The City Without Limbs

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When I first read Eliot’s Waste Land, I had perceived it differently than I do it now. I now see in it the reflection of the city where I dwell. I see in it the decadence that is all around me. I see in it the inhumanity that is so pervasive around me. I find in it the loss of humanity to modernity. I find in it the fragmentation of the self and decaying sensibility. And I find in it a fellow human being who is also a mute spectator to the incessant loss of hope to absurdity.

Seems everything around is fluid and crawling. Without a decipherable shape. It’s ever changing. This has been quizzing my undeveloped cognitive powers that are bent in perceiving them. I perceive them every moment and every other moment they differ to their earlier versions and each of these fleeting moments I find them even cruel. Even obtuse.

River has vanished and replaced by an open drainage that moves like a cold molten lava. It crawls gradually down the path that once was made by real cold water. It lacks liquidity but still crawls due to the pressure that the fatso pitches in while he fights constipation every morning. It still crawls due to fluidity that it gets from the cum that she washes every day away from her face and ass bum by applying beauty soaps in the polished sanitary ware of the one-hour hookout. It gets diluted with the alcohol rich pee of the prodigal who had even forget to zip up after he had blown up on his imaginary hooky’s face but had landed it on the floor of his landlord’s washroom.

Dusk is dirty. It is even dirtier at the corner bushes where they meet and mate. The bushes are thick and their leaves are darker due to the nourishment that they get from the liquid fertilizer that he dumps there, every now and than. Its been their rendezvous for a long time now, but still they have not hung any portrait on the branches. There are no chandeliers or dim-light bulb hung by the branches of the thicket  They don’t need it. He knows where he has to go and her auditory reactions followed by the jerking of her skinny ass confirms his arrival. She quivers out that screeching gaze at him when he shakes it off on the bottom of the thicket leaving her high and high.  He sighs relief and leaves the bush content that he ultimately wasted it. It was out and it was over. Both bury their f**king frustrations and pledge  “my f**k – I will see you again!” to f**k on the face of absurdity next dusk.  

On the roof, when i gaze out at this city’s silhouette I figure out the emptiness within it. Its a kaya that fools itself that its throbbing deep inside. It preys on the souls of those who inhabit it. And they in turn nibble on its soul- like termites. They are wasted and so is the place where they dump their wasteful wishes. They have ingested its limbs for each of their limbs that it has devoured. Its a duel where each of them feed on the happiness of the other. Its a duel to corrupt each other and to go way down into abyss. 

The tryst continues with a promise to waste out each other and every strand of warmth. I cannot be an exception. I continue to spit on the face of the sky that shelters this city without limbs. And wash my face. 

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