of spirit taking her afternoon stroll.
There is one poem after another written by the discarded poet describing the web of the silhouette and the knee of the nun.
Stage tonight is of the silhouette licking the neck of the nun. They are screaming back at each other. Nun with her educated eye. Silhouette with her wide mouth of desire.
Who wins you ask ? I pull up my pen of future, of the artist who disappeared for thirty three years, one who inscribes timeline of breath on a brown paper bag.
I send the paper bag to my comrade. I beg her to meet me on the coast of polluted river of holy.
She meets me on the brink of crisis. We do not sail through. We find the woodchip left behind by the nun.
V Paliwal
