When Shelly met Coldplay

A gazillion stars wept and splattered their dying tears across a cloudless sky in vain. The Queen's necklace Arabian sea lapped fetid around the feckless concrete tetrapods

Chris Martin crooned

'Cause you're a sky, 'cause you're a sky full of stars

I'm gonna give you my heart

'Cause you're a sky, 'cause you're a sky full of stars

'Cause you light up the path

I don't care, go on and tear me apart

I don't care if you do, ooh

'Cause in a sky, 'cause in a sky full of stars

I think I saw you

'Cause you're a sky, 'cause you're a sky full of stars

I wanna die in your arms

'Cause you get lighter the more it gets dark

I'm gonna give you my heart

3 Nov 2014

Orange Eye Flights

Orange... The colour of flight... Departure... The colour of the orb driving the blue black from  the horizon into grey and blue as the tears of slumber interrupted dry upon the flight dessicated cornea.

The orange luminance  calmly stares back through the journey acned port hole panes. A sea of cotton  candy clouds mist and shroud the morn and mocks the sleep left behind, cools the purring affection of the warm pools of kittens left behind with slumber on pillows that smell home . 

Early morning orange eye business flights. The orange orb eyeballs the reddened eyeballs peering at the rising warmth. Slumber denied, the eyes that look, feel straight out of a chlorinated pool. Only the body around eyeball is unrefreshed and the soul unquenched.

Day over, business done, the orange dribbles  zip away on the tarmac as flesh and bone urges aviation fuel enflamed metal to fight. The halogen orange that pools amongst the darkness of the moments before leaving a city cohabitated for hours for business. 

The twinkling arteries of a city throbbing and pulsating with traffic. Contrasted by the Swarovski crystal bits of whites of habitation spied upon from the vantage of flight.

Habitation congealed instinctively together among the depths of darkness leading back home, the sighting of life many leagues below an airborne diving bell. The strength of a city laid out hollow man orange arteries and veins, nude and undressed beneath a microscope. Metropolises throb thick.bustling with traffic engorged roadways and petre off to outskirts where the traffic blood flow is scant and the orange of the highway illumination is spread further. The darkness is quick to dart betwixt the orange,  to reveal the lack of life flow. Orange arterioles over swathes of dark seas that cognition matches from repeated traversing. The yellowing orange of a coastline murmuring to the relentless brine. The brine knows the unseen horizon, now blind, waiting for the orange to scimitar it back, at orange eye flights ferrying reddened eyeballs.

The Fat Lady's Swansong

They say that is not over till the fat lady sings. Summer's fat lady's aria has plumped the mangoes sweetened the litchis like dew drops of nectar and enveloped us in her rather warm swansong of heat and beads of sweat. We sweat, we hope, we sigh, we chafe, and breathe the heavy stupor pushed at us by the swirling ceiling fans. We walk the dingy Mumbai sea line and thrust our necks like dogs from a car window at few the gusts across the blackish brackish swill as the city curls its lips and curves a halogen orange twinkle at the corners at the end of the Queen's Necklace. ATMs for free and Cafes in exchange of money offer air-conditioned moments of futile weekend relief. The weekend, the summer, and the land's end are all slipping away in time while we honk and nudge like lemmings to check out the waves through darkness.

Monsoon is waiting in the wings and has sent a sprinkle of little initial relief and and her Midsummer-esque fairy seems to say

'I must go seek some dewdrops here,
And hang a pearl in every cowslip's ear.
Farewell, thou lob of spirits; I'll be gone. 

Our Queen and all her elves come here anon.'

The waves await the high-tide and expectantly slap and gurgle with a fishy smell at some random rock and bits of concrete in at the Bandra promenade. Countless nameless couples get all affectionate at the turn of season and nuzzle and get selfies in place waiting to make it to the newsrags on a new day, ignoring the BMC exhortations warning against being idiots and tempting the sea to sweep them into its bosom at a surge, in exchange for some random indestructible plastic flotsam and jetsam they must've offered to the waves a while ago with the multitudes that eat and drink and litter like it's a basic excretory function.

It's a good time to be at Candies. It's past the discount hour and dark outside and smells of heat and not enough drizzle. The food is cheap. Cyril's generosity fills our bellies with more cookies, and chips and diced up cake bits than we have bought in our last couple of visits. 

(This was written as monsoon clouds were embracing Mumbai... Somehow, feelings granulated to words agreeing together are like a sigh that seeks conclusion ... Often not requited. Lying in the draft box, a revisitation evokes something within akin to a hint of wistful fragrance. 

Uncaged it is now, to be all without...)